The Dovekeepers

I did not look back as I made my way from the garrison, or pay attention to the owls who glided across the sky at this hour. I had an errand and didn’t dare delay. I made a vow to get this man the one thing in the world he still wanted, the sound of his children’s voices, a reason to believe.

I WENT to the synagogue to beg for an amulet that might cure my grandsons. I humbled myself, my eyes on the ground, my voice pleading. But the great man, Menachem ben Arrat, only shook his head. He reminded me that he had the fate of our people to pray over and therefore could not be concerned with the troubles of two small boys. He dismissed me as if their plight was meaningless, as perhaps it was for him, and had me escorted out.

Despite the priest’s denial, one of the scholars gave me an amulet in which there was a rolled prayer for forgiveness. I buried it beside the temple, as was the custom, but as I wiped the dirt from my hands, I wasn’t convinced that a scholar’s charm was strong enough for my needs. I was already headed in another direction.

Evening was falling, and the women were at work on the looms set up in the plaza. The men were coming to prayer, called by the blast of the ram’s horn which was sounded from the ramparts on the wall, passing me by as I went to the opposite end of the fortress. I neared the barracks, where I spied Aziza acting as a willing audience for her brother while he practiced with a bow, showing off all he’d learned. Adir had become the pet of some of the younger warriors. Although he was a decent student, he had no idea that his sister was the one who had revealed herself to be an expert marksman. We had not told him because such things were forbidden; Adir might not understand if he learned we had ignored the law. Any weapon touched by a woman, even by accident, must be cleansed with both water and prayer so that her essence would not linger, diverting the warrior who might use it next, for even the faintest touch could bring lust to that man’s heart. Perhaps that meant a woman who was well trained in arms would be the superior warrior, her attention never wavering from her task. Aziza’s shoulders and face were sunburned from her hours of practice behind the dovecote under the guidance of the slave, her lean body finely muscled from the effort of working the bow. Still she applauded her brother as his arrows rose, then fell with a clatter upon the stones.

*

I WENT on across the Western Plaza in search of Shirah, relieved to think I might find her alone. When I came to her door, however, there was no answer. I peered inside to see that the chamber was dim. A scrim of smoke lingered, for incense had been burned before the altar. On the table there was a jar of eye paint made of crushed lapis stone, a palette for mixing paints and rouge that was made of a flat, opalescent white shell, brought from the Red Sea. A small ceramic vial of oil scented with lilies was opened, as though someone had left with great urgency. Lilies were associated with the Shechinah, what some called the Dwelling. It was the feminine aspect of God, that which was hidden and touched only by the truest of believers in a veil of knowledge and ecstasy. It was God’s compassion, and those who died in the Shechinah’s embrace were said to be favored by the angels.

I myself had heard only whispers of such things; still, I recognized the odor of the divine, extremely female in its essence, a mixture of purity and defilement, sweet and sour drawn in one breath. I slipped out of Shirah’s chamber, for the scent led me on, through the plaza. I crossed toward the western wall. I peered over to the palace beneath me. At this hour, under the darkening sky, the ruined Northern Palace yoked to the cliffs was surrounded by a haze of lilac light. The fragrance of perfume was faint, yet it was stronger than the bitter odor of the barren valley below us.

The shops were closed, the tannery and winery shuttered, the bakery dark. Several strong men worked in the bakery, feeding the huge ovens first with cut wood, and, now that we were running out of logs, planks torn from the floors of the inner chambers of the palace were used to feed the flames. I had avoided these ovens ever since I’d walked past one morning to see the men at work, bare-chested, covered by their white aprons, sweltering in the heat the ovens cast. I was fainthearted at the sight of the bakers. For a moment I imagined I saw my husband among them.

Before I swooned, I realized it was someone else entirely, someone who didn’t resemble my husband at all. The man working at the bakery waved at me when he noticed me staring. I hurried away. Ever since that time, I had cooked my own flatbread, flavored with the last of my husband’s coriander. I did not wish to come to this place and stand in line with the other women, waiting for the fresh loaves, or be reminded of the scent of my own household in the Valley of the Cypresses.