The Inquest (2 page)

“Jesus of Nazareth, his Greek-speaking followers call him,” Josephus replied, looking at Varro.

“I have heard of such a man, while in Judea,” said Varro. “It is said by some that he worked
miracles, my lord, like so many Jewish miracle workers. I believe he was crucified at Jerusalem, during the reign of Tiberius Caesar.”

“Miracles?” said Collega caustically, shaking his head. “Pah!”

“Well done, questor,” said Josephus approvingly. “This Jesus was indeed crucified during the reign of Tiberius.”

Varro felt that Josephus had an intelligent face. Unlike Collega, Varro was not a man of inherited prejudices. He took people as he found them, and on the few occasions that he had met Josephus he had found him a learned if immodest man..

“Crucified? For what crime?” Collega asked.

“The Nazarene was convicted of sedition against Rome,” Josephus went on, addressing Collega once more. “His followers insist that he came back to life, two days following his execution, and that is their proof that he was divine, that he was the Messiah, as it is said in my native tongue.”

Varro frowned. “Messiah?” he queried. “I’m unfamiliar with that term, my lord.”

A smile tickled the corners of Josephus’ mouth. His lively eyes sparkled. “The Christos, his Greek followers call him, questor—the anointed one.’”

“Anointed for what?” Varro asked.

Before Josephus could reply, Collega interrupted. “This coming back to life nonsense,” he said with irritation. “Do these people really believe it, Josephus? We have a few of these Nazarenes here at Antioch. I had classed them with all the other Jews of the city.” There were in fact 40,000 Jewish residents in the Antioch population of 250,000. “Do they genuinely believe that he actually rose from the dead?”

Josephus nodded. “They believe that he rose from the dead, that he walked from his tomb at Jerusalem, walked to Galilee, then ascended to Heaven. They say he was a god, Collega. A dangerous claim in these unstable times, you would agree.”

“A god?” Collega scoffed. “Did anyone see him, after he supposedly rose from the dead and went strolling around Palestine?”

“It is claimed that a number of his devotees saw him and spoke with him after his execution.” Josephus smiled, knowingly. “Obviously, this claim is fraudulent, Collega. Thereby hangs the means of suppression of the Nazarenes.”

“You have lost me,” said Collega impatiently.

“The beauty of the approach I am about to suggest to you, Collega,” Josephus confided, “is that you do not have to execute a single Jew to destroy these people. Here is the crux of the matter…”

So that he missed nothing, Varro took a step closer.

“Prove as baseless the claim that this man rose from the dead,” said the Jew. “And you destroy the basic tenet of the Nazarenes’ belief. Prove that Jesus of Nazareth was not the Messiah, the redeemer of the Jewish people promised by ancient texts, and publish the evidence the length and breadth of the Empire, and you will make these Nazarenes a laughing stock. The edifice of their belief will come crashing down, and the Nazarenes will have been shown to be mere story-tellers and frauds. Their Messiah will be discredited, and their sect will fade into obscurity.”

Collega frowned. “Prove that this Jew did not rise from the dead? You think that would be enough to destroy them?”

Josephus nodded. “Prove the ridiculous claim of the Nazarenes to be the myth it is. Like the myth that Nero Caesar is still alive and living here in the East in disguise.”

It was Collega’s turn to smile. He was thoughtful for a time, unconsciously tugging the lobe of one ear. Then he turned to Josephus, who had given the general time to consider his words. “What of these claims of miracles that Varro speaks of? Would it not also be necessary to disprove those?”

“Miracles, miracles,” Josephus responded with an open-handed shrug and a pout of the lips. “You have been in the East long enough, Collega, to know that this part of the world abounds with miracle workers, all of them nothing more than clever magicians. Even Caesar Vespasianus, when he was at Alexandria last year, performed miracles, right before my very eyes.”

Collega looked at him with surprise. “He did? Caesar did that?”

Josephus nodded. “I saw it for myself. He cured a blind beggar, simply by spitting in his eyes. Another, a lame man, he cured by stomping on his foot. Yet, is Caesar making claims of divinity?”

Varro watched as Collega again lapsed into thought. Like the general, Varro was astonished by the revelation about the emperor’s miraculous powers. He had met Vespasian when he was a general of consular rank, before he became emperor of Rome. Vespasian had been coarse, as foul-mouthed as a common legionary, and terse; the last person Varro would have credited with heavenly powers. Then again, when he met him, Varro had never imagined that the general would one day be his emperor, either.

