path to conquest (22 page)

Most striking of all, the northern promontory of Masada held an amazing triple-tiered palace cut right into the cliff in ascending steps.

Lauren broke the awed silence inside the shuttle as they slowed to landing speed, then hovered for a moment above the north edge. “King Herod the Great built that palace thirty years before the birth of Christ.” Her voice trembled with excitement. “Oooh, I can’t believe we’re here! I hope we get a chance to look around.”

Pete cleared his throat. “Well, we’re not leaving until just before dawn, so we’ve got this afternoon and evening to play tourist—if our resistance contacts don’t mind showing us the sights.”

“Then hurry up and land before the sun sets,” Lauren urged, socking him on the arm.

Setting the alien craft down about a hundred yards from the tents, Pete shut off the engines and Lauren popped the side hatch up. She jumped out first—then stopped suddenly. Neville and Pete followed and also stopped short, bumping into each other as they did.

“Paralyzed, Lauren?” said Pete sardonically.

Her only reply was to turn full circle, eyes wide, mouth agape in wonderment as she took in the complete panorama of the summit. The perimeter was surrounded by the remains of a stone wall that had to be almost a mile in circumference. Off to the east, no more than a couple of miles away, Masada overlooked the Dead Sea, its long, thin oval extending about forty-five miles from north to south. Salt marshes around the sea’s rim had evaporated in midday heat, leaving a bed of crystals to sparkle in the steep rays of afternoon light. The only sound was the eerie moan of the wind—until a staccato burst of semi-automatic gunfire split the silence. Stunned for a second, Pete, Lauren, and Neville hadn’t yet moved when the shots were followed by a voice echoing across the plateau.

“Don’t move,” the voice shouted. “What’s the password?”

Pete cupped his hands over his mouth, moving slowly so as not to cause any alarm. “It’s a phrase. . . .”

“Say it—we’re in no hurry.”

“Nothing sinks in the Dead Sea,” Pete called.

“Okay,” came a disembodied reply. “Counterphrase: That’s what my wife said before she drowned.”

Lauren turned slowly, an offended look on her face. “You didn’t tell me that was the counterphrase.”

“You didn’t ask,” said Pete with a shrug.

They heard footsteps and saw three men emerging from behind an ancient wall. All wore khaki fatigues. The leader was a tall, bearded Arab, followed by a skinny fellow with reddish hair and a second Arab with much darker skin.

“Is that true, nothing sinks in the Dead sea?” asked Pete. The bearded Arab laughed, flashing perfect white teeth. “That’s what they say,” he replied, his British accent causing raised eyebrows among the newcomers. “It’s eight times saltier than ocean water.”

“That’s right,” said the thin man, his accent marking him as an Israeli native. “Nothing sinks in it, and nothing lives in it either. I’m Lavi Mayer,” he said, extending his hand. He gestured to his bearded companion, then the third man. “This is Abdul ibn Aziz and Gamel Nefti.”

Pete introduced Lauren and Neville, and they exchanged handshakes all around.

“Welcome to Masada,” Lavi said. “I guess I’m the official host since this is Israel. When we get to Saudi Arabia, Abdul takes over the reins.”

Lauren gestured around them. “I’ve read about Masada, but this is absolutely incredible.”

“Care for the unofficial tour?” asked Lavi.

“If you hadn’t asked, we’d have begged,” Pete laughed. “But shouldn’t we do something about the shuttle, in case the Visitors fly over?”

“I’ll have the camouflage netting put over it,” Gamel said. “I’ve already had the tour.” He moved off toward the tents. “Are you three the only ones up here?” Neville asked. Abdul shook his head, squinting into the sun. “No, we’ve got a dozen people up here most of the time. There are lots of places to hide, and as you can see, we’ve got quite a view from up here. We’ve also got electronic surveillance equipment.” Pete looked about questioningly. “Where can you hide up here? You don’t even have a blade of grass to crouch behind.” Lavi chortled. “We don’t hide on top of Masada, Pete. We hide
inside
Masada.”

Lauren snapped her fingers in recollection. “That’s right. I read about that, Pete. There’re all kinds of caves that go into the mountain.”

“Come on,” said Lavi. “It’ll be dark soon. One thing we don’t have is street lamps. Coming, Abdul?”

