David Epperson - The Third Day

The archaeologist shook his head. “It’s just as well, anyway. I’m not exactly sure how I would react.”

To be honest, I wasn’t sure how I would, either.

A few minutes later, Markowitz rolled over and belched. I heard him mutter an obscenity, though he made no move to stand up. I went over to check on him, but by then he had gone back to sleep.

“Nothing to worry about,” I said.

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

Lavon shrugged. “The two of us aren’t going anywhere tonight, so we can be sure to keep him on his side. As long as we don’t give him any more wine, he should sober up by morning.”

“No, I meant after we get back. Given what he’s been through, he’s going to need counseling.”

I didn’t think so. As it turned out, neither did Lavon.

“Whatever issues he has, he’s going to have to work them out himself, or with us,” he said.

“We have no professional qualifications in that field,” said Bryson.

“That doesn’t matter. How is he going to explain to some shrink that Pontius Pilate forced him to kill a man in an impromptu gladiatorial contest? If that doesn’t get him locked up in a padded room with a box of crayons, I don’t know what will.”

I couldn’t argue with that logic; though the way things were going, we’d all be lucky if a cell in the nut-house was the worst thing that happened to us.

Not long thereafter, a slave appeared at our door to lead me to the Antonia’s northern gate, where Publius and a small contingent of soldiers waited with horses. The Romans weren’t exactly patient, either. As soon as I climbed onto my mount, they took off at a rapid clip.

I hadn’t been on a horse since I stumbled off a worn-out old nag at summer camp in the eighth grade, so I don’t recall much about the journey other than struggling to hang on for dear life, to the great amusement of my companions.

Fortunately, the distance to Herod’s palace was not great, and we could travel by the light of the full moon. By some miracle, I managed to arrive in one piece.

I handed the reins to a groom and followed Publius into the palace, careful to maintain the requisite two paces behind the Roman officer. Herod greeted him profusely and beckoned the centurion to accompany him into the great hall.

As for me, I might as well have been furniture. I followed behind my “master” without saying a word.

I’ll say this for Herod: the man enjoyed grand style, and it took some effort not to gawk. Even I could see that the king had employed some extraordinarily skilled craftsmen.

In contrast to the bare meleke blocks of the Antonia, polished marble or elegant cedar paneling covered every palace wall.

Even the supporting columns were works of art. Sculptors had carved elaborate designs into each one, though in keeping with the traditional Jewish prohibition against the rendering of living creatures, they had confined their patterns to intricate geometrical arrangements.

To top it all off, gold candelabras and oil lamps illuminated the exquisite silk draperies, cushions and pillow cases.

The king himself stood at the center of attention, and his appearance matched roughly what I had expected. He was a couple of inches taller than his subjects — about five foot seven, I guessed. His black, somewhat curly hair was trimmed short, as was his beard, in the custom of the day. He wore a purple silk robe and a jeweled gold crown, topped off with enough bling to do an LA gang leader proud.

***

We stayed in the reception area only long enough for slaves to wash the Romans’ feet. When they had finished, Herod gestured for Publius to lead the way into the great hall. There, servants directed our party to the head table, which turned out not to be a table at all.

Rather than sit in chairs, Herod’s guests reclined around what Lavon called a triclinium , a low three sided platform surrounded on the outside by piles of cushions. Aside from its obvious comfort, the arrangement conveyed one further advantage I was to see later, once the dancing girls had made their appearance.

Surprisingly, the head of the table was not the center position. From my vantage point, the king’s triclinium resembled an upside down U. Herod plunked himself down on a cushion near the middle of the left-hand wing, while a servant directed Publius to the guest of honor’s spot at the monarch’s right.

Once Herod had been seated, his favored guests joined him, while the B and C list made do with the twenty or so similar “tables” scattered throughout the banquet hall.

Publius pointed to a station along the wall, about twenty feet away, and gestured that I should remain there. Then, he turned his attention back to the king.

A few minutes later, scantily clad servants brought in wine and the first course, and not long after that, the festivities moved into high gear.

It was strange, as I thought about it: despite the two-thousand year interval, Herod’s banquet struck me as little more than an over-the-top version of a Las Vegas strip club.

A poorly compensated work force dispensed copious amounts of alcohol to the same drunken, obnoxious patrons, who spent their evening ogling naked women gyrating to tunes of bad musicians. In truth, the only things lacking were televisions tuned to sports channels along every wall.

Once I could see that no one paid me any mind, I turned my attention away from the festivities and forced myself to concentrate on my real objective.

Unfortunately, I saw no obvious answers.

The hall itself was an open space about a hundred feet long and half as wide. Massive cedar beams spanned the ceiling, supported by the occasional stone pillar. Aside from the main entrance, though, I saw only two other exits: a set of double doors at the end opposite from my position and a narrow opening not far from the king’s table.

I was certain that the latter passage led either to Herod’s bedchamber or to a place of refuge outside, but I had no way to know for sure. The two surly guards stationed on either side didn’t look like they’d allow me to take a quick peek.

Meanwhile, the banquet picked up steam: more dancing girls, more wine; and I’ll just say that whatever inhibitions the diners might have had coming in disappeared in short order.

***

After an hour or so, a man pushed through and made his way to the head table. He whispered into Herod’s ear, and the king visibly brightened.

“Publius, you are a fortunate man,” he said. “They are bringing me my Amazon.”

Herod waved his hand and the raucous crowd grew quiet.

Two eunuchs escorted Sharon into the banquet hall from the doors at the far end, leading her with thin golden chains they had fastened to a gold collar clasped around her neck. That, and the first-century equivalent of a G-string, was the full extent of her attire.

I could see that her captors earlier in the day had not been gentle. Though she had been bathed and perfumed and whatever else the palace attendants could manage on short notice, no makeup could conceal the purple welt on her cheek, nor hide the fact that her left eye had swollen almost completely shut.

Herod must have already known of her injuries, for he made no comment about them. Instead, he seemed transfixed by her presence.

That wasn’t hard to understand. Her lithe, athletic figure could still stop traffic, and I’ll give credit where it’s due: she stood tall, and walked forward with a dignity that I could never have mustered under similar circumstances.

Their procession continued until the eunuchs had brought her within an arm’s reach of the king. Then, they unwound about six more feet of chain and took two steps back.