The high priest pointed at Leah. “Woman, take your brother’s daughter and show her the way home.” Then he turned toward Elizabeth, hissing, “Do not disrespect me again, woman. Cover your face or you’ll find a place with your father.”
Gesturing at Michael, the high priest shouted loud enough so that even those in the rear of the crowd could hear him, “Take him to the prison to await sentencing. Let it be known that if you help a murderer, we will treat you like one.”
The soldiers chuckled in agreement and the high priest seemed to revel in the moment.
“No,” screamed Elizabeth as she struggled away from the soldiers to reach her father.
Leah swiftly moved toward her and grabbed her arm. “Stop. Or you’ll get hurt.”
“I don’t care, they’re taking my father!”
Leah’s grip tightened around Elizabeth’s arm as two Roman soldiers led Michael away. He turned slightly to get a last glance of her. “Go, Elizabeth, go with the woman, get back to Northport,” he pleaded.
“Listen to him, woman!” the high priest said, gliding toward Elizabeth. “You are to go with your father’s sister and stay with her while you are here for the festivities. Do not travel at night. Not everyone will show mercy like I have today. The soldiers will remember you for what you tried to do. Next time I will not help you.” His hand slapped at the air, his palm upturned. “Go now!”
“Thank you for your mercy,” Leah said, her face turned downward. She leaned into Elizabeth, pulling her back slightly. “Come, come with me quickly,” she whispered, nodding once to Michael. “I’ll take care of her.”
Elizabeth watched as her father was led off into the courtyard below. She struggled to follow him as closely as she could, but the crowd only parted for the soldiers, trapping her behind the mob.
“Take this,” said Leah, ripping a piece of garment under her robes and then handing it to Elizabeth.
“I’m not wearing this,” said Elizabeth, giving it back.
Leah grabbed her arm and tightened her grip. Staring at Elizabeth she implored, “Do you want to die? Listen to me!”
Elizabeth remained silent, glaring, then adjusted the veil over her face.
3
A MARCH TO DEATH
The crowd started to disperse as the soldiers dragged Michael farther from the courtyard. People still lined the sides of the dusty stone road, eyeing the three of them as they walked past. Some boldly hissed and taunted the soldiers from afar, while others mocked Michael.
The noise and catcalls unnerved him briefly, but then a strange calm took over. He began to register every unusual sight and image, mentally making note of each unique landmark. He took a deep breath in an effort to shake off the fear that threatened to suffocate him.
The walk was slow and measured. The soldiers scanned the restless crowd, monitoring everyone as if a skirmish could erupt at any moment. Their path took them around the back of the courtyard, and Michael was astounded by how large the high priest’s enclave must be, given how far they had already traveled.
He hesitated slightly, wheeling back to determine if Elizabeth and the woman were following him. The road behind him appeared nearly empty. A sharp blow to his back sent a surge of pain shooting to the top of his head.
“Keep moving,” yelled the soldier on his right.
“I am!” Michael replied angrily.
The soldier on the left whipped the end of his spear into Michael’s right leg, causing him to stumble in pain. The other soldier laughed menacingly.
The men on the side streets continued to yell but this time directed their jeers at the soldiers. Michael noticed that the women, all veiled, looked down as the soldiers paraded by. One of the soldiers followed his gaze. “Keep moving,” he ordered.
All the blows he had taken reminded Michael of his early childhood days when he misspoke or did something wrong. A whack on the head was sometimes the punishment, but more often than not, it was a painful hour on his knees in a corner of his bedroom with his hands folded on top of his head. In retrospect, that penance was nothing compared to this.
As they walked, Michael realized in panic that they were traveling in the opposite direction of the tunnel’s entrance. But then this thought brought him a sense of solace: he was drawing the soldiers away from the tunnel, which meant that Elizabeth would be free to go back home, where he would soon join her. If I don’t wake up first.
He tried to compose himself but an overpowering fear for Elizabeth’s safety nearly sidelined him as the soldiers turned the corner onto a new street. Before him loomed a majestic building, cut into the hillside sweeping upward behind it. Four gigantic towers, one higher than the other three, shot up into the skyline above him. He was mesmerized by how much it resembled a medieval castle. As they drew closer, Michael wondered how this could possibly be the prison.
They approached five soldiers flanking the grand entrance, around which small clusters of people huddled. Some of the soldiers, dressed in shining gold helmets and silver breastplates, held spears in their hands while others lazily swung round cement balls dangling from chains. Michael’s captors nodded their heads toward the front guards and were immediately allowed admission. Once inside, the retaining wall soared above them, and Michael was impressed by its grandeur. His gaze followed it upward for as high as he could see.
The soldier to his right cracked him on the back of the head. “Don’t worry. You’re not going there,” he chuckled.
The other soldier shoved Michael hard to the right, propelling him sideways through a small archway. The passageway was narrow and led to a dark, steep stairway. It was so tight that one soldier had to stand in front of Michael while the other held on to him from the back. Michael tried counting the steps but lost track at forty-five; the oppressive heat distracted him.
At the foot of the stairs, Michael immediately detected a pungent odor in the humid air. What is that smell? Dead fish?
The soldiers pushed him farther down the dank hallway before them. The smell intensified, causing Michael to put his shoulder to his nose. The soldier on his right looked at Michael and grinned. “Is this your first time coming to Antonia?”
“What is this place?”
“It’s where Jews like you come to die.” Both soldiers laughed.
“I’m not a Jew!” Michael protested.
“Oh, you’re not?” asked the soldier on his left. “Then what are you? You’re not a Roman.”
Michael didn’t answer right away, measuring the consequences of what he was going to say. Obviously, this was no place for a Jewish man or woman. But there appeared to be an anger regarding Jesus as well. So he chose the safe route. “I’m just a guy who wants to get home and see my daughter. That’s all.”
The soldiers laughed again. “Welcome home,” one of them sneered.
The hallway emptied out onto another stairway, which descended below them. A waft of stale air overpowered them. Michael tried not to gag.
“What is that smell?”
“Rotting flesh,” the soldier on his left answered. “Smells good, doesn’t it?”
Michael stopped, shocked at what he’d just heard. “I’m not going down there!” Instinctively he gave a swift, measured kick to the back of the soldier’s leg, and he released his grip. Michael staggered back but the other soldier still hung on gamely.
Several soldiers from below heard the commotion and came rushing up, swinging their spears at Michael and knocking him to the ground. He curled up in a fetal position with his arms covering his face in a vain attempt to stop the blows.
“Enough!” shouted an authoritative voice. Michael lowered his arms and looked up. A soldier with a white piece of cloth dangling from the back of his helmet stared down at him.
“Help him to his feet and put him in the dungeon. But leave him alone, he’s mine!”
“Yes, Marcus,” said one of the soldiers. “Is there anything else you need to be done?”
“Keep him handcuffed to the wall. I’ll take care of him later myself.”