The Dovekeepers - Alice Hoffman [225]
What are you? he said. He spoke in Latin.
I pretended not to understand.
Are you alive? he asked.
And then we knew we were, for he could see us and he was made of flesh and blood, clothed in the white tunic of the legion, carrying a spear that had been readied to use against us. But the spear had gone slack in his hand, for he knew not what we were, and ghosts could not be killed with weapons made by men.
If circumstances had been different, surely we would have all been slain, but now the soldiers’ expressions were confused, for they were unnerved by what they had witnessed on the mountain above us, the hundreds of charred bodies, the burning of all we had been and all we had owned.
What of all the others? the same soldier said.
I had assumed they had captured more survivors, those who had hidden in their chambers, or had crouched beside the wall.
We have searched everywhere and found nothing but the dead, he went on.
We realized that we were the only ones, and that we alone had the story to tell.
They lined us up and gazed at us, afraid that we were indeed ghosts, and they treated us as such, their respect fashioned from their fear. There was blood on the soles of our feet and on the palms of our hands. One of the soldiers had brought a rope to tie us with, but the one who had spoken to us first slapped the rope away.
Where would they go? he said. How would they escape?
We followed the soldiers, our eyes cast down. The day was chalky and dry, but we were still soaked from our time in the cistern, water streaming from our hair and our sodden tunics. We looked like creatures that had been brought up from the bottom of a river in a net, pale fish who had emerged from the waters of hell.
The stench of charred flesh made us dizzy and faint. Many of the soldiers covered their mouths and noses, many were ashen. Flies were swarming everywhere, and above us there were clouds of ravens and birds of prey. The Romans had been prepared for a battle, never imagining they would have to cross over a field of martyrdom. Nine hundred, burned, slaughtered. Worst were the children and the women and the babies in their mothers’ embrace, their pale, young bodies in clutches of blood, bees circling round as if their remains were sweetened by the honey of their youth. Such deaths were a disgrace to the legion, and the soldiers took no joy in this surrender. Men who feared spirits and ghosts stood on the periphery when we were brought to the plaza. Men who feared their gods imagined that it was a sin for them to walk upon this ground.
I bowed my head before the legion, not to honor them, not as their captive, simply because I could not bring myself to gaze upon the faces of those who had led the battle against us. The children did as I did, and after a moment Revka did so as well, though I knew it was a violation for her to bow before Romans. I hoped she would not judge me. Certainly, I would not judge myself. I left that to the Almighty. We had a reason to go forward and much to protect. We were still in this world, the one we knew, the one we clung to though it was filled with sorrow, the world our fathers had created.
Silva, the great general, came before us. The soldier who had found us gave a shout, and we sank to our knees.
We lowered our eyes to the dust. Still we saw Silva’s shadow; he was the force behind the siege, the commander who had built the wall and the ramp, the one who had murdered our people. It was impossible to interpret his demeanor, whether he intended to run us through himself or order our crucifixions or leave us to the jackals. Panic was beating in my throat. I felt chilled though the air had grown hot, bloodstained, moving in red waves as the sun rose higher.
My veiled eyes flickered over Silva’s form. He was a tall man, dark in complexion, stern in aspect. But he was more than muscle and sinew. He was the monster without mercy. All the same, the longer he took to study us, the more I came to believe that had he intended to kill us, he would have done so already. The general was