The older boy, Noah, looked much like his father, the Man from the Valley, the warrior who kept to himself, a fighter I was curious about. Amram had told me this man could not be turned away by bloodshed, plunging into the fray when anyone else would have retreated, and wisely so. He took risks only a madman would take on, courting the Angel of Death, calling out, daring Mal’ach ha-Mavet to appear before him as he wielded his rough-hewn ax, the only weapon he had need of. His brothers in battle admired him, they spoke of him with respect, even awe, but they did not wish to stand beside him. They knew that he who is without a fear of death is the most dangerous man of all.
What makes a dangerous woman, however, was not always so apparent, for what is unnoticeable to the human eye is often the most deadly attribute. What is hidden can destroy you. Demons appeared in the dark, when you least expected betrayal, when your eyes were closed. Because my mother refused to confront Channa, I wondered what this dark woman’s power over her might be. I studied Channa, and still I saw a weak creature, but one who had woven a strong web.
“Our leader’s wife whispers to Arieh that she alone protects him,” Revka’s grandsons told us. “She warns him against the women who wait at the wall. She tells him he must never listen to the one named Yael, that she will tell him lies and will beseech him to think he belongs to her.”
Yael grew ashen upon hearing these slanderous words, the marks on her face standing out as though she’d been dashed with blood. Still she sent the boys to discover more. They crept through the garden beside the palace, making their way past the mint and marjoram and sage, slinking as close as they dared. The boys had spied Channa waiting for her husband at the door with the baby in her arms, as though Arieh was an offering.
“And what does her husband say to this?” Yael wanted to know when Revka’s grandsons told of the situation, her voice sharp.
“He walks past her,” Noah remarked. “He never looks at her.”
When Yael heard this, she nodded, pleased. She was thin and agitated, yet doing her best to convince herself that the child would be returned to her. “What’s done can be undone,” she told us.
I didn’t offer an opinion, but I had heard my mother say the very same thing upon my sister’s marriage day, and Nahara was still bound to her husband. I was not certain that our lives were so similar to thread, able to be unspooled, then gathered up again.
ONE EVENING as I kept watch along with Revka and Yael, we saw the great man himself entering his chambers. My mother refused to come with us; she had offered a warning and had been ignored. I noticed she turned pale when Channa’s name was mentioned. She was not among us when we recognized Ben Ya’ir’s broad shoulders and his prayer shawl and how proudly he walked, much as a king might, though in fact he cared to own nothing on this earth and had cast away his possessions when he observed the greed of the wealthy in Jerusalem. His wife might sleep in the palace, but Eleazar ben Ya’ir remained outside under the stars or went to the barracks to spend his nights there so that his warriors would know he was no different than those he commanded.
We decided it would be best to go to him so that he might learn of Yael’s plight. He was known to be fair; perhaps he would cast a judgment in favor of the true mother. But when the time came, the others were too nervous to face him, for the burden of our people was his. The weight of this fortress upon a single man was so heavy Revka and Yael feared they would seem like fools to plead for Arieh. How dare we engage our leader in such small troubles when Jerusalem had fallen and there were demons waiting for us all?
We were now the only fortress of rebels in Judea. All others had been conquered, and because we alone stood fast, Rome had become more interested in us. We were at first elated, prideful to show that we had not been vanquished and were firm in our resolve. But slowly we grew more fearful about the legion’s response now that they realized we alone had managed to survive.
Even Revka, known for her sharp tongue, refused to approach our leader with worries over a single child, though he was our beloved Arieh. Ben Ya’ir was too great a man, with too many concerns. But I had no such fears. Eleazar ben Ya’ir was a warrior like any other. A man was only a man, and I had killed my share in my other life. I had seen that they all gave up their lives to God in the same manner.
I offered to be the one to go.
Yael was as surprised as she was grateful. “My brother sees your beauty, as do I,” she said simply.
