Authors: David Epperson
“And die he will,” replied Volusus. “Please hear us out.”
The governor signaled for them to proceed.
Volusus spoke carefully. “As I understand it, your intention is to make a public example of this prophet, but only in circumstances that will minimize the danger of a riot slipping out of control.”
Pilate nodded. “That is the heart of the matter. Go on.”
“And our primary hesitation in carrying out this objective is that we have too little in the way of reliable information about his followers – how many of them are in the city, where they are hiding, or their propensity for violence.”
“Hundreds of them may be planning to launch a revolt this very day,” said Publius, “or a few dozen may be cowering in fear inside tiny closets. We simply don’t know.”
“Yes,” said Pilate, “but what does this have to do with releasing Barabbas?”
“Our thought was that you could, perhaps, offer a choice between this prophet and the type of prisoner that certain, um,
sectors
of the society here are likely to support,” said Volusus. “Let
them
decide who lives and who dies. By doing so, they would give a stamp of popular approval to your decision.”
“And in the event a disturbance does break out as they choose,” said Publius, “two factions of the crowd would be set against each other. Eliminating the surviving troublemakers will be much less hazardous for us once they have exhausted themselves.”
I could see Pilate wasn’t entirely convinced, though he was obviously intrigued by the concept.
“Tell them that you’ve decided to release a prisoner as a goodwill gesture for the Passover, or something like that,” said Publius. “You’ve done it before.”
“Once,” grumbled Pilate. “And I swore I wouldn’t make that mistake again. The ungrateful bastard went out and murdered your
predecessor straightaway.”
“That will not happen this time,” said Volusus. “Barabbas may leave this fortress today, but I can assure you that he will not die at peace in his bed, nor will any of his spawn. Within a month, after these crowds have gone home, he will begin his journey to the underworld.”
Pilate considered this in silence for a couple of minutes.
“All right,” he finally said, “The idea has promise. But how can we be sure the crowd will select the right man? What if too many of this prophet’s followers show up?”
“Barabbas’s supporters are already starting to assemble,” said Volusus. “Once enough of them are present, it won’t be hard to block a few streets, if the need arises.”
“We can also sprinkle agents in with the crowd to make helpful suggestions, just in case,” said Publius.
“Yes, do that,” said Pilate.
“Actually,” said Volusus, “if you stage-manage this properly, by the time you’re finished, you could even have the crowd cheering for the prophet’s death. Any repercussions will be their fault, not yours.”
“Take the theatrical approach,” said Publius. “Get a big bowl; wash your hands of the entire matter in front of them while they decide. Once it’s clear they’re going to vote the right way, you can act perplexed – like what you are supposed to do with their king? If you use the right tone of voice …”
Pilate considered this for a moment and then broke out into a smile.
“I like it,” he said, “although one thing still troubles me: freeing Barabbas could send his sort of vermin the wrong message. Even if you do plan to dispose of him later, the crowds will not be around to witness his death. Some of them may take away a mistaken impression of our resolve.”
The three Romans thought for a few moments. Then Volusus turned his head downward, as if toward the dungeon.
“A handful of the bandits we caught with Barabbas are still alive. Once the crowd has made its decision, wait an hour or so to let them disperse; then pick two of the prisoners and crucify them along with this prophet. That should send a clear enough signal.”
A few minutes later, a courier rushed into the office and handed Pilate a note. The governor read it and then immediately strode out with Publius and Volusus in tow. Since no one had spoken to me, I took the opportunity to slip back up to our room and rejoin the others.
The palace woman was waiting for me at the base of the stairs. I had become so engrossed in the conversation I had just overheard that I had completely forgotten about her.
We jogged up the steps, and as the servant opened the door, I saw that Markowitz was awake, though a bit groggy and suffering from the effects of a hangover.
“Can you get that servant to bring us some coffee?” he grumbled.
“Sure,” Lavon laughed, “you’ll only need to wait eight hundred years.”
Coffee, as it turns out, didn’t appear in the historical record until the ninth century.
Markowitz made a barely audible grunt while I introduced the woman to the others. Naomi examined us with the trained eye of a practiced courtesan. Then she stepped over to the bed and began to remove her clothes.
I hadn’t expected this – at least not yet.
“Tell her to stop,” I said to Lavon.
He did so, and we were all surprised by her puzzled reaction.
“You don’t like women?” she asked.
We all laughed after Lavon translated.
“Of course we like women,” I said. “
Only
women, we must emphasize.”
I, for one, wanted no confusion on that point.
Lavon told her what I had said, but she only grew more perplexed.
“Very well; I am yours all day,” she said.
I considered this for a moment.
“Tell her the day is early,” I instructed Lavon. “We have some things we’d like to discuss with her first.”
That seemed to satisfy her that we were ordinary, red-blooded men. She jostled with her clothes for a minute and then sat down on the bed.
Lavon sent our servant to fetch some breakfast, both because we were hungry and because we needed to be certain that we weren’t overheard. Once the kid had gone, he asked her what she knew about the Amazon.
“You know her?” she asked.
“We serve her father,” said Lavon. “She was taken to the king against our will.”
I couldn’t help but chime in. As goofy as it sounds now, it seemed like the thing to say.
