“When I see him with Arieh,” Yael admitted, “I see the man he might have been had he not lost the one he loved most in this world.”
Arieh’s safety was assured while he was in the care of a grandfather who had been among the great Sicarii of Jerusalem, for the assassin’s knife was still hidden within his cloak, even though he was now delegated to clean weapons. It was he I wanted to see, and I asked Yael to lead me to his chamber. The assassin had disapproved of me as unworthy of his son. Perhaps Yael imagined I wished to win him over. But a man such as he could not be easily convinced, and in fact I wanted no such thing.
“You remember Aziza,” Yael said to her father.
Yosef bar Elhanan looked up, appraising me with a cool glance. I wondered how many men he had murdered, if the rush of blood had ever humbled him or made him seek forgiveness. He took the baby on his lap, then nodded. “The shedah,” he said.
He meant to insult me, but I smiled prettily. Such things as smiles can be weapons as well.
Yael went to make tea, though she feared leaving me at her father’s mercy.
“I’m used to such men,” I assured her, for indeed I knew that among men words were not nearly as perilous as the ones women spoke.
The assassin ignored me and tended to the child with unexpected affection. I leaned forward so only Bar Elhanan would hear, for what I was about to say was far too intimate a request for anyone passing by to overhear.
“I want you to teach me to be invisible,” I told him.
The old man had been jiggling Arieh on his knees, much to the baby’s delight. I half-expected him to feign deafness when I informed him of what I wanted, but he was curious when I made my request and couldn’t resist knowing more. He stared at me rudely, giving me no more respect then he would a common zonah.
“Why would I do this?” he asked.
“So I can protect your son and my own brother.”
“My son is lost to me because of you.”
I knew distance still remained between Bar Elhanan and his son, but I wasn’t afraid to talk back to him and stand my ground. If I slunk away under the heat of his words, he would never respect me.
“If he’s lost to you, it’s because you’re too lazy to go and find him.”
The assassin chuckled and shook his head sadly. “True. I shut the door to him, and now I wonder why he doesn’t walk through it.”
I had hit upon his heart, for it turned out that he had one, so I dared to continue.
“I want to take my brother’s place, for it should have been my place to begin with.”
The assassin snorted a laugh. His weathered face showed only amusement. He seemed to believe I was there to entertain him with foolish tales. He would have begun to admonish me to keep to women’s work had I not learned what my sister’s father had taught me. You are only worthy of what you prove yourself to be. Before the assassin could dismiss me, I reached for the blade I carried. I leapt to stand behind him, placing the knife at his throat. Though it was forbidden to grab at me, Bar Elhanan had committed far worse sins. He ably grasped my arm and twisted it backward, nearly breaking it, all the while holding the baby on his knee. We were both breathing hard.
“For what cause did you come to murder me?” he demanded to know.
“That was not my purpose.”
He let go, and I faced him once more. He gazed at me, confused.
“Are you a woman?” he said thoughtfully, impressed and puzzled by my quickness with a weapon.
“Most of the time,” I answered.
Fortunately, he laughed. “I am nothing here,” he told me. “But if you want to learn to clean spears and armor, then I’m your man.”
“No. I want more,” I said. “I want to be invisible.”
By the time Yael had returned with the tea, her father had decided he would allow me to borrow his cloak. When we left, he suggested I visit him on the following day. I was interested in cleaning weaponry, he told Yael when she looked at him questioningly, and he had much to teach me.
ON THE DAY we were to leave we entered the month of Elul, a time of introspection before the holiest days come to us. I awoke in the dark while my brother, still healing, his leg bandaged, dozed on his pallet. I hurried to the goat house and dressed in his garments, burying my own beneath a pile of straw. I had been practicing weaponry daily with the old assassin, an uncompromising teacher. I was a puzzlement to him, but he was grateful that someone, even I, would ask to see his great skill. It bothered him not at all if I was harmed during our practice. His manner was remote, his methods cruel, but he had instructed me well.
