Authors: David Epperson
Bryson laughed. “It’s a nice theory,” he replied. “But I believe it was Planck who said that no one is ever converted to a new idea in science. It is only after the generation who clung to the old idea eventually dies off that the concept finds broad acceptance.”
“He spoke of religion?”
“No,” said Bryson, “quantum mechanics; which was, as my wife undoubtedly explained, a most outrageous notion at the time.”
He paused for a moment; then peered into Bergfeld’s eyes.
“As I said, I cautioned Scott to keep both his eyes and his mind open. I must ask you the same question: are you, Sharon, prepared to act in accordance with the evidence we encounter?”
She didn’t reply.
“If we see – if
you
see – the disciples carting the body out of the tomb, are you prepared to face what follows?”
“That there is no God?”
“No, we’d still have no proof of that either way; but we would see that the Jesus of your childhood wasn’t the deity you sang to in Sunday school.”
Sharon stared down at the table. She didn’t say anything, but in her heart, she had to have recognized his point.
Though I consider myself a pretty rational person, most of the time at least, I had to consider the same thing. Perhaps some things
were
better off not known.
While the others continued to debate, I poured myself a second cup of wine and then reached into my bag to extract a small rubberized bud, which I managed to slip into my ear just before two men strode into our room as if they owned the place.
That was because they did.
It took me a second to recognize the centurion Publius, since he had stripped off his armor and donned a clean white tunic.
The other man, a Roman named Volusus, had served as the fort’s commander for past two years. A slave followed in their wake with another jug of wine and two additional goblets, though as soon as he filled them, he scurried out of the room.
Lavon and I both stood and beckoned the two Romans to take our seats, but they chose to remain standing.
Publius got straight to the point. “I have explained what your companion did for my man,” he said to Lavon.
I spoke through Robert to ask Publius how the soldier was doing, and whether his wound had remained free of infection.
Fortunately for my image as a miracle worker, it had.
“He is doing remarkably well for a wound of that severity,” replied Publius. “In fact, I have seen no others who have survived such an injury.”
“We must have more of those bandages,” said Volusus.
Lavon’s warning had been prescient. I had no choice but to reach into my bag and pull out two. I offered them both to the commander.
“Tell him these are all we have. I am keeping only the last one for ourselves in case we encounter an emergency.”
Volusus looked puzzled. “Can you not make more?”
“Unfortunately, I cannot. I brought these from our country, where we buy them from skilled artisans. I have seen no others since we left, months ago.”
The two Romans exchanged odd glances. We learned later that both men had served in Germany. As Lavon feared, at no time had they ever heard of advanced civilizations in the unknown territory beyond.
Hoping to divert their attention, I held up the remaining bandage. “Tell them that they must save these for the most severe cases. And they must never open the package until they are ready to use it.”
“Why not?” Publius asked.
“It reacts with the moisture in the wound, or in the air,” I explained. “If it is exposed too early, it will not function properly. Also, tell him that only the white side may have direct contact with the injured body part;
only
the white side.”
Publius considered this; then asked me if I was a doctor.
I thought about saying yes, but decided not to press my luck.
“No,” I replied. “I received basic training only. Other men worked as physicians, as in your unit.”
“You are a soldier, then?”
“Was,” I said; “Many years ago.”
“How many men did you command?”
I paused as if having difficulty understanding the translation. An American colonel in the line commanded anywhere from three to five thousand men – nearly a legion’s worth. If they believed my answer, hearing of an army that size would alarm them. Later, as an intelligence officer, I had led a small team of five. The Romans would consider this a joke.
“Tell him about eighty,” I said.
Lavon did so.
Publius smiled; then glanced over toward Volusus. “I told you he had the look of a centurion.”
***
A loud crash interrupted our conversation as a pile of stacked rubble fell to the ground outside. All of us, including the two Romans, hurried over to the windows, where we observed a torch-lit procession of laborers – men we had not seen earlier – hard at work, carrying a mountain of rubbish out the complex’s eastern gate.
Volusus directed our attention toward a team of workers attacking a similar mound of debris at the other end of the courtyard.
“As I mentioned earlier,” he said to Publius, “we, too, have had some challenging days.”
“Did you take casualties?”
“None so far, thank the gods.”
“What happened?”
Volusus shook his head and spat. “Another one of their damned prophets.”
Publius rolled his eyes. “Again?”
Volusus pointed to our left. “Late in the afternoon, two days ago, this man came riding into the courtyard on the back of a donkey through the Shushan Gate, right over there. A large crowd followed him, waving palm fronds and shouting all sorts of nonsense.”
“Where did he come from?”
“My informants tell me that he started in one of those little villages to the east, though no one could give me a definitive answer. What is undisputed, though, is that a horde of this rabble ran ahead of him the whole way here, scattering their branches along the road – ‘preparing a path’ they said.”
“For what?”
“I’m still trying to get a straight answer to that. We’ve heard so many conflicting stories.”
“What happened next?”
“Strangely enough, nothing. He stayed only a few minutes before turning around and going back out the same way.”
“That doesn’t sound like much of a disturbance,” said Publius.
I glanced over to Lavon.
Prophet; palm fronds.
