“When I see him with Arieh,” Yael admitted, “I see the man he might have been had he not lost the one he loved most in this world.”

Arieh’s safety was assured while he was in the care of a grandfather who had been among the great Sicarii of Jerusalem, for the assassin’s knife was still hidden within his cloak, even though he was now delegated to clean weapons. It was he I wanted to see, and I asked Yael to lead me to his chamber. The assassin had disapproved of me as unworthy of his son. Perhaps Yael imagined I wished to win him over. But a man such as he could not be easily convinced, and in fact I wanted no such thing.

“You remember Aziza,” Yael said to her father.

Yosef bar Elhanan looked up, appraising me with a cool glance. I wondered how many men he had murdered, if the rush of blood had ever humbled him or made him seek forgiveness. He took the baby on his lap, then nodded. “The shedah,” he said.

He meant to insult me, but I smiled prettily. Such things as smiles can be weapons as well.

Yael went to make tea, though she feared leaving me at her father’s mercy.

“I’m used to such men,” I assured her, for indeed I knew that among men words were not nearly as perilous as the ones women spoke.

The assassin ignored me and tended to the child with unexpected affection. I leaned forward so only Bar Elhanan would hear, for what I was about to say was far too intimate a request for anyone passing by to overhear.

“I want you to teach me to be invisible,” I told him.

The old man had been jiggling Arieh on his knees, much to the baby’s delight. I half-expected him to feign deafness when I informed him of what I wanted, but he was curious when I made my request and couldn’t resist knowing more. He stared at me rudely, giving me no more respect then he would a common zonah.

“Why would I do this?” he asked.

“So I can protect your son and my own brother.”

“My son is lost to me because of you.”

I knew distance still remained between Bar Elhanan and his son, but I wasn’t afraid to talk back to him and stand my ground. If I slunk away under the heat of his words, he would never respect me.

“If he’s lost to you, it’s because you’re too lazy to go and find him.”

The assassin chuckled and shook his head sadly. “True. I shut the door to him, and now I wonder why he doesn’t walk through it.”

I had hit upon his heart, for it turned out that he had one, so I dared to continue.

“I want to take my brother’s place, for it should have been my place to begin with.”

The assassin snorted a laugh. His weathered face showed only amusement. He seemed to believe I was there to entertain him with foolish tales. He would have begun to admonish me to keep to women’s work had I not learned what my sister’s father had taught me. You are only worthy of what you prove yourself to be. Before the assassin could dismiss me, I reached for the blade I carried. I leapt to stand behind him, placing the knife at his throat. Though it was forbidden to grab at me, Bar Elhanan had committed far worse sins. He ably grasped my arm and twisted it backward, nearly breaking it, all the while holding the baby on his knee. We were both breathing hard.

“For what cause did you come to murder me?” he demanded to know.

“That was not my purpose.”

He let go, and I faced him once more. He gazed at me, confused.

“Are you a woman?” he said thoughtfully, impressed and puzzled by my quickness with a weapon.

“Most of the time,” I answered.

Fortunately, he laughed. “I am nothing here,” he told me. “But if you want to learn to clean spears and armor, then I’m your man.”

“No. I want more,” I said. “I want to be invisible.”

By the time Yael had returned with the tea, her father had decided he would allow me to borrow his cloak. When we left, he suggested I visit him on the following day. I was interested in cleaning weaponry, he told Yael when she looked at him questioningly, and he had much to teach me.

ON THE DAY we were to leave we entered the month of Elul, a time of introspection before the holiest days come to us. I awoke in the dark while my brother, still healing, his leg bandaged, dozed on his pallet. I hurried to the goat house and dressed in his garments, burying my own beneath a pile of straw. I had been practicing weaponry daily with the old assassin, an uncompromising teacher. I was a puzzlement to him, but he was grateful that someone, even I, would ask to see his great skill. It bothered him not at all if I was harmed during our practice. His manner was remote, his methods cruel, but he had instructed me well.