At that moment, the logjam in front of us — caused by another recalcitrant donkey, we finally saw — cleared away, and the crowd surged forward, sweeping us along for the ride.
As we came closer to the Temple Mount, we felt an electric energy surge through our fellow travelers, a sensation I found akin to fans going into a rock concert or a championship football game.
“Stay together,” Lavon ordered.
I didn’t argue. Religious gatherings have no exemption from the forces of crowd dynamics. Hundreds of modern pilgrims die almost every year in stampedes at the Hajj in Mecca; and worshipers are trampled so regularly during Hindu festivals that the Indian media have invented a distinctive term for such events: “temple crushes.”
I didn’t need an overly active imagination to picture the same thing happening here. Lavon must have thought so, too; for the first chance he saw, he ducked into a narrow side alley and led us along a circuitous path that ended at the southeast corner of a broad plaza.
There, we all stopped and stared upward, gawking the way we had when we had first spotted the city from a distance.
From our perspective at the base of the retaining wall, the red-tinted roof of the Temple’s royal colonnade must have risen at least two hundred feet above our heads — the height of a twenty-story building. I, for one, stood in awe, which was, as I realized later, the whole point.
“Incredible,” said Markowitz.
Then he charged forward.
We had to sprint to catch up, which we did just as he pushed his way into a stream of pilgrims heading up the broad stairway to the Temple entrance.
At this point, we had no option but to fall in with a line of men inching toward the eastern set of double doors. Once inside, additional passages opened into a broad network of shallow pools, known as mikvas, where worshipers performed the ritual purification ceremony required to enter the Temple itself.
Markowitz disappeared for a moment before Lavon managed to spot him going into the closest body of water. He reached out and pulled him back.
“Not yet,” he said. “Let’s stay together and get the lay of the land first.”
Markowitz complied, though not for long. Once more, the incoming throng surged behind us and pushed us apart.
The next time I spotted him, he had already traveled a fair distance and was making a beeline up the steps toward the open plaza of the Temple Mount, with the Professor and Lavon trailing close behind.
***
By then, I couldn’t do much else than go along with the general flow of the crowd, and after a few minutes of being jostled about, I found myself in the animal market.
The moneychangers had returned to business with a vengeance, and this morning they were taking no chances.
Guards of the Temple police, conspicuous in their black helmets and armed with spears and cudgels, stood roughly ten feet apart behind each row of tables. Disturbances today would prove remarkably unhealthy, something I was to observe all too clearly later on.
I made one more quick search for the others before turning my attention back to the marketplace itself. Though appearing chaotic at first glance, I could see, upon closer inspection, that the Temple authorities possessed a firm grasp of operational logistics.
Servants traveled in a one-way path through specially designated corridors, carrying fresh sacrificial inventory to the vendors from the lower levels and then removing the empty cages to a holding area, where other attendants gathered them and returned them to stocking pens below.
I found the overall layout quite clever as well. Worshipers emerging from the mikvas entered immediately into a one way labyrinth of tables and cages before pouring out into the Temple courtyard.
Taken as a whole, the place bore an uncanny resemblance to the departure terminals of modern international airports, whose designers shamelessly funnel passengers through a maze of duty free stores before allowing them to reach their destination gates.
In truth, the only real difference was the smell.
I had stepped aside to avoid two boys wrestling with a recalcitrant lamb when I heard shouting in the direction of the Temple itself.
Instinctively, I turned my head to see what the commotion was about — and could only grit my teeth and swear.
Next to the soreg, a meter high barricade that delineated the boundary between the Temple Mount’s common area and the part reserved exclusively for Jews, an angry mob had surrounded Markowitz and the Professor. Lavon struggled to push his way through, and he reached them only with great difficulty.
A young priest standing nearby appeared to be the only thing holding the agitated crowd back from a violent response. The trouble was, the kid looked as nervous as I felt. I wasn’t sure he could restrain them for long.
I gave quiet thanks that I had managed to slip my remaining transmitter into Lavon’s hands only a few moments before we all got separated, and I managed to get my earpiece seated just in time to hear Markowitz try once more to explain what he wanted.
“Tell these people I’m Jewish,” he said. “I want to see the Temple.”
Lavon glanced around, looking for a way out, though it didn’t take long for him to realize that attempting to back away would only prove their evil intentions in the minds of the crowd.
Seeing that he could only take one action, and live, he stood tall and spoke with the most authoritative voice he could muster.
“This man is Jewish,” he shouted.
Upon hearing this, the crowd grew quieter. The agitated murmuring did not entirely disappear, but at least a few of them seemed to understand, thank God.
