Although the murders were hidden from our sight, they were not hidden from our ears, and we were made to listen to the sound of death, so terrible to hear, all the worse when what you see is inside yourself, the thousand cruelties set upon those you love.
Aziza and I stood together and wept, not knowing if the screams we heard were the voices of those we loved or the pitiless shrieks of hawks above us. We could hold our hands over our ears, we could turn away, but that wouldn’t end the horror. The wailing of the dead can be heard in every corner of this world and in the World-to-Come. It does not stop when the sound is finished, it is within you, an eternal part of your being.
BECAUSE she could not be buried, and her bones were left ungathered, my daughter’s soul would remain beside her body, lost, desperately trying to reenter herself and become alive once more. The jackals would find her, but her soul would remain in the cave even when they took her in their jaws; she would watch as the beasts shook her into pieces, devouring her. Each of the agonies of the flesh would be hers in spirit. There would be no taharah, the purification that readies a body for the next world, no blessed water or oils or aloe to wash away the sins of life on earth. Still the pure of heart were said to be able to see the Shechinah as they were dying, they looked upon the most radiant and compassionate face of God. This was what I could hope for. That at the moment of her death she saw God’s light and nothing more.
I wished that the lie the Romans told about Nahara’s father’s people was indeed true and that her blood did run blue, so that when they cut her down a thousand more would arise in her place. I had nearly died giving birth to her, and would have, had Aziza not been such a fearless child. All of that agony spent only so that I might live to sing lamentations for her throughout the day and night. I tore my garments until my hands bled, keening as I did so. Though I had lost her when she defied me and married Malachi, I mourned her bitterly now. Her blood was on my hands. I did not blame Malachi or the Essenes, for I was the one who had led her to her doom, exactly as my mother had said I would, bringing ruin to all I loved and to anyone who might love me.
When my daughter of Moab was born, her father had waited ten days to see her, as was the custom of his people. He had wanted a son, but when he entered the tent, his face broke into a smile. It was good that a man could not see a child immediately, when an infant was still battered by birth, swollen and blue from the burden of coming to life. To her father’s eyes, this girl child was a radiant being. He was a man who did not hide what he felt. He chose her name, and I agreed to his choice, for Nahara meant the light that shone upon great beauty. We agreed on many things, but on this most of all. I wondered if, on the other side of the Salt Sea, my daughter’s father knew that she was lost, if he had been waiting all this time for us to return. I wondered if when he found me in the wilderness and took me with him I had been wrong not to love him. At the very least I should have been grateful enough to offer him my loyalty in return.
OUR PEOPLE went out to see the new moon at the time of Rosh Chodesh. We offered God our prayers, but we did not rejoice. There was no dancing. The Roman wall had been completed, encircling us like a viper. The camps had risen, several of them larger than most villages. Those who had not come from Jerusalem were stunned by what the legion had accomplished; below them there were more people than many had seen in their lifetimes, the six thousand wearing the white tunics of the legion, and thousands more enslaved to help them with their brutal tasks.
The Romans’ main camp, set directly across from the Northern Palace, boasted a tower that rivaled that of any garrison. There was another large camp behind us, guarding the treacherous eastern slope, and six more smaller camps set in a circle. Beyond Silva’s camp there was the village of followers, where people led their daily lives, raising chickens, taking women for their pleasure, praying to their gods. I considered each one to be the murderer of my daughter.
I went out at night to the wall where I had drawn spells before, and there I took a dreadful oath.
I invoke and beseech the Most High God, Lord of all spirits and of the flesh, against those who treacherously murdered or killed, who spilled innocent blood in an unjust fashion. Lord who oversees all angels, before whom every soul humbles itself, may you avenge this innocent blood and seek justice.
