The Dovekeepers - Alice Hoffman [156]
As soon as I slipped on the assassin’s cloak, the guards no longer noticed me. I disappeared before them, nothing worth looking at. They called out a greeting to Yael, whose shining red hair they so admired, but ignored me as I trudged behind, carrying a bundle of dry wood.
On the day it was to happen, I went to the tower at the hour Yael had chosen. After his meal, the guard posted there often fell asleep on his bench, his stomach swollen from his allotment of lentils and beans. In my pocket I had the key of twisted metal that my mother had fashioned to show how easy it would have been for the slave to escape the dovecote so the officials would not guess Yael had unlocked his chains. I kept the assassin’s cloak over my head. No one questioned me as I went along the corridor, then took the stairs. At the end of the hall, the guard was dozing, as Yael had assured me he would be. I let myself into the slave’s cell, stunned by the filth and stench that greeted me. The air was murky, yet I could see poor Wynn on his pallet of rags. He was so unclean no one would ever guess that the stubble of his shorn hair was pale as ice or that his skin had been the color of milk when he first came to us.
Despite the darkness, Wynn recognized me, rising to his feet to greet me.
“The warrior,” he said fondly.
His voice was thin, melting in his throat. His body was no longer strong, weakened from a lack of air and food.
“I’m someone else today,” I informed him.
“Who would that be?” He was thoroughly confused.
I grinned, then slipped off my cloak and stood before him. “I’m you.”
NONE of the sentries took note when two women went through the gate, one barely noticeable, cloaked in gray. They were accustomed to us leaving the fortress at this hour, when the dark was drifting across the sky, when the curtain between the day and night splits open to angels and demons alike. They failed to notice that when Yael brought back kindling she returned alone, lingering at the wall to gaze over the mountains, where the hawk soared, circling back as though he might return, before he disappeared into the falling dark.
In the tower, I waited until I knew Wynn would be free, repeating the psalm of protection. Shivitti Adonai l’negdi tamid. I have placed the Lord constantly before me. I was glad to know it was the season when wild onions grew, when rabbits would be venturing out to eat new grass. Perhaps he would manage to survive in the wilderness so that he might find his way back to the country of the stag.
No guard came to the door I’d unlocked for his escape. I left unnoticed, wearing the tunic I’d brought along so that I might once again be a boy, easily thought to be among those who helped guard the tower.
THE WAR came closer in the shimmering month of Tammuz, when we tended the grapevines and the air itself smelled sweet. Great flocks of birds flew overhead, returning from the grasslands of the south, pelicans and storks, swifts and kestrels. There were flocks of people as well, crossing the desert before they could be captured, a tide rushing in advance of the Tenth Legion. Some of the wanderers came to us. When they pleaded for mercy, they were allowed to set their tents in our orchards, and the fruit that fell in all four corners was allowed to them, as commanded by our common law. The stragglers were not the only ones who were famished. Fallen fruit and flatbread were barely enough to feed our hunger. I went beyond the wall and caught songbirds in nets made of string. When I grew tired of hunting like a girl, I took my bow and shot pheasants to place upon our table.
No one said a word when they saw me walking in the plaza with a bow on my back; perhaps they believed the weapon was my brother’s and that in his absence I was caring for what rightly