“So, you see, Collega,” Josephus went on, “this fellow Jesus’ miracles are of no consequence when it comes to disproving his divinity. We must concentrate on the unique claim, the obviously ridiculous claim as far as thinking men are concerned, that Jesus rose from the dead. This is the foundation of the Nazarenes’ appeal to the feeble-minded. Undermine that, and you will destroy the sect and all that it represents. In doing so, you will be able to guarantee Caesar that you have destroyed a corrupting influence within the Jewish community and brought stability to Syria and Judea, and to the Roman East as a whole.” He paused, letting his words sink in.

Collega, obviously uncomfortable with the Jew’s proposal, screwed up his face. “What do you have against these Nazarenes, Josephus?”

“The Nazarenes are recruiting followers outside the Jewish faith, making an abomination of Jewish Law,” replied the pious Jew. “Worse, for Rome, they are infiltrating the cities and the towns of your domain, Collega.”

The general turned, scowling. “Can one dead Jew be so troublesome?” he asked, thinking aloud. “Could right-thinking Romans believe the Nazarene nonsense?”

“Fantastic untruths take root in feeble minds,” Josephus declared. “The corrupting doctrines of the Nazarenes cannot be tolerated. Mucianus would approve if you were to act against these people.” Ever since he had engineered Vespasian’s rise to power, Mucianus, Collega’s former chief in Syria, had been the emperor’s right hand man. “We both know that Mucianus has no time for philosophers of any kind,” Josephus continued. “Most importantly, Collega, Caesar would approve. Eliminate a cause of friction within Jewish communities. Halt the insidious spread of Nazarene influence. Do this, Collega, and you will assure your swift career advancement on your return to Rome.”

“Is this Titus’ wish?” Collega asked. “The destruction of the Nazarenes?”

From his perspective, Varro could sense the general’s indecision.

“These are your provinces, Collega,” said Josephus. “What you do in your own provinces is for you to decide. Equally, what you do to advance your own career is for you to decide.”

Collega was nodding slowly.

“That career is by no means assured, Collega,” Josephus persisted, his voice changing, losing its friendly edge and taking a more distanced tone. Now too he came to his feet.

With sudden concern that the Jew knew something that he did not, the Acting Governor brought his head around to face him. “What do you mean by that?” he demanded.

Josephus shrugged. “There are other men of your rank who served in the Jewish War and won great honors. Certainly, you have performed your duties admirably here in Syria all this time. Your handling of the inquiry into the Fire of Antioch met with Titus’ approval.” He glanced at Varro as he said this, knowing that the questor had been instrumental in the outcome of that inquiry only weeks before. “Yet, for all that, Collega, there is nothing to match the glory of a military campaign when Caesar comes to decide the new year’s appointments. Already, you will be a year or two behind your colleagues by the time you return to Rome.” He paused, for effect. “However, if your return were to be preceded by a meritorious achievement, such as the discrediting of the Nazarenes…”

Collega did not reply.

“Your future is in your own hands, Collega,” Josephus hissed. “Think on it.” With that parting comment, the Jew strode from the garden.

Collega looked up at his deputy, as if seeking guidance. “What do you think of all that, Varro?”

Varro shrugged. “Troubling, my lord.”

“Yes, troubling. Is it Titus’ wish, the discrediting of the Nazarenes?” Collega pondered. “Or is this all Josephus’ idea, and he wants me to think he is doing Titus’ bidding?” He tugged his ear lobe. “Troubling indeed.”

Antioch, Capital of the Roman Province or Syria.
February, A.D. 71

As the offensive aroma of a rotting animal lying unseen in floor or ceiling soaks all it reaches, a month after the event the acrid stench of fire still clung to the stones and timbers of the city as Julius Varro was carried in a closed litter through the streets. The Fire of Antioch had razed one fifth of the metropolis, destroying the massive Foursquare Market, its place of origin, gutting the city library and archives, and demolishing all the grand old Seleucid palaces, including the palace used by the Governor of Syria as his official residence. Forced to find a new, temporary residence, General Collega was renting the city home of one of the richest men in Antioch, a merchant and owner of a shipping fleet.

“Make way for the questor!” called Pedius, Varro’s gray-haired lictor, his official attendant, who preceded the brawny litter-bearers toting his employer’s staff of office. “Make way for the questor!”

