The Third Day (13 page)

“I think the modern freeway passes just over there,” she said.  “We’re getting close.” 

Lavon concurred.  As for me, I could only shake my head at the incongruity of it all. 

Sharon’s assessment of the geography turned out to be correct, and once we started up again, it wasn’t long before the city itself hove into view for the first time. 

We all stopped in our tracks at the sight.  Although it’s a bit embarrassing to recount, I’ll have to admit that I stood and gaped along with the rest of them, like backwoods hillbillies seeing tall buildings for the first time. 

I had not expected to be impressed.  I had done the tourist circuits across the globe and had become jaded to old ruins.  After a while, one pile of ancient bricks was the same as another. 

But
this
Jerusalem was not a museum piece. 

The city itself stretched for about a mile from end to end.  An outer wall, varying between forty and sixty feet high, ringed the perimeter, which was interspersed with taller battlements spaced about a hundred feet apart. 

Situated, as it was, at the top of a hill, the picture was even more imposing.  One didn’t have to be an old soldier like myself to shudder at the hazards of attacking this place. 

Lavon explained that the fortifications were constructed mostly of tan crystalline limestone, known in modern times as
meleke
.  These glowed in the
mid-afternoon sun, only adding to the splendor. 

“Match what you expected?” I said to Lavon. 

“Honestly, I don’t know yet,” he replied. 

As it turns out, much of what modern researchers know of Roman-era Jerusalem derives from a single source, the writings of the slippery Josephus, whose actions in the Great Revolt suggest that scholars employ at least a modicum of caution when interpreting his works. 

Lavon directed my attention to three tall towers at the city’s mid-section which rose to a height of about twice that of the nearby walls.  “How tall would you say those are?” he asked. 

My eyes went back and forth from the towers to the people passing by on the road running just underneath the walls.  Given the distance, I found it a bit hard to judge. 

“Eighty or ninety feet,” I guessed. 

“According to what I’ve read, the tallest one was 130 feet.” 

I shrugged.  “Maybe they added on to it later?” 

“Perhaps,” said Lavon, though he remarked upon one other bit of modern conjecture that was clearly incorrect.  A popular scale model of the ancient city in the Israel Museum depicted the center tower, the Phasael Tower, as square while the other two were rounded at the top, with a columnar base. 

But we could see that only the southernmost tower bore that design, and the tower to the northeast, the Hippicus Tower, had no exterior columns at all. 

I didn’t say anything else.  I had a feeling that a lot of what we thought we knew would turn out to be wrong – a sensation which proved to be accurate, and concerned matters of far greater importance than the height of a tower. 

***

Despite our fascination, we couldn’t linger.  The Roman column had gone on about two hundred yards ahead when we heard a sharp command from Decius urging us to keep up. 

It didn’t take long to see why. 

As we got closer to the city, a growing tide of humanity began to travel in our wake.  Though the pilgrims prudently gave our column wide berth, the more I studied their faces, the more their increasing numbers began to make me uneasy. 

One glance at Decius told me that I was not alone in my apprehension. 

To say that the locals were not overjoyed with our presence would be an understatement.  Some, mostly young women, clasped their shawls tight and kept their heads down in an effort to avoid eye contact.  The majority, though, stood to the side of the road and stared straight ahead as we passed, their expressions sullen and resentful. 

“I don’t exactly feel the love,” I said to Lavon. 

He shook his head. 

“Those people hate us,” said Bergfeld.  Her face could not conceal the fact that she found this deeply unsettling. 

Making matters worse, a handful of young men glared at our procession with such undisguised odium that even the most hardened Romans grew nervous.  I watched several of the legionnaires grip their weapons tighter, and the casual banter so common among soldiers on the march had ceased. 

“Foreign occupation by godless degenerates,” Lavon explained.  “And the Romans return the favor.  They view the people in Jerusalem as uncultivated savages, longing for the imagined glory days of David and Solomon a thousand years earlier.” 

As always, the real story was a bit more complicated, but that was the heart of the matter.  At least, thank God, they didn’t have IEDs. 

“I wouldn’t want to meet any of those fellows in the dark of night,” I said. 

Lavon glanced back and forth at them as well, but was careful not to let his gaze linger.  Neither of us was sure what it would take to set them off, and a person didn’t have to know much about counterinsurgency tactics to realize that the second these people thought they could get away with it, we’d have one hell of a fight on our hands. 

Few of the pilgrims wanted to force a conflict, I was sure, but the atmosphere was so tense that it might just take one hothead –

I looked over to the supply wagon, glanced at Sharon, and then turned my attention to the spare swords and spears at the bottom.  Fortunately, my true thoughts managed to escape notice, though Lavon did perceive my interest in the weapons. 

“You ever use one of those things?” he asked. 

I laughed.  At one point in my career, I had spent six months in England, assigned to a squad whose commander led an enthusiastic Roman-era reenactment crew – fighting Caesar’s landing every other weekend. 

“Only enough to be a danger to myself and innocent bystanders,” I replied.  “What about you?” 

He shook his head.  “It wasn’t part of the curriculum at Parris Island.” 

This surprised me; I never took him for a Marine. 

“Lance Corporal Robert Lavon – retired,” he said.  “In return for a few years with Uncle Sam’s Misguided Children, the GI Bill paid for most of my college education.” 

“See any action?” 

He chuckled.  “The closest I got was as an embassy guard in Beijing.  I had orders to check everyone and everything going into the building; and you know how these politicians on fact-finding junkets can be when they forget their ID.” 