I wrote these words upon parchment, then burned them so they might rise up to the Almighty. I called down the angels of Chimah, the messengers of wrath and of vengeance. Chimah is also said to be the name of the stars in the sky that are the seven sisters, who look down upon us in times of sorrow. As I beseeched the angels, I took a knife to my flesh and sliced along the palm of my left hand, though our people were not allowed to cut ourselves, or harm that which God had created. I cut deeply as I offered myself in a bargain to keep my surviving children safe from every living thing, and from the demons who were so close by, and from the lion below us.
OUR ENEMIES studied our ways. To them, we were nothing more than a scorpion placed under glass. They wished to gauge when we would next sting. Each time they attempted to scale the serpent’s path, we poured boiling oil onto them. Our archers were perched in the olive trees and along the wall, ready to shoot down whoever might try to pass. The path was narrow, and the legion was wide, an easy target when they tried to scale the mountain.
We thought they would see how dangerous a scorpion could be, despite its small size. But if anything, the Romans decided that the best way to catch a scorpion is to crush it in its own garden. To destroy us, they needed to reach us. They began their own path, a wide ramp built at the western slope and rising toward the North Gate. Barrel upon barrel of earth was brought to raise up this ramp, which took the form of a white mountain. We thought they were mad to attempt to create what only God could form, a cliff reaching two hundred cubits from the valley from which they could pursue us. But there were so many slaves and the work was unceasing, and before our eyes the cliff appeared, so white it burned with brightness. At night it seemed the world had overturned, and the stars were beneath us, rising up to us, threatening to burn us with their light.
The men at the synagogue met to discuss whether or not it was truly possible for this ramp to reach our walls. But in the time it took for them to debate this matter, the ramp rose so high that we could plainly hear the workers. The Roman soldiers were able to swing javelins and spears that took several lives. We were stunned by what our enemies had accomplished, and how, like our Creator, they had built a mountain overnight.
IN JERUSALEM I had seen my rival only once, as I stepped into the cart on the day I was driven out of the city. The wooden cage of doves was in my hand and I carried my child, who wailed in my arms. They forced me to go barefoot, as was the custom; when my feet bled, one more sorrow would be added to my punishment. I remember that Ben Ya’ir’s wife was wearing fine sandals, made of goat leather, clasped with brass buckles. She wore necklaces of lapis and carnelian and turquoise, with gold bracelets on her arms. I had only a black scarf wound around myself. As my enemy watched me climb into the donkey cart meant for hauling ewes to the butcher, I thought not of the torments of the wilderness, nor of the vultures and ravens that would follow us. I was not occupied with the heat that would bring us low or the jackals that would not be content to wait for our death so we might be their meal. Instead I was ashamed of my bare feet.
Now, after all this time, she came to my door on the day the Roman ramp was completed. The ramp had fallen short, and for this we were grateful. But we shuddered to think of how the Romans might amend this, and how intent they were on reaching us, even if that meant they must float through the air.
The dog who watched over my son howled when Channa approached, as he might have had the Angel of Death knocked upon our door. Dogs are said to know of such visitations. In Alexandria I had witnessed a priest’s dog howl at the moment of his owner’s death; the grieving creature was then put to death himself so that his body might be buried beside his master’s. I held our watchdog by th
e neck and opened the door so that I might gaze upon my caller with loathing. I had already faced her once on this mountain, and she had no more power over me.
At least she knew well enough not to cross my threshold. I took in my rival, her pinched face, her sorrowful eyes, and in return she stared at me. By then there was no disguising I would soon bring another child into this world. But it was a world torn asunder. To me, birth seemed less like a gift to the soul I carried than it did a curse.
The dog pulled back his lips and showed his teeth to my visitor.
“I only want a minute,” Channa said hastily.
I loosened my hold on the dog, and he snapped his jaws. Perhaps Eleazar had once mentioned she was afraid of dogs. Perhaps that pleased me.
“I thought you wanted my life,” I remarked.
“No.” She shook her head. “I wanted my husband.”
“Then go to him,” I suggested.
She was hesitant. Not until I began to close the door did she speak out, her words flowing.