The dog followed me while I retrieved my brother’s tunic and cloak, waiting patiently. I thought perhaps he was at my side because he imagined I was Adir, or perhaps he assumed I was gathering a meal for him. Yet when I shooed him away, he insisted on traipsing along to the barracks. In the dark I dressed in armor, a sheet of silver scales. I wore my head scarf tied low on my forehead so that my face was obscured and I might appear to be my brother in the other warriors’ eyes. Sure enough, a fellow named Uri came out and told me which spears to collect for the others. I did so willingly.
I had brought along only a small pack containing figs and pistachios and hard cheese, along with the gray cloak. The old assassin had taught me the tricks of invisibility, how to walk in shadow, how to step without making a sound, how to slip from the grasp of another’s attack in a blur of fog. At the end of our time together, he had proclaimed me a worthy student, although he assured me I would not make a good wife for Amram.
“They can say you’re a woman, but you’re something else.” The assassin was aging, but he was still clear-eyed, and his glance was piercing.
“A shedah?” I tried to make a joke of it.
He might have laughed, but he didn’t. “A warrior,” he said.
I bowed in gratitude, and left him there to clean other men’s weapons.
*
THERE WERE SIXTY of us who left that day, a raiding party led by Ben Ya’ir himself. My heart raced to think that I was now to be one of my father’s men, and that I was to follow him and perhaps bring some pride to him. I tied Eran to a post, but he shrank out of his rope and chased after me. Because he refused to leave my side, I used the huge dog as one might pack a donkey with belongings, enlisting a thick rope so I might tie spears onto either side of his body. Certainly, the beast was as strong as a donkey, and nearly as stubborn.
As we went through the gate, I was at the rear of the column. I could see the man who was my father in the lead and, behind him, Amram and his friends. I knew Amram even from a far distance, for he had attached the blue square to his armor. I could glimpse it as we made our way down the twisted path.
The heat was blistering, and the sky blazed white. I was unused to the armor I now wore, and the bulk of it made my gait awkward. The people of my sister’s father had never worn anything that might have weighed them down. The lighter they were, the more fleet, able to dart in and out of battle; only their horses were protected by metal masks and chest pieces, for the tribesmen knew the value of such creatures. I longed for the horse that had been given to my brother, or the great warhorse Leba, who could always find his way home and had no need of a bridle. On horseback I would have been flying; now I trudged along.
The footpath was treacherous for the careless. Dust rose into our faces, and the rocks slid out beneath our feet. I stayed to myself, Eran at my side, and let the other warriors interpret my demeanor as shyness. As we went along, several men applauded me for my willingness to set forth so soon after my wound. They praised Eran as well, saying that a man whose dog was loyal to him was one you wanted beside you in battle. I dipped my head in gratitude, giving thanks in silence. Whoever gives his true self away does so with words.
We were setting forth in the direction of Ein Gedi. West of that place there was said to be a band of travelers who had settled among the local people and had in their possession gold and gem-stones, oil and frankin
cense. On the mountain we were suffering from great poverty. When our walls fell down, we repaired them with mud and straw; when our lamps were without oil, we let them remain dark; when there was not enough wood, we used the waste of donkeys for our fires. We ate not stew or boiled meat but gruel, a thin mixture of barley flavored with the flesh of the few doves we had to spare for our meals. Our warriors had no choice but to take what they needed from villages and camps, so our people might live. It was no different than what I had done alongside Nahara’s father. This was our country, and we were its kings, and those who entered were wise to understand they were at our mercy.
We walked until we were tired, sleeping in the open. The night was brisk, and I was glad for the dog’s presence, for I lay beside him and he warmed me. I watched Amram from beneath the cover of my cloak and my armor, but I was careful not to reveal myself. I kept my head down so that he would not see the scar he thought was a teardrop. I used the tricks I’d perfected in Moab, going off alone to relieve myself, never shirking my duties, speaking rarely and, when I did, only in a dull voice. They all came to accept me as Adir.
