Jerusalem's Hope (26 page)

But how could he explain his failure to deliver the basket?

Avel would be ashamed of him. When the story got out, Lev would make his life miserable.

He pressed ahead.

The walking got easier, but Emet's sense of terror didn't abate when the canyon opened out into a flat. Ahead of him, looming over the distant slopes, was the broken fang of Herodium. Its turreted windows smoldered with orange lights, but there was no comfort in gazing at the brooding castle of the butcher king.

Even worse, reaching toward him like an outstretched tentacle, was the sinuous line of the aqueduct, ending in the claw-shaped Tower of Siloam.

Was he hopelessly lost? How could he go so far astray when all he had to do was walk down a hill and find men gathered around a fire?

Then he spotted a momentary gleam at the base of Siloam Tower. A blue spark appeared, flickered, then disappeared almost before Emet was certain he'd seen it.

It came again. Someone striking a flint, trying to light a flame.

He'd found the camp after all, Emet thought, flooded with relief. Perhaps the shepherds had followed a lost lamb, or perhaps Avel hadn't really known where the night watch was located. But no matter, Emet had succeeded.

Marching toward the structure, Emet observed the shadowy forms of dark-clad men against the lighter expanses of stone. A half-score or more he saw when their lumpish forms marred the clean, straight lines of the scaffolding.

What were they doing?

A groaning sound reached his ears. It came from the timbering near the top of Siloam Tower. It sounded as if the structure itself moaned and screeched.

He froze.

A hand grabbed him by the hair. The prick of a knifepoint gouged his throat. “What're you doing here?” a guttural voice demanded.

Asher!

Would he be recognized? Was Kittim nearby?

“Speak up!” Asher ordered. “Who sent you?”

“I . . . I'm lost,” Emet said. “Nobody sent me. I'm lost.”

There was an instant when his head was tugged backward. Emet expected the sweep of the blade across his neck. He cried out, but instead of his throat being cut, a palm clapped across his mouth.

“Quiet!” Asher commanded.

Emet had not been recognized. He blessed the Almighty for the darkness! Nor could his words give him away; he'd had none when he and Asher had last met.

Asher hissed horrifying visions into Emet's ear.

“Don't tell anyone!” Asher warned, snarling hot breath against Emet's cheek. “If you tell, I'll come for you. You won't see me, but I'll see you. I'll come in the night and . . .” Asher made a gurgling sound, then shoved Emet away. “Go!”

Dropping the basket, Emet escaped.

The orange eyes of Herodium watched him flee. Every time he stumbled into a thornbush and scrambled upright again, its gaze followed him. He didn't stop running until he reached the rendezvous where Avel and Ha-or Tov awaited him.

They teased him for running, teased him for being frightened, then stopped teasing when they saw his hands and face streaked with the blood of puncture wounds and heard his breath coming in painful gasps.

Emet, so grateful for his newfound voice, did not speak all the way back to Migdal Eder.

ADONAY

T
he note from Zadok arrived at Herodium by the hand of a sullen messenger just after dawn.

Marcus studied its contents with concern:

 

So. The old man had found something to complain to the elders in Jerusalem about in spite of Marcus' meeting and payment for the stolen sheep?

So be it.

Now the focus had shifted to trampled grass, had it? Well, then.

Angry at the charge, Marcus skipped breakfast and unrolled the plans for the aqueduct.

In reviewing the schematic representation Marcus quickly spotted its most important feature: the junction between the existing water supply route and the new one. This would also be the edifice most crucial to engineer properly.

The surrounding land was at the heart of Zadok's grumbling.

Marcus mounted Pavor and rode out again from Herodium.

On the way he passed a line of drovers goading their oxen toward the same place. Their carts were loaded with building materials for the work.

It was these carts that had become the focus of controversy between the shepherds and the stoneworkers. Marcus was in a foul temper. Most likely there would be a fresh complaint every day. When Marcus had accepted the assignment, he hadn't expected a constant stream of unpleasantness. He had thought perhaps he could, on occasion, find a reason to ride to Bethany.

After all, Miryam of Magdala was at Bethany with her brother.

Miryam had been uppermost in his mind as he rode south.

He knew well that he had been picked by Pilate for this assignment in Beth-lehem for two reasons. First, he had managed to get along with the Jewish leaders of Capernaum. He had helped them build their synagogue, hadn't he? But could he also tame the ire of the wild shepherds of Beth-lehem? They were a different breed than the Galileans he had come to know and respect. Second was the belief that perhaps Marcus was too sympathetic toward the Jews. After all, Marcus had taken a Jewess as his lover, had he not? And was he not supportive of Yeshua of Nazareth in his reports? Did the record not show that Centurion Marcus Longinus had a certain compassion toward the Jews?

Compassion in a centurion wasn't a quality valued by his superiors.

Well, today whatever sympathy Marcus had arrived with vanished! This obscure assignment was bound to be a position rife with trouble and complaint every moment! Chasing bar Abba and the bandits in the wilderness of Jericho seemed like a peaceful stroll through the Lyceum compared to controlling the simmering hatred in this stinking, woolly stockyard!

The problem stretched across the valley below him.

East of Beth-lehem, not far from the trade route connecting Jerusalem and the Dead Sea fort of En-gedi, was the reservoir feeding the aqueduct built by Herod the Great. It was at this point that Pilate's project and the existing water supply route would unite.

