The Inquest (15 page)

Gallo hurried to obey.

Martius had been listening to all this, and now, with an unhappy look on his face, he watched the Evangelist and his servants being placed in manacles and led from the house. Unable to hold his tongue any longer, he confronted Varro and voiced a nagging concern. “I think that you are being too lenient with these Nazarenes, Julius,” he said, within earshot of several of their companions.

Varro scowled. “Oh? How so?”

“If it were me, I would be torturing information out of these people!”

“I will have more success by winning their trust.”

Martius shook his head. “They will never trust us, so long as we rule here. And we will never trust them!”

“Keep your thoughts to yourself, tribune,” Varro coolly returned, pushing by him.

Martius, smarting at the questor’s rebuke, watched him go.

Antiochus now appeared at Varro’s shoulder, walking beside him. “The tribune is right,” he growled. “These people have no rights. You must put Philippus and the other Nazarenes to the torture and force all they know from them.”

Varro stopped in his tracks and swung on the Jewish magistrate. “Mind your business, Antiochus!” he snapped. “My methods of investigation are not yours!”

Antiochus’ eyes flared. “You are in sympathy with the Nazarenes! I suspected it all along. I will write to General Collega and denounce you as a Nazarene sympathizer. I will tell him that you are prejudicing his mission. Do you hear me, Julius Varro?”

The questor now displayed uncharacteristic anger. “You will confine yourself to reading the Hebrew documents found in this house! You will then report to me in the Judgment Hall tomorrow at the commencement of the second hour with a full analysis of their contents. If that analysis is not to my liking, I will send you back to General Collega with the report that you did not satisfactorily perform the duties of translator, the duties which Collega sent you on this expedition to fulfil. Do
you
hear
me
, Antiochus?”

A sudden look of fear washed over Antiochus’ face. Instinctively, his right hand went to the leather pouch hanging at his throat.

The questor was storming away. “Pedius, where in the name of the gods is my conveyance?” he called with obvious aggravation.

Martius stood, observing his seated armor bearer Placidus sharpening the tribune’s sword on a whet stone. It had been a long time since Martius had drawn his sword in anger. Daily, he used it in exercises with Placidus, having trained the slave to be proficient with sword and shield. As he watched the man work, Martius sensed that someone stood in the doorway. He looked up, to see Artimedes the secretary.

“I hope Your Lordship will excuse my intrusion?” said the little Greek.

After the events of the latter part of the day, with his brief but unpleasant confrontation with Julius Varro, the tribune was not in a congenial mood. “What do you want, secretary?” He returned his attention to the sharpening of the twin-bladed sword.

“The tribune will be aware that I have been in the service of the questor’s family for many years,” Artimedes began, entering the room. “Before I was employed as Julius Varro’s secretary I was under secretary to his mother, Julia, and when he was a youth I fulfilled the duties of his tutor. An able and willing student he made, too.”

“What of it?”

“In knowing of my lengthy connection to the questor’s family, you will appreciate that my thoughts very naturally flow in the direction of his welfare. In fact, I will confide to you that I regularly write to his mother at Rome and Capua to reassure her as to the state of her son’s health and appraising her of his achievements in his post here. The questor is unaware of this, so I would appreciate that knowledge remaining
sub rosa
.”

“Come to the point, secretary,” Martius impatiently returned. “In all my days I have never known a long-winded dissembler to compare with you.”

Artimedes seemed unaffected by the insult. “In being aware that my loyalties lie very firmly with the questor, Your Lordship must not misconstrue what I am about to say, for clearly it is as much in your interests as it is in my lord Varro’s interests….”

“In the name of Jove, spit it out!” Martius exploded. “What have you to say?

“Tribune, you should not have disputed with the questor today, in front of others who are subordinate to the questor and to yourself. This was clearly an error of judgment, if I may say.”

Martius’ eyes narrowed. “Is that so?”

“You demean my lord Varro’s authority by public acts of dissension. The questor values your opinion, but when it is expressed in private, not in public.”

“Have you finished your lecture, tutor?” Martius snarled.

“We have many days and weeks ahead of us still on this expedition, and the questor must be able to depend on your discretion as much as on your loyalty. Meditate on that.” With that, the little Greek turned on his heel, and was gone.

