"Masada is the pet project of Herod, a winter palace for when it is snowing in Jerusalem. It takes him many years to build. He don't need another winter palace, but after he drowns the brother of his wife Miriam in his swimming pool, he is afraid, and he thinks to take the small fortress of
Masada and make it the grand escape. It is in the middle of nowhere and cannot be conquered, so he builds the showy estate. And he dies alone like an old wolf."
Despite Bethlehem and Nazareth and the Via Dolorosa, I feel I know Herod better than anyone in the Bible. I can see him gazing hungrily from this 1300 foot-high plateau onto the arid desert below. Waiting for letters and death.
As Sol talks, we sway in the cable car over an ominous footpath that winds and rewinds in a narrow ribbon of dirt cut from the mountain.
"This is the Snake Path." Sol points it out, and Rory holds tight to the hand bar.
"I have a touch of acrophobia," he says. "I think I'll walk back down to the van if you'll come with me so 1 don't faint."
I don't try to calculate how many miles the switch-back path curves back and forth, and I don't look down. "All right. I'll go with you."
The gondola banks to a stop.
Sol heads toward the Arab in the tourist kiosks while he says over his shoulder, "I get the tickets. Everyone buy the bottle of water."
When he returns, he's jauntily cocking a green felt hat with a wide brim like an Australian trooper's. It looks wintery.
"Masada is hitting 120 degrees today," he says. "They are closing the Snake Path. Nobody is walking down."
I try not to show my relief.
"You forgot to remove the price tag, Sol." Elizabeth reaches for the little tab stamped $12.
"No." He catches her hand. "I don't buy it. After we walk around Masada I take it back to the shop. My friend will sell it to the tourist who is stupid and don't bring a hat."
