The Dovekeepers (68 page)

But the wall that could not be broken could be burned. The scent of almonds rose in a bitter cloud. The Romans lit our wall on fire, and there was a ring of flame around us.

In my doorway, I gazed upon my daughter in my arms as I heard the men chanting, for the chants had lifted above the sound of warfare. I heard women crying. As I gazed upon our sorrow, I turned to take note of a shadow in my garden, a raven crouched down among the rows of vegetables I had grown, all burned to ash now, the mint and rue, the coriander and the hyssop mere twigs. I went into the garden that was no more.

Channa had come to see the child. She was gaunt, as we all were, but her face lit up when she spied the infant in my arms. She vowed that she had told no one about the birth, not even our leader, so as not to distract him. She whispered that the doves I had released had returned to tell her of the birth, the ones in the cage behind her house who had visited me in the land of Moab.

I signaled to her, and she came as a dog might, trotting over, head down. She was captivated instantly, her face eager as I lifted
up the child for her to see. I watched as my enemy stood there weeping, not with sorrow but with joy.

She had sent me into the wilderness, but I did not remember how my bare feet had burned on the stones. She had disparaged me and ruined me, but I did not recall the words that had been used against me or remember the years I had spent in Moab. The garden was burning, the air sparked with specks of flame as they say it will be in the World-to-Come when we walk beside the angels and have no fear of their illumination or of their might.

I let her hold our daughter. We rejoiced together over the beauty of our husband’s child, for she was like a pool of water, still and beautiful. We were submerged, our thirst quenched, though there were fires and bursts of flame everywhere, on leaves and rooftops, falling upon us like rain. We sat there, our heads close, as others hid in their chambers or worked furiously to put out the flames. We were no longer thirsty, and no longer had any need of fury or revenge, for we were enemies no more.

HOURS LATER,
the entire wall caught fire. It encircled us as a snake would, meant to devour us. We believed our time had come, but then God sent us the wind from the north, and the blaze blew back to the Romans. It burned their soldiers alive and caught their battering rams aflame. Our people came to watch and sank to their knees in gratitude.

But what we are given is taken as well, so that we know God’s glory comes to us from His will alone. The rescue was temporary. The wind changed direction again; it came from the south and was our enemy once more. Our people ran, in fear for their lives. They soaked themselves with what little water they could find in an attempt to withstand the blaze of heat. Everyone could hear the Romans’ cheering and their bloodthirsty cries. They posted a thousand guards in the valley, so that none of our people might slip over Herod’s wall and escape.

We gathered in my chambers, covered with soot. Yael’s boy, with his dark and beautiful eyes, was quiet; he seemed to sense the terror that had come upon us and dared not cry. We poured water over our heads from a pitcher, in the hope no sparks would light upon us. I nursed my child and thought of how Nahara and Adir’s father had not seen his children for ten days after they were born, the practice of his people. Only now did I realize this law was not merely to prevent the father from seeing the child in a bruised condition, the price of the journey of being born. Rather it was to ensure that a father waited until it was more certain that his child would live. To be attached to what is bound to die made no sense to the fierce people from Moab, for they rode with death and pitched their tents with death. They knew that flesh was not lasting in this world.

I would follow their law now and keep my daughter from her father’s eyes so that he would not have to love something he was bound to lose. As I held her inside my cloak, two hearts beat against my chest. But no creature can contain more than one heart. I knew that one of us would live and one would die. I wept to think I would not hear my child call me mother.

THE SECOND WALL
had been breached. That rough edifice we had built until our hands were ravaged and bleeding, until there was no longer a single tree standing in the field, had cracked under their battering ram, the dirt spilling out, the pliant limbs of the almond trees splitting, turning to dust. Our people had done all they could to fight the tide of what was to come, the soldiers that would climb through, the bloodshed and the torture and the murder on the day of our greatest feast. Eleazar came into the plaza. We were brought there by the sound of the ram’s horn, used to call us to prayer. I made my way among our people, though I was still weakened from childbirth, the infant hidden in my cloak. I left a trail of blood on
the stones, which turned black as it fell away from me, an omen I understood well.

From my place on the edge of the crowd, I could see women whose children I had helped bring into the world. I saw my daughter with her bow, mud streaking her arms and legs, and my son, ruined by battle before he was a man, and my people in the throes of sorrow, and the man I had loved since I had first seen that he would come to me.

“We resolved not to follow the Romans and to follow God alone. Now the time has come for us to prove our faith. We cannot disgrace ourselves in the eyes of our Lord, or submit to slavery. If we fall into Roman hands, it is the end of everything, not only our lives but the life of Zion. We had the privilege to be the last stronghold, and as God has favored us so, let us return the favor and die nobly as free men.”

People began to panic at Ben Ya’ir’s words. It seemed that some might attempt to flee. But there was also a surge forward of the most loyal, those who had burned for freedom and could not turn back now.

“By daybreak, our enemy will be upon us, and we can hold them back no longer, but we are free to choose to die with honor, in the arms of those we love. We cannot defeat the Romans in battle here on this earth, but we can deny them a victory.”

Women wept on either side of me. I pitied Eleazar that he must speak these words.

