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“Spent much time in this area, Pilate?” inquired Antipas, as they jogged down the roadway in the same carriage.

“Just a short visit to Jericho two years ago.”

“We’re entering one of the most fascinating regions in all your Roman Empire, no, perhaps in all the world.”

“A rather comprehensive statement.”

“But true nevertheless. Look just north of Jericho. See those outcrop-pings of earth beyond the spring and the palm groves? They mark the site of the oldest city in the world, a civilization going back literally thousands of years.”

“Any proof of that?”

“My father, Herod, was interested in antiquities and once had his men dig into those mounds. Near the bottom they found stone tools of such crudeness and age as have been found nowhere else.”

Pilate pointed to the south and asked, “What’s that establishment up on the hill overlooking the sea?”

“Where? Oh, there. That’s the monastery of the Essenes, a truly unbelievable collection of scholars. They follow the law so closely they refuse to urinate or defecate on the Sabbath. No women are allowed in their community. All wealth is held in common.”

“Oh yes, I understand that—what was his name—John, yes, John the Baptizer was associated with them for a while.”

“You’ve heard of the Baptizer?” Antipas’s eyes had widened in surprise.

“Hasn’t everyone?” Pilate laughed. “Where’s the man holding forth lately?”

Hesitantly, Antipas replied, “In one of my prisons. His movement was getting dangerous…But look, Pilate, we’re almost at the shore of the Asphalt Lake.” Cupping his hands around his mouth, he shouted, “Everyone dismount!” Then he proceeded to tell his guests about the geographic miracle which was the Dead Sea.

“You’re looking at the very lowest surface in the Empire, nearly a quarter-mile below sea level. If some mad engineer cut a canal from the Mediterranean to this lake, waters would rush in to drown the whole Jordan valley to a depth of 1,300 feet.” He paused to see if his guests were impressed. “And don’t let the cool blue of the lake fool you. Its waters are a hot, oily fluid, about one-quarter salt and asphalt. Here, Pilate, put your hand in the water.”

It felt like warm, sticky soup.

“Now watch this, Pilate,” said Antipas, taking an egg from the commissary carriage. “Do eggs float in water or sink?”

“They sink, of course,” Procula answered for him.

Antipas dropped the egg into the sea, where it bobbed like a cork. “Now, Chuza”—he turned to his chief steward—“why don’t you take a swim for us?”

“Must I, Excellency?”

“On second thought, no. You’re normal size. You wouldn’t float until chest level. Send in your roly-poly friend there instead.”

One of the chefs in Antipas’s commissary, a man of huge girth, stripped to his undertunic and waded out into the Dead Sea. He got no further than seven or eight paces, for when the water reached just above his paunch, he actually began floating, pitching about and rolling out of control, to the cheers and guffaws of the whole entourage.

In a final demonstration, Antipas had an ox dragged into the water, bellowing and groaning, and that frenzied animal also floated. “The water’s so dense a man could break his legs if he jumped into it from any height,” the tetrarch commented. “And it’s so brackish no living thing can exist in it. No fish, nothing.”

The chef had neglected to rinse himself off after his briny dip and soon resembled a walking pillar of salt, so quickly had the fiercely hot and dry air evaporated the watery residue on his skin, leaving an ugly, itchy deposit of chalk white.

“You can wash off at Callirrhoë,” Antipas called, as the party wound its way around the northeastern corner of the Dead Sea and continued south toward their destination, the fortress-palace of Machaerus.

Procula was riding with Herodias in the carriage just behind Pilate and Antipas. Periodically, Pilate turned around to see how his wife was faring in the company of the woman who was the talk of Palestine. She flashed him a knowing smile to convey the message, “Everything all right…so far.”

Pilate was holding up his end of the conversation with Antipas. “Doesn’t Strabo’s new Geographica speak of subterranean gases and fires around this lake?” he asked.

“Nature has a simmering furnace under this area. Usually its vapors filter upward in pleasant form, as in the hot springs just ahead. But sometimes the furnace explodes into volcano-like eruptions of gas, fire, and brimstone, like those which destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah a little south of here. But that was many centuries ago.”

The retinue stopped briefly at Callirrhoë, where Antipas showed his guests the thermal springs resort while the chef washed off his sultry, stinging stickiness. This celebrated spa was known throughout Palestine for its sweet, bubbly mineral waters. Herod had spent some of his last days here, trying desperately to shake off the horrible malady that would shortly claim his life. But the feverish convulsions, tumors, and gangrene proved terminal.

“As a Roman used to his daily baths, this place should have special fascination for you, Pilate,” Antipas bantered, “but we can return here later. Machaerus is just beyond the next hill.”

Herod Antipas had inherited Machaerus from his father, who built the fortress-palace to safeguard his southeastern frontiers against the Moabites and Arabs. The huge, trapezoidal mound on which it was situated further isolated the castle from surrounding hills, and it was easy for Pilate to appreciate its legendary invincibility as a military stronghold. Supposedly, Machaerus ranked second only to Jerusalem’s Antonia as a citadel. The arduous ascent along hairpin curves was so taxing to the horses that the entourage got off their carriages to spare the animals.

It was nearly sundown when they reached the portico around the base of the citadel. The view westward was spectacular, commanding at least half the Dead Sea, which lay lifeless several thousand feet below in its water-hewn tomb. Later that evening, the gathering night only improved the vista. A rising moon shed a frosty incandescence over the rugged wilderness of Judea, as though new snow had fallen in an area fifty degrees too warm for it. Beneath the center of it all lurked the sepulchral, now-misty torpor of the Dead Sea, trapped by surrounding mountains and scarred by a glittering swatch of moonlight. Only some pinpoints of light to the northwest, marking Jerusalem, gave any evidence of habitation.

After retiring, Pilate and Procula finally had the chance to compare notes on the day’s events. “And how does it feel to be safely imprisoned in your enemy’s fortress?” she led off.

“Please, Carissima, we’re on a diplomatic visit, so let’s call our host friendly rival instead.” He chuckled. “Wait, are you serious?”

“Why, yes,” she said in a half-tone, betraying neither truth nor jest.

“Well, you can sleep securely. Our auxiliary bodyguard is certainly—”

“Of course, of course.” She laughed. “I’m just wondering why he invited us to Machaerus instead of Tiberias. Remember what happened here about three years ago?”

“No. What?”

“This is where Antipas’s first wife, King Aretas’s daughter, ‘vacationed’ on her escape from Antipas. From here she fled to her father.”