The Dovekeepers (49 page)

Beneath my shawl, I still had the bow upon my back.

FROM OUR MOUNTAINTOP
, residents often saw soldiers from the legion during the growing heat of
Sivan
. More and more
exploratores
were being sent to examine our mountain, gathering on the rocky floor below. They were reconnaissance soldiers whose only mission was to seek out enemies and report back to their generals. The Romans had long been aware that we were here, as they’d known about Machaerus and the other fortresses that were held by Zealots. We were far from Jerusalem, and so they had ignored us, but our fame had grown and stories about our glory had reached Roman ears. There had been more and more talk of our rebellion in the markets of towns throughout the region.
Shir tishbohot,
songs of praise, were offered for us, and those who celebrated us denounced Rome in whispers and then in louder tones. People said our mountain was invisible and that the
Sicarii
had used the Hebrew alphabet to call a curtain over us, a fabric constructed of air and vapor that separated heaven from earth. They said that the throne of our Lord could be seen from our towers. Any man who ruled here would rule the world.

Soldiers from the legion might come to survey us, but all they
would see was how impossible it would be to mount an attack. Ben Ya’ir sent out word that, when the
exploratores
came, we should stay in our chambers so they could not count our number. Perhaps they would think we were stronger than we were, and possessed thousands of warriors, rather than a village left to old men and women and children each time our men went on raids. Let them look all they wanted. All they would see was the mountain where God’s glory had sent us, a rock so impenetrable they could never bring us down. Some of our boys sent stones falling, skittering down as a warning, and they laughed as the soldiers scattered below.

I did not laugh to see the white tunics of the Tenth Legion or the banner of the wild boar. I felt a chill come over me. In truth our people were no match for Roman soldiers, who had been trained for one thing, to be a machine of death. Our warriors were best when they slunk about like wolves, striking enemies in the dark. The rebels’ only hope of success was an attack that was unexpected, when thanks to God’s grace, their quickness and ferocity might win out over might. Against well-armored, organized troops, who had so much experience of warfare, our people were woefully unprepared. Our fathers and brothers were freedom fighters, not trained soldiers. Unlike my sister’s father, the men at Masada had not been warriors from the moment of their birth, each with a horse already chosen and a knife in his hand. They had been priests and bakers and scholars, their weapons knives and arrows and rocks, not bronze and iron. We were nothing against the relentless power of the Roman Empire.

WHEN OUR WARRIORS
decided they would track a group of
exploratores
so they might discover how close the legion was to our mountain, Yael gave me a token to present to Amram, a slip of blue fabric, the color of heaven, and of God’s glory, and of His throne.

Amram laughed and slipped the fabric close to his heart. “We
won’t be apart for long,” he said, recognizing the charm. “My sister has seen to that.”

He told me that the fabric would lead him to me no matter how far he might journey. He cupped his hands around my face and kissed me. In his arms I had a surge of fear, for what was between us was already over, despite the token. I went to the wall to watch him descend with the warriors. I had no idea that my brother planned to set forth with them until I found my mother there, beside herself with worry.

“He’s nothing but a boy,” she worried. She had looked ill of late, refusing her meals, keeping to herself. Now she was ashen. “Why would they do this? Why would he go?”

I was too guilt-ridden to answer. The warriors believed that Adir had been the archer at the contest and had therefore taken him on as their brother. That was why he now walked beside them, because of my red arrows. His fate was my burden, for I had caused them to look at him with esteem. My mother thought of Adir as her baby and was still tying amulets into his garments to protect him from evil. He tore such things from his tunic, laughing, saying our mother had no idea what it meant to be a man.

Adir was in his thirteenth year, but he was not ready. I had killed my first ibex when I was only ten, but I had been prepared for blood. I had ridden with men who were fearless. I had known to burn the acacia branches to honor the spirits of the dead. My brother thought being a man meant blindly following the path of the warriors, despite his lack of skill. He thought of great glory, not of pools of blood; surely he had not imagined the brutality he would witness when his comrades were cut down before him.

I prayed with my mother at our altar as she burned oil and chanted for Adir’s safe return. I cursed myself as I did so, for I should have been the one to take his place. My mother wrote the names of God on her arms, and then on mine, so that we might be heard in heaven, even though women were not allowed this
practice. It was only for the priests to make such entreaties to the Almighty, but my mother was not afraid to break the law. We sacrificed a dove and wrote upon its feathers with its own blood, binding any demon that might follow my brother into the valley. We chanted softly so none would overhear, for we did not dare to reveal what we did in our chamber any more than I dared to reveal the truth of my brother’s leaving.

I proclaim the majesty of His splendor, to frighten all the spirits of the angels of destruction and those who strike suddenly and lead us astray. Destroy their evil hearts in the age of the rule of wickedness.

I spoke these words along with my mother, but I did not proclaim that I was the wickedness that had sent my brother into battle, and that I must be the one to make amends.