The young priest did not, though to my great relief he signaled for a colleague to come over and help. As far as I could tell, the new man’s clothing carried no insignia of rank, but I could see immediately that his colleagues deferred to him. More importantly, his age and demeanor had a calming effect on the mob.
“How may I assist you?” he asked.
His voice rose barely above the level of a whisper, which forced the crowd to become even quieter in order to hear. I let out a sigh of relief. Whoever he was, this priest clearly understood human nature.
Lavon pointed to Markowitz. “This is a man of Israel.”
The old man stared at them for what seemed like an eternity before asking where they were from.
“Norvia,” Lavon replied. “A land far to the north, beyond Germania.”
The priest nodded as if this was a sufficient explanation for their white skins and light hair, but I could see he wasn’t entirely convinced.
He studied the three of them with genuine curiosity. “Tell me, how did sons of Abraham find their way to such a place?”
Lavon spun him the same tale he had told me earlier; about exiles and Lost Tribes and Babylonians long ago.
To my surprise, the man seemed to go along with the story.
I learned later that the Babylonians who destroyed Solomon’s Temple made a practice of incorporating talented young men from captive nations into their administrative structure, and that some of the Jewish exiles — notably Daniel of the celebrated lion’s den — had risen to high positions in both the Babylonian government and the Persian empire that followed.
Lavon had been right. Many of the exiles never went back.
Go figure.
The old priest then focused his gaze on Markowitz. “What have you been taught regarding the ways of God?’ he asked.
“What are they saying?” asked Markowitz.
“He wants to know what you’ve learned of the Jewish faith,” said Lavon.
Markowitz’s face brightened as he explained his Bar Mitzvah; as if the traditions of twentieth century Manhattan would be the same as those of two thousand years before.
“He says that he learned the ten commandments of Moses,” Lavon replied. “Nothing more.”
“He acts like he wants to tell us more,” said the priest.
“He is an emotional fellow,” said Lavon. “He is reciting each of the commandments. He rarely has the opportunity. So few in Norvia show any interest in the ways of his God.”
“What God do you worship in Norvia?” asked the old man.
Lavon hesitated. I suppose he hadn’t expected this question, at least not under these circumstances. Finally, he said, “we worship the God who created our forests and the seas.”
It seemed a safe enough answer.
The priest pondered this information for a moment; then he turned to his colleague, gesturing toward Markowitz’s tunic.
The young man began to lift it, but Markowitz pushed him back.
“Be still,” said Lavon as he realized what they were doing. “They need to check.”
“Check what?”
“That you’re circumcised. That’s one thing all Jews would have done, even in exile.”
I held my breath as priest took a quick peek.
I needn’t have worried. The man let go of Markowitz’s tunic and the elder stretched out his arms.
“Welcome brother,” he said.
At that point, the murmurings of the crowd ceased and most of them drifted away. Lavon breathed a visible sigh of relief. I did, too, for that matter.
Moments later, the young priest turned to the archaeologist, intending to repeat the inquiry.
“No,” said Lavon. “I am here only because no one else knows this man’s language. I came to assist my friend in finding his way home.”
“For that, we thank you,” said the senior priest.
Then he directed his attention to Bryson, who up to that point had remained silent. “What about him?”
“He is with me,” said Lavon. “He is also not a son of Abraham, but he traveled with us, in order to protect our friend on his journey.”
The elder repeated his thanks; then turned back to Markowitz. “What is his name?”
Lavon asked Markowitz what his middle name was, hoping it was a good Old Testament one, I suppose.
It was.
“Benjamin,” said Markowitz.
“I am Nicodemus.”
I watched Lavon stare for a brief instant with open astonishment, though he quickly caught himself. If the old man had noticed, he chose not to comment.
“Can I go in now?” asked Markowitz.
Lavon translated.
“Have you washed?” asked Nicodemus.
Markowitz shook his head.
“Then that is your first step. After you have purified yourself, purchase your sacrificial offering — a lamb, if you can afford one; a dove if you cannot.”
Nicodemus paused. I could see him assessing our party’s clean and well sewn clothing.
“It appears that God has favored you with prosperity. I would suggest a lamb,” he said.
“Of course,” said Lavon. “Then what?”
“Return here with his offering, and I will show him what he must do. He will be several hours inside.”
“What about us?”
Nicodemus directed their attention to an opening in the soreg at the southwest corner of the Temple. “You may wait there for his return.”
Lavon bowed to the old man. “We thank you for your kindness. I will return shortly with the lamb.”
“He should select it himself;” said Nicodemus. “It is his sacrifice after all.”