Alice Hoffman - The Dovekeepers

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.