The Third Day

  A guard, dressed like those we had seen in the dungeon the previous evening, stepped up to the doorway. He signaled to one of the junior officers, but Pilate saw him and beckoned him to come in.

  The man saluted and stood at attention.

  “You keep the prisoners?” asked Pilate.

  “Yes, sir,” he replied. “I have one held in isolation, but I had no instructions as to whether he should be fed.”

  I struggled to keep a straight face, hoping the governor would send the man away with a sharp command not to bother the officers with such petty concerns. But Pilate seemed curious as to why one prisoner had been separated from the rest. Decius was away, and none of the other Romans knew.

  “Bring him here.”

  The governor rose and walked around the table toward the doorway leading to the courtyard. A few minutes later, two soldiers dragged a very confused and frightened Markowitz up from the dungeon and threw him to the ground at Pilate’s feet.

  The Roman stared at him, as if appraising an insect previously unknown to science.

  “What is your name?” he finally asked.

  Markowitz looked up, his face completely blank.

  “He does not speak Aramaic or Greek,” said the guard.

  “How do you communicate with him, then?”

  “I’m told he has companions.”

  Publius didn’t move to intervene, though I couldn’t tell whether the centurion didn’t recognize Markowitz in his current state or whether he had simply elected to remain silent.

  Either way, I knew it wouldn’t be long before all eyes turned to me, so I stepped forward – better to look as if I had nothing to hide.

  Markowitz recognized me first. I told him to shut up, as gently as I could and still get the point across. Then I gestured to Publius.

  He understood and dispatched a soldier to fetch the others. A few minutes later, Bryson and Lavon walked in. Both of them had the good sense to bow to Pilate and remain silent.

  “Which one of you speaks Greek?” he asked.

  Lavon raised his hand and took a step forward.

  Pilate glanced over to Markowitz. “Who is this man?”

  “He got caught in the crowd yesterday, excellency,” replied Lavon. “Although he could not get out of the crush of people before your soldiers rounded everyone up, I can assure you that he is no bandit.”

  That seemed plausible enough, though I could tell the governor hadn’t bought it.

  Something seemed to jog his memory. Pilate went back to his desk to fetch a piece of papyrus. His attention focused on the writing at the bottom.

  “This report mentions an unusual blonde-haired stranger going into the Temple. Is this man that individual?”

  Lavon didn’t even bother to translate. There was no point lying. “Yes, excellency. He was insatiably curious about what lay inside.”

  Pilate frowned. “How did he get in? Only Jews may enter their sanctuary, and they are extremely strict on this point. Is he a Jew?”

  “We come from a far country, but one in which our babies are sometimes circumcised. He learned the Jews also undertook this practice and sought to find out why, since it is so uncommon elsewhere.”

  Pilate, though, was having none of it. “You didn’t answer my question: Is he a Jew?”

  “He is not one of these Jews,” said Lavon.

  The governor didn’t reply, and we could both see that his doubts persisted.

  The archaeologist pressed on. “Our grandfathers tell us that our ancestors migrated long ago from a hot land far to the south. An absurd legend, no doubt, but in the middle of winter in the frozen forests, such stories have an obvious appeal.”

  Pilate chuckled, which was a good sign; though again, he didn’t seem entirely convinced.

  “Perhaps he mistook ancient fables for the truth,” said Lavon. “He is an excitable young man, and not completely right in the head.”

  “Why take him on such a long journey, then?”

  “His father ordered us to. He is rich, and we serve him, in our country.”

  At that point, I could see Lavon running out of maneuvering room. I stepped forward.

  “This man’s father charged me with keeping him out of trouble,” I said. “If there is any fault, it is mine for not discharging my duty.”

  Pilate turned to Publius and they spoke briefly, though I couldn’t understand what they were saying.

  Then he turned back to Lavon. “You’re telling me for a fact that this young man was caught up in the midst of the bandits and forced to go along with them, against his will?”

  “Yes, excellency. He is only a traveler from a far country.”

