David Epperson - The Third Day

I heard a splat as another wounded man fell flat on his face only about ten yards from our position. It was then that we got our first glance at their enemies. Seconds later, a Roman soldier ran the injured man through with his sword.

Though Sharon and Markowitz had turned their faces away, I didn’t think either of them would forget the hideous gurgling as the Roman kicked his victim to free his weapon from the man’s ribs.

I was concerned that the soldier would spot us, but after dispatching his adversary, he charged forward, looking for others. Moments later, two more squads of Romans ran past. Like the first man’s, their weapons glowed red; and it wasn’t long before we heard additional screams coming from down the hill to our left.

After that, no one passed by for several minutes, so I began to relax. However, my relief was premature. I heard Lavon swear quietly and glanced up in horror as a lone man, about fifty yards away, ran straight toward the cave at full speed.

The runner had reached a point only about twenty feet from the opening when a brilliant light flashed directly in front of him. We heard the collision before our eyes could adjust. When they did, we saw both parties sprawled on the ground, momentarily stunned by the blow.

Unfortunately, the Romans saw it, too. One drew back his spear.

At the sight of the soldiers, the two staggered to their feet. The first man took off running in the opposite direction, and I could only watch as a legionnaire, as if by instinct, tossed his long pilum .

I couldn’t see exactly what happened, but the sound of a thud, followed by a sharp cry of pain, told me enough. That runner wouldn’t be going home tonight.

The other man staggered into the cave and collapsed, groaning and holding his bleeding nose. Though he had grown a short beard, Henry Bryson hadn’t otherwise changed in the last three years.

I dragged him back into the darkness and cautioned him to be silent.

He was, for a few moments at least. As he recovered his wits, though, his curiosity got the better of him. He knew he had seen me before; he just couldn’t figure out where.

“Who are you?” he finally asked.

“People trying not to get killed,” I replied. “Not that you’ve helped much.”

“How did you get here?”

“Your wife sent us.”

“My wife? Juliet? Why would she do that?”

My eyes, however, had turned to the Romans approaching the cave’s entrance.

“Be quiet,” I said. “Your new friends are coming to visit.”

Now I’ve been in some hellish scrapes during my fifty-plus years on this planet, but in spite of all that followed, I can’t think of a time when I felt as much absolute raw terror as I did that morning in the cave.

Lavon, too, had turned pale, as well he might. That the others hadn’t was only due to their blessed ignorance of the typical fate of Roman prisoners.

About twenty feet away, three soldiers stepped cautiously toward the entrance with their swords drawn and their shields held high. The rising sun shone straight into their eyes and I could tell they were hesitant to go charging into the darkness, not knowing what dangers might lurk inside.

That was the only thing keeping our merry little band alive, but it wouldn’t last long. We had to figure something out, and fast.

It’s strange, the thoughts that come to mind in times of mortal peril. I recalled a BBC interview I had seen many years before, featuring a survivor of the Piper Alpha oil rig disaster in the North Sea. The man had jumped over a hundred feet into freezing water. When asked why, he said the choice was simple: the rig was on fire; certain death lay behind; only probable death lay ahead; so he jumped.

I glanced back toward the interior of the cave. I couldn’t see how far it ran, but it surely came to an end. If the Romans came in after us, they would kill everyone and sort it out later. We had no real options.

I leaned over to Lavon and whispered, “Can you tell them we’re travelers, that we’re not their enemies?”

He had reached the same conclusion. He cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted in Greek.

The soldiers stopped, though they did not lower their swords. One, however, called out and moments later, a senior man appeared. The red transverse crest of a centurion topped his helmet.

“Come out,” the officer ordered.

As Lavon translated, I took stock of our odds. Both he and Markowitz were clean shaven, while the Romans’ enemies that morning all had beards — Jewish Zealots, I guessed. We had a plausible chance.

“Tell him not to kill us,” I said. “Tell him we’re not Jews.”

Markowitz spoke for the first time. “I’m Jewish.”

“That’s not something I would advertise right now,” I grunted.

Lavon spoke once more in halting Greek. Nothing happened for a second or two, but then the soldiers lowered their swords. Though the Romans continued to hold their shields high, this was at least a step in the right direction.

We had one last card to play. I tapped Sharon on the shoulder and instructed her to say, in loud English, “We’re a peaceful people. Don’t hurt us please.”

She protested. “They won’t understand a word.”

“Just do it,” I said. “Let them hear a woman’s voice.”

This had the intended effect. The soldiers finally lowered their shields, even though their wary expressions did not entirely disappear.

I turned to Lavon again. “We’re going to have to go out. Tell them we have no weapons.”

He did so; then he lifted Sharon to her feet and pulled back her shawl to expose her blonde hair. After a quick instruction not to resist in any way, I gently nudged her toward the cave’s mouth.

At the sight of her, the centurion visibly relaxed and ordered his men to take a few steps back.

That was progress, I thought. We might live to see the end of this day after all.

She walked slowly toward the Roman with her hands held shoulder-high. As she got close, the centurion pointed to a spot of flat ground off to his right and motioned for her to sit.

Sharon followed these instructions and sat upright, with her arms around her knees. A junior soldier hovered over her, but he made no overtly hostile move.

After watching for a few more seconds, Lavon glanced back and took a deep breath. “Well, here goes nothing.”

He stepped out of the cave with his hands in the air and received the same instruction. This time a Roman pushed him to the ground, though Lavon quickly collected himself and crawled to Bergfeld’s right, where he sat upright in a similar fashion, with his hands easily visible.

The rest of us followed, and after being frisked — none too gently, I might add — we found ourselves seated on the ground, facing the cave’s mouth.

A couple of the soldiers began to rummage through our bags, but found no weapons other than my small folding knife. One of them opened and closed the knife with great curiosity, but the centurion soon ordered him back to his duties.

A second soldier pulled a sack of coins from Markowitz’s bag. The centurion once again shook his head, so the legionnaire replaced the money and joined his comrades — reluctantly, I could tell, since I don’t think their morning’s exertions had brought them much in the way of loot.

I could see right away that our centurion was an old pro. A few minutes later, he called for a torch and sent two men into the cave, just to be sure. They emerged after a short time, shaking their heads, and at that point, the immediate tension abated. Whoever we were, he could see that we were not Zealots.

The soldiers had not yet completed their tasks, though. The officer glanced up the hill and signaled to a legionnaire standing next to their supply wagon. Then he turned and motioned for us to stand up and follow him.