The Third Day (29 page)

“Showtime,” he said. 

***

A crowd of off-duty soldiers had gathered in the second floor windows to observe the action, though neither Lavon nor I paid them any attention.  Instead, we both watched the passage leading down to the dungeon, eager to learn the identity of Markowitz’s opponent. 

A few minutes later, I breathed a sigh of relief as two Romans dragged up the youngster they had hauled in with Barabbas.  If anything, the kid looked even more frightened and bedraggled than he had the day before. 

“Ray might have a chance after all,” I said to Lavon. 

The ring of shields opened to permit the combatants to enter.  Soldiers had deposited a
gladius
and a small Thracian shield at opposite corners of their square.  Markowitz picked his up and noticed that it felt much lighter. 

“The practice swords are heavier, to build strength and speed,” said Lavon. 

Ray ran his thumb across the blade and nearly cut himself.  I watched his opponent do the same. 

“He can’t be older than sixteen,” said Markowitz. 

“Don’t think about that,” I ordered.  “Remember what we told you:  he’s a dead man whether you do anything or not.  Kill him quickly and he won’t suffer with the others.” 

Moments later, Pilate looked down from a second story window and motioned for them to go ahead; but those expecting a good match were disappointed. 

Each combatant stood as far away from his opponent as he could, grasping his sword in a most unsoldierlike manner.  Neither man showed the slightest inclination to begin. 

“Hey Antonius,” one of the soldiers upstairs yelled out. “Now we see how scribes fight.  Maybe they can throw ink pots at each other.” 

The others roared laughing, but Markowitz and the kid didn’t move. 

Finally, Pilate lost patience.  He motioned to an officer: 
Get on with it
. 

Soldiers in each corner pushed the combatants forward.  Both took a few half-hearted swings, though these grew more forceful as the full gravity of the situation started to sink in. 

“Ray, you idiot,” I yelled.  “Get a grip on yourself.  Run him through now!” 

Markowitz’s face reddened as he screamed and charged forward.  The trouble was, he closed his eyes at the last minute, unwilling to see the result of his strike. 

The kid ducked out of the way, though fortunately he wasn’t experienced enough to capitalize on the mistake. 

Now they each stood on corners opposite those from which they had started. 

“Get back into position,” I yelled. 

This time, it was the Zealot who charged forward, though Markowitz managed to deflect the blow. 

They swung at each other again and again, harder each time.  The swords clanged, and the Romans cheered at this new level of intensity. 

I didn’t, though. 

“Ray, damn it; this isn’t Hollywood!” 

The kid took a powerful swing, but missed, which threw him off balance. 

“Now is your chance!” I shouted.  “Get him!” 

Markowitz saw it too.  He thrust his
gladius
forward, just as the legionnaire had demonstrated.  To my immense relief, the blow found its mark. 

“Now pull back,” I yelled. 

My caution was unnecessary.  The kid let go of his sword and fell to his knees, holding his free hand over his stomach.  Moments later, his shield also dropped to the ground.  He stared up to his opponent with imploring eyes. 

Markowitz just stood there, in shock at what he had done. 

“You have to finish this,” I said.  “Hit him at the base of the neck and he’ll die quick.  If not …” 

He continued to hesitate. 

“Keep your eyes open.  Do it right,” I admonished. 

Still nothing. 

“
Now
!” 

Finally, he stepped forward and screamed as he thrust his sword through the kid’s throat.  Then, he yanked the weapon away and took a step back, where he stood transfixed in horror as the young man gurgled one last time before collapsing face first onto the ground. 

A few of the Romans groaned while their buddies laughed.  Money changed hands, and two slaves came forward to drag the body away while two others mopped up the blood. 

Markowitz knelt down, leaning on his sword with his eyes closed as he took several deep breaths. 

Pilate shook his head.  “A pitiful display of swordsmanship,” he said to Lavon.  “You are correct that this man is no fighter.  You may take him back – this time.” 

Lavon acknowledged the governor but did not speak.  The message was clear:  a second offense would prove lethal to us all. 

Markowitz finally looked up.  His eyes smoldered with rage toward the Roman prefect, so I quickly eased the sword from his grasp and handed it, hilt first, to a nearby soldier. 

Then, Lavon and I helped him to his feet and led him toward the stairs and up to our room.  Publius passed by and the archaeologist asked him to have some wine sent up.  Markowitz would surely need it. 

We all would. 

A different servant was waiting for us as we trudged up the last set of steps.  He opened the door and guided us in.  After filling our goblets, he returned to his post outside. 

We all chugged our wine fast, and Lavon and I watched cautiously as Markowitz took a few halting steps toward the window.  Though he didn’t seem like the type to throw himself out, I eased myself closer just in case. 

I needn’t have worried.  He simply leaned on the windowsill for several minutes, watching the priests go about their business in the Temple compound below. 

Suddenly, though, he turned around and hurled his empty goblet across the room. 

“I’m going to kill every one of those Roman sons of bitches!” he shouted. 

Lavon and I glanced at each other but decided to let him vent. 

When he finally ran out of steam, I retrieved his goblet and poured him another cup. 

“I know you’re upset,” I said.  “But for the moment, we need to focus on getting Sharon back, and then making our way home.” 

Markowitz didn’t give her a second thought.  “I mean it,” he exclaimed.  “I’m coming back.  Those people are animals!” 

He stood up, walked back to the window, and once again gazed at the crush of worshippers flowing into the Temple courtyard. 

“I never paid much attention, growing up,” he muttered. 

“Paid attention to what?” asked Bryson. 

