As we made our last-minute preparations, I showed Lavon the wax tablet Publius had given me the night before. He read the Greek and laughed. As I had suspected, it was my get-out-of-jail-free card, in case Herod’s soldiers caught me snooping.
The writing described my poor sense of direction and instructed whoever found me to “return an obstinate, dim-witted servant to the centurion Publius so that the appropriate disciplinary measures may be taken.”
“Those ‘appropriate measures’ won’t be such a joke today,” said Lavon.
I had no doubts on that score. I closed the tablet’s cover and slid it back into my bag.
“What are you talking about?” asked Bryson.
Lavon started to explain, but thought better of it. He just turned and gave our room a final inspection as he headed for the door.
“Let’s go,” he said.
While I had been out, the archaeologist had done some exploring of his own and had located a little-used passageway that led directly into the northwest corner of the Temple compound. We followed it and soon found ourselves on the second level of a colonnaded walkway that ran along the edge of the complex’s massive western wall.
About halfway across, we veered off to the right and down some stairs, where we joined a stream of pilgrims heading west across the stone bridge that connected the Temple Mount to the wealthy enclave of the Upper City.
“Wilson’s Arch,” Lavon reminded us.
“Do you have any idea what they call it now?” I asked.
He didn’t. I could see him struggle with the temptation to inquire of our fellow pilgrims before he decided not to risk highlighting our foreignness any further. Neither of us thought to have Naomi ask for us until the opportunity had passed, and oddly, she did not know herself.
About fifty yards ahead of us, a donkey stumbled under its load, and our procession ground to a brief halt while its harried owner struggled to right the overburdened creature and prod it forward once more.
Since we had a free moment, I couldn’t resist asking Lavon a question that had nagged at me all morning, though I pulled him forward a few feet so the others could not hear.
“Were you able to listen in on that conversation in Pilate’s office?” I asked.
Lavon nodded. “Amazing, wasn’t it?”
“You don’t sound surprised.”
“Not really. Are you?”
“A little bit,” I admitted. “I always had the impression that the high priests manipulated a reluctant Pilate into killing Jesus.”
Lavon didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he turned around to face the Temple and spent a few moments staring at it, lost in thought.
When he spoke, he did so in a low voice. “People have argued about this for centuries,” he said, “and with more than words.”
Sadly, that was all too true.
He hesitated once more. I suppose he was wary of provoking an unnecessary quarrel, or perhaps he had been drawn into so many debates over the subject that he was sick of the question altogether.
“I think we can agree that everyone in authority around here wanted to get rid of him,” he said. “Put it to a vote and you’d get thumbs down from them all — the high priests, Pilate, Herod, the lot.”
I agreed. “That seems pretty clear.”
He paused again, as if he were trying to phrase his thoughts exactly the right way.
“Each party had its own reasons to fear the crowds; and for trying to shift the responsibility for the deed to someone else; or at least the appearance of responsibility. We heard Pilate’s thoughts on the matter earlier this morning.”
“What about the high priests?” I asked.
“I had always wondered why they didn’t just stone him in a mob frenzy, like they did with Stephen a few years later. Whatever the actual rules were, had they done so, do you think Pilate would have cared?”
“No,” I replied; “but with so many people in the city, they probably didn’t want to risk a mob getting out of hand.”
“Exactly; so they had to find another option,” he said. “It served their interests for the Romans to carry out the actual killing. The high priests’ dilemma was that no matter how much they wanted to eliminate him, neither Jesus’s sympathizers in the Sanhedrin nor the crowds outside would take kindly to their handing over a brother Jew to the pagan occupiers for torture and death.”
“Hence the blasphemy charge?” I asked.
“That’s the way I see it. Once he answered Caiaphas’s question the way he did, not even his highest-ranking supporters could save him. And the pious masses wouldn’t rise up on behalf of anyone guilty of such an offense.”
“So the priests thought they were home free, then?”
“Probably,” he replied. “But it looks like they underestimated both the Roman craftiness and the divisions in their own ranks.”
Neither of us had to mention the fatal consequences this oversight would have for their descendants.
“Why do the Gospels present their accounts the way they do, then?” I asked.
“The first one wasn’t written until the 50s,” said Lavon. “By then, the early Christians were beginning to have serious trouble with the Roman authorities. The writers were well aware of this, and wouldn’t have wanted to compound their difficulties by placing direct blame for the death of their Lord on a Roman governor.”