As he did every day at dawn, on this morning after the meeting with Flavius Josephus, Julius Varro arrived at the Acting Governor’s residence as the sun was rising over Parthia to the east. An ante-room was filled with fifty or sixty of Antioch’s leading citizens, all come to pay their respects to the governor, some deep in conversation, others looking detached and preoccupied. Despite the waiting crowd, Pythagoras the secretary ushered Varro directly in to see Collega, in a small reception room overlooking one of the mansion’s many gardens. The governor was not alone. As Collega lounged on one of three couches, munching grapes, a man Varro immediately recognized sat across from him. Curly-headed and swarthy, Antiochus, chief Jewish magistrate of Antioch, was narrow-shouldered and of medium height. A man with a sagging paunch and a double chin, Antiochus had been handsome in his youth. Now, in his middle years, lack of restraint and lack of exercise were changing his physiology with the addition of surplus pounds. His brow glistened, for Antiochus was burdened with a nervous complaint which saw him perspire mildly at any time and profusely when he was anxious. Antiochus smiled weakly at the questor as Varro bade his chief and his guest good morning.

“Varro, my dear fellow,” said Collega cheerily, pointing his questor to the third couch, before spitting a pip into a bowl on the table in front of him. “I invited Antiochus here to tell me a little about the Nazarenes.”

“The Nazarenes, my lord?” said Varro as he reclined. “For what purpose?”

“As much as I hate to admit it, Flavius Josephus was right,” said Collega. “I have therefore decided to proceed with that matter we discussed last evening, Varro. The mission to Judea.”

“You have?” Varro was surprised. When he had left the governor the night before he had felt that Collega’s reservations had meant he would ignore Josephus’ suggestion. “May I inquire why, my lord?”

“Expediency, Varro,” said Collega with a wink at his deputy. “Last evening after your departure I discussed the matter with the ever wise Pythagoras. He feels that no harm can be done, while no end of good may come of it. It could make both our careers.”

Varro frowned. “
Both
our careers, general?”

“You will conduct the inquiry into the death of the Jewish miracle worker.”

“Me, my lord?” Varro protested. He could think of nothing worse than spending months in
Judea. For one thing, the rebel Jews down there had yet to be completely subdued; the Roman army were still mopping up resistance. All Varro wanted was to serve out his time in Syria as quickly and as peaceably as possible, then go home.

Collega detected the note of dismay in his questor’s voice, and scowled at him. “You are my investigating magistrate. You will lead the investigation, an inquest into the circumstances surrounding the death of the Nazarene.”

“But, my lord…”

“Come, come now, Varro.” His cheerful demeanor vanishing, Collega sat up straight and looked Varro in the eye “Unlike yourself, I don’t have a patron as powerful as Licinius Mucianus. I could order you to go to Judea, and you would go. But, if for no other reason, go willingly to Judea and conduct this inquiry as judiciously as your talents allow, as a favor to me. I will show my gratitude in the future, you can be sure of that.”

Under the Roman social system, a man served as the client of an influential patron. Varro’s patron was Gnaeus Licinius Mucianus. He had come out to Syria with Mucianus four years before as his questor, but had been left behind to serve Collega when his patron marched on Rome for Vespasian.

“Yes, general,” Varro sighed. Silently he cursed his luck.

Collega lazily discarded the remnants of a bunch of grapes; they missed the table and dropped onto the tiled floor. The governor held out his hands. In moments, two servants had materialized. One held a bowl in front of his master. Another poured perfumed water over the general’s hands and into the bowl. “
Both
our careers, Varro,” the general continued. “A success with this expedition would pave the way for your entry into the Senate on your return. Perhaps the emperor would even appoint you a pretor.”

Varro, who had no ambitions to be a pretor, a senior magistrate, did not reply.

Collega washed his fingers then dried them on a cloth provided by the first slave. The task completed, both slaves melted away, the first bending smoothly to collect the refuse from the floor as he went. “Would you not agree?” Collega persisted.

“I imagine so, my lord.” Varro’s only ambition was to write. But his mother had high hopes for him, with her eyes on the consulship which had eluded his late father.

Collega now lifted a boiled and shelled peahen’s egg from a platter in front of him. He studied the egg for a moment, rolling it in his fingers. “A fellow with your abilities and your connections should go far.” He swallowed the egg whole.

“Yes, my lord,” Varro replied unenthusiastically.