He gestured toward the Temple.  “To
this
; to my heritage.  I heard all the stories of course, but why should a kid growing up in the late twentieth century care?  My family has lived in America since the time of George Washington.  We had gotten rich.  This stuff was ancient history.” 

None of us replied.  

“I was wrong.  I should have paid more attention.” 

He lowered his head and stared at the floor, mumbling something about being the only Jew in New York who hadn’t lost any known relatives to the Holocaust. 

This triggered another unpleasant thought. 

“Robert,” he asked, “When the Romans destroyed this city, how many people died?” 

Lavon’s first response was evasive.  He could sense where this was heading. 

Markowitz, though, wouldn’t let up.  “I’m not asking for an exact count.  Roughly speaking, how many died in the siege?” 

“The most plausible figures hover around a million,” Lavon said. 

“One million dead Jews?” 

“Yes – for the whole war, not just here in Jerusalem.” 

“You’re saying these Roman swine killed one million of my ancestors?” 

“It’s a bit more complicated than that,” he replied. 

Lavon explained that as the siege progressed, three bands of Jewish fanatics took control of separate areas of the city.  One occupied the Temple Mount; another controlled the Upper City around Herod’s palace, while a third held the district to the south. 

As is often the case in such circumstances, each of the factions first slaughtered anyone they considered a moderate, before they turned against each other with as much gusto as they fought the Romans. 

In the process, most of the Jerusalem’s food supply went up in smoke; and a city that might have held out for several years fell in six months. 

This information, however, did not faze Markowitz. 

“You said earlier that the Romans allowed refugees from other parts of Judea to stream into the city in the hopes they would eat through the grain stores even faster.” 

“They did,” admitted Lavon.

Markowitz just shook his head.  “Bastards!” 

When he turned back to face the Temple, I refilled his goblet once more.  With luck, he wouldn’t pay attention to how much he was drinking. 

“The Ninth of Av,” he muttered.  “I thought all that stuff was just something old people worried about.” 

Markowitz continued to rant; none of us attempted to stop him.

“The Ninth of Av?” asked Bryson. 

“The saddest day in Judaism,” said Lavon, “the day in their calendar when both the first and second Temples were destroyed.” 

“The same day?” asked Bryson. 

Lavon shrugged.  “Close enough; probably.” 

Markowitz turned back to our table.  “The destruction of the Temple wasn’t the end of the fighting, was it?  Weren’t there other revolts?” 

Lavon nodded.  Historians had recorded two:  an uprising in 115 called the Kitos War after the Roman general sent to suppress it, and a final explosion of fury in 132, known as the Bar Kochba revolt. 

“How many Jews died in each one?” Markowitz asked. 

“Nobody’s really sure,” Lavon said.  “We know even less about those conflicts than we do about the AD 70 siege.  If either of the latter rebellions had the equivalent of a Josephus to chronicle the event, his writings haven’t survived.” 

“What are the best estimates?” 

“Accounts of the Kitos War only describe ‘a great slaughter.’” 

Lavon didn’t elaborate, though after what we had seen so far, a mental picture of what that entailed required no huge imaginative leap. 

“What about Bar Kochba?” Bryson asked. 

Like most people outside Judaism and the Biblical scholar community, I had never heard of the man.  I had no idea that this warrior – a messianic figure whose name translated as “Son of the Star” – had led the greatest rebellion of all. 

Lavon explained that around AD 130, the emperor Hadrian – the same man who leveled the early Christians’ shrine – visited Jerusalem and decided to rebuild it as a pagan city along Roman lines. 

For starters, he issued decrees outlawing Jewish customs like circumcision, which the Romans considered mutilation.  But his crowning insult was his plan to build a shrine to Jupiter on what remained of the Temple Mount. 

“What happened?” asked Bryson.

“As any fool could have predicted, the Jews rebelled,” Lavon said.  “And in contrast to the situation sixty years earlier, this time Jewish resistance was unified. 

“Ultimately, the Romans had to bring in twelve legions to put down the revolt – almost half their entire army at the time.  The fighting dragged on for three years.  Roman historians described their own casualties as enormous.” 

“How many
Jews
died?” asked Markowitz. 

“That’s even more of a guess than Josephus’s war, and I’m not trying to evade the question.  Unlike the Great Revolt, the Bar Kochba rebellion didn’t end with the siege and fall of a major city.  Instead, the last surviving rebels fled with their families to hideouts in caves. 

“Rather than suffer even more casualties rooting them out, the Romans simply sealed up the cave entrances as they discovered them.  The people inside eventually starved.  Some of my colleagues have unearthed whole clusters of their skeletons.” 

“So how many died?” asked Markowitz. 

“Cassius Dio said about 500,000.  Others cite figures in the millions.” 

“Take an average; about a million, then?” 

Lavon shrugged.  “I suppose.” 

“A million here, a million there,” said Markowitz.  “It was as if the Nazis had risen up and had another go at us – twice!” 

“Come on now,” said Bryson.  “The Romans weren’t Nazis.  There’s no record of their going for all that racial purity crap or trying to exterminate the entire population.” 

Markowitz didn’t answer.  Instead, he just stared out the window for a few minutes before turning back to face us. 

He spoke with a subdued voice.  “All we wanted was our small piece of land.  We had our place, our Temple.  They destroyed it and cast us out of our ancestral home forever – people who had done them no harm.” 

“Don’t tell me you’d want to go back to sacrificing lambs and doves, literally?” said the Professor. 

Markowitz stared down at the floor, lost in thought. 

“We wouldn’t have to do that,” he finally said.  “We’d figure something out.  We always have.”