How she would react once she realized she’d have to fend for herself, I had no way to know.
***
I returned to my duties and had worked for another hour when the gate opened and forty horsemen charged inside.
After the soldiers came to a halt, grooms rushed forward to claim their mounts and lead them to the stables. Like everyone else involved with the Romans, the stable-hands went about their tasks with a brisk efficiency.
One man stood at the center of attention. After he dismounted, he remained still while attendants removed his armor. It was only when Volusus emerged from a side entrance and saluted that I realized the likely identity of the new arrival.
I nudged a nearby soldier, pointed to the man, and shrugged.
He understood. “The prefect,” he replied. “Pilatus.”
Though I was too far away to hear what they were saying, from their demeanors, it appeared that the prefect and the fort’s commander were on reasonably good terms.
Pilate asked a few questions, but mostly he just listened to the officers’ accounts. His face reflected very little emotion, one way or the other.
I tried hard not to stare. My own mental image, derived from both the Gospels and Hollywood, depicted Pilate as a weak, vacillating figure torn between his own conscience and the demands of the howling mob. As with many of my other impressions, I began to suspect that this one, too, was wrong.
After hearing the reports, Pilate walked over to speak to a group of wounded soldiers. He told a few jokes, from the look of it, and then directed his attention to a final group of ragged captives who knelt on the stone floor, awaiting transfer to the dungeons.
“Who are these people?” he asked.
A junior officer responded. “We picked them up in the disturbance today. We’re in the process of questioning them.”
“Take them below and give them to Titus Labernius,” said Pilate. “He will know how to get the truth from them.”
A loud, blood-curdling scream wafted through the courtyard from below.
“Two men are there now, excellency,” said the officer.
The prefect considered this for a moment before turning his attention to Volusus.
“Very well. I’d like you to prepare a full report concerning everything that has happened over the past few days. We’ll discuss it after my bath.”
Chapter 38
I could do nothing but wait. I cringed at each scream from the torture below, and relaxed only after I was certain that the victim had not spoken English. After a while, I even found myself hunting for some wine, to steady my nerves.
At long last, just as dusk was beginning to settle over the courtyard, the gate opened and two familiar figures passed through. I breathed a sigh of relief as I whistled and waved them over.
“Thank God you’re here,” I said.
Lavon looked around the courtyard, his face lined with worry. “Did Ray make it back?”
Both he and Bryson winced as a prisoner let out a loud wail that echoed through the fort.
I dipped my head toward the paving stones at my feet. “He’s down there, with the others. Tell me what happened.”
Lavon explained as best he could. Shortly after Markowitz entered the Temple, a disturbance had broken out. Unable to see the source of the trouble, Lavon and Bryson had scurried away as unobtrusively as they could and had hidden themselves in the midst of empty animal cages.
That’s what I had heard earlier.
They had waited for the chance to go back to the soreg and retrieve Markowitz, but the opportunity to do so in reasonable safety never came.
“We figured he’d make his way back, eventually,” said Lavon. “I just never imagined that he would get caught up with the rioters.”
“Do you have any idea how it happened?” asked Bryson.
“No,” I replied. “The Romans dragged in a dozen or so batches of prisoners. Ray was in one of the latter groups. That’s all I know.”
“Is he OK?” asked Bryson.
“Other than being beaten to a pulp and facing slow torture, I’d say he’s fine.”
My sarcasm eluded the Professor, though not Lavon.
“Did you try to speak to him?” asked the archaeologist.
I glanced over to a group of wounded soldiers. “Today hasn’t been a great day for the Romans, either. I figured I’d be just as likely to join him downstairs if I tried to speak out.”
Lavon nodded in understanding.
“By the way, you won’t believe who the mob’s leader is.” I said.
I explained.
“The Barabbas?” said Bryson.
Lavon, though, didn’t seem surprised.
Just then, we heard another long shriek.
“We’ve got to get him out,” said Bryson. “Where’s that centurion friend of yours?”
“In with the governor, I think,” I replied.
“Let’s go talk to him,” said Bryson.
I shook my head. Dozens of his men had been wounded earlier in the day, and at least four had died. At the moment, our fates were the least of his concerns.
“You said ‘governor?’” Lavon asked. “Did you mean …”
“Yeah, Pilate.”
“What was he like?”
I gave a brief description: height — about five-six, or roughly average for the region; age — late forties to early fifties; physical bearing — not muscular like the legionnaires, but reasonably trim and fit. The governor had limped a bit as he got off his horse, but other than that, I hadn’t noticed any obvious health issues.
“What about his demeanor?” asked Lavon.
I considered this for a moment. “Keep in mind that I only saw him for a few minutes.”
“And?”
“Businesslike,” I replied.
Honestly, I couldn’t think of a better term. After all that happened, I still can’t.
***
Just then, Lavon spotted Decius and called out to him. The Roman came over to us, but this time, he didn’t seem all that friendly.
“What is it you want?” he asked.
I couldn’t tell whether his gruff attitude was directed at us specifically, or whether he was simply weary after a long, troublesome day. We could only hope for the latter.
“One of our party was caught in the midst of the disturbance today,” Lavon explained. “We need to see him.”
“Where is he now?”
“Some of your men took him downstairs, but he does not even know the bandits’ language. There must be some mistake.”
“How did he get mixed up with them?”
“I don’t know. We need to ask him that very question.”
Decius hesitated for a moment; then motioned for us to follow. He led us down a dim torch-lit staircase and then along a narrow passageway leading to an iron grate. Upon seeing the optio, a sentry saluted, then reached for his keys and opened the lock.
The light inside was even dimmer than on the stairs, though the most overpowering sensation was the stench — urine, feces, and the odor of burned entrails. Bryson turned to the side and threw up. The guard smiled, as did Decius. Neither of them made the slightest move to clean up the mess.
Decius called for a torch and they scanned the faces of the bound prisoners. To the far left, curled into a ball in the corner on some filthy, rotten straw, lay Markowitz.
I called him by name, but the English words didn’t register immediately.
“Ray, it’s me: Bill.”
A barely audible voice replied. “Is that you? Where are Henry, and Robert?”
“We’re here, too,” they said. “What happened?”
Markowitz sat up, staring into the light as if he couldn’t be entirely sure that his visitors weren’t mere apparitions.
“I don’t really know,” he said. “I finished the sacrifice, but when I walked out of the Temple, you were gone. I looked around the courtyard for a few minutes, but I couldn’t see anyone.
“I was about to go back inside when a group of these crazies came up and pushed me from behind. Two of them grabbed me and sort of herded me out the gate to the west, where maybe a hundred or so others were already waiting.”