The Dovekeepers

by Alice Hoffman

  The Romans were relentless, and a king’s wall was nothing to them as they worked for the glory of their Emperor. They threw up an enormous platform that rose to more than two hundred cubits. The wood had come all the way from Greece, shipped across the sea, hauled here on the backs of slaves; the timbers carried the scent of the forest. Revka said they had been fashioned from cypress, and she wept in remembering. We stood watching as the platform was completed and the soldiers scrambled upon it and called out curses, quickly letting go with volleys of burning torches. All we could smell then was fire; the fragrance of sweet cypress was like a dream that had once clung in the air.

  When the platform was still not enough to breach the distance between the ramp and Herod’s mighty wall, the legion extended it with huge stones that fitted together. Then came the worst creation we had ever seen, one invented by Vespasian, then used by Titus, and now by Silva. It seemed this work of warfare had been fashioned in the demon world, and a thousand evil spirits had constructed it. We stood in awe and in despair. Even grown men had tears streaming down their faces. A metal-plated tower nearly a hundred feet tall had been set upon the wooden platform so the Romans could attack us yet be protected from our slingshots and arrows and darts. From this tower they were able to set forth huge boulders, striking the king’s walls that were meant to last for all eternity.

  So it began. The mountain shook and the birds took flight, the ravens and the larks, the sparrows and hawks, every winged creature fled from us, save for the doves in the dovecotes, who had no choice but to remain. I felt the child inside me shift as I sat upon the rim of the fountain. All around me there was madness. Children of the ages of three and four were scraping the blood from spears that had been cast into a pile, pulled from the bodies of the slain. Our dead were so many they were brought into the field where the almond trees flowered with both pink and white blooms. There the dead were washed with rainwater and oil, then wound in sheets of linen.

  When we had no more linen and still more dead, we used our own shawls to wind them in. Two of our young warriors, mere boys in armor, slipped through the gate to fight the soldiers on their own. Their heads were cut from their bodies and thrown up to us by catapult, their eyes still open. These boys’ mothers tore at their own flesh, horrified, caught in the nightmare that was our waking life.

  Revka and her grandsons had come to stay with me, along with Yael and Arieh, for their chamber was too near the wall; their neighbors had been killed as they slept when an arrow soared through the slit in stone that had served as a window, setting their pallets on fire. Certainly, we had room enough. My daughter Aziza had set a tent in our yard. She no longer wished to sleep indoors and, like the warrior that she was, stayed beneath the stars. The Man from the Valley came to take his meals with her, and they sat there like brethren, not speaking, yet not lacking for comfort. This man’s sons, Noah and Levi, peered out at this grave warrior, for he had become more a legend than a man to them. Once I noticed his glance flicker over to them. His expression softened and something seemed to stir within him, but he turned away, attending to the meager meal of beans and lentils Aziza had cooked for them to share.

  Revka had confided that on the day of her beloved daughter’s death, her son-in-law vowed two things: As long as he was in the world he would not take another woman into his bed, and he would never again cut his hair. But one night when he came for his meal, Revka groaned when she saw him, then hurried away. She stood with her back to us, shaken. Her son-in-law had cut his hair, then shaved his head. I followed Revka and took her hand in mine as she wept. It was over, she told me, this life of ours on earth. Her son-in-law had shorn his hair because the time had come for him to leave this world behind.

  That same night I saw my daughter embrace this warrior in our garden. He seemed a brutal being, covered with scars, metal strands embedded in his flesh, his only clothes made of metal scales. Yet in that single embrace I saw what I had never seen between my daughter and Amram. I saw that love had led her not to ruin but to her own destiny. I could never have hoped to stop the path she was meant to be on. The Man from the Valley had vowed not to love a woman, but he had never sworn such an oath about another warrior. In becoming a boy, Aziza had allowed him to love her.

  This was why so many had believed my daughter was a shedah, for when she cast her arms around this man who bound himself with strips of sharp metal, it was as though she was one of the thousand messengers who watch over us, sent to take him in her wings. I turned away when I saw him weep, for I knew what Revka said was true. This world was vanishing.

  It had already been written.

  WHO CAN SAY at what hour Herod’s wall was breached, the wretched moment when the first stone fell? It had been raining, but as the rain cleared, there continued to be thunder. Then, all at once, we understood it wasn’t thunder, but the battering ram continuously crashing against the wall. We stood and watched as God abandoned us, and then we did the best we could. There was chaos as the men raced to the plaza to build another wall, quickly, with mad fury. My cousin wanted a wall that would stand behind the stone wall the legion had broken through, one made of mud and grass so that it might sway with the battering ram rather than break apart. In a storm a blade of grass can withstand the fury of winds that bring the palaces of kings to ruin. There wasn’t a person who didn’t assist in building this second wall, for terror stirred in us all. Even Yehuda, the Essene boy, and my son, Adir, on his crutch were there, eager to help.

  It was God’s will that we should have rainfall, and therefore there would be mud, pools of it, quickly hardening once the sun came forth, forming the second wall. The children all were covered with mud, toiling among us despite the arrows set aflame that landed to singe our cloaks and set fire to our roofs and gardens.

