David Epperson - The Third Day

“What’s happening?” asked Markowitz.

“You’re going to solitary until the prefect can hear your case,” said Lavon.

He then spoke a few words in Greek to Decius. The officer signaled to another soldier, who returned a few minutes later with a chunk of bread and a jug of water. We then left the squalid pen and walked about thirty feet to a tiny crawl space.

The sentry opened the grate and motioned for Markowitz to go inside. The cell wasn’t much bigger than the entrance — about five feet long, three feet wide, and four high, with a cold stone floor. Worse, no light reached the interior.

I shuddered as I considered that the ancients locked people in such spaces for months, if not years. Most — the lucky ones, really — would go mad in short order.

Lavon spoke to the guard, who handed me a torch and explained that I would be allowed a brief time to tend his prisoner’s wounds.

Fortunately, Markowitz still had all of his teeth and he didn’t appear to have any broken bones. I cleaned his face as best I could, given the circumstances, and then turned to leave. As I did so, Markowitz reached out to grab my arm.

“Your friends will let me go, surely.”

“If Decius thought you were a Zealot, you’d still be with the others,” I replied.

Markowitz sighed with relief, but his voice still registered concern. “Robert, he’ll convince the commander, won’t he?”

I pulled away. At the time, I felt like it would serve the kid right to squirm a bit.

“I’m sure he will,” I said, “but just so you know, the governor arrived not long ago. You’ll be at the tender mercies of Pontius Pilate.”

Markowitz didn’t respond, and just before the guard closed the door, Lavon reached inside and asked Ray to hand over his robe.

To my surprise, he did so without protest, or even asking why.

Once we returned to the courtyard, Lavon wadded the robe into a ball and threw it into the nearest charcoal brazier.

“Why did you do that?” asked Bryson. “He’ll get cold.”

“Better cold than dead.”

“What?”

“He must have switched robes inside the Temple,” said Lavon. “Jewish men wore tassels on the four corners of their garments. That’s what I tossed into the fire.”

“But Ray is Jewish.”

“We’re going to have enough trouble as it is. Let’s not remind the Romans of that if we can help it.”

We trudged back up the twelve flights of stairs to our room. As we rounded the last corner, a dark-haired young man of about eighteen spotted us and leapt to his feet. He opened the door and motioned for us to enter.

Evidently, the rest of us were still in the good graces of our hosts, for the servant had already lit an oil lamp and supplied us with two loaves of fresh bread and a jug of wine.

Lavon spoke briefly and the kid hustled back downstairs.

“I sent him for dinner. We’re going to need more than this.”

Both he and Bryson hadn’t eaten since the baths earlier in the morning, so they tore into the bread. I, for one, needed more liquid refreshment. I filled my goblet halfway, quickly chugged that, and then poured full cups for us all.

I leaned back in my chair and sighed. “A hell of a day,” I said.

The other two did not argue. We just sat there, in silence, for some time.

“What are we going to do?” Bryson finally asked.

Lavon got up and walked over to a window. He stared at the Temple, watching the priests complete their evening rituals, while he attempted to work out a plan.

“Our best bet will be to lay low for a few days,” he concluded.

That sounded reasonable to me, as long as the Romans let us. I certainly didn’t have any better ideas.

“We can’t just leave Ray in that cell,” said Bryson.

“He’ll live,” said Lavon.

“You can’t be serious! He doesn’t have water. For crying out loud, he doesn’t even have a bucket.”

“I didn’t say he’d be comfortable. I said he’d live . If we’re lucky, they’ll forget about him. We can ask Volusus to let him go after Pilate has gone back to Caesarea.”

“How can you be sure that will happen?” Bryson asked.

“The Roman governors all hated this place,” Lavon replied. “Caesarea, by contrast, had been built along Roman lines from the beginning, with all the comforts of home. They came to Jerusalem only when they had to, for festivals and such.”

“Or when they expected trouble,” I said.

Lavon nodded. “That’s our second problem, although now it’s all starting to make sense.”

“What is?” asked Bryson.

“Why Pilate is here, in the Antonia,” he answered. “Some of my colleagues believe that Jesus was condemned in Herod’s palace instead of the fort, since Pilate, as a visiting Roman prefect, would naturally stay in the city’s equivalent of the Presidential Suite. Somebody even filmed a TV show about it a few years ago, supposedly ‘proving’ why the Via Dolorosa is in the wrong spot.”

“Makes sense,” I said. “Except that he’s obviously staying here.”

“Yes. I overheard a couple of soldiers speculating about this, since it’s so unusual. According to the rumors, some of the emperor’s advisors have questioned whether they appointed the right man to govern Judea. Pilate is taking no chances. He wants to be in a position to stomp on any trouble the instant it develops.”

“All the more reason to keep Ray under wraps,” I said.

“That’s what I’m trying to say. Let’s hope they forget about him. Pilate could just as easily decide to kill all of the prisoners and be done with it.”

“We might have to stay here beyond Sunday, then?”

Lavon nodded. “Do you recall if Ray still had a chip? I forgot to look.”

In all the commotion, I had too.

***

I didn’t want Sharon to think we had forgotten about her, so I reinserted my ear bud and called out.

She whispered quietly. “I’ve been trying to reach you,” she chided.

Lavon also inserted his earpiece. “Hello, Sharon,” he said. “Where are you?”

“A dressing room, by the looks of it.”

That, as it turned out, was a bit of a misnomer, since the women typically departed with considerably less apparel than they had on going in, but we found her description fascinating nonetheless.

The room was about half the size of the dormitory. Along one side, a stone bench jutted out about three feet from the main wall, with a conduit of running water flowing down the middle from one end to the other. From what I could tell, the only things missing were the faucets.

A wheel like the one in the sleeping quarters controlled similar heating vents. Oil lamps provided illumination, and in a far corner, musicians played soothing tunes.

“They brought me here a few minutes ago. There’s not room for everyone to dress at the same time, so the others are getting ready in shifts.”

“Have you seen where they are going?”

“The banquet hall.”

She paused.

“Hold on. Rebekah’s coming for me.”

Rebekah served as the madam — a former courtesan who ran her part of the operation with Roman-like efficiency and who was entirely devoid of sentiment regarding her charges’ assigned tasks.

Rebekah led Sharon toward the banquet hall, following five girls whose clothing consisted of the merest snippets of fabric. Not that any of it stayed on very long.

Sharon described the scene with more than a hint of disgust.

As soon as they arrived, the five began to slink provocatively toward the head table and within a couple of minutes, all were completely naked. One, in fact, had almost immediately begun to have sex with the king’s favored guest.