He paused again.
“At least that’s my take on it. It’s a reasonable interpretation, if you read between the lines and pay attention to what was happening here, on the ground, at the time.”
I had more questions, but Markowitz interrupted us. He pointed to a lower level door about a hundred meters to our north, where another long stream of pilgrims poured out from the Temple Mount.
“That’s where I got caught,” he said.
A squad of two dozen Romans observed the procession, but the legionnaires made no move to interfere with the worshippers. Markowitz stood still for a moment, watching the soldiers. Then he muttered an obscenity and spat in their direction.
Lavon and I both glanced at each other, but we chose not to comment.
***
By then, the crowd ahead of us had grown impatient with both the recalcitrant donkey and its owner’s futile efforts to prod it along.
Tired of wasting time, four burly ruffians stepped forward and shoved the man out of the way. One of them promptly slit the animal’s throat, and after its quivering kicks had weakened sufficiently, they wrestled the unfortunate beast up to the bridge railing and heaved both it and its load over the side.
The multitude behind us cheered and we started forward once more. As we reached the edge of the Upper City, the crowd’s momentum pressed us deep into another rat’s maze of narrow alleys. I, for one, quickly became disoriented, though we all took comfort in the fact that Naomi seemed to know where she was going.
We passed through a series of twists and turns before she stopped in front of a collection of baskets, each about the size of common rolling household trash bins. These appeared to be scattered haphazardly among piles of miscellaneous debris.
“Where are the houses?” asked Bryson. “I thought this was the wealthy part of town.”
As it turned out, we were at the back of one. Jerusalem’s elites, like their counterparts in the modern developing world, took pains to conceal their opulence behind high walls.
Although we seemed to have reached the place Naomi intended to lead us, I noticed that she was becoming quite nervous.
She spoke quickly to Lavon and motioned for the rest of us to pick a container and hustle inside; one person per basket. Once we had done so, she arranged the lids at haphazard angles and then covered them with a handful of filthy rags.
She stepped back to observe, and after giving us a quasi-satisfied nod, she snuggled up to Lavon. They spoke briefly; then she took his right hand and cupped it under her rump. Afterward, she squeezed him tight and led him around the corner.
I had spent enough of my early Army career hunkered down in squalid holes, and I could see that my bad luck in drawing duty assignments hadn’t yet deserted me.
The previous evening, I could only stand in place and observe the celebrations. Now, I found myself packed into a fetid receptacle while my colleague had the privilege of scouting the territory with Rahab the harlot leading the way.
Some guys get all the breaks.
But I shouldn’t complain. We only had to remain still for a quarter hour before the two love-birds returned.
Lavon lifted the foul-smelling refuse off the top of my basket and whispered the all-clear, while Naomi did the same with the Professor and Markowitz.
“Follow me,” said Lavon, “and keep your mouths shut.”
We scrambled around the corner and slid through an open doorway, pausing to let our eyes adjust to the low light. After a few seconds, Naomi stepped into the lead, and Lavon drifted back to ensure that no stragglers remained behind.
We hadn’t gone far when we passed into a narrow tunnel. As soon as all of us were inside, Lavon reached back and pulled a recessed handle, closing the door and plunging us into darkness.
We stood still for a brief moment, waiting — in vain this time — for our eyes to adjust. Then we crept forward.
We had gone about a hundred paces when Naomi stopped to explain.
“I have worked here,” she said.
As it happened, the madam who supervised the palace entertainers ran a thriving sideline supplying women to the Upper City’s most exclusive brothel, conveniently located at the terminus of a neglected escape tunnel the first Herod had dug over half a century before.
Naomi sounded surprisingly positive about it, too. In contrast to their labors in the palace, these extracurricular duties were voluntary, and the women were permitted to keep a quarter of what they were paid. One had even managed to save enough to buy her own freedom, though what she had done afterward, Naomi didn’t know.
Now the charade by the baskets made perfect sense. Had they been caught, Lavon could have passed for yet another satisfied customer.
I was about to ask where this particular tunnel led when I heard voices in my earpiece. Lavon heard them too. He listened for a moment and then handed the device to Naomi.
“What’s happening?” said Bryson.
“Shh,” I whispered.
Naomi translated the Aramaic into Greek when the conversation paused. Like the discussion in Pilate’s office, I will never forget the exact words she related to us.