The Third Day (39 page)

“If someone saw us exit the palace, would they report it?” I asked. 

As before, Naomi couldn’t be sure.  Given the harsh punishment administered to wayward slaves, she acknowledged that if questioned, they would quickly admit the truth. 

On the other hand, the free common people did their best to avoid contact with officialdom, so in the absence of an incentive, they would hesitate to come forward. 

This sounded vaguely promising, and for a moment, I began to believe that we might survive until sundown. 

And if we stayed alive until then … 

“What about the Sabbath?” I asked.  “Do Herod’s people observe it?” 

The question amused her. 

“Inside the palace, he ignores it, but the king is aware of the importance of demonstrating outward piety to his subjects.” 

Her answer was the one I had expected. 

“Too bad he can’t run for Congress,” I muttered.  “He’d fit right in.” 

“I think Christ himself answered your real question,” said Lavon.  “When the priests complained about his healing a man on the Sabbath, he noted that they didn’t have a problem with rescuing their own livestock on that day.” 

“In other words,” I said, “the emergency justified what would otherwise be forbidden work.” 

“Yes.  Besides, that tracker who found Sharon is probably not even Jewish.” 

As the others rested, Lavon and I each checked our earpieces, but we both recognized that we’d probably gain no more useful information from the palace.  We no longer even heard background noise. 

“Do you think we’ve traveled out of range?” he asked. 

That had been my first thought, too, but then a more likely explanation came to mind. 

“I’ll bet Herod smashed it,” I said. 

I explained the precise manner by which the king had wound up with Sharon’s device the previous evening.  With everything that had followed my return to the Antonia, the opportunity to do so never presented itself until then. 

Lavon burst out laughing.  He could picture, as I could, the irate monarch grinding Sharon’s transmitter into the stone floor with his heel; but that was not the only reason for his mirth regarding the subject of Herod and anger management. 

“Less than a month ago,” he said, “two of my colleagues nearly came to blows at a conference over the issue of whether Jesus appeared before the king at all.” 

I cast him a curious glance.  “That’s disputed?” 

He nodded. 

“Those who argue it never happened maintain that the Romans would not have had enough time to send Jesus from the Antonia to the palace and still squeeze in all the other events of the Good Friday sequence.  Walking through the streets would have taken at least an hour, each direction.” 

“They wouldn’t risk going through the streets at all,” I said; “not with that crowd.  Publius and Volusus both have far better sense than to try something like that.” 

“I know,” said Lavon.  “What do you think they did?” 

I considered this for a moment. 

“I’ll bet they just threw him on the back of a horse and went around the city walls, like I did the other night.  That couldn’t have taken more than fifteen minutes.” 

He nodded; then stared back in the direction of the city, lost in thought. 

“I suppose you’re right,” he said. 

***

I noticed that dark clouds were beginning to roll in from the west. 

“We have more pressing concerns at the moment, anyway” I said; “although the rain should work to our advantage, by making our tracks harder to follow.” 

“
If
it rains,” Lavon corrected.  “The movies all show a downpour, but the Gospel texts only mention ‘a great darkness’ covering the land after the sixth hour.” 

“Oh.” 

“But it might rain,” he continued.  “Since we’re not wearing waterproof clothing, we should try to find a better shelter.  Six drowned rats will stand out even more than we do already.” 

This made perfect sense.  I remained in our makeshift observation post while Lavon crept about fifty yards to the north, where he located an overhang that sheltered a gap in the rock large enough for us all to squeeze in. 

We waited another half hour after he returned to give the others some extra nap time, but finally, the wind picked up, impelling us to move along. 

Lavon and I established a new observation post; then we woke the others.  As we did so, I tried without success to stifle a yawn and I couldn’t help but chuckle as I watched Lavon do the same. 

He had to be mentally exhausted as well, having to converse in a foreign language for several days under difficult circumstances with no room for mistranslation. 

I had enough field experience to know that tired men make stupid mistakes, but since the archaeologist and I had both concluded that we’d be safe for a few hours, we decided take a chance and get a little sleep while the others stood guard. 

Like I said, tired men make stupid mistakes. 

***

The next thing I remember, Sharon was shaking me awake.  I grumbled for a moment, but then I came to my senses enough to detect the raw urgency in her voice. 

“They’re coming,” she said. 

“Wh – ”

I swore, then sprang up and woke Lavon.  After I explained our situation, I followed Sharon back to our first sentry post – a small gap in the limestone ridge shielded by an uprooted olive tree. 

Not more than a quarter mile away, and slightly downhill from our position, four soldiers stood behind a man who had bent down to inspect an object I could not see. 

Though only one of the four sported the black uniform of the palace guards, we could not mistake their identities.  

Sharon focused her attention on the apparent leader, a dark-skinned man wrapped in a headdress and a flowing white robe. 

“That’s the tracker who found me,” she whispered.  “I’m certain of it.” 

This was bad news indeed. 

Every few steps, the Bedouin crouched down to examine the ground.  Had I been on the other side, I would have admired the man’s remarkable expertise. 

Now, though, I could only sense our impending doom.  At the rate they were moving, the soldiers would be on us within minutes. 

I turned around to see Lavon heading our way.  I signaled for him to fetch Naomi and to stay low and keep quiet.  Markowitz caught my gesture as well, and flattened himself to the ground. 

As I assessed our situation realistically, I struggled not to lose hope.  We had only one sword between the six of us, and the only member of our party who had ever wielded one in anger had no military training other than the hour on Pilate’s parade ground. 

