The Dovekeepers

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.

Yael and I huddled beside a cliff as bees circled around the honeycomb. I sprinkled salt upon it, forcing the bees to float away, back to the deadly pink flowers, where they gathered more nectar. When I described my intentions, Yael was not surprised. She admitted that she had come in search of me, for she had heard a voice calling to her, telling her what she must do. She was the one who would bring the poison to our enemy. That was the reason she had chosen to leave Arieh with her father, and why she’d dressed in the assassin’s cloak, slipping it from a hook in his chamber to serve as her armor, flimsy and thin as it might be. When she drew it over her head, she all but disappeared before me. The cloth was the color of the pale sky, and of the stones, and of the thin sunlight that fell upon us. Even her scarlet hair faded beneath the hood; her face disappeared and became a mist.

I had planned to deposit the tainted manna for the Romans, but Yael insisted the voice had spoken to her for a reason. I did not wish to let her go, or to be the cause of any harm that might befall her. I pleaded with her, but she would not listen. She believed she had been called to take the honey from my hands. In truth, I understood, for in my dream she had been beside the acacia trees. She had lifted her arms to heaven as she’d stepped into my place.

I appreciated why Yael had given the slave the gold amulet of protection; we were all comforted to think of him finding his way to his own country, where the snow was spiraling down. Still, she was in need of protection. I fastened the second gold amulet around her throat, despite her pleadings that she wasn’t worthy. I knew that she was meant to be sheltered by the sign of the fish, and by the promise of water, and by the grace of the Almighty.

I WAITED in the fading daylight as Yael went on alone. We had entered the hour that opens the heavens to our sight, a time when holy men insist it is possible for them to witness the throne of God. I saw only the cliffs that were before us. I dared not raise my eyes to the cave on the sheer cliff where the Essenes had died, for my daughter’s spirit lingered there, cold and alone. The wickedness of the world was a part of creation, I knew this, and the Angel of Death had been created on that day when life first appeared, yet I was embittered. I wept for what I had lost and what the world had lost and would yet lose again.

Yael was quick as she made her way down the mountain. I barely managed to observe her form beneath her cloak as she approached the white ramp that led to hell, for that is what we called the valley that had once been ours and had come to belong to Rome. When she neared the building site, she immediately left the honeycomb on a ledge of rock, placed carefully, so that the soldiers who oversaw the slaves would be sure to find it. The sweet scent would call to them, and they would devour the poison as our people enjoyed the bounty of manna when we were released from bondage in Egypt. Our warriors would then have a measure of safety when they attacked.

The curtain of night would soon be upon us, the honeycomb was in place, yet Yael tarried. I grew cold watching the stars appear, still she did not come. I began to worry and pace, for she seemed to have vanished. Though she wore the gold amulet of protection, God alone could protect her in this valley. As the hour grew late, I became frantic, nearly overcome with the fear of what might have happened to her. Then I saw a flicker of mist.

In the darkness, Yael had managed to slink down beside a rock and remain hidden as the Romans in the field practiced for the warfare to come, setting to with the swords and javelins they would use against us when the white ramp was completed. When the soldiers at last went to their barracks, Yael rose up from beside the rock. I couldn’t fathom the meaning of her movements as she left the safety of her perch and continued to go forth. I wondered if perhaps she had eaten from the honey and if she herself had gone mad to think she could enter the valley floor of the Romans and survive. Still she moved forward.