  ***

  I couldn’t tell what Pilate was thinking, but there were obvious holes in our story.

  “I will be frank,” he finally said. “A respected member of their high council admitted this young man to their sacred Temple, so if he is not a Jew, some important details are being omitted from your account. He was caught with the brigands and by all rights should share in their punishment.”

  Once again, I’ll give Lavon credit. He kept a straight face and didn’t say a word.

  Pilate continued, “On the other hand, he does not know their language, and your fellow traveler has rendered us valuable assistance.”

  “Yes, excellency,” replied Lavon.

  “Since I have no time to investigate the matter further, I will grant him an opportunity to redeem himself, with a simple demonstration of where his true loyalties lie.”

  Before Lavon could reply, Pilate barked an order that my earpiece didn’t quite catch. The dungeon guard scurried away while the Roman officers exchanged glances of approval.

  Lavon, though, had turned pale.

  “What did he say?” asked Markowitz.

  “He’s going to let you go,” said Lavon.

  “Thank God.” He reached up as if to unshackle the iron collar around his neck.

  “There is, um, a catch.” Lavon explained what he was going to have to do.

  Markowitz shook his head. “That’s cold blooded murder! I won’t do it!”

  Though he didn’t understand the words, Pilate could see Markowitz’s obvious reluctance. He didn’t like it.

  “Is this prisoner going to turn down my generous offer?” he asked.

  “With all due respect, excellency,” said Lavon, “his error was not intentional. He is merely an impulsive young man who got caught up in a situation beyond his control.”

  Pilate frowned. “An impulsive young man, you say?”

  The governor pointed to the flogging post at the other end of the courtyard.

  “Very well; in that case, I will have him scourged. That should bring him to his senses, and teach him to surround himself with a better crowd.”

  Lavon fought to suppress an upwelling of panic.

  “No, excellency,” he replied, “this man will not refuse your generosity. His hesitation stems only from the fact that he has never killed before. He is no warrior.”

  “All northmen are warriors,” said Pilate.

  “And all have long hair, rotten teeth, and paint their faces blue,” said Lavon. “I tell you the truth. This man works as a scribe in his father’s house, to learn the merchant trade so he can carry on when the old man is no longer able to pursue it.”

  “A scribe?”

  “Yes, excellency.”

  “Has he never hunted?”

  “Of course,” Lavon lied. “But in the forest, the quarry has a sporting chance.”

  That gave one of the Romans an idea. He stepped forward and whispered into Pilate’s ear.

  The governor smiled. “An excellent suggestion; the men could use some entertainment. See to it at once.”

  As the officer marched away, Pilate informed Lavon of his decision. The archaeologist started to remonstrate, but I tugged his arm. We had pressed our limited luck just about as far as it would reach.

  “Ask him if he’ll give us time for preparation,”
I said. “Tell him that regardless of what happens, it will make for a more interesting show.”

  This struck Pilate as reasonable. “You have one hour,” he said.

  “What are they saying?” asked Markowitz. “Are they going to let me go?”

  Before Lavon could reply, a soldier walked up with two wooden training swords and a couple of small shields. He handed them to me.

  “What are those for?” asked Markowitz.

  I smiled as best I could as the guard unchained him; then I led him to the other side of the courtyard.

  “Let’s go over here. There are some things you need to learn in a hurry.”

  Chapter 43

  After about a third of our allotted hour had elapsed, I instructed Markowitz to sit down and catch his breath while I went to fetch water for us both. As I did, Lavon walked up to me and spoke quietly.

  “How’s the lesson going?” he asked.

  I just shook my head. Though I had more subject matter expertise than my pupil, I was still a bumbling amateur compared to anyone who had grown up using these weapons.

  The archaeologist must have sensed my doubts. “Does he stand a chance?” he asked.

  “It depends on who they bring up,” I replied, “though his real problem is that he hasn’t mentally accepted what he’s going to have to do. Do you know if he managed to kill that lamb in the Temple yesterday, or did the priest have to do it?”

