The Third Day

As we paused for him to regain his wind, we couldn’t help but reflect on the irony of it all: the confused, angry men from whom we had just fled would lend their names to the largest cathedrals on two continents, one of which they would never know even existed.

“Who could have thought it?” said Lavon.

None of us really could, but as much as we wanted to go back and speak to them, we had to keep going.

We proceeded at the pace of a brisk walk and had nearly made it out of the quarry when we stumbled onto our next surprise: a cluster of rough-looking characters unpacking sacks filled with hammers, picks and chisels.

Sharon’s scarf had fallen back, exposing her hair, and this crew had noticed its unusual hue. One of them pointed at her and yelled out something in Aramaic.

Naomi answered straight away. Though her tone sounded abusive, the men laughed heartily, and when one of their party shouted back, they laughed even harder.

Lavon grinned as Naomi gave him a brief, G-rated translation.

“Stonemasons,” he said. “We tend to forget that Easter Sunday was the first day of their work week. These guys are just getting started.”

Sharon rolled her eyes. “I see some things never change.”

Naomi and the construction workers continued to trade good-natured barbs until we passed behind a final hill and scrambled up toward the main road. From there, we made our way to the northwest, keeping a parallel track to avoid the crowds heading into the city.

***

It wasn’t long before angry shouting from the edge of the quarry told us that the men on our tails weren’t all that far behind, although we did encounter one unexpected bit of good fortune.

Naomi explained that from the perspective of the masses, the Temple police ranked only slightly above the Romans at the bottom end of the popularity scale. Her new friends — the stonemasons — would do what they could to slow our pursuers down, if only out of spite.

But she admitted that we’d gain only a momentary delay. We could hold no illusions that the laborers would risk their own necks to save ours.

“That may be all we need,” I said.

We all took another look at the Professor’s LED. This time Naomi saw us do it, and asked why.

As we pressed on, Lavon tried to explain our situation to a now very confused woman, who once again had to be wondering if she had made the right call, and whether instead of producing freedom and wealth, her alliance with us would leave her broken body trampled in the dust.

The rest of us, though, had no time for such considerations. A couple of minutes later, we glanced back to see the first black helmets rise up to ground level, less than half a mile to our rear.

“What color, Professor?” asked Lavon, trying without success to conceal his worry.

“Still yellow,” he replied.

The others heard this exchange, along with the nervous tones that accompanied it.

As if by instinct, and without any prompting, we each shed our outer robes and took off at a dead run toward a clump of scrub trees nestled into the top of a narrow ridge about two hundred yards to our west.

Just beyond the trees, we leapt over a pile of rocks — the remains of a long-decayed stone wall, as it turned out — and fell panting to the ground. Even Sharon seemed a bit winded, while Bryson gasped for his next breath.

I reached for his tunic.

Yellow.

We peered over the rocks without seeing anything, but our respite only lasted a brief moment.

“Here they come,” said Lavon.

The black helmets edged slowly toward us once more, although this time, we could see that the guards’ demeanor had changed. They no longer appeared to be a hundred percent confident of success.

A moment later, we saw why.

Lavon gestured to our right. “Look over there,” he said.

As if to confirm Naomi’s description of the gendarmes’ unpopularity, a group of shepherd boys began to pelt our persecutors with stones. Though these served more as an irritant than any serious danger, the guards could no longer be certain that they were chasing only a handful of bedraggled foreigners.

We watched the activity for a brief moment before I concluded that we should take advantage of the interlude to buy ourselves a few more precious seconds. I hefted Bryson up by the tunic and turned him toward the next ridge, a hundred yards beyond.

“Let’s go.”

***

In hindsight, this was a mistake. Our party lost all semblance of order as we dashed up the hill in a mad scramble. Worse, toward the end of our run, Bryson stepped into a hole and twisted his ankle. Lavon and I had to drag him the rest of the way to the top.

Compounding our predicament, the ruckus caused by the stone-throwing boys had drawn the attention of a Roman patrol, which immediately wheeled around and trotted toward us at a brisk double-time pace.

The shepherd kids knew trouble when they saw it, and as the legionnaires drew closer, they scattered in all directions, leaving the soldiers’ attention focused squarely upon us.

I glanced around toward the next hill to the west, but by then, Bryson’s ankle had become painfully tender. He’d never make it, nor would we, if we tried to carry him.

I reached for the Professor’s pendant and saw that the LED still glowed with the same hideous color. This time, I ripped it from his neck and surprised even myself.

I handed the chip to Sharon and pointed to our rear.

“Go. You and Naomi might be able to make it. We’ll stay here and hold them off as long as we can.”

I knew the time would be short, but every second might count.

“We still have a chip,” I added. “Go!”

Sharon hesitated long enough for Lavon to translate what I had said to a now thoroughly bewildered Naomi, who categorically refused to leave the archaeologist’s side.

By then, Sharon, too, had determined not to budge.

She handed the chip back to Bryson. “We stay together,” she said, “to the very end.”

Chapter 65

And this was good, for by then, the choice was no longer hers to make.

While we had debated, the Roman commander divided his forty men into three groups. He sent two on a double-time pace to circle around to our left and to our right, to cut off any possibility of escape.

Then he paused to confer with the Temple guards, to ascertain any details he might have missed.

Once again, I found myself admiring the Romans’ raw efficiency. This officer knew his business.

I instructed Markowitz and Bryson to keep their eyes on the soldiers to our rear, to warn us if they started to advance. Meanwhile, the rest of us could do nothing but observe the gathering storm to our front, as we racked our brains in search of options.

Suddenly, Lavon cried out. “That’s Decius! He’s the one in command.”

Without further discussion, the archaeologist stood up and shouted something my translation software didn’t catch.

“There’s no use trying to hide our identities,” he said as he turned back to us. “Perhaps we can stall them by negotiating long enough for our return ticket to be validated.”

This was true enough, and very smart thinking.

By now, the Romans had advanced to within a hundred feet of our position. There, they paused and lowered their shields to the ground.