The Third Day by David Epperson Page A

afford to mounted iron blades on the underside of the sled.  This thing was better than nothing, but just barely. 
    “These people are really poor,” he said. 
    I glanced around at the surrounding structures and could not argue.  Only in the loosest definition of the term could they be called buildings.  The best of them consisted of rough, unfinished stone, held together by an altogether inadequate amount of mortar.  Most didn’t even have roofs.  Instead, they were covered by a thick black fabric. 
    “It’s goat hair,” said Lavon.  “It works better than you’d think.  The hair expands as it gets wet, so it does a reasonably good job of keeping out the rain; and when it dries, the small open spaces allow for some air circulation.” 
    I mumbled something about preferring shingles, but they paid me no mind and went charging ahead.  I followed along and stood behind them as they poked their noses into the next house.  Inside this one, a crude, unfinished table rested in the center, while two equally rudimentary benches sat to either side.  One had toppled backwards. 
    The occupants had mounted a rough-hewn wooden shelf on the back wall, but it held nothing; and the only other object in sight was a broken pot on the floor. 
    “Someone left in a hurry,” I said. 
    “I think they all did,” said Lavon.  “They probably heard the soldiers coming and decided not to stick around.  I’m sure word of the skirmish this morning has already gone ahead.” 
    That jolted me into glancing back toward the road.  Given the side we had chosen – or rather had chosen for us – I didn’t want to be too far from the Romans if any of the village’s residents decided to come back early. 
    My companions, though, had other things on their minds.  By the time I caught up to them at the top of the next hill, they were chattering excitedly; this time over a house on the other side – built atop what looked like a cave. 
    “It’s nice to know modern archaeology got something right,” said Lavon.  “This is exactly what I’ve always pictured a first century Judean house looking like.” 
    “The family stays upstairs,” said Bergfeld.  “When the weather is nice, as it often is around here, they’ll sleep under the stars on the flat roof.” 
    “Who lives on the lower level?  Livestock?” 
    “Yes,” said Lavon, “along with household servants, if they have any.  It’s quite a clever setup.  They take full advantage of the terrain in an environment where construction lumber is prohibitively expensive.” 
    I glanced back around.  “Clever” wasn’t the first word that occurred to me. 
    Taken as a whole, the ramshackle village reminded me of a more primitive version of a third world shantytown, though I suppose as in those places, these people did the best with what they had, which wasn’t much. 
    “Jesus would have been born in something like this,” said Lavon. 
    “This?” I asked. 
    “Not this particular town, of course, but it was this kind of house, we think.  The upstairs part was full, so Mary and Joseph had to go to the lower level.  It wasn’t quite as bad as the modern English version of the Christmas story makes it out to be.  The mean old innkeeper wasn’t exiling them to the barn.” 
    “Childbirth without anesthetics – that would have been the bad part,” said Bergfeld. 
    I had never thought of it that way, nor had most men I was sure. 
    “How many people would you estimate live here?” I asked. 
    Lavon studied the village for a moment.  “I’d guess about a hundred, more or less,” he said.  “Bethlehem was probably about the same size,” he added. 
    “It’s an area the church’s critics get wrong,” said Bergfeld.  “Some of them say that Herod’s slaughter of the infants never took place, since no source outside the Bible mentions it.” 
    “What they don’t understand,” said Lavon, “is that in the scheme of things in the