Lately I had come to believe that Amram looked only for a woman’s beauty, nothing more. All that I was had been masked by my sheet of black hair, the woman I appeared to be. I said nothing to Yael, merely accepted her gratitude, then made my way alongside the palace walls in the falling dark. I was quiet; I knew how to stalk prey and how to fold myself into the shadows.
When I reached a window, I stood on a pile of kindling and hauled myself up to the ledge so I might peer through. There was very little furniture in the chamber; most of it had been broken apart and used for firewood. But the marble floor and the frescoes amazed me. For a moment I was in thrall, thinking of the royals who had once lived here, without fear or poverty. I understood why it was said that the Queen of Egypt had begged Rome to grant her this fortress to call her own. Then I observed Channa, and caution ran through me. She sat on a bench by the fire, whispering to the child, holding him close. The delight she took in him was so evident I was glad Yael was not there beside me to see.
Near the oven there sat a cradle carved of acacia, crafted by a master woodworker from Jerusalem. An amulet of protection was tied above the place where the child’s head was to rest. The pallet itself was rich with a fine linen bedcovering, and there were bronze bells tied to the rockers, so that demons might be chased away by the sound. As for Arieh, he wore a purple tunic, as though he were the son of a king. It appeared that the child had no home other than this chamber, and that his every need had been seen to. At that moment I understood this woman had no intention of giving him back.
I thought of my sister’s father, how he could become a whirlwind against his enemies, how I might be equally fearsome should I so desire. But I had to hide that part of me, as I did with Amram. I could not climb through the window or reach for the knife set on the table so that I might take what I wanted. Instead, I knocked politely at the door.
I hadn’t expected the great man himself to answer.
“I’m here for the child,” I said softly, casting myself as a pretty woman and nothing more. I had burned half a dozen acacia branches in memory of the souls I had released. I had been covered with the blood of the ibex and felt its heat. Now I lowered my eyes. Still I had a glimpse of our leader, who gazed at me with such intensity I understood why Yael and Revka had been fearful of speaking to him directly.
“The child?” he said, confused by my presence and my request.
He seemed more powerful than most men, and I felt myself vanishing as I bowed my head. I forced myself to remember the person I had once been, the men I had killed, the nights that had belonged to me. I raised my eyes to his.
“His mother waits.”
Ben Ya’ir turned to see Yael, alongside Revka and her grandsons, as they perched upon the wall. They were not unlike the shades that remain on earth when those who are unfairly put to death are unable to find rest.
“He has a mother?”
His surprise made me realize his wife had told him otherwise.
“Doesn’t everyone?”
The great man’s face twisted into a smile. I was relieved. Perhaps I smiled as well.
“And a father?” he asked.
“Not everyone has that,” I was quick to say.
“Everyone has that,” he assured me.
He told me to wait, then closed the door. I looked at the garden that was tended by slaves. There was a stone fountain from the time of the king, dry now, the rim cracked, the finials broken into pieces on the ground. A wealth of herbs and mint grew in neat rows, and the scent that rose up was green and sweet. I he
ard the sound of birds, though it was dark and no birds flew after twilight, only the silent owls that lived in the caves across the mountain. Still, they sang, an odd event at this hour.
I edged behind the fountain. There, below a trellis of cucumber vines with their deep green leaves, sat a wooden cage. Inside, two doves huddled close, cooing.
I felt the spark beneath my eye, as if the message I’d once found on the ground burned me still. My heart felt heavy, so much so that I doubted I would be able to run away, though I wished I could now do so. I wondered if this cage of doves contained the messengers to the Iron Mountain, and if this was why my mother had refused to come to this house and risk Channa’s wrath.
Ben Ya’ir returned to the door, the baby in his arms. I could hear weeping echoing in the chamber behind him. I had made my way back through the garden, the scent of mint clinging to my garments, the sound of the doves a song I carried with me, one that had accompanied me from the far side of the Salt Sea, where the caged doves had eaten grain from my hand as they waited for my mother to set them free.
“Is this what you came for?” he asked, as he offered me the child.
