The Third Day

Whatever great adventure they had embarked on earlier in the day had gone horribly awry, and from their terrified expressions, they were only now beginning to realize how horribly indeed.

Two others appeared to be in their mid-twenties, but as if by instinct, I glanced past them to the captive at the head of the queue. This man, older by a decade and evidently their leader, displayed what I can only describe as sheer animal hatred.

No ‘hearts and minds’ for that one, I knew.

I looked to my left and spotted a servant leading an older man toward the now kneeling file of prisoners. The squad’s leader saluted Volusus and briefly explained what had happened, while I re-seated my ear bud as discreetly as I could manage.

Volusus spoke to the prisoners through an interpreter. Whether he didn’t understand Aramaic or simply wanted to use the delay in translation to formulate his next question, I couldn’t tell.

The Roman commander stepped closer to the leader and asked his name, but the prisoner didn’t even acknowledge the question. Instead, he continued to stare straight ahead, his eyes aflame with raw intensity.

Volusus repeated his question; slowly, and in an even tone.

“I will ask you again: what is your name?”

Once more, the man did not respond.

Volusus stared at the captive for a few seconds and then nodded to the closest officer. The optio drew a dagger from his scabbard; then two soldiers pressed the prisoner to the ground while the officer sliced a finger off the man’s right hand.

He didn’t utter a peep. Despite the trauma, his eyes continued to blaze defiance.

The soldiers lifted the prisoner to his knees, and Volusus repeated his inquiry a third time. Hearing no answer, he nodded again to the optio, but before the Roman could act, another prisoner cried out.

It was the youngster, who had turned a ghostly pale; and that wasn’t the only sign of the kid’s terror. His knees rested in a widening pool of his own urine.

“Hold to the strength of your father, Abbas!” he babbled.

“Your name is Abbas, then?” said Volusus.

This had a deflating effect on the man. He cast an irritated glance at the boy and then turned to the Roman commander.

“No, I am only his undeserving son.”

“I see.”

“You see nothing. You are blind to the truth, as are those vermin of our race who condemn themselves to eternal punishment by collaborating with your iniquity. They defy the ways of God.”

The prisoner then cut loose with a stream of invective. I caught only bits and pieces as the interpreter struggled to keep up, though the parts that did come through — something about pig-eating sons of whores and their rightful place of damnation — made the gist of this fellow’s speech quite plain.

The people of the modern Middle East had elevated swearing to an art form. It didn’t sound like things had changed very much.

Volusus said nothing. He had heard it all before, I was sure, and perhaps experience had taught him that it was best to ignore their florid insults. Nevertheless, I could see that he was losing patience, and allowing such brazen defiance to go unpunished could give the others courage that they didn’t otherwise possess.

He nodded to the optio again and the Romans repeated the drill, this time slicing the index finger off the same hand. They weren’t quick about it, either.

The leader’s grimace grew more evident, though once again, he stifled a cry. How he managed to do it, I couldn’t imagine.

Volusus watched in silence. This wasn’t getting anywhere.

“Take them below,” he finally ordered.

I didn’t want to think about what awaited them in the dungeons. I moved off to one side as soldiers dragged the unfortunate creatures away and two slaves rushed over with buckets of water to mop the congealed blood off the stone floor.

A few of the words, though, turned over and over in my mind as I watched: a son who seemed to worry only that he had not killed enough Romans to do his family proud. One Son of Abbas.

“I’ll be damned,” I muttered to myself. Son of Abbas. bar Abbas. Barabbas; arrested for — how had the Gospels put it — insurrection and murder.

My thoughts turned to the awful scene at the gate coming in. This Barabbas, if he was truly the one, was unaware of how lucky he would prove to be, and how quickly his fortunes would turn.

Chapter 37

While the guards led Barabbas and his crew to their fates below, I focused my attention back to the Roman wounded.

Suddenly, I heard a loud shout. By instinct, I jerked my head up and glanced around in all directions; though a brief moment later, I realized the sound had come from my earpiece.

I heard the shuffling of feet, followed by what sounded like a pile of lumber crashing to the ground. I called out, but got no response. Instead, I heard Lavon’s sharp whisper.

“Lie down on the ground. Don’t move.”

This couldn’t be good.

“Damn it, I said don’t move!” The voice was still a whisper, but it carried an insistent tone.

I closed my eyes in order to concentrate. I could hear footsteps — running men by the sound of it — but I had no way of knowing what had actually happened.

Then I heard Lavon speak again, just as quietly as before, but with even more urgency.

“You must pretend to be dead, which you will be if you don’t do exactly as I say.”

And that was all.

I opened my eyes to see a couple of legionnaires looking at me with odd expressions, though the awkward moment passed quickly. Moments later, the optio who had dismembered Barabbas’s hand called out and ordered them to fall back into formation.

Even I could see that whatever started outside the walls had now escalated into major trouble. A trumpet blew atop one of the battlements as another officer signaled for reinforcements, and I had a feeling that Barabbas wouldn’t be the only man dissected today.

I was right about that, too.

For the next hour or so, wounded Romans either stumbled or were carried back in through the north gate.

I treated them to the extent I could and discovered that my reputation had spread through the ranks. Soldiers I had never seen before made a beeline to me with the most serious cases, though for some of them, I, like their colleagues, could do nothing but hope for the best.

Shortly after the last reinforcements had gone out, the returning legionnaires began to drag in coffles of battered prisoners, whose faces and clothing were caked in dried blood.

I had no way to know whether these men had suffered their injuries in the fighting or whether they had been beaten by vengeful soldiers after their capture. Obviously, the Romans issued no Miranda warnings, and a phone call to a lawyer was out of the question.

Very few of the captives carried themselves with the firm bearing of hardened combatants, and none displayed the intense fury I had witnessed in Barabbas.

I shook my head at the madness of it all. They probably never had much of a plan. Instead, full of misguided enthusiasm, these young men had gone charging forth on a grand campaign.

It would end as anything but that.

Having my hands full treating the injured Romans, I paid less attention to the prisoners as time went on. As