The Dovekeepers (13 page)

“It took long enough for you to come here,” Amram said, embracing me, then letting me go so he could have a look.

Only months had passed since our last meeting, yet it seemed ten summers had gone by. Before this day Amram had always seemed younger than I—now he seemed a true warrior, fierce, sure of himself. For once I felt myself to be the little sister. My brother made me think of steel, metal that has been transformed through flame.
I didn’t want to know how many men he’d killed or what cruel deeds he had accomplished. I was appalled to think he might have been one of the warriors who had taken Ein Gedi and slaughtered people of our own faith.

“I’m here now,” I said.

My hair was clean and oiled, plaited atop my head. I could tell from my brother’s gaze how different I appeared to him. He studied me, searching my expression, not quite seeing what had happened but aware that something had changed. I’d been bitten by a lion, but you had to look inside me to see the scar.

“I thought I would find you long before this. You must have been hidden, Yaya,” Amram teased.

I thought of the caves where we had camped and what I had done there and of that last sorrowful place where Ben Simon had died. If he had gone with me to the Essenes, he might have lived. I had come to think that he knew what would befall him if he chose to remain behind, and still he had stayed. I should have seen it in the manner in which he glanced away from me, as if we had already been separated while I stood before him to say farewell. I should have known when he gave me his knife.

I didn’t want my brother to see my shame. I sank onto the grass, beneath a canopy of pink almond blossoms, so that I might avert my face and be unreadable beneath Amram’s curious glance. It was said that the almonds of pink trees were bitter, whereas those on trees where the blossoms were white would always be sweet. I lowered my eyes so I might seem like any other young unmarried woman.

“We did as best we could,” I said simply.

“The others were unlucky,” he replied. “I was sorry to hear of their passing. I thought Jachim ben Simon would take care of you. That was why I left you in his hands.”

“It was their fate to enter the World-to-Come,” I told him. That and nothing more.

My brother came to sit beside me joyfully, for a moment a boy once more rather than a warrior. He had scars I hadn’t seen before, including a deep gash on his neck where he’d been pierced by an arrow. When he unclasped his armor, I noticed the constant pressure of the bow he carried had etched itself into his skin; there was now a crescent on his back and chest even when he did not shoulder his weapon.

He had grown his hair long and braided it tightly as warriors did. His face was still beautiful, but burned by the sun, thin. The openness of his youth was gone. He was no longer a boy learning rebellion in the dappled red shade of the flame tree.

“We are among the last holdouts in all of Judea,” he told me. “Fortress after fortress has fallen. We haven’t run and we never will.”

There were only two routes to Masada, the way we had come, through the heartless desert which stretched on toward the mountains of Moab on the far side of the Salt Sea, or along the dusty route that connected Edom and the Arava Valley to Ein Gedi and Jerusalem. Either route was visible from this perch.

“We’re safe here,” my brother promised.

He told me that when the rebels first arrived they’d pulled down the golden eagle Herod had installed on the huge gate of the palace. There were to be no idols here, no great shows of wealth. All men were equal in this domain, no kings, only the kingdom of God. No man needed to bow to any other, not even to Eleazar ben Ya’ir, their leader, a great man and a great warrior.

My brother showed me that he continued to wear the amulet of Solomon I’d given him, strung around his throat. He took great pride in it still.

“Where’s your scarf?” he asked then.

I showed him the single section of silk that remained. I told him how the scarf had saved my life and the life of our father, how it had become a map to guide us through the desert, tied to the thorn
trees. To my great surprise, my brother brought forth a matching bit of blue. It had come to him on the wind, he told me. He’d thought it was a bird at first, and had held out his hand. It had come to him as if called. That was how he knew I was still alive, and that he would find me, and that our presence in this place so close to God was meant to be.