  “I don’t know. I never saw him again until we got back here.”

  I just stared ahead for a moment, trying to get my head around the insanity of it all. I had always thought that these types of fights were organized ahead of time, though once again, my impressions were wrong. Lavon explained that impromptu exhibitions of this nature were commonplace throughout the ancient world.

  “There’s even an example in the Old Testament,” he said. “Two of King David’s commanders got together, and I suppose they were bored. One of them said to the other, ‘let’s have some of my young men fight your young men.’ So they paired up a couple of dozen and went at it.”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “Each man stabbed his opponent. They all died.”

  I sighed; then I glanced up at the sun and forgot all about the water. I strode back to Markowitz and slapped him hard across the shoulder with my wooden sword.

  “Get up,” I said. “Hit me.”

  He shuffled to his feet and made a halfhearted attempt. I swatted him again, this time hard enough to really sting.

  “I said, hit me!”

  Though better, his next effort still fell well short of the mark.

  I popped him again, and again.

  He fell back at first, but finally he let out a loud yell and took a wild swing. Although I deflected the blow with ease, this was progress. For the first time, he attacked as though he meant it.

  We sparred for a little while and then I tried to show him how to make the killing stroke. He struggled; the motion was not what he had expected.

  “You have to forget every sword fight you’ve ever seen in the movies,” said Lavon. “You’re holding a Roman gladius, not a medieval broadsword. You’re trying to stab your enemy, not lop off his head.”

  Lavon spotted an idle Roman soldier and called him over. They spoke briefly; then the man demonstrated the procedure far more competently than I could have. The legionnaire grinned as Markowitz repeated the drill several times, then patted him on the back and ambled off to rejoin his unit.

  “Remember,” I said, “go for the gut. If you stab him in the ribs, your sword could get stuck. While you struggle to pull it out, your opponent will be able to kill you before he dies.”

  He nodded, though this seemed to be more of a reflex action than a sign of genuine understanding.

  “Have you ever killed anyone?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “How did you deal with it?”

  Inwardly, I groaned. We could discuss philosophy afterward, if he lived.

  “I dealt with it by thanking God that my enemy was laying there on the ground instead of me,” I snapped.

  This was accurate enough, though for much of my career, their destruction had taken on an antiseptic quality. On my last posting, I had reviewed the videos of missile strikes from the air conditioned comfort of a headquarters conference room, with a cup of coffee in my hand.

  “Don’t tell me you enjoyed it!”

  “In war, enjoyment is not a factor. It’s kill or be killed. Take your pick.”

  “I don’t want that on my conscience,” he said.

  “Your conscience should be the least of your worries. At least one of you will not walk away from this place. Besides, if you win, the worst thing you’ll be guilty of is the desecration of a corpse.”

  He looked at me in confusion.

  Lavon came to the rescue. “Ray, Bill’s right. The prisoners here are all dead men. Within a week, not one of them will be alive, regardless of whether you fight or not; whether you win or lose; live or die.”

  Markowitz stared at him as if he were trying to convince himself of the truth.

  “Do you remember that terrible sight coming into the city?” I asked. “Of course you do. You’ll never forget that as long as you live. That, you must remind yourself, will be your opponent’s fate should you fail in your duties here.”

  “What you do will be an act of mercy,” said Lavon.

  Finally, his mind started to point in the right direction; and not a moment too soon, either. At the other end of the courtyard, about thirty Romans had begun to form a ring with their shields.

  “This gives the Octagon a whole new meaning,” I quipped.

  Lavon laughed. Markowitz did not.

  The archaeologist headed across the fort; I suppose to stall the inevitable as long as he could. Meanwhile, I worked Markowitz through a few blocking moves with the shield and found his progress to be satisfactory enough.

  Well, not really satisfactory, but he had advanced as far as he could reasonably go without tiring himself out before the fight.

  Just then, Lavon came back and beckoned us to follow.

  “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.

  So
ldiers 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.