“And
I
have sworn an oath to my God not to enjoy the company of women until we get her back. Surely you understand why this makes our task all the more urgent.”
At that, she smiled, though her face also reflected concern.
“I have heard the soldiers talk: the king is smitten. He will never release her.”
“We know. That’s why we need your help,” said Lavon.
“We have reason to believe she is being held in the Phasael Tower,” I said.
“Yes, she is being kept in a chamber at the very top. After her escape, the guards are taking no chances.”
“How did her face get bruised?” I asked.
“The tracker caught her sleeping. When he moved to seize her, she screamed and jabbed him in the eye. From what I heard, he punched her and threw her to the ground.”
So that’s what had happened.
“Was he punished for this?” I asked.
“I don’t think so. Herod requires the Bedouin’s services to track down fugitives. The man has never once failed to locate his quarry.”
“What about the guard she slipped by; the one atop the wall?”
Her face turned grim. “Herod had him flogged, for dereliction of duty. I think he survived, but I am not certain of this.”
This was unwelcome news.
“He has also forbidden wine on the walls.”
This was even more unwelcome. I explained to the others that Sharon would remain alive as long as she retained the king’s favor. The instant she lost it, she could expect nothing but the worst sort of abuse.
I suppose one had to be an old soldier to know.
Sharon’s escape had turned what had been a cushy posting into a tedious chore. The men would now have to endure inspections and drills for months on end, even though everyone, from the king on down, knew that nothing of consequence would happen on those walls for the next decade.
Lavon frowned; then he turned back to Naomi with a look of newfound urgency. “Will you help us?” he asked.
“What can I do?”
“You are aware of secret passageways through the palace, are you not? Tunnels, drains, water conduits – places a person could slip in and out undetected?”
“Yes, I have been through many passageways that few others know about.”
“Then you can lead us to her, and show us how to get away once we have rescued her.”
Her head drooped and she quit smiling. She didn’t say anything for a minute or two; then she glanced up at Lavon, with a sad expression on her face.
“I cannot,” she said. “I told you: the king is smitten with her. If he discovers my role in her escape, as he surely will, he will have me beaten.”
She shook her head and shuddered. A woman being thrashed was something she had undoubtedly witnessed, more than once.
“And if I survived that, Herod would order me sold – to a filthy shepherd’s brothel, or to a squad of soldiers, or worse. I cannot take that chance.”
No one could argue with her logic, so we spent the next few moments brooding in silence.
“We understand,” Lavon finally said, “but we can offer you another option. Once Sharon is free, we will go back to our country. You may come with us and live as a free woman, obligated to no one.”
She sat up straighter, clearly interested.
“How does your country differ from this one? What can I expect to see in your lands?”
“Wonders beyond your wildest imagination,” replied Lavon. “If you’d like, you can even fly through the heavens, like a bird.”
I shot Lavon a dirty look. We’d gain no advantage by pushing things too far.
“Fly like a bird?” she said.
Then she began laughing. “You are amusing, Lavonius. What will you say next? That men from your land have walked on the moon?”
Lavon glanced in my direction and smiled before turning his attention back to Naomi.
“I am serious,” he said. “If you choose to help our woman escape and return to our country with us, you will not have to worry about earning a living. Her father will reward you, in gold. He is very rich.”
“How much gold?” she asked.
Lavon looked around the room and finally pointed to the water jug, which looked like it held a couple of gallons.
“Do you see that jug?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Fill it with gold; it will all be yours.”
Her eyes lit up for a moment, but then I could see her grow skeptical. Whatever that amounted to in modern US dollars – roughly $5 million, I learned later – I knew Sharon’s old man had it. But once again, Lavon seemed to be overselling our case.
Naomi sat quietly on the bed, considering her options.
“I can’t believe she doesn’t jump at the chance,” said Bryson.
From the modern perspective, the Professor might have been right, but as I thought about it, her hesitation was understandable.
Despite her duties, Naomi lived in the palace, while most women of Jerusalem spent their days emptying chamber pots, or standing in line for water and carrying it half a mile, several times a day.
“You may find it hard to comprehend, but by their standards, she has something to lose,” I said.
That gave Lavon an idea.
“Naomi, how long have you lived in the palace?”
She considered this for a moment. “Fourteen years. Azariah bought me when I was eleven.”
“So you are twenty-five years old?”
“Yes.”
“What will you do when you get older?” he asked.
She paused to think. “I will oversee the palace women, when I am too old to serve men directly.”
“How can you be sure of this?”
“The king and his officers all favor me.”
“Yes; for now,” said Lavon, “but the king can change his mind, can’t he? Besides, kings die; and kings are overthrown, all over the world, all the time. If Herod were no longer king, you could just as easily spend the rest of your days scrubbing latrines.”
She frowned. I was certain that this had crossed her mind before; but as with other unpleasant truths, she had pushed it to the back of her consciousness. It was something I did often enough.
“Help us,” said Lavon. “We can spare you that fate.”
She sat there for maybe five minutes, weighing her decision, with her mind going back and forth.
I began to grow concerned: we had only a limited time window, and without someone who knew the ins and outs of the palace, our mission was almost certainly doomed.
As it turned out, it wasn’t the prospect of buckets of gold or flights through the heavens that saved us; nor was it her dread of an old age spent in degrading servitude.