I laughed, imagining Senator Blowhard turning red in the face with the
do-you-know-who-I-am
routine.  Half of his own constituents probably wouldn’t recognize him.  Why should some Jarhead on the other side of the world?

“And you?” he asked. 

“Oh, a little bit; here and there,” I replied. 

Before he could inquire further, we crested another low hill and for the first time, we could see over the outer wall and into the grand panorama of the Temple complex.  Once again, we gave our best impressions of gawking hicks from the back of beyond, and once again, Decius had to call out for us to catch up. 

We had arrived at just the right time of day.  The tan
meleke
glowed almost white in the early afternoon sun, a spectacle enhanced by the rays sparkling from the gold trim along the top. 

“Wow,” said Bergfeld.  “It’s magnificent.”  

The others responded in the same way. 

Markowitz, though, said nothing.  He just stood there, mumbling something I didn’t understand, over and over. 

Decius called out again, and I had to gently prod Ray forward, and even then, his eyes never strayed from the building.  Roman engineers had paved this part of the road, too, so I had the additional task of keeping him from tripping over the curb. 

“Just think,” said Bryson, “you’re the first Jew to see this in two thousand years.” 

Markowitz didn’t reply.  He just continued to stare at the Temple and kept on with his mumbling.  Finally, he took a couple of steps over to Lavon and tapped him on the shoulder. 

“Robert, where is the Western Wall?  Can you show me what part of the Temple survived?” 

The Jerusalem of Christ’s time consisted of two elevated areas separated by valley running along a north-south line through the center of town.  Herod’s palace, including the three tall towers, dominated the western portion, which was known as the Upper City and served as the home of Jerusalem’s wealthy elite. 

A long stone bridge, barely visible from where we walked, spanned the valley from the Upper City to the Temple Mount.  Lavon pointed to it. 

“In modern times, we call what’s left of that bridge Wilson’s Arch,” he said.  “Now, look off to its right, to the southwestern corner of the Temple compound.” 

Markowitz turned his eyes towards the top of the section Lavon had pointed out.  “I can see it,” he said. 

Lavon shook his head.  “No, the upper part was torn down.  The only thing that survived was the retaining wall underneath.  That’s the Wailing Wall.  The Romans destroyed everything else.” 

Markowitz didn’t reply.  He stared at the soldiers for a few minutes as he considered this, occasionally glancing back to the Temple. 

“These Romans.” he finally said. 

“
These
Romans are keeping us alive,” I reminded him. 

“That’s right,” said Lavon.  “Besides, by the time the revolt started, most of these guys were already dead, and those who weren’t were hobbling around with canes and looking for their teeth – or whatever old people did back then.” 

We all laughed, and Markowitz smiled.  I could see it was forced, but he didn’t want to raise a stink.  None of us did, really. 

That included the Romans. 

I looked ahead and saw Publius whisper quietly to the standard bearer at his side.  The soldier, sporting a wolf’s head over his helmet, walked back double-time to the wagon with the
signum
– the unit’s standard that displayed its numerous commendations for distinguished service.  He took the standard off its pole and carefully, almost reverently, wrapped it in a thick red velvet blanket. 

Afterward, the
signifer
removed his wolf skin and wrapped it with equal care in another red blanket.  Then he squeezed himself into the wagon and squatted next to his parcels.  One of his wounded colleagues moved over to give him room. 

“What’s he doing?” asked Markowitz. 

“Something smart,” said Lavon.  “Publius knows it’s provocative, so he sent his standard bearer back to cover it up.  As you know, the Second of the Ten Commandments forbids “graven images,” which the more traditional-minded segments of the population interpreted as
any
representation of a man or an animal.” 

The two sides’ mutual incomprehension on this subject proved to be a fertile source of conflict from the beginning of the Roman occupation until the crushing of the final revolt.  The possibility of miscalculation was enormous, even in the best of times. 

Just to be sure of his interpretation, Lavon questioned Decius, and the Roman confirmed what he had suspected. 

He didn’t seem to like it very much. 

Chapter 21

When we reached a point about a quarter mile from the gate, a soldier on the tallest battlement blew a trumpet, and our trumpeter blew his acknowledgment in return. 

Lavon, though, paid this activity little attention.  His eyes remained riveted on the gate itself – a straightforward, practical structure conveying a sense of solidity and strength. 

Massive stone blocks overlaid an arch resembling an upside down U.  Two battlements, twice the height of the surrounding wall, flanked the gate itself.  Both were well equipped with slits for archers and gaps through which defenders could rain heavy stones or boiling oil down upon their attackers from any direction. 

“You seem surprised,” I said. 

“It’s not quite what I expected,” he replied.  “The Damascus gate still exists – in our world.  I took a tour group through it only a month ago.” 

“It looks like this?” 

“Not at all.  It’s smaller, and the stonework is much more elaborate.” 

He paused for a moment and looked around. 

“Of course, this one does serve a real defensive purpose.  The Ottomans built the modern gate in 1542, long after gunpowder weapons had rendered stone fortifications obsolete.  They could afford to be decorative.” 

That made sense. 

“You have one problem, though,” I said.  “When we get back, how are you going to convince anyone that your version is correct as opposed to all of those artist’s conceptions floating around?” 

It was a question he couldn’t answer, and we both knew it. 

“I haven’t quite worked that out yet.” 

We never made any more progress resolving that issue, for at that moment, Sharon let out a horrified gasp. 

Each of us turned in her direction, where we were confronted by the most gruesome spectacle I have ever had the misfortune to witness.