Collega turned to the perspiring Jewish magistrate, who had been a silent witness to the Romans’ discourse all this time. “Antiochus, tell him about the Lucius Letter.”

“Of course, I have no time for the Nazarenes,” Antiochus now gushed, like a torrent unleashed from a great dam. “I would burn them all!”

“The letter, man!” Collega growled.

“Of course, Your Excellency,” Antiochus responded. “Forgive me.” He turned to address Varro. “As I was telling His Excellency, questor, last year when we rounded up the leaders of the Jewish community in Antioch and fried them at the stadium for complicity with the rebels in Galilee and Judea we caught one or two Nazarenes in the net.” He spoke with urgency, making no attempt to hide the pleasure he gained from persecuting fellow Jews. “In the house of a fellow by the name of Theophilus, one of the Nazarene elders, I discovered a letter, written by a Lucius the Physician, a native of Antioch. It gave an account of the life and death of the one they call Jesus of Nazareth.”

“An invaluable resource, I would imagine, this letter,” said Collega. “You will pass it on to Varro.”

“With pleasure my lord,” Antiochus hastened to reply. “And, may I be so bold as to volunteer to accompany the questor on his expedition of inquiry, to act as interpreter.”

“Interpreter?” Collega pursed his lips.

“I am of course fluent in Aramaic, Hebrew, and Jewish law,” the Jew added. “I would have thought that there would be witnesses to question and documents to study.”

“Hmm. I will think on it,” Collega nodded toward the door. “That will be all for the moment, Antiochus.”

The Jewish magistrate leapt to his feet. “Thank you, my lord governor.” Bowing from the waist, he withdrew backwards, and left the room.

“Despicable creature!” Collega commented under his breath. He clicked his fingers. “Remove the cushions,” he instructed his servants. He pointed to the now empty couch. “The ones where the Jew sat—and dripped. Burn them!”

As the slaves scurried to obey, Collega looked over at Varro. His expression of distaste quickly gave way to a sly smile. “So, it is decided, questor. You will conduct this inquest. And the sooner the better. We both know how much your patron Mucianus detests doctrine of any kind. Stoics and Cynics a like earn Mucianus’ ardent displeasure.”

Varro nodded. “As I know only too well, my lord. He consistently found new ways to insult the philosophers. He said that they were taking advantage of the name of philosophy to teach doctrines which were inappropriate to our times.”

“Can you imagine what he would think of the philosophy of the Nazarene? I do not think we can harbor any doubt that Mucianus would welcome a report which destroys the corrupting influence of the Nazarene doctrine, Varro.” Collega now leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Just be sure of this one thing, questor. For it to achieve the goal of the exercise, the report you write must demolish the Nazarene myth. You must come back with proof that this Jesus of Nazareth did not rise from the dead.”

Varro’s chief assistant, the freedman Callidus, a former slave, was waiting for his master with the litter bearers. “Do we go to Judea, my lord?” asked Callidus, a ruddy-faced Spaniard in his fifties, as Varro came down the steps from the governor’s palace wearing an unhappy scowl.

“How could you know about that?” Varro marveled. He had after all only just been given the appointment by the governor.

Callidus grinned. “Freedman’s grapevine, my lord.” Callidus had served the Varros, father and son, for most of his life, and was efficient in his own crude way, none the least in maintaining low-ranked informants in high places. “May I suggest…?”

“What is it?” Varro asked despondently as he slipped onto the comfortable litter.

“Allow me to round up a few suspected Nazarenes and see what information I can extract from them, about this Jesus fellow.” The questor had broad responsibilities, covering tax collection, army recruiting, and criminal investigations in the province, and as the questor’s chief assistant Callidus led a team of unarmed freedmen who filled the role of metropolitan police and tax collectors in Antioch, backed by the steel of the City Guard. In this role, Callidus could exercise all his considerable powers of coercion, and his more sadistic urges, to extract information from prisoners.

Varro shrugged. “Yes, yes, question who you will.” A thought then occurred to the questor. “But go gentle with them all the same, Callidus.”

The freedman frowned at his master. “Gentle, my lord?”

Later that night, back at his quarters, Varro had his secretary, Artimedes, read the Lucius Letter to him. General Collega was right. It proved to be a fascinating document. Not the least because it seemed to indicate that Jesus of Nazareth had gone willingly to his execution, like a lamb to the slaughter. Now, alone in his room and with oil lamps set on the table beside his bed, Varro began to reread the letter for himself. It began: