“That brainless imbecile,” Lavon muttered as he took a seat on the ground between Sharon and myself.
She looked at him as if he were the most callous brute on the planet. “You can’t say that! The poor boy is dead.”
“He may yet take us with him,” Lavon replied.
I asked for an explanation, and the archaeologist, to his credit, paused briefly and took a deep breath to settle himself down. It wouldn’t do for the Romans to see us arguing among ourselves, something he had the good sense to recognize.
“Did you see the purple stripe bordering his white robe?” he asked.
“The robe you told me not to take?” asked Markowitz.
Lavon nodded. “That stripe marks the wearer as a Roman citizen, entitled to special privileges and protection. Pretending to be one when you’re not is a serious offense.”
“That shouldn’t matter now. No one can question him,” said Markowitz.
“No, it’s worse,” said Lavon.
“A Roman citizen killed by a Roman spear,” I interjected.
“That’s right. That centurion probably sees his career going down the toilet just a few years before he can retire.”
“It obviously happened during the heat of battle,” said Markowitz.
Lavon shook his head. “Roman soldiers took pride in their discipline. That white robe stands out; and the kid doesn’t bear the slightest resemblance to these Zealots. At best, the centurion will have some explaining to do, and it stands to reason that whoever threw that spear won’t be our friend.”
Markowitz’s eyes followed the men lugging the body down the hill. “I don’t know. It looks to me like they’ve decided to cover it up.”
I still wasn’t sure what the fuss was about, either. The Romans could always say the Zealots had done it. And it wasn’t as if the kid’s family would come looking for him here.
“I’m sure they will,” said Lavon, “but the story could still get out. What bugged the centurion, though, is how he became associated with us. Unlike that kid, we’re all wearing common garments. Why were we together?”
“Who said we were together at all?” asked Bryson.
Lavon stared at him hard. “It’s obvious that you knew him.”
“How did you explain it?” I asked.
“Not very well, I’m afraid. Though I read it fine, I’m still struggling with the spoken Greek. I didn’t have enough time to make up a proper story.”
“So what did you say?” asked Bergfeld.
“I told the centurion that we met the man in Caesarea. We agreed to travel with him for a few days because he insisted that we see Jerusalem before going to Egypt.”
“That’s plausible,” said Bryson.
“It would have been, except for your carrying on. From Caesarea to this spot is only a two-day walk. He quite naturally wondered why you would mourn so ardently over a man you had known for such a short time.”
“What did you tell him?” I asked.
“I made up some story about your grandfather owing his a great debt, but I don’t think he was convinced.”
That was plain enough.
“What do you think he’ll do?” I asked.
Lavon shook his head. “His own men are under control. If he’s going to keep this quiet, he only has a small group of other problems.”
I struggled not to cringe. Having a hardened killer — and that’s what a Roman centurion really was — view me as an inconvenient witness was not something to keep my stomach settled.
The others were a bit slower on the uptake, but I could tell by their collective shudders that they finally figured it out.
And there wasn’t a thing we could do.
I turned to Bryson and smiled. “I wouldn’t worry about it, Professor. I doubt they’ll kill us. They’ll probably just cut your tongue out.”
***
We stewed for another half hour as the Romans finished mopping up. The Zealots had gotten us into this fearful mess, and as it turned out, a Zealot saved us, though I’d expect that our health and good fortune were the last things on his mind.
The centurion started toward us with a gesture that could only be interpreted as unpleasant when we heard a piercing cry near the base of the hill. A wounded Zealot, barely clinging to life, had summoned his last reserves of strength and had lashed out at his tormentors with a knife.
This final act of defiance found its mark, and two stretcher bearers leaped off the supply wagon and ran to attend the injured soldier. I watched them rush back to the road, where a Roman medic struggled in vain to staunch the bleeding from the man’s thigh.
If, as I suspected, the blow had nicked the femoral artery, the soldier wouldn’t last long. The centurion had apparently reached the same conclusion. He spat on the ground and shook his head in helpless frustration.
I reached into my bag and pulled out a packet about four inches square and then I turned to Lavon.
“Ask him if I can help.”
Lavon did so, but the Roman only snapped, “What can you do?”
I held up the packet and pointed to the leg. The centurion stared at his medic for a brief instant — the man was obviously losing this battle — and then ordered him to back away.
It was the chance I needed, and I didn’t let it go to waste. I immediately knelt down beside the wounded Roman, ripped open the wrapping, and pressed the bandage into the gash. Thankfully, it worked as advertised. Within a couple of seconds, the bleeding came to a complete stop.
I then pressed the two sides of the wound together which had the effect of folding the back sides of the bandage onto themselves, where they quickly bonded together. I held everything in place for a few minutes and then took a strip of gauze tape out of my bag and wrapped the man’s leg several times.
Satisfied that the wound would not rip apart, I stood up and took a step back.
“Tell him that this soldier should live,” I instructed Lavon.
He did so, but the centurion didn’t move. He kept staring at the leg — waiting for the vessel to burst open again, I suppose. Finally, he seemed convinced that his man would be all right.
He turned back toward us and gestured in my direction. “Tell this man he has my gratitude,” he said to Lavon.
I nodded in acknowledgement. Then he spoke to Lavon again. Not surprisingly, this time his tone was friendly.
“I am Publius,” he said.
Lavon stated his own name, but the centurion struggled with the pronunciation when he tried to repeat it. Lavon introduced the rest of us, too, but our names were apparently even more incomprehensible. The officer shook his head, muttered a few words along with something like “Lavonius,” and headed toward the front of the assembling Roman column.
Lavon started laughing.
“Well, what did he say?” asked Markowitz.
“He said we had strange names.”
“That’s it?”
“No; the best part is that he insists that we accompany them to Jerusalem.”
“Why is that so funny?” asked Bryson.
Lavon chuckled again. “He said it’s not
Chapter 17