When he spoke I understood why men would follow him even though they might die and never return, and why they would believe in him. Although I wanted to tell him I had stumbled upon the doves, I found I couldn’t say another word in his presence. He gave the baby up into my arms. I should have thanked him, but I could not speak. He waited for me to do so for so long that the silence itself spoke of what was between us.
Before he turned back to his chamber, Eleazar ben Ya’ir put his hand to my forehead, gently, as he might welcome a daughter. In that moment I knew he was the man for whom my mother had made such sacrifices, the reason she had been cast out of Jerusalem, why she had waited on the Iron Mountain day after day, until the dove returned with the message to come to him at last.
WHEN I WENT to our chamber that night, I did not ask my mother to speak my father’s name aloud. I saw her comb her long dark hair with a wooden comb made of acacia wood from the forests of Moab. I saw the tattoos on her flesh. She was the same, the woman who’d never wished to tell me who I was, who would not offer Yael help if it meant she would be forced to come before the enemy who had used me as evidence so that we might be set into the wilderness.
I gazed at my face as it was reflected in a bowl of water and saw my father’s eyes staring back at me. Now, when people said his name, they were saying mine as well. I walked alone at night, dressed in Adir’s tunic and mantle, seeking out those who spoke of my father, wanting to hear of his deeds in battle and his kindness to those in need. He insisted that all men were equal, whether they were servants or priests, and made certain all adhered to the law that stated we were not to collect the fruit from the four corners of our orchard, as God had commanded, to ensure that even the poorest among us could find mercy in their time of hunger.
I had the desire to speak to him, something I had been unable to do while I was in his presence. When I heard there was to be an archers’ contest among the warriors, I went, like the boy I’d once been, a scarf across my face, the bow I’d used to test my arrows set upon my back. Perhaps I would see my father and he would know me for who I was, as I now knew him. I waited through the day, watching the men, their strong arms and backs wrenching as they drew their bows. They cried out in brotherhood and rivalry, blaming the wind when they missed their mark, praising the best among them when their aim was true.
When it came time for Amram to take his turn, I saw the obvious admiration his brothers-in-arms felt in his skill. I, too, wanted to praise him, but there was something more. I felt the sting of jealousy, a wasp in my heart. Ben Ya’ir was among the warriors who cheered on the young men, and he praised Amram heartily. I thought of how he had blessed me and wondered if he was the reason I’d been born to the sign of metal, why I wanted more than other girls did. Even now, as I spied the throng of young women on the sidelines, I knew I could never watch alongside them and not burn to be among the men.
I might have slunk back to the silence of our chamber, but in the pale hours of the declining day I saw the hawk above us, the one whose feathers I’d used in fashioning arrows for Amram. I thought of the splashes of red dye on my hands from the madder root when I’d crafted them so carefully. I had intended the arrows as a gift, yet I’d never presented them. I at last understood that I’d wanted those arrows for myself all along. I had designed them not in honor of the phoenix that signified my beloved but in memory of the red lily that grows in the fields of Moab, as a reminder of the person I had been.
I carried them now, hidden beneath my cloak.
I found myself at the archer’s line, pushed there by a demon, or perhaps by my pride, an unknown boy allowed to compete, though clearly no one saw the competition within me. They didn’t bother to watch as the first arrow hit its mark. Perhaps the second arrow convinced them to turn and stare. Perhaps it was the third. I was concentrating on one thing alone: the precise moment when I drew back on the bow, waiting, as Wynn had instructed, so that the arrow might dip and rise as birds do. I gave not a single thought to the girl I pretended to be. I heard the wind and no other voice. I thought of both my fathers, the one who had taught me all that I knew and the one I wished to learn from now.
When I narrowed my eyes, I saw my path before me, straight as iron.
My arrows sliced through those which were already in place, casting the other warriors’ strikes to the ground. Those warriors were watching now. The red of the feathers were impossible to ignore, a field of lilies. By the time I was done, there was silence.
