Markowitz’s face reddened as he screamed and charged forward. The trouble was, he closed his eyes at the last minute, unwilling to see the result of his strike.
The kid ducked out of the way, though fortunately he wasn’t experienced enough to capitalize on the mistake.
Now they each stood on corners opposite those from which they had started.
“Get back into position,” I yelled.
This time, it was the Zealot who charged forward, though Markowitz managed to deflect the blow.
They swung at each other again and again, harder each time. The swords clanged, and the Romans cheered at this new level of intensity.
I didn’t, though.
“Ray, damn it; this isn’t Hollywood!”
The kid took a powerful swing, but missed, which threw him off balance.
“Now is your chance!” I shouted. “Get him!”
Markowitz saw it too. He thrust his
“Now pull back,” I yelled.
My caution was unnecessary. The kid let go of his sword and fell to his knees, holding his free hand over his stomach. Moments later, his shield also dropped to the ground. He stared up to his opponent with imploring eyes.
Markowitz just stood there, in shock at what he had done.
“You have to finish this,” I said. “Hit him at the base of the neck and he’ll die quick. If not …”
He continued to hesitate.
“Keep your eyes open. Do it right,” I admonished.
Still nothing.
“
Finally, he stepped forward and screamed as he thrust his sword through the kid’s throat. Then, he yanked the weapon away and took a step back, where he stood transfixed in horror as the young man gurgled one last time before collapsing face first onto the ground.
A few of the Romans groaned while their buddies laughed. Money changed hands, and two slaves came forward to drag the body away while two others mopped up the blood.
Markowitz knelt down, leaning on his sword with his eyes closed as he took several deep breaths.
Pilate shook his head. “A pitiful display of swordsmanship,” he said to Lavon. “You are correct that this man is no fighter. You may take him back — this time.”
Lavon acknowledged the governor but did not speak. The message was clear: a second offense would prove lethal to us all.
Markowitz finally looked up. His eyes smoldered with rage toward the Roman prefect, so I quickly eased the sword from his grasp and handed it, hilt first, to a nearby soldier.
Then, Lavon and I helped him to his feet and led him toward the stairs and up to our room. Publius passed by and the archaeologist asked him to have some wine sent up. Markowitz would surely need it.
We all would.
Chapter 44
A different servant was waiting for us as we trudged up the last set of steps. He opened the door and guided us in. After filling our goblets, he returned to his post outside.
We all chugged our wine fast, and Lavon and I watched cautiously as Markowitz took a few halting steps toward the window. Though he didn’t seem like the type to throw himself out, I eased myself closer just in case.
I needn’t have worried. He simply leaned on the windowsill for several minutes, watching the priests go about their business in the Temple compound below.
Suddenly, though, he turned around and hurled his empty goblet across the room.
“I’m going to kill every one of those Roman sons of bitches!” he shouted.
Lavon and I glanced at each other but decided to let him vent.
When he finally ran out of steam, I retrieved his goblet and poured him another cup.
“I know you’re upset,” I said. “But for the moment, we need to focus on getting Sharon back, and then making our way home.”
Markowitz didn’t give her a second thought. “I mean it,” he exclaimed. “I’m coming back. Those people are animals!”
He stood up, walked back to the window, and once again gazed at the crush of worshippers flowing into the Temple courtyard.
“I never paid much attention, growing up,” he muttered.
“Paid attention to what?” asked Bryson.
He gestured toward the Temple. “To
None of us replied.
“I was wrong. I should have paid more attention.”
He lowered his head and stared at the floor, mumbling something about being the only Jew in New York who hadn’t lost any known relatives to the Holocaust.
This triggered another unpleasant thought.
“Robert,” he asked, “When the Romans destroyed this city, how many people died?”
Lavon’s first response was evasive. He could sense where this was heading.
Markowitz, though, wouldn’t let up. “I’m not asking for an exact count. Roughly speaking, how many died in the siege?”
“The most plausible figures hover around a million,” Lavon said.
“One million dead Jews?”
“Yes — for the whole war, not just here in Jerusalem.”
“You’re saying these Roman swine killed one million of my ancestors?”
“It’s a bit more complicated than that,” he replied.
Lavon explained that as the siege progressed, three bands of Jewish fanatics took control of separate areas of the city. One occupied the Temple Mount; another controlled the Upper City around Herod’s palace, while a third held the district to the south.
As is often the case in such circumstances, each of the factions first slaughtered anyone they considered a moderate, before they turned against each other with as much gusto as they fought the Romans.
In the process, most of the Jerusalem’s food supply went up in smoke; and a city that might have held out for several years fell in six months.
This information, however, did not faze Markowitz.
“You said earlier that the Romans allowed refugees from other parts of Judea to stream into the city in the hopes they would eat through the grain stores even faster.”
“They did,” admitted Lavon.
Markowitz just shook his head. “Bastards!”
When he turned back to face the Temple, I refilled his goblet once more. With luck, he wouldn’t pay attention to how much he was drinking.
“The Ninth of Av,” he muttered. “I thought all that stuff was just something old people worried about.”
Markowitz continued to rant; none of us attempted to stop him.
“The Ninth of Av?” asked Bryson.
“The saddest day in Judaism,” said Lavon, “the day in their calendar when both the first and second Temples
