O Jerusalem - Laurie R. King [121]
And here, drawn in clear, sweeping lines, were the aqueducts. The major one came from the south out of Bethlehem, taking a wide loop along the sides of the Hinnom Valley, around the Sultan’s Pool to the south-west of the city walls, following the topographic lines back along the walls until finally, not far from the Dung Gate, its route crossed under the walls and into the city proper, following the curve of the Tyropoeon Valley until it reached the eastern half of David Street, one of the old boundaries of the changing city. There the line ducked due east, under the Bab es-Silsileh: under the Temple Mount. According to the map, before reaching the Dome of the Rock the aqueduct divided, one arm reaching down to fill the fountain known as the Cup, the other reaching up to trickle into the Birkat Yisrael, now a dry rubbish tip, once, perhaps, the miraculous Pool of Bethesda.
That upper arm excited my interest, for after the split at the gate to the Haram it turned due north, running between the Western Wall and the Dome of the Rock, less than fifty feet from where the Souk el-Qattanin became the Bab el-Qattanin, the Gate of the Cotton Merchants, which was the Haram entrance closest to the Dome itself.
Furthermore, there was another aqueduct, coming not from Bethlehem but from the Mamilla Pool to the west of the city. It ran under the Jaffa Gate, pausing to replenish the Patriarch’s Pool near the Church of the Holy Sepulchre before continuing east in the vicinity of David Street towards the Haram. It too split, the northern half joining up with the upper arm of the Bethlehem aqueduct on its way to the Birkat Yisrael, the southern half crossing the Souk el-Qattanin and debouching into a bath just below the souk, the Hamman es-Shifa. This too was noted as a possible candidate for the Pool of Bethesda, in Father Demetrius’ neat, tiny writing.
While I was gloating over all these riches, Holmes had whipped out his map of Palestine, which included a detailed street map of the city on the back, and was carefully duplicating the priest’s marks, the lines for the aqueducts, the slope of the valleys, square cisterns and round fountains and shaded-in patches for built-over vaults. The Cotton Grotto, looking like a patch of spilt grey ink, reached down farther than I had imagined, half again the distance Jacob had suggested. It undermined the Moslem Quarter nearly halfway to the northernmost corner of the Haram, where lay Herod’s fortress Antonia and the infamous Old Serai prison of the Turks, where the relatives of impoverished Arab diggers were beaten and Karim Bey had reigned supreme. The Old Serai, I saw from the notes Father Demetrius had made, was now being turned into a school.
I studied the jumble of signs and notations surrounding the Souk el-Qattanin, and tried to recall the details of past reading. Wilson’s Arch was at the next Haram entrance down, but surely there was a shaft here somewhere? And wasn’t there something odd about that bath? My knowledge of the city was quite good for the earlier periods, but anything more recent than the Crusades was a blank page.
“We need a Baedekers guide, Holmes,” I whispered. He grunted, and continued with his copying.
It took an hour before, cramped and cold, we rose, rolled the maps, and prepared to leave the cubicle. Holmes switched off the torch, and we stood in the utter darkness for several minutes to let our eyes adjust before going back out into the study.
“How did you know this place was here?” I asked him while we waited.
“Demetrius showed me it. At the time it was a bit of a joke—he used to store good wine in here, the stuff that he did not wish to share with his parishioners. No doubt since then more valuable contraband has been hidden here. Ready?”
The hidden door clicked and we stepped back out into the room of books. Holmes walked through the blackness