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  “He was right about that one,” I replied, “although from what I’ve read, modern research has found that it’s not quite as contagious as people once thought.”

  “Is it curable?”

  “Antibiotics are effective if you catch it early enough.”

  She went quiet for a moment.

  “What if we’re …?”

  “Stuck here past Sunday?” I replied.

  “Yeah. Could we get it? I mean, an advanced case, like that one?”

  “I don’t think it spreads that fast.”

  Still, it was to our advantage to avoid the disease, if we could.

  A pause.

  “I, uh … you know, kicking that man …”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said.

  “The laughing … the cruelty … that was wrong.”

  “Yes,” I replied.

  She didn’t respond.

  “Look, it’s OK,” I said.

  I knew it wasn’t, but at the moment, we’d gain nothing by dwelling on the subject.

  Lavon told me earlier that Sharon had spent the last five Thanksgiving holidays dishing out meals at a homeless shelter. Now, this kind spirit had to confront, first-hand, why people of the ancient world held the disease in such abject terror, and admit that they had a legitimate reason for responding the way they did.

  She would just have to work through it in her own mind.

  “Do you have any idea where you are?” I asked, as much to take her thoughts off that particular struggle as to obtain a geographical coordinate.

  She hesitated for a moment while she poked her head through the curtain once more. “We’re outside the city,” she said. “I think we passed through the Damascus Gate a minute ago. Now we’re heading south, toward the palace.”

  “OK.”

  “Azariah is eyeing at me kind of strangely, too. He has to be wondering why I keep talking to myself. I think he’s worried I’ll bolt.”

  “Hang in there. I’ll call you again when I find the others.”

  Chapter 31

  I removed the earpiece and slipped it under my tunic; then I climbed up toward the city until I got within about a hundred feet of the main road.

  Once there, I sat down on a rock next to one of the ubiquitous olive trees and watched. I figured if anyone questioned what I was doing, I’d do my best to pretend that I was a slave waiting for his master, as ordered, by the gate.

  I needn’t have worried. In an era without reliable timekeeping, slaves occasionally had to wait for days. Lavon explained later that this was common practice.

  By the look of it, the Romans had outsourced security in this section of town to the local constabulary. Black helmeted sentries, in uniforms resembling those I had seen on the Temple police, paced the walls, while a half dozen or so of their colleagues manned their stations at ground level.

  Occasionally, they pulled travelers aside and inspected their cargo, but otherwise they made little effort to stop the flow of people and animals into the city. Given the nature of the crowd, I’m not sure they could have, even if they had wanted to.

  About one in every five itinerants either rode a donkey or led one laden with provisions, and I was reminded of what the world must have smelled like before the widespread adoption of the internal combustion engine.

  Not every donkey was as eager as its owner to go inside, either. I watched one heavily burdened animal sit down on a flat stretch of road and simply refuse to take another step. Its owner cursed and swore, flogging the poor creature with a thin piece of cane.

  It never so much as budged.

  The passers-by just laughed. One of them must have made a snide comment, for suddenly the owner launched into an even greater frenzy, until the unfortunate beast rolled over as best it could under its load. Whether it had died or was just resting, I never got close enough to tell.

  ***

  I had waited for about half an hour, soaking in the scene, when I finally spotted Lavon.

  That wasn’t as hard as I had initially feared. As it turned out, the average man in first century Judea measured less than five foot six, so each of my fellow travelers stood head and shoulders above the rest.

  All three appeared to be going strong. Their eyes, though, were so focused on the city walls and the crowd at the gate that none of them saw me slip into the file of travelers behind them.

  “Does anyone have spare change for a poor mendicant beggar?” I said.

  They all turned, but it took a moment for the English words to register, and a moment longer for them to realize the person behind them was me.

  “What are you doing here?” said Markowitz.

  We stepped off to the side of the main road and they appraised me from top to bottom.

  “You look like hell,” said Bryson.

  I didn’t think it was that bad, especially since my rescuers at the sanatorium had let me take a dip in their pool, but my throbbing head must have diverted my mind from other damage.

  Markowitz noted a darkening welt growing at the side of my left eye, and I explained what had happened as best I could. Lavon burst out laughing when I got to the part about the snakes.

  “You saw that, too?” I asked.

  “We were so close that I couldn’t bear to walk past without having a peek inside. That building is an asclepion – a healing center dedicated to Asclepius, the Greek god of medicine. Once again, my thesis advisor was wrong. He didn’t think the site served that purpose until the second century.”

  “Why the snakes?”

  “Snakes were sacred to Asclepius.”

