I was nervous as a mouse staring across a tank at an underweight python.

My fears were ungrounded. Jake had a question concerning bone preservation.

“Tea?” I offered now.

“You bet. I got pretzels and Sprite on the plane.”

“The dishes are behind you.”

I watched Jake select mugs, thinking what a terrible perp he’d make. His nose is thin and prominent, his brows bushy and dead straight above Rasputin black eyes. He stands six feet six, weighs 170, and shaves his head.

Witnesses would remember Jake exactly as he is.

Today I suspected he’d caused strangers on the sidewalk to circle wide. His agitation was palpable.

We exchanged small talk while waiting for the kettle.

Jake had checked into a small hotel off the western edge of the McGill University campus. He’d rented a car to drive to Toronto the next morning. On Monday he’d leave for Jerusalem, where he and his Israeli crew would excavate their first-century synagogue.

Jake proffered his usual invitation to dig. I proffered my usual thanks and regrets.

When the tea was ready, Jake settled at the dining room table. I retrieved a magnifier and Kessler’s print and laid them on the glass.

Jake stared at the photo as though he’d never seen one before.

After a full minute, he took up the lens. As he scanned the print his movements grew measured and deliberate.

In one way Jake and I are very much alike.

When annoyed, I grow churlish, snap, counter with sarcasm. When angry, truly white-hot livid irate, I go deadly calm.

So does Jake. I know. I’ve heard him debate issues at faculty council.

The ice facade is also my response to fear. I suspected this was also true of Jake. The change in his demeanor sent a chill scurrying through my mind.

“What is it?” I asked.

Jake raised his head and stared past me, lost, I could only guess, in a moment of probes, and trowels, and the smell of turned earth.

Then he tapped the photo with one long, slender finger.

A disjointed thought. Were it not for the calluses, Jake’s hands might have been those of a concert pianist.

“Have you spoken with the man who gave this to you?”

“Only briefly. We’re trying to locate him.”

“What exactly did he say?”

I hesitated, debating what I could ethically divulge. Ferris’s death had been reported by the media. Kessler had not asked for confidentiality.

I explained the shooting, the autopsy, and the man who called himself Kessler.

“It’s supposed to have come from Israel.”

“It does,” Jake said.

“That’s a hunch?”

“That’s a fact.”

I frowned. “You’re that certain?”

Jake leaned back. “What do you know about Masada?”

“It’s a peak in Israel where a lot of folks died.”

Jake’s lips did something approaching a smile.

“Please expand, Ms. Brennan.”

I dug back. Way back.

“In the first centuryB. C. -”

“Politically incorrect. The term isB. C. E now. Before the Common Era.”

“-the whole area from Syria to Egypt, anciently known as the land of Israel, which the Romans called Palestine, came under Roman rule. Needless to say, the Jews were pissed. Over the next century, a number of rebellions arose to throw the Roman bastards out. Each was a bust.”

“I’ve never heard it put in quite those terms. Go on.”

“About sixty-sixA. D., sorry, C. E., yet another Jewish revolt steam-rolled across the region. This one scared the sandals off the Romans, and the emperor deployed troops to suppress the insurgents.”

I tunneled deep for dates.

“About five years into the revolt the Roman general Vespasian conquered Jerusalem, sacked the temple, and routed the survivors.”

“And Masada?”

“ Masada ’s a giant rock in the Judean desert. At the start of the war a group of Jewish zealots hiked it to the top and hunkered in. The Roman general-I’m blanking on the name.”

“Flavius Silva.”

“That’s the guy. Silva was not amused. Masada was a pocket of defiance he would not tolerate. Silva set up perimeter camps, constructed an encircling wall, then an enormous ramp up the side of Masada. When his troops finally rolled a battering ram up the incline and breached the fortress, they found everyone dead.”

I didn’t mention my source, but I remembered all this from an early-eighties miniseries on Masada. Peter O’Toole as Silva?

“Excellent. Though your telling lacks a certain sense of scale. Silva didn’t just march a few platoons to Masada. His operation was massive, including his entire Tenth Legion, its auxiliary troops, and thousands of Jewish prisoners of war. Silva didn’t intend to leave until the rebels were subjugated.”

“Who was in charge up top?”

“Eleazar ben Ya’ir. The Jews had been up there seven years, and were as committed to staying as Silva was to ousting them.”

More miniseries memory bytes. Decades earlier, Herod had been into major development at Masada, ordering a casement wall around the top, defense towers, storehouses, barracks, arsenals, and a cistern system for catching and storing rainwater. Seventy years after the old king’s death, the warehouses were still stocked, and the zealots had everything they needed.

“The main source on Masada is Flavius Josephus,” Jake went on. “Joseph ben Matatyahu, in Hebrew. At the beginning of the sixty-six revolt, Josephus was serving as a Jewish commander in Galilee. Later he went over to the Romans. Regardless of his loyalties or disloyalties, the guy was a brilliant historian.”

“And the only reporter in town at the time.”

“There is that. But Josephus’ descriptions are amazingly detailed. According to his account, the night the fortress was breached, Eleazar ben Ya’ir gathered his followers.”

Jake leaned forward and set the scene.

“Picture this. The wall was burning. The Romans would pour in at dawn. There was no hope of escape. Ben Ya’ir argued that a death of glory was preferable to a life of slavery. Lots were cast, and ten men were elected to kill all the others. Another set of lots determined who among the ten would kill his fellow assassins, and, finally, himself.”

“There were no dissenters?”

“If so, those opinions were overruled. Two women and several children did hide out and survive. Most of Josephus’ information came from them.”

“How many died?”

“Nine hundred and sixty men, women, and children,” Jake said, his voice soft. “Jews view Masada as one of the most dramatic episodes in their history. Especially Israeli Jews.”

“What does Masada have to do with Kessler’s photo?”

“The fate of the remains of the Jewish zealots has always been a mystery. According to Josephus, Silva established a garrison on the summit immediately after Masada ’s conquest.”

“Surely Masada has been excavated.”

“For years, every digger on the planet was drooling for a permit. An Israeli archaeologist named Yigael Yadin finally got the nod. Yadin worked for two field seasons using a team of volunteers. The first lasted from October of sixty-three until May of sixty-four, the second from November of sixty-four until April of sixty-five.”

I had my first inkling where Jake was going.

“Yadin’s team recovered human remains?”

“Three skeletons. On the lower terrace of Herod’s palace villa.”

“Palace villa?”

“The periodic uprisings kept the old boy nervous, so he fortified Masada as a sort of safe house should he and his family ever need to escape. And Herod wasn’t into discomfort. In addition to the wall and defensive towers, he commissioned palaces complete with colonnades, mosaics, frescoes, terraces, gardens, the whole nine yards.”

I pointed to the photo. “This is one of the three?”

Jake shook his head. “According to Yadin, one was the skeleton of a male in his twenties. Not far away lay the bones of a young woman, her sandals and scalp perfectly preserved. I’m not kidding. I’ve seen the pictures. The woman’s hair looked like she’d braided it the morning she was unearthed.”