It is a useless croon, she knows that, for when she is burning with anger and worry, the horse will whinny and throw its head, even tugging her in a different direction. Very well. She will allow it to climb the hill. It slows as it climbs, weaving around the boulders — the gray speckles darkening as the sun disappears — and somewhere in her mind, Leonora questions how she will return through the dark, but then she pushes away the thought: The horse knows its way, surely. She can trust its skill and instinct.

She slackens her grips on the reins and pushes her feet deeper into the stirrups. The wind is rising, and it carries a slight animal scent. She sniffs. The wild grass is high here and damp too; the moisture is brushing against her skirts and cape. The horse walks on, past a copse of trees, then it pauses.

Of course. She didn’t recognize the place because her mind was so busy. This is where the sheep graze. Eliyahu has penned an area of land, and there’s a small barn, hastily constructed when the flock arrived on the boat. She dismounts, not bothering to tether the horse: It is an obedient creature, like most in her household.

She looks around. The flock seem contented enough: Lambs stand beside the ewes. She stops to watch. One lamb suddenly breaks out into a run, up a slope, giving a little jump, and then returning to its mother. She smiles at the sight.

In the waning light, it is hard to see how much their wool is growing. The plan is to shear them again a few days after Rosh Hashanah; it will give them an extra yield but still leave time for their fleeces to grow before the summer.

She walks over to the barn. Eliyahu reports regularly to… she thinks: Is it Amram or Yishai? Amram would be more likely, but then, considering the importance of the wool, it could be that she directed Yishai to oversee the flock. And Yishai has been busy. She bites her lip, quickens to a stride, and when she reaches the barn, throws open the door.

Someone is there. She can hear it, sense it, even though it is too dark to distinguish the shape of the shadows.

“Who is there?” she calls. It is probably just a couple of sheep.

A rustle, the sound of hay snapping and crackling. A footfall. She steps back and then, in the doorway, the figure of a man appears.

She looks carefully. “Eliyahu.”

He dips his head. “Have you come to see the flock?”

“Indeed.”

He points to the barn. “In here are five ailing ewes.”

Had she not told him not to separate the sheep? To keep the ewes with their lambs, with the rest of the flock? Must everyone disobey her?

She takes a breath, pausing to allow her eyes to adjust to the darkness. The air smells sweet and clean: not what you would expect of a place that houses sick creatures. There is the sound of shallow breathing, but other than that, silence.

Eliyahu has used bales of hay to form separate pens, and a sheep lies in each one of them. She bends down, and a black pair of eyes meet her own. In the corner of the pen is a small saucer of water. She reaches out and touches the earthenware dish. Something stirs inside her. The man is caring for the sheep as if they are sick children. She is strangely touched.

She walks back outside. “I see that you are caring for them, heart and soul.”

“Indeed.”

He looks away into the distance, and Leonora stares at his profile: the deep-set eyes, the high cheekbone almost disguised by the dark beard. She imagines him crouched beside the ewes, a small mound of grain in his palm, coaxing them to eat. She shakes her head.

He can go on pretending that he is content: teaching Mishnayot to the children at the soup kitchen, tending the flock by day and by night, hefting the tangle of his grief and unpicking string by snarled string to pluck a prayer of yearning for the Redemption. But really, this man needs a wife. He needs children. A home and family of his own.

She takes a deep breath. Suddenly, the world’s sorrow feels too heavy. Her shoulders bow against the wind.

“I heard what happened at the wool factory,” Eliyahu says.

“I have stationed guards there. It will not happen again.”

“I have heard that people are attacking the wool factory because they understand that it’s meant to pave the way for the Wall of Jerusalem.”

How does he know? She thinks he is hidden from all that happens, yet he knows all that is passing.

She walks a few paces away, toward the flock. She throws her words behind her as she walks. “We are talking here not of the walls of the Mikdash, may it be built speedily in our days, but the walls of the city. It is an entirely different thing.”

“True. But this is not some hammam or soup kitchen. We are talking of the great walls that mark out the holiest city of the world. The most beautiful city.”

“I know.” Her voice is sharp, but then, she did not ask him his opinion.

“So they prefer that there be no wall at all, rather than have a wall built by… the uncircumcised?”

“Yes indeed.”

He pushes the wooden door of the barn and it closes with a gentle thud.

“Surely you can persuade them—”

She whirls around to face him. “What?”

“I mean… in the times of Ezra…” His voice falters.