Herod's aqueduct, ponderous and ungainly by Roman standards, carried the precious fluid simultaneously on two levels. The higher channel had enough elevation to supply the Temple Mount. Once it reached the Holy City, conduits of fire-hardened clay conveyed the water into the cavernous cisterns beneath the platform of the sanctuary. There the liquid was in constant use, both for the ritual bathing required of the priests and, more prosaically, for cleaning up after the countless sacrifices and sluicing thousands of gallons of blood into the Kidron Valley.

The lower channel answered the secular purposes of Jerusalem's population. When it arrived at the city, it delivered its water into the Pool of Siloam at the city's southern extremity.

Because of this ultimate destination, the structure built to unite the new aqueduct with the old was to be called the
Tower of Siloam.

Seeps and springs spilling into Herod's reservoir made the land around the tower site extremely fertile, some of the best pastureland for the flocks of Migdal Eder. Even in the dry season, and indeed during dry years, the natural bowl provided feed in plenty.

In the wet season, like the one just ended, it was lush with green grass higher than a lamb's back. By judicious rotation of pasturage, the shepherds were able to preserve the bountiful nature of the area, using it specifically to fatten lambs destined for priority transport to the Temple.

The first thing Marcus noticed when he arrived on-site was the new tower rising adjacent to the existing aqueduct. There was as yet no connection between the two structures, but three courses of mammoth foundation stones were in place. Above these a timber scaffolding outlined the location of the graceful arches that would eventually stand there.

The second thing he noticed was hundreds of sheep contentedly munching their fodder, seemingly oblivious to the construction.

These were both positive notes automatically filed by Marcus for his report to Pilate and defense against any further accusation.

But the situation was not all good news.

Ringing the inner and outer slopes of the lake basin were wagon tracks . . . lots of them. Heavily laden with blocks from quarries miles away, the wheels of the oxcarts and the hooves of the beasts themselves had ground the precious pasture into the mud. Even worse were the marks left by the passage of wheel-less sledges. Dragged along the ground, they had planed the hillside like a carpenter smoothes the edge of a beam. Loads of cut stones, heaps of timber, and mounds of sand and lime for mortar indiscriminately littered the landscape.

The scene resembled a city fallen to a siege and knocked to pieces by its conqueror.

All right then. The old one-eyed shepherd had validity to his complaint.

The unnecessary destruction of much valuable grass would not go unchallenged. Perhaps, Marcus thought, this was fodder for insurrection. This possibility was evident from the sour looks Marcus received from the shepherds he passed.

On-site Marcus spotted Gaius Robb, chief of the surveying crew. He was discussing a feature of the construction with the Jewish stonecutter Oren and Oren's apprentice son, Benjamin. “You see where we had to remove the wings buttressing the existing primary arch,” Robb said, “in order for the tower to form a proper connection. I cannot stress strongly enough how crucial the scaffolding is at that point and how fast your men must work. Until the new structure is properly braced, the weight of the old will be pushing outward . . . a dangerous situation.”

Oren's reply was confident. “I understand. The way the work is arranged there will be no more than one day's danger . . . two at most. Thereafter the tower will be more solid than Herod's builders ever imagined.”

Marcus observed, not wishing to interrupt such a pivotal discussion. After a moment Gaius Robb saw him.

“Centurion,” Robb said, inviting him to join them. “An interesting problem, this.” He flipped over several charcoal-on-parchment sketches, giving details of props, bracing, and reinforcement. “Meshing two different styles of building is always a challenge, eh?”

“We have another problem,” Marcus said bluntly, passing Zadok's message to Robb. “Is there a reason the material is scattered all over? And why wasn't a proper road staked out?”

Robb scanned the note but seemed baffled by the criticism. “Does it matter?” he asked. “There's nobody here but sheep. What's the value of a bit of grass more or less?”

Marcus studied Oren. It was clear the stonecutter knew instantly what was at issue. Even his son, Benjamin, shifted his weight from one leg to the other and stared uneasily at the rubble heaps in the field.

Finally Oren claimed, “I asked about making a road and laying out a supply depot, but was told those would cause unnecessary delays.”

Marcus said sternly, “Even though you knew anything less would destroy the pasture? Who prevented you?”

“Praetorian Vara,” Oren admitted.

Vara again! At best the man had a callous disregard for the concerns of others. But Marcus believed the man made most decisions affecting the Jews out of deliberate spite.

Many Roman officers and their mercenary troopers felt the same.

“Robb,” Marcus said, “we need to consolidate the blocks and timbers and mark a road that the wagons must keep to.”

“Over a bit of grass?” Robb repeated obtusely. “Aren't you making—”

Robb's statement was interrupted by the sounds of shouting from outside the tent. More ominous still was the whiz of stones flying, followed by exclamations of pain.

Drawing his sword, Marcus rushed outside. The caravan of blocks had arrived. Not only did the convoy of oxcarts cut another swath through unspoiled pasture, but at the construction site each had turned aside to park, crushing fifteen separate spokes of fan-shaped desolation.

The herdsmen had had enough! Over thirty shepherds, slings in hand, advanced on the wagons!

The drovers were clearly getting the worst of the confrontation. Several shepherds used their slings to good advantage. While the stone-haulers cowered behind their loads, oxen bellowed as missiles aimed at their masters hit the animals instead. One beast, startled into sudden motion, attempted a tight circle to escape, and the heaped-up load of timbers overturned. Eight-inch beams scattered like straws.

Clambering down from the scaffolding, laborers wielding hammers leapt to the defense of the drovers.