  Our every action seemed to occur in a dream that had descended. I saw a child catch on fire and die in his own mother’s arms, and men give up their lives without complaint. I saw the legion leap up like a beast made of metal, with no heart or spirit as the wall of mud was shaken, yet it did not fall, for it was stronger than Herod’s wall though it had been built by old men and children. I saw the Angel of Death perched beside my daughter as she lifted her bow, running his hand over her radiant flesh. I saw the ghosts of those who had been murdered in the Essene cave walking the paths of the cliffs like black goats, their souls rising before them. My cousin broke away from the crowd when he realized how many had died and must be laid out in the field. When I followed him, I found him sobbing in my garden.

  In that moment I saw the prophecy that had come to me when I threw the bones in the tower. They had recounted that I would drown, exactly as the priest had warned I would when I was a child and had leapt into the fountain of my mother’s garden. Not in water but in my own blood.

  FOR NIGHTS ON END I had dreamed of the child I carried. In my dream she was immersed in water, her eyes open, for water was her element, as it had been mine. If we were all to be slaughtered, and if I was to be among the dead, I wanted to make certain this child came forth before she entered the World-to-Come. That was the only way I could ensure she carried a name, which would allow God to call her to Him, unlike the unborn, unnamed souls who must wander without direction for the rest of time.

  I knew it was time for my daughter to come into the world, for soon enough there would be no time left at all.

  I boiled a tea of rue, meant to cause miscarriage, and quickly drank a cupful. This mixture would bring my child before her time. I walked the floor of my chamber while Adir and Yehuda and everyone with any strength worked feverishly to restore the damages to the second wall. I called Yael to me, for she had promised to help me in my time of need. She left Arieh in Revka’s care and brought me a basket of leavings from the dovecote to lay upon the fire. As I had taught her how to attend a birth, so she would now bring my daughter to life.

  I stood over the smoke so that it might open my womb. Yael crouched down on her haunches, singing the infinite one�
�s name backward and forward until it formed a single letter in her mouth, rising and falling, a sound so ancient no man could understand its meaning. I focused on the image of Ashtoreth on the altar. I had brought her from my mother’s chambers, wrapped in linen along with her book of magical recipes, hidden in the doves’ cage beneath a handful of straw.

  All that I needed I had been given by my mother. All that I knew, I knew because of her. But all that I sacrificed was for my daughter.

  I had poured an offering of olive oil before Ashtoreth and covered myself with pomegranate oil and the perfume of the lily in her honor. It was the last of that fragrance in my possession. I knew there would be no more. I imagined the lilies beside the fountain in my mother’s garden. They appeared to grow up between the black and white mosaics that tiled my chamber’s floor. I concentrated upon them until I saw only those invisible blooms and the rest of the world fell away. I labored hard and did my best to make no noise, so that no one would be called to us. I bit down on my arm and drew blood. Despite the hour and the circumstances, I was alive, still able to give life.

  As time went on and the child did not appear, I was afraid that the daughter I was about to bring forth would be weak because she was so early. There was a drum of panic beating at my throat. The council might decide to set her outside the wall to perish before she was named. I vowed this would never happen. There would be no wilderness for this child, no ravens, no unburied bones, no soldiers of the legion, no jackals appraising her with hunger. Her spirit would not be trapped in a cave or wander through the valley but would instead remain in God’s hands and under His careful watch. This was why I would bring her into this world before her time, so that she might know more than sorrow and bask in the Almighty’s radiance, in His favor and His wisdom, even if it was for only an hour or a day.

  My daughter came at dawn, after many hours, and much blood. Too much, pouring out of me, but it was the price to be paid for her birth. Although she was early, she wasn’t weak. She cried out and my heart opened. Her eyes were gray, as her father’s were. Her hair was pale, much like the feathers of the dove. We took her into the field, so that we might bury the afterbirth, though the last of the almond trees had been chopped down for wood to build the wall. We thanked Ashtoreth and Adonai. I removed my cloak to stand naked before them, though I was exhausted, and seven days had not passed. We did not know how many days were left to us, and because of this I could not wait to name her.

  I called her Yonah, for she had come into the world because of a message brought by a dove.

  My wife, my beloved, my daughter, my world.

  ALL THROUGH the night our people reinforced the second wall, our only defense against the abyss. They lashed together the boughs of the almond trees that had been hewn so hastily, chinking the open spaces with mud so that the new wall would be pliant, moving with the thrusts of the battering ram. The Feast of Unleavened Bread would be celebrated the following day. On all other such festivals, our people would have gathered together to give thanks for our freedom from Egypt. Now we did not have time for anything except the prayers we carried inside us.

  But the wall that could not be broken could be burned. The scent of almonds rose in a bitter cloud. The Romans lit our wall on fire, and there was a ring of flame around us.

  In my doorway, I gazed upon my daughter in my arms as I heard the men chanting, for the chants had lifted above the sound of warfare. I heard women crying. As I gazed upon our sorrow, I turned to take note of a shadow in my garden, a raven crouched down among the rows of vegetables I had grown, all burned to ash now, the mint and rue, the coriander and the hyssop mere twigs. I went into the garden that was no more.