“I know, I know. Jews have never been builders. Jews do not mind working silver and gold, they are doctors and scholars and they may have an orchard or vineyard. But they are not builders. No Jew will haul stone from a quarry or mix cement.” She bends and plucks an ear of wheat, flicking the kernels off the stalk.

“Perhaps, perhaps, they will deign to calculate how thick the ropes need to be to haul the stones up onto each other, row upon row. How many men you will need for each stone, how thick the wall must be. But they will not build.”

Silence falls between them.

Eliyahu speaks quietly. “There are some people who find their life force from battle and war. They look around, and search for something to oppose. It makes them feel alive. It teaches them who they are, what they are doing in this world. Now they have found something, they will not let go so easily.”

“So what should I do?”

“Pray, honorable lady. Pray for the success of your endeavors. Beg the Almighty that He bless your efforts.”

“Pray,” she repeats, her voice dull.

Why rely on her prayers, when they never seem to be answered… unless He is answering, and it’s His plans that fall short of what she dared to hope for. Isn’t that why she needs to work so hard? Ines tells her always, leave things up to Him to arrange. But she never can trust that there isn’t another blow waiting to fall upon her.

Besides, this is why she has Yannai and his minyan, praying and learning each night. To pray in her stead.

Eliyahu’s voice grows stronger. “You pray, and I will ask Yannai to pray,”

She nods, slowly. Yannai and his minyan, praying for the success of the wool, of the wall.

She stops. A thought is coming. She closes her eyes, allows it to take shape in her mind. When it does, she claps her hand in excitement. “Yannai and his men will pray, indeed. But not here. At the very gateway of prayer.”

Eliyahu shakes his head. “But what do you mean?”

“I will send him and his men to Jerusalem. They will pray for the wall at the Western Wall. And they will walk the perimeter, and they will cast their prayers among the stones.”

She looks at him but he is silent. “Do you not see? It is the answer to everything.”

***

Instead of the great sleeping hall, in Jerusalem, Bilhah shares a small stone room with another girl from the Imperial Palace. Elvira, who arrived here just two weeks before her, is petite and blonde and likes to talk. She was sent here to take charge of the accounts. She worries about it as they lie in bed and Bilhah tries to sleep.

“You think you are asking an innocent question: How much did you pay for this length of damask? And how much, exactly, did you order? And then the eyes start flicking away, and they think you are about to arrest them. When all you are doing is trying to settle the accounts and make sure that the supplier is not swindling us.”

Drifting to sleep, wishing Elvira would be quiet, and wondering if she should give a small snore, Bilhah nods. “Mmmm.”

“Really, if there are more pins and tucks this season than last, or if it has become the fashion to add trains to dresses to sweep the floor behind you and show the world how wealthy you are, I have no opinion. I am no seamstress. Give me a needle, and I’d use it to spear a piece of cheese. Really. I just need to know how much fabric all of this takes, so that the books are in order.”

“Mmm.”

A cool breeze flows through the shutters. It is a relief. During the day, they work not in the small stone house, but in a large tent. It is made of thick hide, and in the morning, it is a little dark but tolerable enough; by midday the place is so hot that they will make any excuse to get out of there, even if it is just to stand by the entrance for a few minutes and get a few mouthfuls of fresh air.

“Elvira?”

Elvira stops mid-flow. Now she is talking about coins and currency and when coins are thinned, how it is done, exactly, and how to detect it when some vendor in the souk gives you change.

“Can we not arrange some other place to work? That tent…”

Elvira sits up in bed, and her eyes grow animated. “I know. That tent. It is terrible. And in the winter, it will be worse. I heard that there are negotiations on a house. An abandoned house. But they still need the authorities to agree.”

“Who?”

“Castro.”

“Castro. Castro. Is there no one else in charge?” Abraham Castro from Egypt. His fingers are on every desk, his signature on every document, he opens every missive. She has never met him, but already she feels protective over her work, her correspondence. She leans over her bed and pulls out her chest. Between the folds of the spare blanket, her fingers close on a piece of parchment, delivered to her by Yasemin just before she left.

It is from Hurrem Sultan herself.

I have sent you away, but believe and act as if you are in my presence. Take note of loyalty, and study wavering loyalties for this is what will keep us all safe.

She looks at Elvira. Thinks of this Castro. And wonders about the great woman Leonora, and where she is to be found. She must find out. Her safety depends upon it.

to be continued…

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 821)