“Thank you for nothing, secretary,” Martius angrily called after him. “When I need your advice, I will ask for it!”

“Meditate on it, tribune,” came Artimedes’ voice, echoing down the stone-walled corridor. “Believe me, you are as wise as you are earnest, Marcus Martius.”

Out to the west, where the Mediterranean met the horizon, an electrical storm was silently invading the night with flashes of light which illuminated the clouds with sudden and brief intensity. Watching the display, Varro stood alone on a terrace of one of the white Herodian palaces which he was using as his quarters in Caesarea. Less than half a mile away, below, and
to his right, beyond the port, the city’s theater was packed with an audience from Caesarea and the surrounding district. A troupe of Greek actors all the way from Epirus had come to the city as a part of a tour of the Eastern provinces. Many among the packed audience sitting on cushions on the tiers of stone ranging down to the beach had lost interest in the tragedy being acted out on stage and had lifted their eyes from the stage and out across the sea to the drama of the lightning show. Varro could hear ‘Ooo’s’ and ‘Aaah’s’ of wonder and delight rising up from their entranced ranks.

The questor had dined alone, quite deliberately. He was not happy with himself for losing his temper in front of his subordinates earlier in the evening. He could excuse Antiochus for his ignorance and Martius for his unbridled enthusiasm, but as expedition leader he had aimed to stay above the pettiness and pointlessness of argument. Suddenly, he was a aware that he was not alone on the terrace. Turning, he saw a figure slowly walking toward him from the door which led to the palace apartments.

“Do you mind if I join you, Julius?” It was Marcus Martius.

“If you wish,” Varro replied, without enthusiasm. He leaned on the terrace’s balustrade and looked out to sea, turning his back on the tribune.

Martius came and leaned on the balustrade beside him. “Do you think the gods are angry?” he asked, watching the flashing show of light on the horizon.

Varro shrugged. “Perhaps Jove is putting on a performance to show off his power to the theatrical producers of Caesarea,” he suggested.

Martius nodded. For a time they watched the lightning together without speaking, before Martius said, “You knew the fate of the general Strabo, father of Pompeius the Great, a native of Picenum like myself? He was struck down and killed stone dead by lightning on the Campus Martius, when Pompeius was still only a young man.”

Varro nodded absently. “So I remember reading.”

“Strabo must have offended the gods very severely, you would have thought,” Martius remarked, “to deserve an end like that.”

“Perhaps the famously arrogant General Strabo felt certain that he would not be struck down by lightning,” Varro countered, “and in his arrogance tempted the Fates by going about a military camp outside Rome in full armor during a thunder storm.”

“Perhaps so, perhaps so,” Martius chuckled. Again he lapsed into silence for a time, watching the lightning and listening to the reaction of the distant theater crowd. “I wanted to apologize to you, Julius,” he began anew. “It was wrong of me to disagree with you there at the Evangelist’s house, in front of others.”

“It was indeed,” Varro agreed, without looking at him. “Express your views, to me privately by all means, Marcus, but do not demean my authority in public.”

“It won’t happen again, you have my pledge. I do not make the same error twice.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

“You know that I am in earnest?”

Varro turned, smiling. “I know of no one more earnest.”

Now Martius also broke into a smile. “My earnestness usually serves me well, but it will have to be bridled, I think, if I am to achieve my ambitions and emulate Rome’s most famous generals.”

“You will make Rome proud one day. In the meantime, Marcus, I need all your support on this mission. There are some in our party whose only interests are their own.”

“I know who they are. You do not have to name them.”

“So, you and I must work together. You cannot publicly question my judgment.”

“You will never have cause to doubt my loyalty or support.”

“Thank you, my friend.” Varro patted the tribune on the shoulder. “We will not speak of this again, Marcus. Tomorrow, we start afresh.”

“Agreed. And I do believe our luck has turned, Julius. First Pythagoras unearths the documents in the archives, and then we dig old Philippus from his burrow. I will be interested to hear what the Evangelist has to say tomorrow.”

Varro nodded thoughtfully. “You and I both, my friend.”