I saw Ben Ya’ir rise to his feet as the crowd let out a shout. My ears were ringing, as if a storm had settled upon me, a whirlwind from the far side of the Salt Sea. I murmured a whisper of gratitude to my sister’s father, and to the men I’d ridden with, and to Nouri, whom I had always bested. I stood there for an instant, my happiness complete, wishing I could keep this vision before me always. But a vision is like a dream, it dissipates as soon as you attempt to hold on to it, and my vision rose up to be claimed by He who should never be forgotten. All at once I could hear the truth of the moment. My eyes and ears were mine once more. The crowd was calling for Adir, proclaiming him the hero of the day.
They thought I was my brother, convinced he was the master archer. They cheered on, but I turned away. The warriors and those in attendance continued to call Adir to them, so that they might honor him, but I hastened to make my way through the Western Plaza, quick to take the steps, leaping as though my life was at risk. The world was there before me, in the cliffs and the valley below, but this world no longer belonged to me. I had given it to my brother.
I found my way to an abandoned garden behind the Northern Palace, a walled-in area where women came to look for garlic and herbs that had been planted long ago and had been forgotten. There were larks there, pecking at the greens, but they all fluttered up when I came upon them, my breathing hot and ragged. I took off Adir’s garments. They were nothing but a fool’s disguise. There was rosemary growing where I stood, said to be the herb of remembrance, a gate to the past. My heart hit against my chest, and my limbs shook. I wrapped myself in my scarf as I wept for who I was.
The hawk had followed me. Perhaps he was the one Wynn had trained to come to the dovecote window, a fierce bird of prey who was willing to bow his head and take crumbs from Yael’s hand. I scanned the sky. Watching him riding in the air above me reminded me what freedom was like. The past was with me whether or not I wanted it to be. I was myself despite how I might run from the truth.
Beneath my shawl, I still had the bow upon my back.
FROM OUR MOUNTAINTOP, residents often saw soldiers from the legion during the growing heat of Sivan. More and more exploratores were being sent to examine our mountain, gathering on the rocky floor below. They were reconnaissance soldiers whose only mission was to seek out enemies and report back to their generals. The Romans had long been aware th
at we were here, as they’d known about Machaerus and the other fortresses that were held by Zealots. We were far from Jerusalem, and so they had ignored us, but our fame had grown and stories about our glory had reached Roman ears. There had been more and more talk of our rebellion in the markets of towns throughout the region. Shir tishbohot, songs of praise, were offered for us, and those who celebrated us denounced Rome in whispers and then in louder tones. People said our mountain was invisible and that the Sicarii had used the Hebrew alphabet to call a curtain over us, a fabric constructed of air and vapor that separated heaven from earth. They said that the throne of our Lord could be seen from our towers. Any man who ruled here would rule the world.
Soldiers from the legion might come to survey us, but all they would see was how impossible it would be to mount an attack. Ben Ya’ir sent out word that, when the exploratores came, we should stay in our chambers so they could not count our number. Perhaps they would think we were stronger than we were, and possessed thousands of warriors, rather than a village left to old men and women and children each time our men went on raids. Let them look all they wanted. All they would see was the mountain where God’s glory had sent us, a rock so impenetrable they could never bring us down. Some of our boys sent stones falling, skittering down as a warning, and they laughed as the soldiers scattered below.
I did not laugh to see the white tunics of the Tenth Legion or the banner of the wild boar. I felt a chill come over me. In truth our people were no match for Roman soldiers, who had been trained for one thing, to be a machine of death. Our warriors were best when they slunk about like wolves, striking enemies in the dark. The rebels’ only hope of success was an attack that was unexpected, when thanks to God’s grace, their quickness and ferocity might win out over might. Against well-armored, organized troops, who had so much experience of warfare, our people were woefully unprepared. Our fathers and brothers were freedom fighters, not trained soldiers. Unlike my sister’s father, the men at Masada had not been warriors from the moment of their birth, each with a horse already chosen and a knife in his hand. They had been priests and bakers and scholars, their weapons knives and arrows and rocks, not bronze and iron. We were nothing against the relentless power of the Roman Empire.