WE WENT WALKING
through the orchard, toward terraces where ancient olive trees and huge, twisted grapevines grew. In the gardens there were onions, chickpeas, cucumbers, melons, all made possible by King Herod’s amazing use of cisterns and pools which brought water to this mountain. Beyond us rose a field of emmer and barley, with sheaves tied together with rope. A plow drawn by donkeys cut what was left, the blade attached to a long piece of wood; two boys shouted at the donkeys to keep them going. As the chaff rose up, the air glowed yellow, like honey poured into a bowl.

Amram told me of the huge storerooms from the time of Herod, filled with enormous porcelain vessels of wine and oil shipped from Rome and Greece, many with the king’s stamp still upon them. Through the Water Gate and the South Water Gate, donkeys brought up wooden barrels filled from the pools in the ravines below, enough for four baths and twelve cisterns, one a well so enormous fifty people could fit inside, shoulder to shoulder. It was no trouble to fill the pools and baths, even in the dry months. A market had grown up inside the fortress walls, much like the one in Jerusalem. There were bakers and tanners and weavers in small shops that had been set into narrow stalls between Herod’s wall and the open ground of the plaza. Tents and houses made of wood had gone up against the fortification of the wall.

The warriors made their homes in what had been the Roman garrison’s living quarters, while the priests and wise men had taken
up residence in the small palaces where Herod’s kin and advisers had lived long ago. There were mosaic floors of onyx black and pearl white in every room of the palaces. The public baths were decorated with brilliant mosaics as well, formed into fields of stone flowers or numerical patterns. There were red and orange frescoes on the palace walls, some still with their gold-leaf edges. Ben Ya’ir and his kinsmen lived in the smallest palace with a view of the valley. As for the Northern Palace, the most elegant and awesome structure, so fantastic it would rival any wonder of the world, weapons and supplies were kept there. Shops had been set up in small stalls, with cobblers and butchers, for no man among the rebels would ever live in a place of wealth as the king once had, setting up residence upon this mountain to prove he owned the world.

The men who had gathered at Masada were dedicated to Zion, willing to make any sacrifice, defiant in all ways, unwilling to be any man’s slave. As for Ben Ya’ir, it was said he was not afraid even of
Mal’ach ha-Mavet.
When the Angel of Death came for him, he intended to pluck out that fierce being’s twelve wings and lay them upon the ground, bloody and strewn with feathers, as a gift to God.

My brother and I stood gazing at Eleazar ben Ya’ir’s residence.

“It’s an honor to follow him,” my brother remarked.

“Does he live in a palace and I make my home in the field?” I teased.

My brother told me that a chamber had been readied for my father and that I was to join him there and care for him. Amram had been shocked by how fragile our father had become. “Has he been ill?” my brother asked, concerned.

“He would not rest until we found you.” I wanted to spare him from the truth. Our father’s old age had been hastened by the burden of the men he had killed, by the daughter he had turned away, by a desert so fierce it had brought him to his knees.

When Amram wanted to know more of our time wandering, I said only that we had survived. I didn’t mention the man who’d
been scarred by a lion or the woman whose ghost was haunting me. Instead I told him about the wild goat who must have been an angel, whose milk had saved us from starvation. We laughed to think of a goat as an angel, and I admitted that I missed my pet, for she had become my confidante and my friend. My brother reminded me that our word for angel is also the word for messenger. That was how you knew you had been visited by such a luminous being, by the message you received. Perhaps the goat had come to teach me how to survive in a land so harsh it seemed impossible to do so.

“And what of you?” I asked. “Have you received a message?”

My brother seemed vulnerable at that moment, more a boy than a cold-eyed warrior. He had always told me his secrets, but that time had passed and now he seemed relieved when he was called away to the garrison before he could answer. His friend Uri’s mother came to bring me to my living space. “Don’t expect much,” she warned.

Because I expected nothing, I was pleased by what I received. Our room beside Herod’s wall was far better than any shelter we’d known since we had run from the city. There was a roof of fabric and three walls of wood. A small round oven was built into the stone wall, and there was a tiny chamber in which I could sleep. If I stood on my toes I could see through a spacing in the wall and gaze out at the cliffs. My father was waiting for me when I arrived. He had already blessed this place.