Caesarea, Capital of the Roman Province of Judea.
April, A.D. 71

Two large wooden tables stood below the judgment platform. At one table, the knights’ table, sat Martius, Crispus and Venerius. Four officials sat at the other. Firstly, with stylus poised, Pythagoras, wax tablets set up and ready in a writing frame in front of him. Beside him, Artimedes, acting as custodian of numerous documents piled in front of him, and then, Callidus. Antiochus, smarting at being put with the freedmen, sat at the end. Between the two tables, directly below the judgment bench, stood Pedius, with the end of his lictor’s staff of office resting on the marble floor. Questor Varro took his place on Herod the Great’s judgment seat, and his servant Hostilis seated himself on the floor behind. It gave Varro a modest thrill to occupy the seat first used by the famous king of the Jews and great friend to Marcus Antonius, Julius Caesar, and Caesar Augustus, a man, who, Varro had been told on a previous visit to Judea, was acquainted with power from an early age; Herod’s father Antipater had made the boy governor of Galilee at the tender age of fifteen. From the judgment seat, the questor could look down on his subordinates at the tables below, and on the witness bench facing him.

At the outset Varro noted with satisfaction that Crispus had also brought along a writing tablet. It appeared that his Prefect of Horse would make notes of his own during the witness’ testimony, but as the questioning progressed Varro would note that Crispus’ writing did not keep pace with the questions and answers. Then Crispus would not write for some time and seemingly gaze off into oblivion, before again writing with sudden energy. Or, he would erase entire lines with the blunt end of his stylus. It eventually dawned on the questor that Crispus was writing poetry. Varro would forgive him. As long as Varro himself remained focused on his task, he told himself, and while Pythagoras made his meticulous notes, that would be all that mattered.

Once Varro had taken his seat at the second hour, Pythagoras and Antiochus reported their findings concerning the documents discovered in the house of Philippus. There were three key sources to the letters, they said. One was Philippus himself; most of the letters in both Hebrew and Greek had been addressed by him to followers of the Nazarene in Judea and surrounding areas. All related to religious instruction and did not contain any new information of value to the questor’s investigation. Two other letters, copied identically several times in both Greek and Hebrew, had originated with different authors, with each being similar in many respects to the Lucius Letter, giving accounts of the life of Jesus of Nazareth. These two anonymous letters also contained material which was additional to that found in the Lucius Letter, while some of the content also conflicted with Lucius Letter material; in the most obvious discrepancy, one showed Jesus’ grandfather as a Jacob rather than a Heli. In some aspects too, these documents conflicted with each other. Varro had the two testaments put to one side for further study.

At the third hour, Philippus was brought in by Centurion Gallo. The Evangelist looked less haggard than he had the previous evening. He wore a new tunic, there was color in his cheeks and life in his eyes. He was guided to the witness bench, then, once the manacles on his wrists had been knocked off, Gallo and his men withdrew.

“Good morning to you, Philippus,” said Varro, smiling down from the judge’s platform. “You slept well, I trust?”

“I bid you a good morning, my lord. I spent a restful night, thank you.” Philippus cast his
gaze around the vast, near empty chamber. “Do you know, the last time that I was in this place, it was thirteen years ago.”

“Under what circumstances?” Varro asked.

“I stood in a crowd at the back of the hall and listened while Procurator Florus and King Agrippa questioned one of my brothers in Christos, Paulus, in response to charges laid by the Great Sanhedrin of Jerusalem.”

“Paulus of Tarsus?” Varro queried, recognizing the name of a leading Nazarene.

“The same, my lord. Florus and Agrippa both found that Paulus had committed no crime. You see, there can be no crime in speaking the truth.”

“I could not agree more. Are you are ready to speak the truth in answer to my questions here today?”

“That I am, my lord.”

“Very well. I will begin by asking you about documents found at your house.”

Before Varro could become specific, Philippus volunteered a description of the documents in question. They were, he said, for the most part copies of letters written by him, or which were written on his behalf, to members of his Nazarene ‘flock.’ Varro had the two letters apparently not written by Philippus shown to him. Philippus partly unraveled both and studied them briefly, then told the questor that the oldest of the two epistles had been written by Marcus, a scribe at Jerusalem, at the outbreak of the Revolt, in the months prior to the coming of Cestius Gallus and his Roman army.

