The Dovekeepers (72 page)

I bowed my head before the legion, not to honor them, not as their captive, simply because I could not bring myself to gaze upon the faces of those who had led the battle against us. The children did as I did, and after a moment Revka did so as well, though I knew it was a violation for her to bow before Romans. I hoped she would not judge me. Certainly, I would not judge myself. I left that to the Almighty. We had a reason to go forward and much to protect. We were still in this world, the one we knew, the one we clung to though it was filled with sorrow, the world our fathers had created.

Silva, the great general, came before us. The soldier who had found us gave a shout, and we sank to our knees.

We lowered our eyes to the dust. Still we saw Silva’s shadow; he was the force behind the siege, the commander who had built the wall and the ramp, the one who had murdered our people. It was impossible to interpret his demeanor, whether he intended to run us through himself or order our crucifixions or leave us to the jackals. Panic was beating in my throat. I felt chilled though the air had grown hot, bloodstained, moving in red waves as the sun rose higher.

My veiled eyes flickered over Silva’s form. He was a tall man, dark in complexion, stern in aspect. But he was more than muscle and sinew. He was the monster without mercy. All the same, the longer he took to study us, the more I came to believe that had he intended to kill us, he would have done so already. The general was not often seen by common people, and the fact that he had come to appraise us made
me grasp the notion that we might matter more than I had dared to imagine. Perhaps we had something he wanted.

Revka held Arieh, and I had Yonah in my arms. The commander may well have thought the newborn girl to be an angel, the cause for our survival, for he commanded us to stand so that he might look at her more closely. She was only days old, not a winged messenger, only a human child with a cap of silver-blond hair. Silva’s eyes then went to me, the flecks of red on my skin, my hair the color of the flame tree, darkened by the water of the cistern until it seemed made from strands of flowing blood.

I returned Silva’s gaze. He reminded me of the leopard I had once seen in the desert, the one who might have slain me and devoured me had I not stood upon a rock and made myself larger than I was, waving my shawl in the air, growling as if I were a beast as well.

I heard one of Silva’s men suggest that we were nothing, whores and their whelps deserving any death they gave to us. The general’s man said although my hair was the color of the rose, I was a weed, to be plucked out and burned. He spat after that word, and his spittle fell on me. He spoke in Greek. I knew this because Shirah had taught me the language during our lessons. This soldier suggested that his men take care of us, not bothering to waste the nails and wood to crucify us, merely running us through. He would see to it himself, a servant to his general.

There is always a moment when something begins and something ends. I could feel the weight of Shirah’s daughter in my arms, a gift and a burden, my child now.

A weed feeds sheep far better than a flower will, I said in Greek.

My voice pierced through the men’s discussion. Silva turned to me, surprised by my knowledge of that language and my nerve to speak before him.

I continued in Latin, for Shirah had taught me the language of the
empire as well. A flower lasts an instant, a weed can plague you for all eternity.

What happened to your people? Silva asked. Where is the man who led you?

I raised my chin and studied the general who had destroyed us. He was just a man like any other. What would he do if he had to stand before a lion without a spear or a sword to protect him? Here was my secret and my strength: I had spoken to the lion, and this was the reason I lived when I faced him. I had told him that I belonged to him. I had given him my name, and in return he was mine.

He is murdered, I said. Lying among the dead of our people.

How could he be murdered? Silva demanded to know. We had not yet come over the wall and the dead were already everywhere.

She knows nothing, his second in command remarked coarsely. What would she know of their leader or their plans?

This soldier cast his eyes over me. I could see he had an idea of what he might do before he murdered me.

I reached for Ben Simon’s knife. It flashed as I cut my flesh. I held my arm out and let my blood drip into the sand, staining it, claiming it. A murmur went up among the soldiers. I had always believed, if I were to be wounded, I would rather see to it myself. Now I realized when I had cut myself in the desert I had done so not merely to mark the days I had spent in the wilderness but to remind myself that I was alive.

Eleazar ben Ya’ir was my kinsman, I announced. I knew him as no other, for I am his cousin. I am Shirah, his closest companion. I alone can tell you the story of this fortress.

In that instant when I changed my name, I changed my fate.

I will give you the story, I promised. It will be the truth and you will be able to tell all of Rome what happened here today. I ask only for one favor in return.

There was laughter from the men. I could feel Death walking close by, peering at me with his many eyes. I can say with certainty that his eyes are cold and that his glance can freeze the heart. I drew the assassin’s cloak around myself so that I might vanish from Mal’ach ha-Mavet’s sight. I thought of the leopard I had chased off when I was only a girl in the desert, and the lion I had lain beside and the one I had freed when he was chained without mercy. Since that time I had worn the beast’s collar around my arm, as a bracelet and a token. There were those who vowed that lion’s blood provided the power of persuasion over princes and kings. I removed the collar and held it up, for the lion had struggled in his captivity and his blood was upon it.

Do you not recognize this?

Several of the men did indeed know the collar for what it was, and they stood back, stunned. Since the day the lion had been released, there had been talk of witchery.

Silva walked to me and took the collar, then returned to where he had stood on the wooden platform. He examined the collar and found it had been marked with the insignia of the Tenth Legion. I could see he was puzzled, though his expression was veiled. He signaled for me to come closer. I recognized his gesture, the same one my father had used when he wanted me to follow, as he might have signaled a dog. But a dog is often beaten once he has performed his task, so I stood in place, not yet willing to yield and approach the general.