“You folks hungry?” the Arab said. Answered with nods, Abdul smiled. “I thought you would be. You give them the tour, Lavi—I’ll get dinner started. See you all in a bit.”

“My God, look at these frescoes, Peter!” Lauren said. They were on the lower terrace of the magnificent three-level palace clinging to the north face of the cliff. Lavi’s tour had progressed all over the flat plain atop Masada. They’d zipped through three small villas built by Herod the Great, King of the Jews from 37 to 4
B.C.
, and lingered in the large palace on the western side of the summit. This palace was the largest building standing; within its tumbledown walls of sun-baked bricks, there had once been administrative offices, storerooms, living quarters literally fit for a king, and a throne room.

That room, with four carefully edged indentations in its floor to support Herod’s throne canopy, was the place that spoke most strongly through the mists of twenty centuries. In the center the floor was made of tiny tiles laid in an intricate mosaic of pomegranates, wine, fig leaves, and patterns of swirls and geometric shapes.

Lavi showed them the swimming pool just outside the western palace, a ruined church put up by Byzantine monks who inhabited this lonely outpost four hundred years after Herod, an extensive complex of storerooms, and a large bathhouse near the north tip of the mesa.

Finally, with the sun drifting low, they wound up at the terraced palace. The frescoes over which Lauren exulted had been buried under the debris of more than a millennium, but they’d survived, thanks in part to the arid air. Long after Herod had gone to dust, the paintings he’d gazed upon with pride were still there for modem eyes to admire. At the base of cracked plastered columns built against the rock face of Masada itself, gentle patterrns of reds, browns, and salmon shades were just where royal artisans had brushed them, trying to imitate the look of marble.

“Why would Herod build this particular palace with all the others up on top?” Pete asked.

“Good question,” Lavi said. “It obviously must have been incredibly difficult to build this place. But the north point is the highest spot on Masada—it’s best for defense. And the wind here comes from the south almost continuously. And we’re not talking about gentle breezes either. The north face is protected from the wind, and it’s also shaded from the sun. In case you hadn’t noticed, it’s damned hot out here.”

Neville rubbed his sleeve over his face. “We noticed, old boy.”

“How do you know so much about Masada?” asked Lauren. “I was a volunteer working with the excavation team in 1965. Yigael Yadin was the archeologist in charge. Masada was mostly a big mystery before he came up here. No one had really dug under the rubble.”

“Why so much interest?” said Neville. “I mean, not that it’s not fascinating, but what’s the significance of this particular place in the middle of a region where
every
place played a starring role in the Bible or ancient history?”

Lavi cocked his head. “You never heard the story?” Neville hadn’t. A wide grin crossed Lavi’s face and he plunged ahead. “Herod built all this because he wanted an impregnable fortress. He was afraid of the Jewish Zealots, who refused to accept his designation by the Romans as their king. And he was afraid Cleopatra and Egypt had designs on his little desert empire—though, personally, I would’ve thought Cleo had enough sand at home.” He chuckled at his own joke.

“Ah, but things really started cooking at Masada in about 70 A.D. The Romans were in the process of overrunning Palestine and destroying the Temple in Jerusalem, not to mention burning the rest of the holy city. The rebellion against Rome was pretty much dead, except for Masada. It was a last outpost for raids, for about two years. We were driving Flavius Silva, the Roman governor, crazy. Finally, he said enough’s enough, and he brought the Tenth Legion out here to throw the Jews off Masada.”

“How many Jews were there?” asked Pete.

“Nine hundred and sixty-seven. The odds were kind of like us fighting the Visitors. The Romans laid siege to the fortress and Silva thought he could starve the Jews out. But they actually had plenty of food and water.”

Lauren was surprised. “Water? Up here?”

“Yes. Herod’s engineers had built a very clever system of water-collection cisterns and aqueducts. It doesn’t rain here often, but when it does, it floods. Half the summit turns into a shallow lake and flowers bloom like magic,” he said, snapping his finger for emphasis.

“Was that enough to grow food?”

“Well, not really, but they’d socked away quite a supply. And there are all sorts of trails and pathways, so despite the siege, supplies could be brought in occasionally.” He motioned them over to the edge of the terrace, facing west. “Down there—that’s where some of the cisterns are. The water was channeled into the mountain, then fetched up by pail when needed. That part wasn’t especially ingenious, but it
did
get the job done.”

