Necessary Heartbreak (7 page)

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.”

The soldier bowed to Marcus. He tried to drag Michael to his feet but he wouldn't stand.

“So, you're going to be difficult?” another soldier asked. Michael cried out as his arms were yanked up and he was forced to walk. As they half-dragged him down the staircase, he heard one mutter, “I wonder why Marcus has an interest in this prisoner.”

The other soldier shrugged. “It's usually the women prisoners he cares about.”

Michael felt like a mouse inside a maze as they made their way through the twisting, filthy corridors below.
The prison must be huge
. But what struck him most was the noise. Muffled screams and the sounds of whips penetrating human flesh echoed from all sides. The sound of cloth tearing and a woman's cry for help made Michael wince helplessly. It was hard to believe that only a few hours ago he'd been worrying about what Elizabeth would wear.

He turned to the right to catch a glimpse of the cells and saw a skeleton, arms and legs still shackled, hanging from the ceiling by what appeared to be a grimy rag around its neck. To his left, he saw a man and a little boy huddled together, weeping, their clothes torn and
blood dripping from several gashes on their faces. They turned away and covered their faces in shame. In the cell next to them, a soldier was swinging a metal ball against a fallen man lying near the cell's entrance. As Michael drew closer, he felt a splatter of blood hit his face. He retreated in horror and furiously tried to wipe his cheek.

The soldiers moved him along more quickly. “Let's get rid of him so we can get some dinner,” the soldier on the left said.

The other soldier nodded. “Move!”

After passing another bank of cells, each containing more horrifying scenes of suffering, Michael came to the last, where he heard low groans and weeping. He was startled to see Barabbas chained to the wall in the adjacent cell.

The murderer greeted him like an old friend. “Ah, so they got you, too?” he mumbled, a faint smile spreading across his bruised and swollen face.

The soldier on Michael's left opened the metal gate and shoved him into the ten-by-ten cell. The other soldier locked Michael's arm into a chain protruding out of the wall and then tightened the clamp so it pinched his skin. “Now you two killers can die side by side,” he sneered. He smashed Michael against the wall with one last parting kick in the gut. Michael's knees buckled, and he fell to the ground, his right arm still tethered to the chain at a grotesque angle.

“Are you all right, my friend?” Barabbas asked.

“I've been better,” Michael groaned.

He pulled himself to a sitting position and looked around. It was so dark that the only image he could decipher was the outline of the bars that covered the cell opening. Muffled sounds of men and women crying, begging for leniency, were all around them. He could hear Barabbas jiggling his chain, trying to jerk it out of the wall.

This has got to be a nightmare. I'm going to wake up from this soon and I'll be back in Northport
. Michael closed his eyes briefly and opened them quickly when a drip of blood from the top of his forehead ran into his eye. He wiped it away quickly.
This isn't a dream. But where am I?

He got to his feet slowly and jerked on the chain. No luck. The harder he jerked, the more the clamp dug into his wrist.

“Keep trying,” Barabbas urged. “We've got to find a way out of here.”

“Here?” asked Michael wearily. “Where is here?”

“Here is the Roman prison.”

“I just don't understand how that can be—”

Barabbas interrupted him. “Yes, that happened to me the first time they got me.”

Michael shook his head in confusion. “You've been here before?”

“Yes.”

“So we'll get out of here soon?”

“My friend, you may never get out.”

Stunned, Michael slid back down the wall and shook his head as the enormity of the situation sank in. “I don't understand,” he muttered. “What did I do wrong?”

They both started pulling on the chains, attracting a soldier's attention. “Stop!” he shouted. He then slid his spear through the cell opening, poking Barabbas and then Michael. “Try it again, and I'll come in there and make sure I reach you,” the soldier yelled.

Michael sat back against the wall. His only thoughts now were on Elizabeth.
If I had only stopped her from coming down into the tunnel. Why did I have to go back upstairs? I should have made sure she came with me. Maybe she can get home and find help?