“We have done everything to claim our freedom, and we cannot stop now. We do not know why God let His city burn to the ground, why He has let our people be chased into extinction, why we must die today. Our freedom is our winding sheet, and it is more glorious than any other. We will leave nothing behind for our enemies, and the taste of their victory will be bitter, and they will not be able to cut the heads from our bodies and leave them for the ravens.”

The women wailed, and some of the men joined in. The flames around us were a blessing, for they roared and made it difficult to hear the peals of agony and grief.

“Let our wives die unharmed, our children without the bitter mantle of slavery. Do you want them half-devoured by wild beasts, tortured by fire and whippings, enslaved? Let us make haste. Let us avoid the evils of mankind. We prefer death before those miseries. Let us go out of the world with our wives and children in freedom.

“Let our story bear witness that we perished out of choice, a choice we made at the beginning, to chose death rather than slavery.”

Warriors were sent to set fire to the storerooms. The heat was worsened so that it became an inferno. We seemed to have fallen headfirst into the month of
Av,
that time when the sorrows of our people blaze, when God tests our faith and our duty and our belief in His greatness.

WE LISTENED
to Eleazar as we might listen to a dream, one we could not stop, one from which there was no waking. I felt my love for him so deeply I thought I might break as the boughs of the almonds had, my ardor the knife that pierced me. People began to run to their houses, not to escape but to gather their worldly goods so they might be destroyed rather than fall into the hands of the Romans. A great bonfire was begun, and all we owned was heaped upon it, garments and sandals and wooden bowls and yards of wool. The goats and sheep that were left had their throats slit, and their bodies were placed upon the fire as burnt offerings sacrificed to God, for there would be no need of meat or milk, only of God’s grace. There was no Temple standing and this would be our last sacrifice.

Eleazar’s men, his favorites, warriors who had fought beside him, men scarred by battle who had journeyed from Jerusalem to
become hawks in this desert, came to him to encircle him. Some of them sobbed and were consumed by grief; others no longer felt the pains of the world, for they were in a state of sacrifice, as warriors were before they entered into battle. There were fifty or more, Amram among them, and these men brought broken pottery pieces,
ostraca,
upon which their names or initials were written. The weeping grew more furious as the lottery was begun. The priest and his learned men began to pray and chant, rocking back and forth with the passion of their prayers.

Ten men among them would be chosen. They would do the deed and dispatch with the rest of us. They would bear the burden as death-givers so that we did not have to carry the sin of harming ourselves, which was forbidden. When the time came they would slay each other, until only one was left. That man would hold the weight of all our sins, and would be commanded to enter through the three gates of Gehennom, the valley of hell, where he would suffer the torments of demons for all eternity.

“Why should we fear death when we do not fear sleep?” Eleazar cried out, in a frenzy, in such a pure rapture that none could look away. I saw him as he was at the well, furious with all of men’s wrongdoings, assured he could set things right in the name of God. “Death allows freedom to our souls. It takes true courage to find true freedom and to be called to God’s side. It would have been better if we had died before seeing Jerusalem destroyed. Now our hope has fled, but we can avenge the enemies of the holy city, and show kindness to those we love, and not see them led away in slavery and be witness to the torture and violence that awaits our wives and our children and our dearest friends.”

Husbands and wives were embracing, mothers had taken up their children, sons ran to search out their fathers so they might die side by side. The ten men were chosen, our saviors and our executioners. Ben Ya’ir took his sword to make his pledge upon the weapon he had used to fight for God, and for his nation, and for us.

“We were born to die, as are all who are brought into the world. This even the most fortunate among us must face. This is our fate, and our fate is now upon us.”

My fate was upon me as well.

I quickly signaled to Yael and Revka. We made our way back to my chamber, pulling Revka’s younger grandson, Levi, along, lest he be taken up by the crowd, with Noah following behind. Revka herself all but fainted in the crush.

Yehuda was in my chamber, wrapped in his white garment, reciting the prayer for the souls of the dead. Adir was nowhere to be seen.

“Where is he?” I was so distraught I caught the poor Essene boy by his prayer shawl. Revka, who had come to consider Yehuda as her own, came to coax the frightened boy into speaking.

“He was worried for Aziza. He said she was in his place, and he would find her and bring her back here.”

I ran to my cabinet for my mother’s book of spells, my two hearts stirring inside me. There were screams echoing from the plaza, for the death-givers had begun their work and some of the dying could not bear to see their families slaughtered, even at the hands of our own men, angels of mercy, the messengers of our fate. My hands were shaking. Perhaps it had been written that I would be redeemed. Perhaps love would not be my undoing but my salvation.

I cast my mother’s book into Yael’s hands and insisted that she must keep it safe. I noticed that she wore the collar of the lion twisted around her arm, and then I knew I had been right to choose her, for she was as fierce as she was loyal.

Revka was huddled with her grandsons, keeping Arieh on her lap. He was little more than a baby, but he was sensitive and knew when silence was needed. When Revka held a finger to her lips, he hushed and leaned against her. She then patted Yehuda’s shoulders as he wept, guilt-ridden for having allowed Adir to leave. He was
only a boy, and his mother had left him in our care so that he might be safe from harm. They all huddled together on the tiled floor fashioned for a king’s kitchen, a room that had turned fetid, burning hot, like a grave in the sand.