Lavon, fortunately, retained a clear mind.  He crept up to my side, holding a stout branch the size of a baseball bat. 

“We have to split them up and ambush them,” he whispered.  “Otherwise, they’ll eventually corner us and kill us.” 

After a moment’s reflection, that was the way I saw it, too.  We had only a slim chance; but once again, I’ll pick slim over none any day. 

Lavon and Naomi whispered for a few moments before he explained the plan to Markowitz.  The young man looked toward me with a growing sense of unease, but I just smiled and nodded, hoping that I projected more confidence than I felt. 

I remained at our post with Sharon until the others had eased down the hill and begun creeping slowly toward the north.  When they disappeared, I tugged on Sharon’s arm and motioned for her to turn around, too. 

***

We had gone about fifty yards when we crawled behind a ridge to the rear of our erstwhile shelter – and to show where my mind had gone, I noticed the wet ground for the first time.  It had rained, after all. 

By then, the tracker had reached the spot where we had split up.  He crouched down to study the new trails and then raised three fingers and pointed to his right.  Two of the soldiers pressed forward along the path Lavon had taken with the others, while the other two remained with the Bedouin. 

I held my breath.  Moments later, we heard a woman’s piercing scream.  Our two most distant adversaries then charged down the hill and disappeared from view. 

We heard Naomi cry out once again, followed by the shuffling of feet and some thrashing of the underbrush.  A few seconds later, I counted two muffled blows, followed by one more forceful thump.  After that, we heard nothing, except for Naomi’s pleading sobs. 

“She’s begging for her life!” whispered Sharon. 

We had no idea what had just happened, or whether either of the others had managed to survive. 

Not that we had time to reflect. 

The Bedouin crouched down to study the ground again, and as far as he was concerned, we might as well have painted our trail with a bright yellow line. 

Sharon gasped in horror as a broad smile crossed his face. 

The tracker glanced up to one of the soldiers, who reached into a pouch and tossed him a coin – a payoff against an earlier wager, I guessed. 

I told myself that at least I wasn’t the only person who had underestimated the man’s ability; not that it was any great comfort at the time. 

The Bedouin pointed in our direction and signaled to the other soldier, who immediately began trekking toward our position. 

I whispered and pantomimed my hastily improvised plan.  After Sharon nodded, I eased off to our left and crouched behind a boulder, sword in hand. 

Sharon slowly raised her head above the olive trunk that had concealed us, and at the sight of her blonde hair, the man’s eyes lit up as he charged ahead. 

It was his last move.  Sharon had started to run backwards, and as the guard chased past me, I wheeled out from behind the rock and rammed my blade through the base of his throat.  He gurgled as I kicked his chest to free my
gladius
and then collapsed, wide-eyed with shock. 

One down. 

The others, however, had watched the man fall, and both of them came running up the hill in rapid pursuit.  I had scarcely enough time to ready my weapon before they were upon me. 

The Bedouin held back as the more experienced fighter came at me with his sword low, preparing to run me through the gut, Roman-style.  I spun around to face my new adversary and barely managed to deflect his attack. 

Our swords clashed several more times before I perceived an opening and lunged for his arm.  If I could cut that, I could at least slow him down. 

Regrettably, I missed. 

Not only did I fail to inflict the slightest damage, but my clumsy attempt to do so threw me off balance. 

I jumped back as fast as I could, and in desperation, I grabbed a handful of dirt and tossed it toward his face, which forced him to swing his free hand to swat it away. 

I used this brief respite to square myself into a proper fighting stance, but the ill-mannered brute merely laughed. 

It was only then that it dawned on me, to my manifest horror, that a lack of skill had not prevented him from killing me immediately.  Instead, the warrior was enjoying this, like a cat playing with a doomed mouse. 

Finally, I suppose he had enough.  He swung his blade in a practiced rhythm, and I had to strain harder and harder to dodge each blow. 

Moments later, my luck ran out.  He pressed his sword forward with a well-timed thrust.  I managed to swing my own
gladius
hard enough to the left to parry the blow, but in doing so, I slipped on a wet stone and fell backwards, which left me sprawled on the rocks with my weapon lying uselessly about five feet to my right. 

I can’t say that my life flashed before me – though I suspect this was only because my mind had not yet come to grips with the absurd way in which I was to meet my end. 

My opponent edged slowly forward, savoring every moment.  The Bedouin, too, had come up to watch the fun. 

I took a deep breath and tried put the thought of pain out of my mind as the black-helmeted executioner moved in for the final strike. 

It never came. 

I just laid there for a moment, frozen in place, as my brain slowly registered the sight of a steel point, dripping with blood, protruding from the base of the man’s neck. 

Fortunately, I wasn’t the only one shocked by this image. 

I realized what had happened a mere fraction of a second before the Bedouin did, but that was enough. 

Before he could react, I wheeled my body around and caught the side of his knee with my shin.  I heard a sickening crack – or what would have been sickening under different circumstances – as he gave out a sharp cry of pain and spun to the ground. 

Sharon yanked her weapon free and fell on him in an instant. 

I hadn’t noticed, but while our tormentors focused on me, she had slipped quietly through the underbrush to retrieve the sword belonging to the first man I had killed. 

She drove her weapon into the tracker’s chest with all her might, stabbing him blindly, again and again.  Finally, after about the tenth blow, she ran out of steam.  With the blade still sunk in the Bedouin’s heart, she leaned forward on it and sobbed.