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.
Each year, in the month of Nissan, Yonah and I go to the river on the night before the feast that records our people’s journey out of Egypt, a journey we hope to make again someday when Jerusalem is ours once more. It is a long voyage that we undertake. On this year we celebrate the Blessing of the Sun, for that glorious orb is in the exact same place as it had been during Creation, when God brought forth good and evil, imbuing our world with both at the same hour when he created the word and brought us out of silence, so we might make our own choices. We ride the white donkey we keep in the shed. Revka and I make certain this creature is well cared for, ready if we should ever need to depart suddenly. Our people never know when we may have to flee. Everything that is important we carry with us, whether or not it has been written down.
Yonah is a beautiful child, although with her pale hair and gray eyes she looks nothing like her mother. Still, she is called to the water. I could not keep her away if I tried. I have found her splashing in our courtyard fountain where we keep fish. They do not flee from her, but instead gather around her, as the doves once came to me. That is her element, one she shares with Shirah, who did everything she could to bring this girl forth into this world, even though it was not yet her time, far too early to do so with any assurance of safety. Shirah bled so badly after the birth she would not have survived even if the Angel of Death had not walked among us on that terrible night. We both knew this would come to pass as she drank the rue and stood over the smoke that would begin her labor. She gave her life so that Yonah would have hers. For those who say that the Witch of Moab never loved anyone, that she was selfish, concerned with her own fate alone, I can only say that she was ruined by love and delivered by it and that she left something glorious to the world, a child who loves to stand in the rain.
Our bare feet sink in the mud as we make our way into the waters of the Nile. The river is ink blue. There are sharp, green reeds, and the scent of balsam floats in the air. Women wash their clothes and leave them to dry on rocks along the shore. The men have pulled their boats in, lifting them upon their shoulders and carrying them up the sandy paths. We walk until there are shadows of silver fish darting close by. As the twilight sifts down, we set a candle on a lotus leaf that floats out with the current and watch as it disappears into the dark. This is the reason we are here, to give thanks to our mothers, who are watching over us in the place where we will join them one day, in the World-to-Come.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The Dovekeepers is a novel set during and after the fall of Jerusalem (70 C.E.). The book covers a period of four years as the Romans waged war against the Jewish stronghold of Masada, claimed by a group of nine hundred rebels and their families. The story is taken from the historian Josephus, who has written the only account of the siege, in which he reported that two women and five children survived the massacre on the night when the Jews committed mass suicide rather than submit to the Roman Legion. It was they who told the story to the Romans, and, therefore, to the world.
I was inspired by my first visit to Masada, a spiritual experience so intense and moving I felt as though the lives that had been led there two thousand years earlier were utterly fresh and relevant. The tragic events of the past and the extraordinary sacrifices that were made in this fortress seemed to be present in the pale air. It was as if those who had lived there, and died there, had passed by only hours before.
In the Yigal Yadin Museum at Masada many of the artifacts mentioned in this novel can be found: a tartan fabric belonging to a legionnaire conscripted from Wales; the sandals and hair of a young woman whose remains were found beside a fountain, alongside the skeletons of a young warrior and a boy, with silver scales of armor surrounding them. An amulet in a museum in Wales is the one given to the escaped slave, Wynn, and the incantation bowls, amulets, and spells in the novel can be found in museums in Europe, Israel, and Egypt. The names found on ostraca at Masada—including Yoav, the Man from the Valley, and Ben Ya’ir, the leader of the rebellion—which may have been the lots drawn by the last warriors, are also on display at Masada. Several skeletons were discovered in the cave below the fortress, and although no one can know if Essenes were at Masada, their scrolls have been unearthed there. Magic was a secret endeavor, but as often as possible, I have threaded found archaeological remains into the story of The Dovekeepers
I am indebted not only to Josephus’s account, but to Yigal Yadin, the archaeologist in charge of the Masada project, author of Masada, the courageous story of the excavation of the fortress. Although there are debates regarding the history and archaeological findings, I have always deferred to the initial findings and interpretations at the site.
I have researched The Dovekeepers for many years, but I am not a historian or a religious scholar. As a nove
list I worked as best I could within the confines of reality. Although some of the characters are based on historical figures, the stories of women have often gone unwritten, and The Dovekeepers is my attempt to imagine those stories. My hope is that in doing so, I can give voice to those who have remained silent for so long.
I would like to thank my earliest readers, Maggie Stern Terris, Daniel Terris, Pamela Painter, and Sue Standing for their insights and invaluable comments and for their friendship and support during the writing of this book. I would also like to thank my uncle and aunt, Ashley and Harriet Hoffman, early readers as well, for their continuing kindness in both my writing and real lives. Thank you to Mindy Givon, my sister-in-law, for being an early, supportive reader, for traveling through Israel with me, and for being a great friend. Gratitude to the Women’s Studies Research Center at Brandeis for my appointment as a visiting scholar, with special thanks to Shulamit Reinharz, and to my wonderful student researcher, Deborah Thompson.
Thanks to Susan Brown for copyediting that was both meticulous and tolerant. Thank you to Gary Johnson and Julia Kenny at the Markson Thoma agency for their continuing support, and also to Paul Whitlatch at Scribner for help throughout the publication of this book. My thanks to Camille McDuffie for her friendship and for many kindnesses over the course of many books. Gratitude to Joyce Tenneson, whose glorious photograph inspired me as a symbol of the courage and grace of women in the ancient world.
I am indebted to my brother-in-law, Menachem Givon, who was my guide in Israel and whose knowledge was invaluable to me in his thoughtful reading of the manuscript. It would have been impossible for me to have ever researched all that he knew by heart and was kind enough to share with me. I am also deeply indebted to Richard Elliott Friedman, an exceptional writer and scholar, whose wise and careful reading of the book was extremely helpful, and whose brilliant insights into the world of the Bible were both fascinating and invaluable. Thank you both for being generous, patient teachers.
I would especially like to thank Elaine Markson, my extraordinary agent and friend; she believed in this book from the very start, and has always believed in me. Many thanks also to my long-time agent and dear friend Ron Bernstein for his wise counsel over the years. I am grateful beyond words to have worked with Nan Graham as my editor and Susan Moldow as my publisher. They, too, believed in me and in this book and embraced it. In doing so, they changed my fate. Thank you also to Carolyn Reidy for her kindness and support.
I am indebted to my husband, Thomas Martin, who journeyed to the desert with me, despite the sorrows we encountered.
Lastly, my greatest debt is to my mother, Sherry Hoffman, who I miss every day. I hope you forgave me, as I have long ago forgiven you.
FURTHER READING
The Jewish War, Josephus, Penguin Classics edition
Masada, Yigal Yadin, Welcome Rain Books
Ancient Jewish Magic, Gideon Bohak, Cambridge University Press
Magic in Ancient Egypt, Geraldine Pinch, The British Museum Press
Every Living Thing, Daily Use of Animals in Ancient Israel, Borowski, Alta Mira Press
Daily Life in Biblical Times, Borowski, Society of Biblical Literature, Atlanta
More historical information and a glossary can be found on the author’s website: www.alicehoffman.com.
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