When Varro asked who this Marcus was, Philippus answered, “One of the seventy original disciples of our Lord, as I was. We of the seventy were a council of elders.” He went on to say that Marcus had noted down the parables and lessons that Jesus imparted to the people, so that they might be copied and distributed. These parables and lessons were indeed distributed and declaimed by the disciples for a number of years, but, with the outbreak of the Revolt, Marcus felt sure that a prophesy by Jesus that the Temple would be destroyed must soon be fulfilled, as indeed it was. Marcus had decided to remain at Jerusalem come what may, but he felt that someone should record the story of Jesus’ life, suffering, death, before all who had been witnesses to these things perished. “This epistle is that testament of Marcus. It came into my possession five years ago.”

“Is Marcus still alive?”

“I expect that he perished at Jerusalem, like so many others.”

“Who authored the second letter?”

“This was written by Matthias, one of our Lord’s twelve apostles.”

“Explain the purpose of these apostles,” said Varro.

“Our Lord chose twelve from among us to be His chief messengers to the people, and sent them far and wide. We call these twelve, and others that followed, Message-Bearers, or, in Greek,
apostolos
. Matthias was one such apostle. He felt that as one of the chosen twelve he would have a broader perspective than Marcus, so he wrote his own account of the life, suffering, death, and resurrection of our Lord, soon after that of Marcus. To the best of my knowledge, Matthias is also now deceased. I made no distinction between the two testaments; I have distributed copies of both to our brethren.”

Varro then asked if Philippus was familiar with a Nazarene by the name of Lucius, a physician. Philippus said he knew Lucius, but his tone did not contain the warmth that was apparent when he had spoken of Marcus and Matthias. Lucius was a native of Antioch, he said, a friend, secretary and co-worker to Paulus of Tarsus. In years past, Lucius several times stayed in
Philippus’ house at Caesarea, with Paulus, and alone. Philippus said he had never seen a copy of the Lucius Letter; he was unaware that Lucius had even written his own account of the life and death of Jesus.

“Where would Lucius be now?”

“I had heard that, after Paulus’ death at Rome, Lucius went to Greece, but more than that I could not tell you.”

Varro moved on from the documents, and learned from Philippus that as a young man had been attracted to the teachings of Johannes the Baptist, and had then followed his successor, Jesus. He had seen and heard Jesus preach many times, he said. “I have seen Him perform wondrous miracles, including the raising from the dead of Jesus’ relative Eleazar of Bethany.”

Young Venerius the junior tribune let out a ridiculing snort. “Miracle cures are easy enough to fabricate,” he remarked. “If one pays enough.”

Varro deliberately and loudly cleared his throat, as a way of cautioning Venerius against making any adverse comment which might stem the flow of information from the witness. “Proceed, if you please, Philippus,” he urged.

“I have broken bread with Him, I have spoken with Him on many occasions.” But, in answer to Varro’s specific question on the subject, he did not claim to have seen Jesus following his execution, but said he knew of others who had, although he declined to name them. He said these people were all now deceased or in far away lands, spread throughout the provinces of Rome, and in Parthia.

“Conveniently,” Venerius muttered.

“I would not be surprised if I am among the last of the original seventy,” Philippus remarked.

Antiochus looked up to Varro. “May I ask a question of the witness, questor? On the subject of this council of seventy Nazarene elders?”

Varro nodded. “Very well.”

Using an attacking tone, Antiochus hurled his question at Philippus like a spear. “Why did the Nazarene choose to surround himself with a council of seventy, and, from these, select a group of twelve innermost associates?” Before the Evangelist could reply, Antiochus went on. “Was the latter to represent the twelve original tribes of Israel? Were there seventy of you, and the Nazarene besides, because there were seventy priests and a high priest on the Great Sanhedrin of Jerusalem? Was this intended to be the Nazarene’s alternative Great Sanhedrin when he overthrew the Jewish authorities in the revolution against Rome that he was plotting? Further, if the Nazarene’s intent had been to gain control of the Temple, as seems clear to me, how can you excuse the fact that your sect has since his death encouraged Jews to eat with the uncircumcised and introduced non-Jews into its ranks without requiring them to conform fully to Jewish Law?”

