The Dovekeepers: A Novel

by Alice Hoffman

  The Man from the Valley had come upon us. He was nearly unrecognizable, his countenance resembling a beast as much as a man. That was why the Almighty had given us prayer, to distinguish men from animals, to leave the beasts inside of us locked away, as demons are locked in lead jars. This warrior wore nothing but his metal bands of agony and a tunic that was sodden with blood.

  But no matter his appearance, the Man from the Valley was indeed human, though he himself might deny it. When Uri reached for me again, grasping at my leg, the Man from the Valley shouted at me to dodge backward. He made a quick sweep to complete Uri’s death, so swift it seemed his ax was made of light. Perhaps Gabriel, who was the lord of fire and of vengeance, did indeed walk beside him.

  After the Man from the Valley had slain the younger warrior, he knelt to sing our song for the dead, which many said was the only prayer he would offer up to God. He chanted, in a trance. When he rose, I saw that he had been marked with the letters of the Almighty’s name across his chest and arms, for he was the last of the ten, the one who must slay all of the death-givers and then bring upon his own death.

  Once he had been a learned man and a scholar, he had been a man of faith. He had partaken of a lottery to see who would be the last man, and God had chosen him for this terrible last task. Of all the death-givers, he was the most fierce, for his rising indignation over the condition of his kind had left him without fear. He was inured to violence; whether it was inflicted upon himself or upon another made no difference to him now.

  At that moment I was unsure whether he would be our murderer or our salvation. The children had stopped in their path, watching with horror. The boys knew their father and called out to him, but he did not answer. Instead he gazed at me, unguarded, and in that moment I saw the man he had been, the one he would be again when he walked into the World-to-Come and bowed before the Creator of all things.

  “I leave my children to you,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Wherever they go my wife abides.”

  Even now he could not forsake her, or lose her to the beasts who took her down. If he’d been another man, he might have come with us to hide from this mayhem, for I murmured that we were making our escape. But he had been searching for Death for so long he could not linger among us now. He was finally about to meet the one he had been waiting for, his ax ready to take up against Mal’ach ha-Mavet in the only way he could ever win this battle, against himself.

  He breathed into his hand, then took my hand in his and told me what I must do.

  I ran to those who awaited me. We hurried to the cistern and took the steps as quickly as we could. There was darkness before us, and the echo of the water beneath us. At the mouth to the cave, I paused to tell Revka she must kiss my hand, for this was what the Man from the Valley had commanded of me. When she did, I told her of her son-in-law’s gift to her. Neshamah, the breath of her daughter’s soul, was returned to her, to keep for all eternity and to take with us, wherever we might go.

  Our footsteps pounded as we went down into the earth, but only to our ears, for there was no one else left to hear. We could feel the silence of the dead, but it did not follow us. There was only the languid echo of still water, splashing as rocks fell from beneath our footsteps. When we reached the bottom of the well, the white plaster ledge shone and led the way. It seemed that the stars had fallen underground.

  We slipped into the water, and that was where we hid from death. We were there on the sixteenth of Nissan, as the day of Passover dawned.

  The heat of the fires above us passed over us. As our people were saved when the Angel of Death passed over them when they were slaves in Egypt, so, too, had we eluded him. We slept at the mouth of the well, for we were exhausted and had spent hours in the water, paddling, holding on to the sharp plaster ledge until our fingers bled. We then had pulled ourselves from the cistern so that we might rest alongside the mouth of the well and not drown in our state of exhaustion. There we lay, spent, our hair trailing in the water, our fingers raw, our tunics drenched.

  Perhaps we dreamed that those who had died lingered nearby, for they whispered to us in the night. We were so close to the dead we could hear them in the way it is possible to hear wind in a storm even when you are safely hidden away. When we woke, we marveled that we were still living. The black ash had been washed from us during our hours in the cistern, and we could see bands of light streaming from above, for it was morning, and another day had come.

  We gazed up in alarm when we heard muffled voices. We thought they were the voices of the dead and perhaps we were among them and hadn’t recognized the World-to-Come, taking it to be the world we had always known before this murderous night had fallen. For all we knew, we, too, were among the dead and had not yet realized we had left our bodies, lingering as the dead often do before they can move on. Fainthearted, we bowed our heads.

  Levi and Noah feared that demons awaited us, for they had seen such beings at work. They held each other, readying themselves for whatever terrors would next be inflicted upon them. Yehuda insisted that the End of Days had come, and that his people had arisen from their graves and from the mountain where their bones had been scattered by the jackals, and would soon come to join us. He began to pray, facing in the direction of Jerusalem, for though we were beneath the earth, he could divine the location of that holy city by the placement of the rays of light as the sun rose above the cistern.

  Steps clattered down the stairs, down into the earth where we awaited whatever was to come. The noise made me think of the king’s horses, how they had fitted themselves onto the narrowness of the serpents’ path because they had no other choice, how they were blind to the dangers around them.

  Four soldiers from the legion came to us, their faces registering shock when they saw us. One grabbed Yehuda and pulled him to his feet. I rose up with a shriek. My hair was the color of blood, and I was flecked with the blood-hued spots that had always marked me and by the bloody slaughter of my people.

  The soldier stood back. Perhaps he believed in ghosts.

  What are you? he said. He spoke in Latin.

  I pretended not to understand.

  Are you alive? he asked.

  And then we knew we were, for he could see us and he was made of flesh and blood, clothed in the white tunic of the legion, carrying a spear that had been readied to use against us. But the spear had gone slack in his hand, for he knew not what we were, and ghosts could not be killed with weapons made by men.

  If circumstances had been different, surely we would have all been slain, but now the soldiers’ expressions were confused, for they were unnerved by what they had witnessed on the mountain above us, the hundreds of charred bodies, the burning of all we had been and all we had owned.

  What of all the others? the same soldier said.

  I had assumed they had captured more survivors, those who had hidden in their chambers, or had crouched beside the wall.

  We have searched everywhere and found nothing but the dead, he went on.

  We realized that we were the only ones, and that we alone had the story to tell.

  They lined us up and gazed at us, afraid that we were indeed ghosts, and they treated us as such, their respect fashioned from their fear. There was blood on the soles of our feet and on the palms of our hands. One of the soldiers had brought a rope to tie us with, but the one who had spoken to us first slapped the rope away.

  Where would they go? he said. How would they escape?

  We followed the soldiers, our eyes cast down. The day was chalky and dry, but we were still soaked from our time in the cistern, water streaming from our hair and our sodden tunics. We looked like creatures that had been brought up from the bottom of a river in a net, pale fish who had emerged from the waters of hell.

  The stench of charred flesh made us dizzy and faint. Many of the soldiers covered their mouths and noses, many were ashen. Flies were swarming everywhere, and above us there were clouds of ravens and birds of prey. The Romans had been prep
ared for a battle, never imagining they would have to cross over a field of martyrdom. Nine hundred, burned, slaughtered. Worst were the children and the women and the babies in their mothers’ embrace, their pale, young bodies in clutches of blood, bees circling round as if their remains were sweetened by the honey of their youth. Such deaths were a disgrace to the legion, and the soldiers took no joy in this surrender. Men who feared spirits and ghosts stood on the periphery when we were brought to the plaza. Men who feared their gods imagined that it was a sin for them to walk upon this ground.

  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 h
im. 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.