“Only you can grant me the protection of his life.”
We gazed at each other over the threshold. I wondered if it was possible that, even now, as Rome was besieging us, Channa might be trying to ensnare me, hoping to have me brought before the council and tried as a witch. Still I listened, for this woman and I had been tied together as the night is tied to the day, never knowing each other yet never eluding one another.
Perhaps I wanted to see her beg for something. The idea of her bleak pleas and her remorse was compelling. I sent the dog inside, then stepped into the yard. In any other year, this season would have meant the start of planting, but our fields lay fallow. There were no seeds and no men to work the plows and no beasts to assist them.
“I am not a magician,” I told my rival. “I can’t grant you anything.”
The almond trees were in full flower, and the hyssop bloomed. Channa had finished the cure I had sent to her and was once more prone to difficulty when she drew in deep breaths. I did not mention that hyssop grew nearby, along my wall. I let her puff and pant.
“Tonight the warriors are going out to try to stop the building of the ramp. They will not all return.”
I was resolved not to let her see how this news affected me. If she thought I was indifferent, she would not have the power to break my heart.
Channa went on when I was silent. “I dreamed he would return only with the help of a black bird.”
“I’m not a bird,” I said, though I was alarmed by this news, for I, too, had dreamed of a black bird, a raven, such as the one that had visited Elijah and fed him when he was lost in the wilderness and had no sustenance. “Why come to me?”
She was gazing at the child within me. “Is it a son?” Her voice was plaintive.
“Now you think I’m a witch and can divine God’s will. You think I’m many things, it seems. Did you ever think I was a girl who was sent into the wilderness? Did you see that my feet were bare and that the vultures followed me and that I was alone, sent to die? Maybe that was why your dream came to you. Perhaps you’re meant to choke on feathers.”
“Save him, even if it’s for yourself,” Channa said to me then.
She raised her eyes, and I saw the truth, that he was her husband and that she was willing do anything to rescue him. I took a step away. I knew then that she had power over me still, and that her power came from the fact that she loved him.
“I should have brought you into our home,” she went on. “Then your children would be mine as my husband was yours. We might have carried our burdens and joys together, as sisters.”
I marveled that she had the courage to speak to me in this manner, that she hadn’t been afraid to court my hatred of her and my spite. Because of this, I softened in a way I hadn’t thought possible. Perhaps it had been written that she would ruin her life and my own. Perhaps she, too, had no choice but to follow her fate.
“Don’t do this for me,” Channa said. “Do it for the one you love. Our husband.”
I watched her hasten away, following the wall, although arrows flew close by, some set on fire. She didn’t shrink from them; perhaps she no longer cared about matters such as her own safety. I noticed that her feet were bare, and that she had wound a black scarf around her shoulders, and that she was now in the wilderness herself, and that everything she had said was true.
*
I WENT to the Snake Gate and asked the guard to let me by. I understood why I had dreamed of forty acacia trees surrounded by bees. The dream had been given to me by the angels and by the Almighty. What had appeared to be a puzzle now formed itself into a path.
The guard might have refused me, but Amram passed near, and I turned to him to plead for help. He was arrogant and impatient, half-dressed in his silver-scaled armor. His hair was long and plaited, ready for war.
“No woman goes through the gate,” he told me coldly, girding himself for the coming night, when the warriors meant to attack the slaves who were building the ramp. He had no idea that I had known him as a spoiled and sweet child, favored in his father’s eyes. Now his demeanor was harsh, and I saw something dark within him, a blackness of spirit that wasn’t there before. Some whispered that the raids of our people had included the murder of women and children. They swore our warriors had no choice, that it was all for the cause of the true Israel and the one whose name can never be spoken aloud, I am I. But war brought such changes to all, and with those changes it brought a loss of lev, the true heart, especially for those who had betrayed God’s laws, and who knew that they did, and who told themselves they acted as they must.
