The Dovekeepers - Alice Hoffman [46]
IN THE HALLWAYS of the Western Palace atop the plateau, what had in the past served royalty now served us all. Wheat and grain were stored in what had once been elegant chambers. The tanners and bakers and metalworkers labored in a hall where the marble floors were as fine as any in Athens or Rome. To those who came from small villages, the glory of this place was astounding. Here, where there had been huge royal gatherings, we now worked in the service of the Almighty, not for our own greed. The rebels were pure in their concerns, yet the men were on edge, my father among them. He went to the synagogue built in to the western wall each morning, to pray and listen to the wise men talk about what the future would bring. I woke an hour before my father, to heat barley cakes in oil for his meal. I was his servant, his dog, and his chattel. His desires were my demands, his moods ruled my life.
The men met at the synagogue, worrying over the welfare of their leader, Eleazar ben Ya’ir, who had left our fortress several days earlier to rally support in desert towns throughout Judea. His followers were anxious for his return. In his absence, our peril was felt a hundred times over with only the unforgiving brim of the mountain there to protect us. When an old man at a public meeting demanded to know who would take Ben Ya’ir’s place if he should fall in battle, all the rest fell quiet. No one wanted to think about Masada without a leader, a body without spirit. Without Eleazar ben Ya’ir we were lost, at each other’s mercy, at one another’s throats. His band of warriors included my brother, and I was especially worried, for those who have recently been reunited should not be parted.
That very day, as if to answer any doubters, Ben Ya’ir—our rescuer and our redeemer, the man who had saved our people when Jerusalem had fallen—returned. He came at dusk. People went to the walls to watch as he and his closest companions climbed the path to God’s domain. There were those who believed he could speak with angels, that Raphael himself walked beside him, a gleaming sword raised to our enemies. We gazed over the cliffs that protected us and felt blessed to have such a noble leader.
Because of the winter’s heavy rains, the world below us was green. The desert was covered in myrtle, a sign of good fortune. We women wove myrtle into our undergarments, so that we would carry the sweet scent of the desert with us when we walked. There was a sense of joy rising with the turning of the season, and the joy of my own secret that I carried within me. I caught sight of Amram and was relieved. I now wanted to see Ben Ya’ir for myself, the man who had led my brother and his friends to this remote and dangerous place. There was a crowd and people were jostling each other, all with the same goal, to see him and be comforted by his strength. I had to rise on my toes for a glimpse. People were willing to die for him; they would stand before him, denying arrows access to his flesh. Many bowed their heads in his presence, as they did before holy men and sages.
In Jerusalem he might have gone unnoticed in a crowd. He was not a man who stood out because of his appearance. He was not tall or handsome, merely broad-shouldered with a plain, straightforward expression. There were several scars marking him, and his arms were huge, capable of throwing an ax across the battlefield. He dominated all other men and had a fluid energy that made it impossible not to respond to him. He shone because others followed, because they adored him and deferred to him and trusted him. He was dark, but there was a light inside him, a brightness that was unexplainable. Even when he stood motionless our eyes went to him, and in that way he commanded us all.
The returning band of warriors had brought back donkeys loaded down with weapons—arrows and bows of many sizes, along with dozens of shields gathered