As soon as I could, I went off to hunt. I shot a young ibex, and when the buck stumbled upon being struck by my arrow, I went to him and slit his throat so that his spirit might rise painlessly and with dignity. When I brought my kill back to camp, draped over my shoulders, Amram himself came to butcher the creature with me.
“You have good aim, little brother,” he said to me.
My heart was hitting against my chest. I was both afraid that he would know me and perhaps more frightened that he would not. I swallowed my words and nodded simply in reply. My hands shook because of his nearness to me, and my deceit. I felt at that moment I was so clearly a woman that I was announcing myself with every breath I took. But I was not recognized. He clapped me on the shoulder heartily and still did not feel how hard my heart was beating.
I couldn’t blame Amram for not recognizing me when I had taken such care to disguise myself. The old assassin had taught me that men never see what is right before their eyes. They look in corners and under rocks, but if you are standing in front of them, they will pass you by, believing you to be no more than an olive tree, a part of the landscape and nothing more. Bar Elhanan had learned this as he skulked through the courtyards of the Temple, searching out his enemies. Disappear into something, he instructed me. Become not what you are but what is around you. A stone, a shadow, one archer among many. Mice are unseen because they cloak themselves in the darkness so often that, when they do step out before you, they appear as shadows. A shadow is viewed with the mind, not the eye, he told me. That is how you convince those around you to see you as you wish to be seen.
I had taken to wearing the assassin’s cloak in the evenings when I walked with the dog. There were rock hyrax living in burrows, and the hoof marks of ibex traveling through, in search of the waterfalls nearby, the place where it was said King David once made his camp. It was there Moringa Peregrina, the orchid with pink-white blooms that appeared every spring, could be found. David is said to have written over three hundred songs, one for every day of the year. There were no orchids where I wandered; only scrubby myrrh grew on the limestone cliffs. I plucked some out and tucked it beneath my cloak, as women often do for the value of its fresh scent, making certain to avoid the sharp stems.
The others left me to myself, accepting my reserved demeanor, while they prepared for the battle to come, testing their weapons, drinking what little wine they had brought along to sustain them. I was not the only one who was withdrawn. There was another warrior who remained on the edges of camp, refusing to eat from the ibex I had brought down, choosing to fast instead. I stumbled upon him when I went off to relieve myself far from the camp, as I did every night. This warrior recoiled from human contact; he needed no comfort, no cloak to warm him, no brothers-at-arms.
The dog did not growl when we came upon the one they called the Man from the Valley, who wound his flesh with metal. Though this went against our laws, no one dared to condemn him for his savage ways. His white braids belied his youth and were so long they trailed down his back. The other warriors said that in battle God was able to lift him out of danger, grabbing on to his hair to keep him from harm. That was why he was able to walk into a raging conflict and walk back out again, when any other man would have been slain. His flesh was covered with scars, many untended and unhealed. The metal dug into his muscular arms and left bands of blue and purple wounds.
He was kneeling beside a thornbush when I came upon him, chanting the mourning song for the dead, holding on to the sharp branches that pierced his skin to cause himself more pain. I had never seen a man so open in his agony. I felt that I could weep at the sight of him; instead I ran away.
I grabbed Eran by his neck, and together we fled far from that place, racing as if we were horses. The dust rose up, and the hyrax in their burrows hid from us. The tawny owls rose into the air above the cliffs; rattailed bats shuddered up from the jujube trees in a cloud of flesh and wings, forsaking the orange fruit on the branches.
The next day the man I’d stumbled upon was staring at me. I knew that no warrior wished to fight alongside him, for he cared not at all for his own life. He wielded his ax and no other weapon, but that ax was said to be blessed and could not miss its target. I gazed away from him, not wishing to reveal my true nature, or in any way to set a light to the fire of his fearsome rage, said to be so violent and unquenchable his brethren whispered that he fought at the right hand of Gabriel, the fiercest of all angels.
