destroy your Temple,’” Josephus shouts, atop his horse from a safe distance. Engineers have already heaved lead to determine how close he can come. “‘Why do you force my hand? Why do you pollute your own Sanctuary with the blood of the slain?’” He makes his horse trot a straight line, careful not to stray closer. “‘Why do you not listen to your own rabbi and countryman, and my spokesman, Josephus? He has laid out my terms for the last time. Why not submit to imprisonment rather than see the House of your God destroyed by flames?’”
“We’ll have more desertions now,” Eleazar says, turning to me.
I nod absently. It’s difficult to concentrate. I’m grieving for Abner. I have stood the entire night and part of the morning on the wall of the Court of Women, searching for his body among the slain littering the paving stones of the Court of Gentiles. Sometime before dawn, the Romans gathered their wounded and brought them to safety behind the massive Corinthian columns of the Royal Portico, the one running the length of the outer court’s southern wall and the only portico stillintact. Could they have brought Abner there by mistake? Impossible to imagine. His fringed tunic, his brown leather breast plate, his bearded face clearly reveal him as a Zealot. From the wall, I’ve looked a hundred times at the place where he fell. He had to be dead.
But where was his body?
Someone catapults a boulder causing Josephus’s gray steed to rear. When he brings it under control, he shouts his parting words, “Heaven will curse you if you don’t surrender now.”
Jeers and profanity follow his departure as our men wave their fists and weapons in the air. Their taunts are greeted by Roman heckling. Scores of legionaries lift their shields and javelins threateningly. Some pound swords against their metal boss. A centurion, with arms folded, stands to one side. After a few moments, he raises his hand and silences his men, then points to the fresh crop of crosses planted during the night.
“See to your fate, Jews of Jerusalem. Not even your generals can save you now. They can’t even save their own sons.” With that he spits on the ground and walks away amid a chorus of curses and taunts.
But I hardly hear over the pounding of my heart as I sprint across the top of the wall, scanning the forest of crosses as I go.
“What’s
wrong
?” Eleazar says, wheezing behind me.
I ignore him as I run, searching, searching, searching the anguished swollen faces of those who have been beaten, then crucified. Beads of perspiration dot my forehead as I gulp air through my tightening chest. And then I stop.
No . . . this can’t be him
. He is hardly recognizable—stripped naked, his manhood exposed, face swollen and battered, lips split and bleeding, body ripped and bloody from scourging. Flies swarm his wounds. I can almost feel their torment. His head droops against his chest. His arms are stretched. A plaque of wood covers each wrist to keep the nails that pierce them from ripping through the flesh. His legs are pulled up and each heel, also covered with a plaque, is nailed to the cross.
“
Abner
.” I choke saying his name. I’ve never felt such pain. It’s as if my heart has been clawed by giant talons. I pull my hair. I curse andpound my fists against the wall. Then I grab the bow from the hand of the rebel near me, pull an arrow from his quiver, and without using a bracer to protect my injured arm, I shoot the arrow at my son.
When it misses its mark I frantically grab for another arrow, but the man backs away, his face twisted in horror. I leap on him like a beast, and am about to wrestle him to the ground when strong, spindly fingers pull me away.
“No need, Ethan. No need,” Eleazar says softly. “Abner is already dead.”
“You sent for us?” My weary body tenses as I brace for Eleazar’s answer and the reason he has summoned us to the Court of the Lepers, the only place not filled to overflowing
“We’ll have more desertions now,” Eleazar says, turning to me.
I nod absently. It’s difficult to concentrate. I’m grieving for Abner. I have stood the entire night and part of the morning on the wall of the Court of Women, searching for his body among the slain littering the paving stones of the Court of Gentiles. Sometime before dawn, the Romans gathered their wounded and brought them to safety behind the massive Corinthian columns of the Royal Portico, the one running the length of the outer court’s southern wall and the only portico stillintact. Could they have brought Abner there by mistake? Impossible to imagine. His fringed tunic, his brown leather breast plate, his bearded face clearly reveal him as a Zealot. From the wall, I’ve looked a hundred times at the place where he fell. He had to be dead.
But where was his body?
Someone catapults a boulder causing Josephus’s gray steed to rear. When he brings it under control, he shouts his parting words, “Heaven will curse you if you don’t surrender now.”
Jeers and profanity follow his departure as our men wave their fists and weapons in the air. Their taunts are greeted by Roman heckling. Scores of legionaries lift their shields and javelins threateningly. Some pound swords against their metal boss. A centurion, with arms folded, stands to one side. After a few moments, he raises his hand and silences his men, then points to the fresh crop of crosses planted during the night.
“See to your fate, Jews of Jerusalem. Not even your generals can save you now. They can’t even save their own sons.” With that he spits on the ground and walks away amid a chorus of curses and taunts.
But I hardly hear over the pounding of my heart as I sprint across the top of the wall, scanning the forest of crosses as I go.
“What’s
wrong
?” Eleazar says, wheezing behind me.
I ignore him as I run, searching, searching, searching the anguished swollen faces of those who have been beaten, then crucified. Beads of perspiration dot my forehead as I gulp air through my tightening chest. And then I stop.
No . . . this can’t be him
. He is hardly recognizable—stripped naked, his manhood exposed, face swollen and battered, lips split and bleeding, body ripped and bloody from scourging. Flies swarm his wounds. I can almost feel their torment. His head droops against his chest. His arms are stretched. A plaque of wood covers each wrist to keep the nails that pierce them from ripping through the flesh. His legs are pulled up and each heel, also covered with a plaque, is nailed to the cross.
“
Abner
.” I choke saying his name. I’ve never felt such pain. It’s as if my heart has been clawed by giant talons. I pull my hair. I curse andpound my fists against the wall. Then I grab the bow from the hand of the rebel near me, pull an arrow from his quiver, and without using a bracer to protect my injured arm, I shoot the arrow at my son.
When it misses its mark I frantically grab for another arrow, but the man backs away, his face twisted in horror. I leap on him like a beast, and am about to wrestle him to the ground when strong, spindly fingers pull me away.
“No need, Ethan. No need,” Eleazar says softly. “Abner is already dead.”
“You sent for us?” My weary body tenses as I brace for Eleazar’s answer and the reason he has summoned us to the Court of the Lepers, the only place not filled to overflowing
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