David Epperson - The Third Day

A moment later, however, Sharon’s voice came through loud and clear.

“You wouldn’t believe this place,” she said.

She sounded as if she had entered a different world — which in fact, she had.

She explained that her litter had entered the palace about half an hour earlier and she had been unloaded, so to speak, in a verdant, sun-lit courtyard roughly the size of three football fields.

Deep channels crisscrossed lush, grassy lawns, carrying water to a remarkable assortment of shade trees and a stunning variety of flowering plants. An “oasis of serenity” she called it. Topping things off, hundreds of white doves flew back and forth between the trees.

I couldn’t help but laugh. “You sound like you’re writing ad copy for Donald Trump.”

“His resorts are a pigsty compared to this,” she said.

She didn’t add that Herod probably hadn’t filed for bankruptcy as many times, either.

“Who else is there with you now?” I asked.

In the background, I could hear what sounded like a dozen women frolicking in the water — teenage girls, by the pitch of their voices.

“Azariah sent me to join the others by the pool area,” she said.

“What about guards?”

She spotted a few pacing back and forth atop the fifty foot crenellated wall that ringed the palace complex to keep the riff-raff in their place, but otherwise, she couldn’t see any.

As I thought about it, this made sense. Based on her description so far, the palace didn’t sound like a place many people tried to escape.

Besides, an army of servants tended the grounds, and punishment of slaves in the Roman world was both brutal and collective. Everyone had an incentive to watch everyone else. If she tried to slip away, she wouldn’t get far.

I heard her sigh — a pleasurable sigh, from the sound of it. Part of me wanted to let her rest and enjoy the afternoon in the sun, but she could not afford to let her guard down. Herod’s palace might top even the most modern luxury resorts, but so did the price of admission.

Not that she had forgotten.

I explained to her what Lavon had told me about the bath treatments and that gave her an idea.

“Just be careful,” I said. “I’ll keep checking in when I can.”

I tried once more to contact Lavon but had no better luck than before. I couldn’t help but worry. Though I couldn’t see what was happening, the cascade of wounded Romans streaming back into the fort told me that all was not sweetness and bliss outside.

Compounding my anxiety, I found myself going through my first aid supplies at an alarming rate. Once I ran out, my only real trump card would be gone.

I gestured to a nearby officer in an attempt to back away.

He ignored me, for at that moment, a squad of about a dozen Romans passed through the north gate, dragging five men linked together with heavy chains around their ankles, wrists and necks. For good measure, two more soldiers followed behind, prodding the captives forward with the occasional lash.

Everyone in the courtyard, even the medics, dropped what they were doing and edged over to have their first real look at their adversaries.

Two of these bruised and battered unfortunates were relatively young men, including one who looked as if he’d barely qualify to drive back home.

Whatever great adventure they had embarked on earlier in the day had gone horribly awry, and from their terrified expressions, they were only now beginning to realize how horribly indeed.

Two others appeared to be in their mid-twenties, but as if by instinct, I glanced past them to the captive at the head of the queue. This man, older by a decade and evidently their leader, displayed what I can only describe as sheer animal hatred.

No ‘hearts and minds’ for that one, I knew.

I looked to my left and spotted a servant leading an older man toward the now kneeling file of prisoners. The squad’s leader saluted Volusus and briefly explained what had happened, while I re-seated my ear bud as discreetly as I could manage.

Volusus spoke to the prisoners through an interpreter. Whether he didn’t understand Aramaic or simply wanted to use the delay in translation to formulate his next question, I couldn’t tell.

The Roman commander stepped closer to the leader and asked his name, but the prisoner didn’t even acknowledge the question. Instead, he continued to stare straight ahead, his eyes aflame with raw intensity.

Volusus repeated his question; slowly, and in an even tone.

“I will ask you again: what is your name?”

Once more, the man did not respond.

Volusus stared at the captive for a few seconds and then nodded to the closest officer. The optio drew a dagger from his scabbard; then two soldiers pressed the prisoner to the ground while the officer sliced a finger off the man’s right hand.

He didn’t utter a peep. Despite the trauma, his eyes continued to blaze defiance.

The soldiers lifted the prisoner to his knees, and Volusus repeated his inquiry a third time. Hearing no answer, he nodded again to the optio , but before the Roman could act, another prisoner cried out.

It was the youngster, who had turned a ghostly pale; and that wasn’t the only sign of the kid’s terror. His knees rested in a widening pool of his own urine.

“Hold to the strength of your father, Abbas!” he babbled.

“Your name is Abbas, then?” said Volusus.

This had a deflating effect on the man. He cast an irritated glance at the boy and then turned to the Roman commander.

“No, I am only his undeserving son.”

“I see.”

“You see nothing. You are blind to the truth, as are those vermin of our race who condemn themselves to eternal punishment by collaborating with your iniquity. They defy the ways of God.”

The prisoner then cut loose with a stream of invective. I caught only bits and pieces as the interpreter struggled to keep up, though the parts that did come through — something about pig-eating sons of whores and their rightful place of damnation — made the gist of this fellow’s speech quite plain.

The people of the modern Middle East had elevated swearing to an art form. It didn’t sound like things had changed very much.

Volusus said nothing. He had heard it all before, I was sure, and perhaps experience had taught him that it was best to ignore their florid insults. Nevertheless, I could see that he was losing patience, and allowing such brazen defiance to go unpunished could give the others courage that they didn’t otherwise possess.

He nodded to the optio again and the Romans repeated the drill, this time slicing the index finger off the same hand. They weren’t quick about it, either.

The leader’s grimace grew more evident, though once again, he stifled a cry. How he managed to do it, I couldn’t imagine.

Volusus watched in silence. This wasn’t getting anywhere.

“Take them below,” he finally ordered.

I didn’t want to think about what awaited them in the dungeons. I moved off to one side as soldiers dragged the unfortunate creatures away and two slaves rushed over with buckets of water to mop the congealed blood off the stone floor.

A few of the words, though, turned over and over in my mind as I watched: a son who seemed to worry only that he had not killed enough Romans to do his family proud. One Son of Abbas.

“I’ll be damned,” I muttered to myself. Son of Abbas. bar Abbas. Barabbas ; arrested for — how had the Gospels put it — insurrection and murder.

My thoughts turned to the awful scene at the gate coming in. This Barabbas, if he was truly the one, was unaware of how lucky he would prove to be, and how quickly his fortunes would turn.