“I told you to trust in God,” he said. “You should not have been so weak.”

I swallowed my words. I did not say
You were the one who wept in the desert, not I. You feared wild beasts and starvation while I went to catch birds and dared to face leopards.

I set up our house with what the council had decreed each family should be granted—straw pallets to sleep upon, two oil lamps, woven blankets, stone cups and bowls. Uri’s mother brought us our ration of dates and lentils and fruit, along with a ceramic pot and
a jar of oil for cooking and to use to light the Sabbath lamp. She warned me that life here was hard. I nodded, pretending to listen, but I almost laughed. She was clean, her hair plaited, and I was a barbarian who had faced down a leopard. I thanked her for her many kindnesses.

AFTER MY
first evening at the fortress, I often found my way back to the orchard where the almonds were in bloom. It was the month of
Adar,
the beginning of spring. I needed a quiet place which would offer me an escape from my father’s displeasure. He glared at me, unhappy to share his residence with me, begrudging me the corner where I was to live, cursing my existence. I never dared to speak back. I knew three new moons had passed since I had last had my monthly bleeding. In the orchards, Egyptian honeybees were swarming and the air was mild and pink. We had come from a wasteland to a garden, from valleys of death to fields of plenty. I was so accustomed to blistering white light that it pained me to see the many shades of green and gold and pink. I had to squint and hold one hand over my eyes. I had grown used to the silence of the wilderness. Here there were nearly a thousand people, a jumble of humanity, for a city had burst forth in the clouds with no need of the rest of the world. The council printed their own coins in metal shops. Grapes were gathered for wine, hives were kept for the honeybees. There were looms set up in the plaza for the women, and in the evenings their voices burst forth as they carded wool. Pens for animals were made of fences woven from thorn trees. Dusty sheep called to each other; black goats and their kids had space to run. There was the scent of bread baking, meals cooking, the fresh green fragrance of herbs, of coriander and dill and dusky gray sage.

It was too much for me to take in after our time in the desert, a torrent of noise and scent engulfing me like a tide. I yearned for
what I’d once had. A bird among the rocks. The dusty prints of a leopard. I myself barely spoke, and if I raised my eyes to someone, it was for but an instant. Some women glanced at me as I walked by, curious. A few waved, but I pulled my scarf closer. Some young girls darted past on their way to the baths. I felt regret rise inside me when I spied them. I wished I could throw off my scarf and run with them, chattering, hopeful. If only I could slip off my garments and plunge into the bath, perhaps I could be cleansed and forgiven and start anew, a girl again. Yet if I’d had to take back all that had happened, I would have refused. I yearned for everything I’d lost. I wished I could reclaim the goat who was my angel. I would tie a rope of bells around her neck and another around my feet so that we could find each other whenever storms arose. I would watch the dark wash across the sky as I listened for the sound of bells. I would not have to pretend to be anything other than what I had become.

I spotted the
auguratorium,
the bird observatory left behind by the Romans when they’d camped here. It was one of the many towers built along the huge wall that circled the entire outpost. The observatory was in the most favorable position, overlooking the northern hills, the air tempered by cool breezes. I’d seen such towers in Jerusalem, sacred edifices where bird bones were thrown to tell the future, from whose heights magicians might observe the movement of flocks that could predict what was to come.

The sages said that magic might be studied and learned but never practiced; it was forbidden, yet it could be found in the dark or hidden in towers such as this one. I climbed the wooden ladder. The air was even cooler here, the gleaming distance shimmering in waves. I gasped at the world before me, blinking in the bright light. There were hawks gliding through the sky, but I didn’t know what their flight meant, not when they dipped closer to the cliff nor when they soared into the western horizon. I had no talent for magic of any kind.