  I cast him a dubious glance.

  “You should pay more attention the next time you go to the doctor,” he chided. “The snake wrapped around the pole, the symbol of modern medicine, that’s where it comes from.”

  Of course. I knew that.

  “What about the mob scene at the pool?” I described the raw pandemonium I had witnessed.

  “You saw that?” he asked, incredulous. Apparently, nothing remotely similar had happened during their visit.

  “Why was it so important?” I asked.

  “Rise, take up your mat and walk,” he replied.

  I stared at him blankly.

  “Evidently, some sort of geological phenomenon causes the underlying spring to bubble up every now and then. The people here, in the first century, believe that it’s an angel stirring the waters. Whenever that happens, the first one in gets cured of what ails him.”

  That explained the mad rush, though not the rest of the story.

  “What did you mean with the bit about the mat?” I asked.

  “John’s gospel records it as one of Christ’s first miracles. An invalid had been lying there beside the pool for 38 years when Jesus walked up and asked him if he wanted to get well. Rather than say yes, the man launched into a litany of excuses about how someone always beat him into the water. Christ healed him and told him to go home.”

  “Does this spring still exist, in our time?”

  “Not really. The Church of St. Anne rests over the site now, but that’s a twelfth century Crusader structure, renovated in the late 1800s. We think the current building replaced a Byzantine church, but before that, who knows. Like I keep saying, Jerusalem has been scraped and rebuilt many times. Exactly where things were is a matter of conjecture.”

  “Why allow a Greek temple there?” asked Markowitz.

  “I’m not really sure,” admitted Lavon. “My guess is that the Jewish priests didn’t have any better answers to medical problems. I suppose it gave people hope.”

  “Or provided a good place to shuffle off grandpa,” said Bryson. “You could dump a sick relative there and not feel bad about it.”

  ***

  I encouraged the others to continue this line of discussion, but despite my best efforts, I couldn’t evade the inevitable question.

  “Where’s Sharon?” asked Lavon.

  I explained what little I knew.

  Once I ha
d done so, Bryson and Markowitz immediately began arguing about the best way to rescue her. Their schemes, though, struck me only as efficient ways to commit suicide. None would have done Sharon any good at all.

  Lavon didn’t seem to think so, either, but he stepped away from us for a moment, lost in thought.

  “I think she’ll be OK,” he finally said,

  “We can’t just abandon her!” said Markowitz. “You know what they’re going to do.”

  He nodded. “Yes, but we have a little while to work out a plan. Ancient documents describe a regimen of baths and beauty treatments to be completed before a girl was deemed fit for the king. This will take time.”

  “How much time?” I asked.

  “At least a day,” said Lavon. “Possibly two or three.”

  “Today’s Wednesday, right?” I asked.

  They nodded.

  “Then we have until tomorrow night at least,” I said, “Friday if we’re lucky.”

  I didn’t have to add that we hadn’t exactly had the best of luck so far.

  “This is my fault,” said Lavon. “Kings sent retainers to round up pretty girls all the time. I just thought we’d be safe in the Antonia, in addition to the story of her being royalty.”

  “Obviously they didn’t believe that,” said Bryson.

  “That was my fault, too. We all slept in the same bed last night. If she had been a real princess, she would have had the bed to herself and the rest of us would have spent the night on the floor. I just got carried away watching everything else; it slipped my mind.”

  “What do you think they really take us for?” asked Bryson.

  “Our hands, even yours Bill, are not the rough hands of manual laborers, and our clothes are too well made to be peasant garments. I’m guessing they see us as prosperous merchants.”

  “Exactly what we started out pretending to be,” said Bryson.

  Lavon nodded. “Ironically, whoever did this might even think they’re doing us a favor. If she pleases the king, she could open up profitable trading opportunities.”

  “I can’t imagine her feeling very good about that,” said Bryson.

  “No,” said Lavon, “but this is the first century; she is a woman. Her feelings are of no consideration at all.”

  Chapter 32

  At that point, the only sensible thing to do was to head straight back to the Antonia the way we came. That would allow us to avoid the worst of the crowds, and with Lavon able to speak for us, I was certain that we could eventually persuade a soldier to fetch Publius.

  I suggested this, but my comment had the opposite effect. Markowitz and Bryson strode forward toward the city, while Lavon just rolled his eyes and followed.

  In truth, he wanted to see the Temple as badly as the others did; he just wouldn’t admit it.

  We pushed our way back into the line of travelers and passed through the gate without incident; and once we got inside the walls, we could not have turned back even if we had wanted to. The stream of itinerants had become a river, flowing in only one direction, to the north.