I have need of your favor, I said. And you of mine.

Silva’s eyes flitted over my form. One favor, he agreed, perhaps imagining that I was only a simple woman with simple desires, and would ask for bread or water. Only one, he warned me.

I asked for him to let us have our lives.

He stared at me and remarked that he wished to know who I thought I was to ask for such a reprieve.

I said I was the Witch of Moab and that it was written that I
should be here to tell the story of what had happened on this day in the world Adonai had created, while the doves flew above us. I told him that no one would know how Rome had come to us, and how we had trembled before the lion who was enslaved on his chain without the story I told.

You will say that you were unafraid, he responded, thinking of how my story would defame his empire. You will recount how you went to the lion and he bowed before you.

Only a fool would be unafraid of a lion, I assured him, remembering the man who had once escaped a lion that had slain nine men before him. I was simply too bitter for his taste, I said.

Silva nodded, compelled to hear more. Why should I grant what you want?

Though we were merely women and children, we were the only ones who had lived through this tide of death. We had heard Eleazar ben Ya’ir speak to his followers and had memorized his words. We alone would be believed when this night was spoken of, for we were the only witnesses. We had heard the cries of those who knew they had no chance of victory against Rome.

I bowed my head then, for I had said enough. A story can be many things to many people. I would give him the story he wanted, but like the scorpion who is hidden in a corner, my story would sting. I knew not to speak of how our people had chosen their death rather than be enslaved. Nor did I suggest that we would be strengthened by my story if I lived to tell it, and that Rome would be haunted by the ghosts of our people, and that a ghost could be stronger than an empire, for it could move people not only to tears but to action.

The general gazed at me. I knew he wanted to hear more of what had happened. How could our people slay themselves and everyone they loved? It was a puzzlement, and even fierce men can be intrigued by a puzzle, though once joined, the pieces may serve to defy them.

When he agreed to my bargain, I approached him.

He told me to speak, and I did exactly as he asked. I told him what he wanted to hear.

We came to Alexandria, because it was there the Witch of Moab belonged, the city she had yearned for when she dreamed of the great river and of her mother and of the white lilies that grew in this city’s gardens. We were brought before the legion in Jerusalem, so that our story might be recorded and written down and sent to Rome. We told it many times, and though we bowed to the strength of the empire, each time we told it a thousand more people learned of the night when we refused to be defeated. The story became a cloud, and the cloud a sheet of rain, and rain fell throughout the empire.

We were released outside the walls of Jerusalem. It had become a city we no longer recognized, and our people were not allowed inside its gates. I sold the gold amulet of the fish to pay for our journey. It had protected us, delivering us from our enemies, and in doing so had served its purpose. I thought of the slave from the north and prayed that his amulet had done as well for him so that he had found his way back to the land where the snow lasted most of the year, where stags that were as swift as the leopard ran across grasslands, where he could be free.

Yehuda traveled with us and lived in our house for several years, but when he became a man he was called to his people. The Essenes had gathered in the north, near Galilee. There were those left among his people who still believed in peace and in the principles of pure devotion to the Almighty. On the day he left us, Revka wept, for she loved him as though he was her own.

Noah and Levi soon enough became young men. Both had honey-colored skin and dark eyes; they were handsome, devoted to their grandmother as she aged. They might have become scholars, as their father had been before fate changed him, but instead they learned the trade of their grandfather. Every morning we were awakened by the scent of bread baking in the domed oven in a shed at the edge of the garden. There were times when I found people at the gate early in the morning, weeping, led here by the scent of bread that reminded them of the bread of their youth, when Jerusalem was ours. Now we are citizens of the world, and the brothers’ bread reflects this: the honey is collected from Egyptian honeybees, the coriander and cumin from Moab, the salt from the shores of the sea the Witch of Moab crossed because she was fated to do so.

As for my son, he is quiet and fearless. He is an excellent student, and speaks four languages, but he is plagued by nightmares. It is only to be expected after all he witnessed, though he would never complain about such things. I discovered his difficulty sleeping because there are nights when I rise to find him sitting in the dark. Sleep is still an unfamiliar country to me, as it is to my son. Perhaps his father speaks to him in his dreams, as mine comes to me. I still possess the assassin’s cloak, the one that is said to have been woven from spiders’ webs, which concealed him from all eyes. I have forgiven him, as I hope that in the World-to-Come he has forgiven me, for I was not blameless. If I was brought before him, I would honor him, for he gave me my life, and for that I will always be grateful.

Every year on the anniversary of the day when the fortress fell, I recount the part of the story I did not tell Silva, although my children know the tale by heart. How the soldiers captured the lion and kept him on a chain and tormented him, how he bided his time, lying in
the mud until he was released, how he was set free into the desert, and how he is there still, alone and lonely.

I say that this lion is the king of nothing other than his own freedom. Whether or not the third Temple rises, whether men build palaces or bring cities to ruin, it is the lion who will have to fight for a land of stones. All things change, for that is the way of the world we walk through. But some things remain constant, even after they are gone. I tell my children that we once had a thousand doves and that we set them free, but if we look at the sky we can still see them, even though we are so very far away.