The Dovekeepers - Alice Hoffman [227]
Do you not recognize this?
Several of the men did indeed know the collar for what it was, and they stood back, stunned. Since the day the lion had been released, there had been talk of witchery.
Silva walked to me and took the collar, then returned to where he had stood on the wooden platform. He examined the collar and found it had been marked with the insignia of the Tenth Legion. I could see he was puzzled, though his expression was veiled. He signaled for me to come closer. I recognized his gesture, the same one my father had used when he wanted me to follow, as he might have signaled a dog. But a dog is often beaten once he has performed his task, so I stood in place, not yet willing to yield and approach the general.
I have need of your favor, I said. And you of mine.
Silva’s eyes flitted over my form. One favor, he agreed, perhaps imagining that I was only a simple woman with simple desires, and would ask for bread or water. Only one, he warned me.
I asked for him to let us have our lives.
He stared at me and remarked that he wished to know who I thought I was to ask for such a reprieve.
I said I was the Witch of Moab and that it was written that I should be here to tell the story of what had happened on this day in the world Adonai had created, while the doves flew above us. I told him that no one would know how Rome had come to us, and how we had trembled before the lion who was enslaved on his chain without the story I told.
You will say that you were unafraid, he responded, thinking of how my story would defame his empire. You will recount how you went to the lion and he bowed before you.
Only a fool would be unafraid of a lion, I assured him, remembering the man who had once escaped a lion that had slain nine men before him. I was simply too bitter for his taste, I said.
Silva nodded, compelled to hear more. Why should I grant what you want?
Though we were merely women and children, we were the only ones who had lived through this tide of death. We had heard Eleazar ben Ya’ir speak to his followers and had memorized his words. We alone would be believed when this night was spoken of, for we were the only witnesses. We had heard the cries of those who knew they had no chance of victory against Rome.
I bowed my head then, for I had said enough. A story can be many things to many people. I would give him the story he wanted, but like the scorpion who is hidden in a corner, my story would sting. I knew not to speak of how our people had chosen their death rather than be enslaved. Nor did I suggest that we would be strengthened by my story if I lived to tell it, and that Rome would be haunted by the ghosts of our people, and that a ghost could be stronger than an empire, for it could move people not only to tears but to action.
The general gazed at me. I knew he wanted to hear more of what had happened. How could our people slay themselves and everyone they loved? It was a puzzlement, and even fierce men can be intrigued by a puzzle, though once joined, the pieces may serve to defy them.
When he agreed to my bargain, I approached him.
He told me to speak, and I did exactly as he asked. I told him what he wanted to hear.
We came to Alexandria, because it was there the Witch of Moab belonged, the city she had yearned for when she dreamed of the great river and of her mother and of the white lilies that grew in this city’s gardens. We were brought before the legion in Jerusalem, so that our story might be recorded and written down and sent to Rome. We told it many times, and though we bowed to the strength of the empire, each time we told it a thousand more people learned of the night when we refused