The chain in the wall made it impossible for him to lie down completely as exhaustion overtook him. The heat of the dungeon seeped into Michael's body, and his throat was parched. “Barabbas, do they give you any water?”

“When the sun comes up.”

Michael tried not to think about how thirsty he was. It was probably best to keep talking. “Barabbas, would you—”

Another Roman soldier bolted toward Michael, slamming his spear against the rusty rods. “Stop!”

The clanging of the metal weapon against the front of his cell set Michael's
teeth on edge. He briefly forgot about his physical ills. He had mixed emotions about Barabbas and helping him. After seeing the cruel methods of the Romans, he understood how anger could build up in its victims. He wondered if prayer could save him this evening, but struggled to remember a time when it actually had.

Michael's stomach twisted in pain as he sat on the E train. He leaned down to gasp for some air as a woman sitting next to him got up and moved away.

It must be my breath
, he thought with embarrassment.

He rubbed his chest in an effort to ease the nausea.
It has to be from that tuna fish sandwich. I shouldn't have saved it from yesterday
.

It was a cold December night. Michael sat near a heater, absorbing the warm air like a dog rolling on grass.
Ah, this feels good
.

He moved his feet closer, aiming the right one at an angle so the air would warm the part of his sneaker that was ripped.
Embarrassing. I can't afford new sneakers. Who would think I'm a college graduate?

Michael looked around the train, avoiding direct eye contact. He could see fellow passengers dressed in winter coats, scarves, and woolen gloves. Many people had presents and brightly colored holiday bags filled with packages either next to them or on the floor. One man, dressed in a suit, was holding a woman's hand, talking gently while stroking the back of her neck.

He tried hard not to look at their faces. A quick glance got him some snickers from the couple.
I would laugh at me, too. Go ahead, mock me. What do I have to live for? I hate myself
.

Michael got up from his seat and walked to the far end of the train. He dropped down into a seat, pulling his hood over his head, partially covering the side of his face. When he looked up briefly, he saw his reflection in the window.
Wow, I am ugly
.

He hadn't shaved in almost five days, and it had been almost a week since he had brushed his teeth. Michael tried keeping his mouth
fresh by eating Life Savers mints. But his teeth felt grimy. The fingers on his right hand peeked through his torn, ratty gloves. He clenched his fist so no one could see.

“Fifty-third Street, Fifth Avenue,” a voice sounded over the PA system.

So I guess this is home for tonight
.

Michael kept his face hidden as he walked with a big crowd up the stairs. When he reached the outdoors, the beautiful lights of New York City greeted him. Santas on the corners peppered New Yorkers with pleas to help the needy. They jingled their bells with glee, smiling and giving tourists merry greetings. He could see the pots filled with coins and dollar bills.

Should I?

The Santa on Fifth Avenue swung his bell wildly. “Can you spare some change for the poor?” the man in the red suit asked Michael.

“I
am
the poor.”

“That's what they all say. Go back to your fancy house and keep saving your money.”

Thanks a lot, jerk
, Michael thought after giving Santa a searing glare.

He walked away, stealing some quick glances at the storefront windows. A toy store had shiny cars, elaborate dolls, and speedy trains that captivated all the little kids passing by.

Almost there. It's freezing out here. Got to find a pew near a heater.

Michael climbed the many steps to St. Patrick's Cathedral and opened the big door. He pulled his hood partially off his head, leaving it halfway up his face. His hair was flat and greasy.

God won't care. Stop worrying.

The evening mass was still going on inside the famous church. So he sat down in the last row. When it was time for Communion, he bolted quickly to be the first to extend his hands to the priest to receive it.
I'm so hungry. I need to eat
.

As the line dwindled, Michael got up a second time to get Communion. The priest looked at him curiously but gave him the host
again. He knelt down and said a prayer.
Mom, I wish you were here. Things are going bad, Mom. Why did you have to leave? This never would have happened if you were alive, Mom. Why did God take you from me? Why?

Michael shed some tears as he ended his prayer. The priest finished the mass.
Now what do I do? I've got nowhere to go
.