“Perhaps you’ve come because your daughter has a message for me?” he asked.
Aziza had spurned this warrior without granting him a reason for her displeasure, and his hurt was evident. She would not speak of him and seemed to have no interest in him.
“Are you her messenger?” the warrior wanted to know.
He used the word mal’ach, which although it can mean messenger can also mean angel. Perhaps this was his way of calling her a shedah, as many before had, or perhaps he believed I had called the angels of wrath upon him, that it was my disapproval which had caused Aziza to turn from him.
Yael had spied us from the plaza. She wore a tattered gray cloak that was too large for her frame. She came forward, concerned, when she saw her brother’s bitterness. “Shirah is not the cause of her daughter’s actions,” Yael reminded him gently.
“Or am I, it seems,” Amram said in a heated tone. “She can no longer even see me.”
“Be patient,” Yael suggested. “She may return to you.”
Amram reached out to make a quick sweep of the chaos below us. “I have no time to wait.”
Yael had taken note of the basket I carried. She threw me a quick look, then asked her brother if we might gather herbs from the hillside.
Amram shook his head, for this was not allowed. “Not on this day.”
“My brother,” Yael teased, “must I remind you that I can remember when you slept with your thumb in your mouth and feared the scorpion in the corridor?”
“Yaya,” he said, shaking his head, smiling in spite of himself. “I cannot let you go.”
“We’ll be careful,” she vowed. “Some things are meant to be,” I heard her whisper to Amram. “I’ll look for an herb that will bring you luck.”
He was still her brother, willing to listen to her demands. He spoke with the guard, who let us slip out the gate. The daylight had stretched itself into long shadows, which allowed us to press ourselves against the cliffs and go forth unseen. I had meant to be alone, but now I had no choice in the matter. Perhaps it was fitting that Yael should accompany me, for she had learned the spells my mother had taught me and would have no fear of what we must accomplish.
We made our way along the hillside together, then slunk down toward a damp ravine between two caves. Once, gathering kindling nearby, I had spied bunches of fragrant pink blooms set upon spindly green limbs. Th
ey were wild cousins of the rhododendron, a flower my mother had pointed out in Alexandria so that she might warn me of its dangers. Like the ba’aras root, which could draw out an enemy’s soul, the leaves and roots of the rhododendron were forbidden but often used for pharmaka in matters of love and of revenge. Of all the parts of this toxic plant, the flowers were the most potent.
We crouched low and listened well, the mud of the nachal slippery under our bare feet. We were protected by the wind. It seemed we were in another world entirely, one in which we might remember how beautiful the wilderness could be. We would soon be approaching the Feast of Unleavened Bread, and the sun was strong for the season. The rhododendron flower was the potion I had come to find, one I did not need to concoct or create, for it was already part of creation. Spells and charms were not enough to protect my beloved. It was poison I needed.
I held up my hand so that Yael might bend her ear toward the echo that rumbled nearby. Beneath the never-ending noise of the Romans, rising up as they toiled with shovels and picks, was the sound of bees. In spring they often swarmed in these hills, traveling here from Egypt for the last flowering of the desert before the heat arrived. We followed the buzzing to a fallen log, wherein yellow honey was dripping forth, what some among us call debas, and others refer to as manna. The food of the bees was often salvation to those in the desert, praised by man and beast alike. But this honey was like no other, for it was gathered from the deadly pink flowers that grew in the ravine; only a small taste would drive a man mad for hours, perhaps for days.
I shrugged off my cloak and insisted Yael stand back. I alone was safe from the bees’ stinging wrath, for I had poured salt upon my skin, so that they would not light upon me as I reached inside the log to draw out the honeycomb. Before our warriors went to destroy the ramp of the Romans, the soldiers of the legion partaking of this tainted honey would be maddened. When evening fell, they would not be able to divine whether they were dreaming or if indeed our men had fallen upon them. In their confusion, like men made drunk, they would fail to draw their swords.