Philippus sighed, and looked up at Varro, as if seeking relief from the barrage.

“You may answer,” the questor told him.

“Very well. Our Lord rarely revealed why He did anything. It was written that the Messiah must do certain things, and this is what He did. I have always believed that everything our Lord did was governed by divine will, and I have never questioned anything He said or did. As for the gentile members of our congregations, our Lord told us to take His message to all peoples in all lands, and this is what we have done.”

Antiochus had not finished. “I have heard it said that at one time, in answer to a question from a Pharisee, the Nazarene held up a Roman coin and asked his audience whose head was on the coin, and the people said that it was Caesar’s head. The Nazarene then said that the people
should pay their taxes to Caesar but should give the God of the Jews their undivided loyalty. Have you heard this story?’

“I have heard something like it, yes.”

“Did you witness this event?”

“No, I did not.”

“Do you believe that this genuinely took place?”

“I have no reason to disbelieve it.”

“How could it have taken place? Look at this.” Antiochus held up a silver coin. “In my hand I hold a sesterce piece, of the kind that circulated at Jerusalem prior to the Revolt, acquired by me here in the markets of Caesarea. It bears no graven image, no portrait of Caesar. All Roman coins circulating in Judea were similarly devoid of images, as Rome generously strove to appease the ungrateful Jews of the province and mollify their stupid dread of graven images. How could the Nazarene have held up a coin bearing the image of Caesar, when no such coin existed in Judea?” A smug smile had come over Antiochus’ face. “Is this story of the coin not a fabrication, like the other stories surrounding this man, including the story of his rising from the dead?”

Philippus seemed mildly amused. “The prohibition of coinage bearing the image of Caesar in Judea was introduced by Rome during the reign of Claudius Caesar,” he answered. “Our Lord lived during the reigns of Caesar Augustus and Tiberius Caesar, when coins bearing images of the Caesars freely circulated.”

Antiochus flushed red in the face, and said no more. He did not have sufficient knowledge about the coinage of Judea during the reigns of Augustus and Tiberius to contest the Evangelist’s assertion. The Evangelist had lived in Judea at the time, and Antiochus had not.

“We shall move on,” said the questor. “Philippus, from whom did you first learn that Jesus had apparently risen from the dead?”

Philippus answered that he had heard of the resurrection from Simon called Petra, from his fellow disciple Cleophas, and from others who had seen Jesus alive following his execution. He claimed that eleven of the twelve apostles and several of the other disciples later saw and touched Jesus, and they had all been convinced, he said, that Jesus was flesh and blood, not merely a vision or a ghost. When asked if he had expected Jesus to rise from the dead, he replied that he had not been aware of Jesus’ intention to submit to crucifixion so he had not expected either his death or his resurrection. Yet, he had believed Jesus to be the promised Messiah. “It would not have taken His resurrection for me to have believed it. From the scriptures, from his miracles, and knowing Him as I did, I knew that He had been sent by Heaven to be our savior.”

“You believed him to be a descendant of King Davidus of the Jews,” said the questor, “through the line of his father Josephus?”

“Through the line of His earthly father, yes.”

Varro’s eyes narrowed. “His
earthly
father?”

“He had a Heavenly Father, and an earthly father. He was the Son of God.”

Varro paused. So much of the theology of the Nazarenes begged exploration, clarification, and perhaps even demolition, but that was not his mission. He quickly determined to maintain his focus on Jesus’ execution, but in doing so he had to firmly establish the motives for the man’s claimed return to life following that execution. “Jesus told you and the other disciples that he had been sent to be the next king of the Jews?”

“We knew it as a universal truth.”

Varro leaned forward, and elevated his voice a little. “How did you
know
it? You did not all dream it? Someone must have told you as much.”

“I first heard it from Andreius, the brother of Simon called Petra, and Philippus, who were apostles of Johannes the Baptist. The Baptist recognized Him as the Messiah.”

“Andreius and Philippus told you that Jesus was to be your king, and that the Baptist confirmed this? Yet, no king can be crowned without the consent of Rome? How, apart from consent, or revolt, could any man be crowned king of the Jews of Judea?”