I could see that he, too, was struggling to keep an expressionless face.
“No; but he came back. Yesterday, this same man popped up in the market area with a whip. He overturned the merchants’ tables, opened the bird cages, and drove away the animals – shouting at them the whole time.”
Volusus paused to let the image sink in.
“You should have seen it; you know how excitable these people are. Everything just fed on itself – men crawling about on the ground, fighting each other for loose coins; panicked animals running every which way, with their owners trying to chase them down through the swarms of pilgrims coming in through the south gates. You can’t imagine the chaos.”
I watched Publius struggle to keep a straight face. In another set of circumstances, the scene would be almost comical – at least from a safe distance when their own careers didn’t hang in the balance.
Volusus spat again before he continued. “The whole thing took us by surprise. At least an hour passed before the Temple police could get the crowd back under control. By then the market area was a complete wreck. As you see, they’re still working to haul the debris away.”
Both men stared at the laborers for a few moments.
“Did this prophet say why he did this?” asked Publius.
“Supposedly, he was upset with how much money they’re making. ‘Den of thieves’ was his exact term, or so I hear.”
“It sounds like he’s called that one right. Our good Roman money is conveniently unclean; the people’s own livestock are blemished and unacceptable for an offering. It’s quite a racket they have, if you ask me.”
“That may be,” snapped the commander, “but we can’t afford this kind of disorder – not this week.”
“If this man caused a disturbance at such a sensitive time, why didn’t you arrest him?”
“On the Temple Mount? All that marching in the hot sun today must have melted your brains. If those people saw a Roman uniform on their holy spot in the middle of their festival, we could have a full scale insurrection on our hands. You know that.”
“The prefect would be most upset,” said Publius.
“The
prefect
would be the least of our worries. Even with your entire century, we’d not have one chance in ten of getting back here alive. That mob would tear us to pieces.”
“Why didn’t their Temple police arrest him, then?”
Volusus sighed. “He has sympathizers in their high council. I can scarcely believe it, but he came back to the Temple, once more, this morning – yet they did nothing.”
“Have you seen this man yourself?”
The commander shook his head. “No. My informants mostly just repeat the rumors they’ve heard. A miracle worker, some call him; heals the sick; turns water into wine.”
Publius lifted his empty cup. “A handy person to keep around, I’d say.”
The other man laughed, possibly for the first time that week.
“It gets better. A story is circulating that a few days ago, he raised one of his childhood friends from the dead.”
“Even handier,” said Publius. “I’m beginning to like this fellow.”
Volusus laughed again and visibly relaxed.
“Just get us through this week without a riot,” he implored. “Then these people will all go home, where they belong, and we can return to civilization in Caesarea.”
“Until next year.”
“Next year, this will be your problem. I am retiring and will recommend to the prefect that you take my place. After the festival is over, you can come visit me on my farm.”
“Are you going to tell us what they were talking about?” said Markowitz after the two Romans had left.
Lavon shook his head. “I’m having trouble believing it – not what they said, but that we’re here to see it.”
“What
did
they say?” asked Markowitz.
“They were complaining,” said Lavon, “griping about the crowds and a new prophet who has appeared on the scene.”
“Prophet?”
The archaeologist pointed to the southern end of the Temple complex.
“Right over there; that’s where the merchants sit. Yesterday morning, this prophet came charging in and drove them all out.”
“The moneychangers?” said Sharon.
“The same,” said Lavon. “The commander is worried that he’ll come back. The crowds are so volatile; anything could happen.”
Bryson looked at him skeptically. “It can’t be that bad,” he said.
Lavon didn’t speak for a few moments. Finally he directed our attention out the window toward the west.
“Look down at that wall,” he said, “the one extending from below our room to the battlement on the other side of the fort. A few years from now, a Roman soldier stationed there will turn his backside to the crowd on the Temple Mount and break wind in a very loud and deliberate way. According to Josephus, more than twenty thousand people died in the ensuing riot.”
“But Robert,” replied Bryson, “you’ve said it yourself: These ancient writers were prone to exaggerate.”
“Yes; Lavon replied, “the casualties may have been half that number, or a tenth, but that still means two thousand dead. The ancients didn’t have tear gas or water cannons. Once a crowd got going, the only way to stop it was to march through the streets, killing everyone who got in the way. That’s why the Romans pounced so hard on the slightest whiff of trouble. It didn’t take much for a situation to get completely out of hand.”
“That was an intentional insult,” said Markowitz. “The soldier should not have done that.”
“I’m sure he was punished, but it goes to show how unstable things really were. You saw it coming in – the looks on peoples’ faces.”
They mumbled assent.
“And on the flip side,” Lavon continued, “Roman officials didn’t have to worry about videos of dead children showing up on the internet. The whole setup was a recipe for abuse.”
I didn’t doubt that, either.
Inflaming the situation still more, most of the “Roman” soldiers were in fact auxiliaries, recruited from a pool of the Jews’ traditional enemies.
For a while, we all continued to stare down at the activity below. The Temple area had finally gone quiet. The workers had departed and only the Temple watchmen remained. We could see two of them making their rounds, while a third priest fed the fire that burned perpetually on the altar.