That evening we prepared for the night raid. I’d been made dizzy with the heat and the weight of my own subterfuge, along with the heavy, silver-scaled armor. We stood in line for our share of water under the harshness of the fading sun. When I asked for a portion for my dog, the fellow in charge of our rations shook his head.
“He’ll have to drink the dirt,” I was told. “There’s not enough to give the beast his share.”
I went away, troubled. I shared the provisions I’d brought with my dog and had thrown him the bones of the ibex. Nahara’s father had taught me that you feed your horse before you feed yourself, but I had barely water enough for my own parched throat. I had come to be a warrior, now I found my greatest concern was a creature I had not wanted in the first place. As I was worrying over what I might do, the Man from the Valley approached. Again the dog failed to growl. The warrior put down his share of water in its cup. He nodded to Eran.
“He’ll be thirsty,” he said.
I mumbled some words of gratitude, then asked, did he himself not need to drink?
“Water doesn’t quench my thirst,” the Man from the Valley told me. And then, for no apparent reason, he said, “Don’t go tonight.”
Clearly he thought I was a callow boy; to him I was my brother, Adir, who’d been wounded and had little experience in battle. He need not have worried for me. “I’ve fought men many times,” I assured him. “And they’ve suffered because of it.”
He nodded. His glance didn’t meet mine. “But this is your first time among us. You haven’t been at war. You haven’t raided a village.”
That was true, the bloodshed I’d known on the eastern side of the Salt Sea had been on the grasslands, along the King’s Highway.
“It’s my duty to go,” I said simply.
I felt his glance upon me, but I looked away now to hide the truth of who I was.
“When the time comes,” the warrior all others avoided advised me, “stand beside me.”
A MIST had come up to cover the ground as my gray cloak covered me. This was considered an omen of good fortune, for it would allow us to surprise our enemies. My bow was readied as we came down upon the village where the travelers were. The air had cooled, but the ground was still burning from the heat of that day. The earth itself seemed to have a beating heart, and the thudding of my pulse met its rhythm. I saw Eleazar ben Ya’ir in the dark. He was saying a prayer, and he wore his prayer shawl, for
he fought for the glory of God. He gathered us together a last time. Before him we resolved to be one in battle. We vowed we would never take slaves.
“We would not want our women and children enslaved,” Ben Ya’ir said. “We do the same for those we meet in battle.”
People said that our leader had seen those closest to him crucified in Jerusalem, brothers and friends, dying in agony before him. Afterward, the Romans had cut the heads from the bodies and tossed them into the road for the mourners, but without bodies there could be no lamentations, no burials, no peace. Ben Ya’ir spoke the words of our God.
Whoever is disheartened should go back home, for he might cause the heart of his fellows to melt as his does.
But our home was Jerusalem, and Zion had fallen, and not a single warrior turned away from the battle to come. I saw Amram lift his spear along with the others to cheer and honor our leader’s words. Only the Man from the Valley did not join them in prayer or in their fevered shouts. Perhaps he had already said prayers of his own. Perhaps the single prayer he recited was a song for the departed. He did not wear a prayer shawl or even a robe, merely a tunic and the metal he wound around his arms. He wanted pain, I saw that in him, and what a man wants he will often manage to find.
We went in stillness as the moon began to rise. I followed near Amram, so that I might keep watch over him, the dog at my heels, the great beast as silent as we were. The heart of the earth was pounding. The world was shrouded in silence until we came upon the guards. Then there was a wild shout and instantly the frantic calls of men in the village. Quickly, the shouting became deafening and the fray began. I went to one knee and began to work my bow, doing my best to ensure the safety of those who went before me. I killed two men right away, and they fell before Amram. Perhaps he thought an angel was beside him, for he gave thanks to God right there.
The Dovekeepers: A Novel Page 37
