I saw Ben Ya’ir rise to his feet as the crowd let out a shout. My ears were ringing, as if a storm had settled upon me, a whirlwind from the far side of the Salt Sea. I murmured a whisper of gratitude to my sister’s father, and to the men I’d ridden with, and to Nouri, whom I had always bested. I stood there for an instant, my happiness complete, wishing I could keep this vision before me always. But a vision is like a dream, it dissipates as soon as you attempt to hold on to it, and my vision rose up to be claimed by He who should never be forgotten. All at once I could hear the truth of the moment. My eyes and ears were mine once more. The crowd was calling for Adir, proclaiming him the hero of the day.

They thought I was my brother, convinced he was the master archer. They cheered on, but I turned away. The warriors and those in attendance continued to call Adir to them, so that they might honor him, but I hastened to make my way through the Western Plaza, quick to take the steps, leaping as though my life was at risk. The world was there before me, in the cliffs and the valley below, but this world no longer belonged to me. I had given it to my brother.

I found my way to an abandoned garden behind the Northern Palace, a walled-in area where women came to look for garlic and herbs that had been planted long ago and had been forgotten. There were larks there, pecking at the greens, but they all fluttered up when I came upon them, my breathing hot and ragged. I took off Adir’s garments. They were nothing but a fool’s disguise. There was rosemary growing where I stood, said to be the herb of remembrance, a gate to the past. My heart hit against my chest, and my limbs shook. I wrapped myself in my scarf as I wept for who I was.

The hawk had followed me. Perhaps he was the one Wynn had trained to come to the dovecote window, a fierce bird of prey who was willing to bow his head and take crumbs from Yael’s hand. I scanned the sky. Watching him riding in the air above me reminded me what freedom was like. The past was with me whether or not I wanted it to be. I was myself despite how I might run from the truth.

Beneath my shawl, I still had the bow upon my back.

FROM OUR MOUNTAINTOP, residents often saw soldiers from the legion during the growing heat of Sivan. More and more exploratores were being sent to examine our mountain, gathering on the rocky floor below. They were reconnaissance soldiers whose only mission was to seek out enemies and report back to their generals. The Romans had long been aware that we were here, as they’d known about Machaerus and the other fortresses that were held by Zealots. We were far from Jerusalem, and so they had ignored us, but our fame had grown and stories about our glory had reached Roman ears. There had been more and more talk of our rebellion in the markets of towns throughout the region. Shir tishbohot, songs of praise, were offered for us, and those who celebrated us denounced Rome in whispers and then in louder tones. People said our mountain was invisible and that the Sicarii had used the Hebrew alphabet to call a curtain over us, a fabric constructed of air and vapor that separated heaven from earth. They said that the throne of our Lord could be seen from our towers. Any man who ruled here would rule the world.

Soldiers from the legion might come to survey us, but all they would see was how impossible it would be to mount an attack. Ben Ya’ir sent out word that, when the exploratores came, we should stay in our chambers so they could not count our number. Perhaps they would think we were stronger than we were, and possessed thousands of warriors, rather than a village left to old men and women and children each time our men went on raids. Let them look all they wanted. All they would see was the mountain where God’s glory had sent us, a rock so impenetrable they could never bring us down. Some of our boys sent stones falling, skittering down as a warning, and they laughed as the soldiers scattered below.

I did not laugh to see the white tunics of the Tenth Legion or the banner of the wild boar. I felt a chill come over me. In truth our people were no match for Roman soldiers, who had been trained for one thing, to be a machine of death. Our warriors were best when they slunk about like wolves, striking enemies in the dark. The rebels’ only hope of success was an attack that was unexpected, when thanks to God’s grace, their quickness and ferocity might win out over might. Against well-armored, organized troops, who had so much experience of warfare, our people were woefully unprepared. Our fathers and brothers were freedom fighters, not trained soldiers. Unlike my sister’s father, the men at Masada had not been warriors from the moment of their birth, each with a horse already chosen and a knife in his hand. They had been priests and bakers and scholars, their weapons knives and arrows and rocks, not bronze and iron. We were nothing against the relentless power of the Roman Empire.