Sunset had streaked the sky with ribbons of purple and red, and they were quiet for a moment of reverent observation. When Lavi continued, his voice was more intense, yet softer, as feeling replaced volume.

“The siege lasted almost three years total. In the third year, Silva decided they had to
take
the fortress from the Jews. We weren’t going to surrender.”

Neville shook his head. “Take this place? How?” “Hmmm, you can’t see it from here,” said Lavi, “but around the west side of the mountain, the Romans built a giant ramp from the desert floor nearly to the top of the cliff.” “We saw that when we flew in,” Pete said. “I was wondering what it was. My god, how did they build anything that massive?”

“Slaves, prisoners of war. God knows, there’s no shortage of dirt and rocks. With enough labor, you can make a big pile of dirt and rocks. Then, at the top, they built a tower and mounted a battering ram.”

“Didn’t the Zealots shoot at them while they were doing all that building?” said Neville.

“Sure,” Lavi said. “But the Romans had plenty of ammunition to shoot back. Also, since the slaves and prisoners were Jews, the Zealots didn’t want to kill their own people, I guess, even though they were being forced to help the Romans.”

“Those walls looked like double walls,” Neville said. “I wouldn’t think a battering ram could get through.”

“They’re called casemate walls—outer and inner walls with space in between. The space was divided into rooms and used for living quarters and storage. Anyhow, the Romans started to break through the outer wall. The Jews reinforced it by pouring dirt between the inner and outer walls, to cushion the impact of the battering ram. They also used huge timbers and planks of wood from some of the buildings. But the Romans set fire to the wood. The wind
almost
changed direction long enough to save the Zealots, but then it changed back—blew the flames away from the Roman siege tower and back toward the inner wall.”

“Divine intervention?” Pete suggested.

Lavi answered with a fractional shrug, “Who knows? The Zealots figured time was running out. They didn’t want to be slaves or prisoners. They wanted to die as free men. So they chose to take their own lives.”

Lauren gasped. “Nine hundred and sixty-seven people committed suicide?”

“Not exactly,” Lavi went on. “Come on—let’s start back to the camp. Abdul and the others should have dinner ready.” He led the climbers back up the tiers of Herod’s hanging palace and picked up the tale. “What they did was, each man killed his own family. Kissed his wife and children good-bye, held them close”—Lavi swallowed, as if reliving that two-thou-sand-year-old agony—“then killed them. Then they drew lots to pick ten men to kill the others. Then one man to kill the other nine. The last man set fire to the palace—the big western one—-and took his own life.”

The Israeli paused to let the story sink in. “The next morning the Romans battered in the wall, and they found nine hundred and sixty bodies.”

“How do we know what went on?” Lauren asked in a whisper as they walked across the open plateau toward the tents.

“Two women and five kids hid and escaped the decision to die. They told the story to the Romans, and Josephus Flavius, a historian of the time, wrote it all. All the evidence we uncovered in the digging supports the story Josephus wrote down.”

“My God, that’s horrible,” said Lauren, still hushed as if respecting the ghosts that must roam the desolate place.

“Not when you consider the alternative,” Lavi said in a matter-of-fact tone.

“What do you mean?” said Pete.

“What would the Romans have done with these Jews who’d been doing their level best to make Silva’s life as governor as difficult as possible—like we do to the Visitors? They would’ve been killed or made into slaves. Neither was any picnic. And imagine how pissed off the Romans must’ve been when they came streaming in here the next morning only to find bodies. Not exactly a satisfying end to a three-year siege. Oh, the Jews made sure to leave lots of food and supplies lying about. They wanted the Romans to know they’d died of their own volition, that they hadn’t been starved out.”

“I wonder what we’d do in that same position?” Pete wondered.

“Well,” said Lavi, “I hear some resistance groups
have
been in similar straits and some of them did what the Jewish Zealots did. Come along—I can smell the food.”

Pete and the others quickened their pace to keep up with the Israeli. “Where are we going?” Pete asked.

“In here,” Lavi replied, pointing at a solid-looking section of the old perimeter wall. He led them to an arched doorway low enough that they had to duck. A tarp had been rigged with tent poles to form an overhanging awning, under which they still had to crouch. Several of the other resistance fighters were gathered here around three camping stoves, where a splendidsmelling stew was being prepared and served on military-issue aluminum field dishes.