  Channa had come to see the child. She was gaunt, as we all were, but her face lit up when she spied the infant in my arms. She vowed that she had told no one about the birth, not even our leader, so as not to distract him. She whispered that the doves I had released had returned to tell her of the birth, the ones in the cage behind her house who had visited me in the land of Moab.

  I signaled to her, and she came as a dog might, trotting over, head down. She was captivated instantly, her face eager as I lifted up the child for her to see. I watched as my enemy stood there weeping, not with sorrow but with joy.

  She had sent me into the wilderness, but I did not remember how my bare feet had burned on the stones. She had disparaged me and ruined me, but I did not recall the words that had been used against me or remember the years I had spent in Moab. The garden was burning, the air sparked with specks of flame as they say it will be in the World-to-Come when we walk beside the angels and have no fear of their illumination or of their might.

  I let her hold our daughter. We rejoiced together over the beauty of our husband’s child, for she was like a pool of water, still and beautiful. We were submerged, our thirst quenched, though there were fires and bursts of flame everywhere, on leaves and rooftops, falling upon us like rain. We sat there, our heads close, as others hid in their chambers or worked furiously to put out the flames. We were no longer thirsty, and no longer had any need of fury or revenge, for we were enemies no more.

  HOURS LATER, the entire wall caught fire. It encircled us as a snake would, meant to devour us. We believed our time had come, but then God sent us the wind from the north, and the blaze blew back to the Romans. It burned their soldiers alive and caught their battering rams aflame. Our people came to watch and sank to their knees in gratitude.

  But what we are given is taken as well, so that we know God’s glory comes to us from His will alone. The rescue was temporary. The wind changed direction again; it came from the south and was our enemy once more. Our people ran, in fear for their lives. They soaked themselves with what little water they could find in an attempt to withstand the blaze of heat. Everyone could hear the Romans’ cheering and their bloodthirsty cries. They posted a thousand guards in the valley, so that none of our people might slip over Herod’s wall and escape.

  We gathered in my chambers, covered with soot. Yael’s boy, with his dark and beautiful eyes, was quiet; he seemed to sense the terror that had come upon us and dared not cry. We poured water over our heads from a pitcher, in the hope no sparks would light upon us. I nursed my child and thought of how Nahara and Adir’s father had not seen his children for ten days after they were born, the practice of his people. Only now did I realize this law was not merely to prevent the father from seeing the child in a bruised condition, the price of the journey of being born. Rather it was to ensure that a father waited until it was more certain that his child would live. To be attached to what is bound to die made no sense to the fierce people from Moab, for they rode with death and pitched their tents with death. They knew that flesh was not lasting in this world.

  I would follow their law now and keep my daughter from her father’s eyes so that he would not have to love something he was bound to lose. As I held her inside my cloak, two hearts beat against my chest. But no creature can contain more than one heart. I knew that one of us would live and one would die. I wept to think I would not hear my child call me mother.

  THE SECOND WALL had been breached. That rough edifice we had built until our hands were ravaged and bleeding, until there was no longer a single tree standing in the field, had cracked under their battering ram, the dirt spilling out, the pliant limbs of the almond trees splitting, turning to dust. Our people had done all they could to fight the tide of what was to come, the soldiers that would climb through, the bloodshed and the torture and the murder on the day of our greatest feast. Eleazar came into the plaza. We were brought there by the sound of the ram’s horn, used to call us to prayer. I made my way among our people, though I was still weakened from childbirth, the infant hidden in my cloak. I left a trail of blood on the stones, which turned black as it fell away from me, an omen I understood well.

  From my place on the edge of the crowd, I could see women whose children I had helped bring into the world. I saw my daughter with her bow, mud streakin
g her arms and legs, and my son, ruined by battle before he was a man, and my people in the throes of sorrow, and the man I had loved since I had first seen that he would come to me.

  “We resolved not to follow the Romans and to follow God alone. Now the time has come for us to prove our faith. We cannot disgrace ourselves in the eyes of our Lord, or submit to slavery. If we fall into Roman hands, it is the end of everything, not only our lives but the life of Zion. We had the privilege to be the last stronghold, and as God has favored us so, let us return the favor and die nobly as free men.”

  People began to panic at Ben Ya’ir’s words. It seemed that some might attempt to flee. But there was also a surge forward of the most loyal, those who had burned for freedom and could not turn back now.

  “By daybreak, our enemy will be upon us, and we can hold them back no longer, but we are free to choose to die with honor, in the arms of those we love. We cannot defeat the Romans in battle here on this earth, but we can deny them a victory.”

  Women wept on either side of me. I pitied Eleazar that he must speak these words.

  “We have done everything to claim our freedom, and we cannot stop now. We do not know why God let His city burn to the ground, why He has let our people be chased into extinction, why we must die today. Our freedom is our winding sheet, and it is more glorious than any other. We will leave nothing behind for our enemies, and the taste of their victory will be bitter, and they will not be able to cut the heads from our bodies and leave them for the ravens.”

  The women wailed, and some of the men joined in. The flames around us were a blessing, for they roared and made it difficult to hear the peals of agony and grief.