ON A CLEAR
burning-hot morning, the nesting doves dropped to the ground without warning. We gathered them and held them close, trying to still their trembling bodies until they revived. Several died that day, for no apparent reason. Although we were hungry, we could not make them into a meal for ourselves or our warriors upon their safe return for the doves had died of some ailment.

Perhaps the hour when the doves fell marked the moment when Channa returned to the priest to choose a day for the slave to die. Certainly we all felt death close by; it passed as a shadow cast by clouds, and we grew cold. My mother took the doves to the altar in her chamber, she covered her head and whispered a prayer to keep away the Angel of Death, but the sacrifice was not enough. That same day a proclamation was posted. On the following afternoon, the guard would go to the tower and the world would be rid of the slave. We were not savages like the Romans, who crucified their enemies to cause the most pain a human could endure, stretching death out lengthwise, as a man might be stretched upon a wooden
cross so he would linger in agony. Instead, the slave’s throat would be slit, the kindest death, the one we gave to even the most lowly of beasts, so that his breath would leave him in a single rush.

When evening fell, Channa was waiting by the wall near Revka’s chamber. She wore a cloak, but Revka’s grandsons spied her instantly, as they were said to perceive demons. Our leader’s wife had no fear, only the heat of her desire, which flamed hotter than the air around us. Arieh would soon be a year old; he was a quiet and dear child, already trying to walk. Channa had dared to come to Yael; she was heedless, as the desperate often are, more than willing to disobey her husband, who had warned her to stay away. But on this occasion Ben Ya’ir was among the warriors following the Romans and therefore could not judge her or punish her for her deeds. She was stronger than she’d once been, made so by my mother’s cures, strong enough to cause damage. She carried a sprig of hyssop, as though taunting the flower that had once caused her so much misery.

Revka wept at the sight of her. “It’s my doing. I called a demon upon us.”

“No.” Yael’s face was masked, but she sounded sure of herself. “It’s my punishment.”

“You’ve done nothing,”

Revka insisted.

“One thief knows another,” Yael murmured, resolved.

She packed up all of Arieh’s belongings, then went to the wall, the baby in her arms.

“A bargain is a bargain,” Channa said. “I’m not being too demanding, I merely want what I’m owed.”

They were near the garden where Yael had released the scorpion. It failed to show itself on this night, but it was still there. The children had seen it, and they knew that which you cannot see can be more dangerous than that which is before you. We were fighting a battle just to keep ourselves fed; perhaps the scorpion went hungry as we did. As for Channa, she was a rich man’s wife; despite
her husband’s insistence that we were all worthy of God’s gifts, she took more than her share.

“You’ve done well in your care for him,” she said approvingly to Yael when she noticed the flame-colored spot on the baby’s cheek had all but disappeared. Yael had bathed the child in oils and rubbed a balm into his skin. “I’m sure we can agree as reasonable women.” When Channa stroked his face lovingly, Arieh smiled up at her. “He’s better off with me.”

YAEL DID NOT
lock herself away, as some women might have. She had no time for such indulgences. The slave had been allowed to live. The bargain had been kept; still, anyone who trusts a serpent deserves its bite. The wise see a creature for what it is, not what it says it may be.

After her chores in the dovecote were completed, Yael went out to collect firewood. She did so often enough that the sentries came to know her. The assassin’s daughter with red hair. She went late in the day, when the sun was dropping down. In the dim light she found twigs that would serve as kindling, deadwood that would keep our fires hot. She didn’t return until twilight washed across the pale sky. Sometimes she sat on the wall in the amber light, a basket of twigs beside her, the woven scarf on her hair slipping down, so that strands of her hair gleamed scarlet. She knew the guards watched, their glances lingering over her flesh. Because of this they allowed her to do as she pleased.

Each day she went farther down the mountain, finding paths few dared to take, except for the ibex, who had no fear of tumbling down the sheer cliffs. The head scarf she wore was woven in the pattern of the country in the north none among us would ever see, a land where the ice was as deep as a river, where a man could freeze in moments, where every warrior’s arrows were marked with the sign of the stag.

When Yael asked for my help, I went with her willingly, though by then we had more wood piled at our doors than anyone else on the mountain.

“I’m surprised you didn’t ask my mother,” I said.

“Your mother would make them suspicious. The guards will trust you.”

As we approached the sentries, Yael told me to pull my shawl away from my head so that I might allow the guards to see my long black hair. We were two young women gathering wood, cheerful, pretty. We waved a greeting. Every day, we made this journey. The guards never bothered to question us but only glanced at us, appraising our bare arms, which we allowed them to view and enjoy.

Yael said a prayer each time we passed a small cave. She whispered that a lion lived inside, but she swore he would watch over us. Sometimes she left him an offering of a dove, sometimes a few strands of her hair. She seemed convinced he was her guardian. All the same, I was relieved I had brought a blade with me, in case the creature she spoke of decided to turn on us.