David Epperson - The Third Day

“We wouldn’t have to do that,” he finally said. “We’d figure something out. We always have.”

The two of them continued to wrangle back and forth, but I noticed Lavon had gone quiet. Given our current circumstances, he didn’t want to acknowledge that Markowitz’s last point was essentially true.

After crushing the revolt, Hadrian set out to eliminate the last vestiges of what he considered a stubborn and rebellious people. He banned surviving Jews from entering Jerusalem and renamed the area ‘Palestine’ after their traditional enemies.

The Diaspora had really begun only after Bar Kochba.

“I’ll buy a gun,” said Markowitz. “I’ll learn how to shoot. I’ll come back, and the first thing I do, I’ll kill Pilate. He’ll never know what hit him. None of them will.”

He turned back to watch the Temple ceremonies. “We’ll protect this place,” he said. “By God we will.”

Bryson started to reply when I held up my hand. I refilled Markowitz’s goblet again and handed it to him.

“I’ll show you how to handle firearms,” I said, “but in the meantime, drink up. For you to achieve what you’ve planned, we have to make it home first ourselves, and we’re not going anywhere else today.”

I watched with some relief as the combination of the alcohol and the waning of his adrenalin rush began to take effect. After a few more minutes, he yawned and rubbed his eyes. Lavon and I guided him toward the bed and covered him with a blanket.

***

While Markowitz dozed, the rest of us just stood at the window’s edge, lost in thought.

“You know he’s serious,” I finally said.

“He’s gone crazy,” said Bryson.

“I don’t think so,” I said. “All that stuff about tossing the Romans out of Judea — he meant every word of it.”

“He’s obviously suffering from the stress,” Bryson replied. “Anyone would be after spending a night in that hellhole, not to mention having to fight like he did.”

“That’s true enough,” I replied, “but that kind of pressure can drive a man to actions he otherwise never would have considered.”

Bryson grudgingly conceded the point.

“That’s why you must destroy that transport machine just as soon as we all get back safe,” said Lavon.

Bryson glared at him in shock, as if the archaeologist had asked him to butcher his first born child.

But Lavon had spoken my sentiments exactly.

“He’s right, Professor. You’ve admitted yourself that his father has legal rights to the fruits of your research. He’ll get in somehow, with or without your permission.”

“He has no idea how to operate it,” Bryson argued.

“Do you have documentation?” asked Lavon.

Bryson nodded.

“There you have it,” I said. “You’ve done the hard work of inventing the thing. The rest is simply a matter of following the protocols you’ve developed. Even if he can’t figure out how to work the device himself, he has the resources to hire someone who can.”

Bryson shook his head. “No. It won’t be a problem to keep him away. We have other safeguards.”

“I don’t think you understand what we’re dealing with here,” I said. “As for me, just buy some Wal-Mart and Cisco for my account and I’d go away a happy billionaire. But he’s not going to do that; not now.”

“Even if he returned, a single man acting alone wouldn’t be able to accomplish much,” Bryson argued.

Lavon started to point out the contradiction between that statement and the Brysons’ earlier position on changing history, but he decided to back off. The device, and what it could prove, was not something the Professor would give up easily.

Nevertheless, our problem remained.

“He’s probably aware of that already,” I replied. “If not, he certainly will be after he thinks this through. So let’s say he recruits some like-minded travelers — a unit of the Israeli army, perhaps — men with access to modern weapons and combat experience to boot. ‘Free Judea!’ he might say. What then?”

“We don’t know.”

“That’s the point,” said Lavon. “No one does. Fast forward two thousand years: would he return to our present world, or to a futuristic planet of Star Trek and the orgasmatron, or to a post-apocalyptic nuclear wasteland? Do you want to take that chance?”

***

Before Bryson could argue further, a piercing scream nearly shattered my eardrum.

I leapt to my feet, looking for a weapon, when I realized that the voice had emerged from my earpiece.

“Sharon!” I yelled. “Sharon, are you OK?”

I heard a loud pop, followed by shouting in Aramaic.

I swore. “Sharon!”

“What’s happening?” said Bryson.

I held my hand up for them to stay silent; then closed my eyes to focus on the background noise. For several minutes, I heard nothing but the shuffling of feet. Then, I could barely make out a frail, quavering voice.

“If you can hear me, they’re taking me back to the palace.”

And that was all.

I started toward the door as I explained what I had heard, but Lavon held me back, reminding me that the Antonia’s officials were unlikely to lift a finger to assist a woman who was not a Roman citizen.

He gestured to Markowitz. “Besides, I’m guessing we’ve played all of our high cards.”

I had to concede the point. Nevertheless, I insisted we find Publius, if for no other reason than to find out what Herod was likely to do with her.

***

Unfortunately, Publius had gone out on patrol and would not return for several hours. Decius was nowhere to be found, either, so we had no choice but to return to our room.

I took a seat and poured some wine, then thought better of it and asked Lavon to have the slave bring up some water. The kid also brought up some half-decent chow, so Lavon tossed him a denarius before directing him back outside.

“OK, worst case,” I said; “her transmitter no longer works and we get no help from anyone here. How do we spring her from that place?”

Bryson fingered his chip. “This should work by Sunday afternoon. Even if we can’t get her out, she’ll be able to return to the lab independently of us.”

“Totally unacceptable,” I said. “Plus, they may have already taken it away. I’m not leaving without her.”

Neither of the others spoke.

“We also have to assume that they’ll move Sharon to a more secure location than the dormitory,” I said. “What do we know about the palace complex? How is the interior laid out?”

“Quite frankly,” said Lavon, “we don’t know any more than what she described to you earlier. It was only a few years ago that an Israeli archaeologist uncovered the first definitive remains of the palace wall, and that was just part of the foundation.

“I keep trying to tell you: Jerusalem has been destroyed and rebuilt so many times that what’s over there now would only be a wild guess.”

“Josephus wrote about it, didn’t he, in The Jewish War ?” said Bryson.

“Yes, but not to the level of detail we need.”

“Right now, I’d say any detail is better than none,” I replied.

Lavon sighed. “Josephus’s book was an account of the revolt against the Romans, not a tourist brochure. He describes the lavishness of the palace mainly as a lament to its passing. His book had the usual blandishments about the extravagance of the place — rooms without number, luxurious furnishings, gold and silver and such.”

“But no real useful information,” I said.

“No.”

I was certain we could find a way in — a forgotten sewer line with a rusted grate, or a secret escape tunnel that any king with the reputation of the first Herod would have dug, just in case. But bumbling around without intelligence would do more harm than good. I had been there, and had the scars to show for it.