  We passed a spring where a gaggle of angry women stood in line with buckets, and I realized then that if the area surrounding Herod’s palace was Jerusalem’s high-rent district, we had now crossed over to the wrong side of the tracks.

  The main path leading north from the Tekoa Gate followed along the western edge of the ridge bisecting the city all the way past the Temple Mount. West of our path, the ground sloped down into a deep valley, filled with densely packed structures that reminded Bryson of a colleague’s research facility at MIT.

  From what I could see, the lab rats probably had it better. At least they didn’t have to live under a pall of acrid smoke.

  Bryson coughed and struggled not to gag. “What is that smell?”

  “Firewood is expensive,” said Lavon. “They use dried animal dung as fuel.”

  I had seen this before, in India, but never on this scale.

  Off to our right, Lavon pointed to a collection of shabby stone buildings, noting that this area constituted the original Jerusalem, the City of David.

  “Who could have figured it?” he said.

  We each had to acknowledge the peculiarity of it all. David’s Jerusalem extended only a few hundred yards in each direction, covering ten acres at most. At its peak, it probably housed fewer than a thousand inhabitants.

  Yet such a place, the headquarters of a man who was in reality more of a tribal chieftain than a king, became the focal point of three global religions with billions of adherents.

  ***

  I was still reflecting on this oddity a few minutes later when I heard a loud yell. I ducked out of the way just as a boy, about ten years old and sporting a ragged tunic at least one size too small, ran past us with two angry men in hot pursuit.

  The kid probably would have made his getaway but for a loose paving stone that protruded up about half an inch.

  Seconds later, he tripped over the block and went sprawling face-first onto the ground. He attempted to rise, but the men were on top of him in an instant, pounding his body with wooden staves.

  The boy cried out but soon fell silent under the weight of the blows. One of his pursuers reached down and grasped a cloth pouch. He displayed a brief expression of triumph; then both men trotted back down the street without giving the child a second thought.

  Bryson stood aghast. “We’ve got to help him.”

  The crowd, however, continued to push us forward, and no one else expressed the slightest concern over the boy’s fate. A street urchin, they had most likely concluded; and good riddance.

  Lavon tugged Bryson’s robe. “Come on; there’s nothing we can do.”

  ***

  After we passed the City of David, our pace slowed even more as side streets fed additional pilgrims onto the primary thoroughfare. Given that we had a little time, I finally had a chance to ask Bryson a question that had been bothering me since the beginning of our excursion.

  “Professor,” I asked. “How did you know where to find the tomb?”

  He hesitated briefly.

  “Its location is well-accepted, is it not? Ironically, we can thank Hadrian. The emperor was so fervently anti-Christian that he razed the impromptu shrine the early believers had built on the site and erected a pagan temple in its place, inadvertently marking the spot for all time.

  “When Constantine legalized Christianity two centuries later, all the followers of Christ had to do was tear down Hadrian’s monstrosity and build their own church.”

  That sounded plausible enough, though I could read the skepticism on Lavon’s face. He told me later that this theory was probably correct, with an emphasis on probably. An alternative site, the Garden Tomb, lay to the north of town. Modern archaeologists continue to debate the matter.

  But that wasn’t the most pressing issue.

  “How do you plan to find it today?” I asked.

  “I just told you.”

  “No,” said Lavon. “You told us how a twenty-first, or a fourth, or even a second century man would locate it; but there’s nothing there now. According to the Gospels, it’s Joseph of Arimathea’s family plot. Did you plan on walking into a meeting of the Sanhedrin and asking him to show you where it is?”

  “I’ve taken satellite photos and overlapped the Holy Sepulcher with known archaeological coordinates from this era. We can triangulate between the Damascus Gate and the Phasael Tower. Both of those structures survived into modern times.”

  “Triangulate how?” I asked. “Did you bring a compass?”

  Even if he had, the reading wouldn’t necessarily be accurate. The earth’s magnetic field had shifted considerably over the intervening two thousand years.

  “You’ve got another problem, too,” said Lavon. “Only the foundation of the Phasael Tower remains in our world. This covers a fairly broad area, not the pinpoint location you’d need to triangulate something as small as the tomb.”

  Bryson didn’t reply. Inst
ead, he muttered something about getting close as he stared off to the west.

  I couldn’t figure it. He seemed too much the careful scientist to go off half-cocked. Either he knew something he wasn’t telling us or I had completely misread the man. The truth, as it turned out, was a little bit of both.

  Chapter 33

  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.