The Inquest (27 page)

The Forest of Jardes, Territory of idumea,
Roman Province of Judea. May, A.D.71

The heat pressed down on him like a giant hand. Oppressive heat, thick with humidity. As Varro stood on the camp wall, wearing armor and a sword for the first time since the expedition had begun, perspiration flowed like a river from beneath his bronze helmet. It ran down the back of his neck, it trickled into his eyes, it made salty inroads into the corners of his mouth. Wiping his eyes with the back of a clammy hand, he focused on the scene in front of him.

Spread around the forest in battle order, the soldiers of General Bassus’ army stood frozen in their ranks, silently anticipating the order to go in after the partisans hiding in the trees. The majority of Bassus’ two thousand cavalrymen encircled the small forest. Troopers drooped in the saddle, horses shook their heads and occasionally pawed the ground in their boredom. Just behind their line, auxiliary infantrymen bearing small, light shields decorated with spiral motifs stood in eight cohorts that were distributed every few hundred yards. Their cloth standards hung damp and limp in the humid Negev air. In the forest, the partisans had the benefit of shade, but here, standing in the open for hours on end in their chain-mail jackets, the auxiliaries, some from Egypt, some from the Balkans, some from the Rhine, were baking in the heat. The Egyptians were accustomed to this climate, the Germans were as tough as oak, but several Pannonian infantrymen wilted like delicate flowers, collapsing in their ranks, to be carried away by orderlies.

East of the trees, occupying a grassy rise overlooking a stream, the heavy infantry of the 10th Legion was formed up, in three lines, each line ten men deep. The soldiers of the 10th, all Roman citizens and natives of western Spain, were olive skinned and dark-haired. The identical outfits, the shining segmented armor, the even rows of glinting helmets, the legion’s charging bull emblem repeated on five thousand long, curved wooden shields, all combined to give the formation a uniformity and an anonymity which reduced lines of men into mere components of a death-dealing machine.

In front of the formation stood the eagle-bearer of the 10th Legion, proudly holding aloft the golden eagle standard of the 10th. Directly behind him stood the legion’s trumpeters, all in a line, waiting for their general to give the order to go forward, an order they would relay by sounding ‘Advance At The March’ or ‘Charge.’ But General Bassus was lying in a tent in a camp hastily thrown up behind the legion. For the past hour, the general had been only semi-conscious and incapable of giving any order.

It had taken the column the best part of four days to reach the forest. Even after leaving the heavy baggage at the Nabatea road, the column had made little better than ten miles a day to begin with, over difficult desert terrain in blistering heat, until the wheat-growing district of the Negev Valley provided easier going. The cavalry had preceded the foot soldiers, and had quickly surrounded the forest while the infantry came up.

Bassus had been impatient to seal off all possibility of escape and then move in quickly before dark and kill or capture every last rebel hiding in the forest with Judas ben Jairus. Delayed on the march by severe abdominal pain, the general had himself arrived on the scene some hours after his army, coming up in his chariot and with a cavalry escort. Seeing that the forest of evergreens stood thicker than he had imagined, Bassus had second thoughts about a full-on
frontal assault. Legion formations were at their best in the open or storming a rampart, but in tightly-packed trees their ranks and their discipline would suffer, and heavy casualties might result.

The general’s mind was already on Masada, last Jewish bastion in Judea and a reputedly impregnable fortress. He would need every man he had to take Masada and draw the curtain on the Jewish Revolt. Once that was done he could rest, secure in the knowledge that he had fulfilled his orders and done his duty by Caesar. To achieve his goal, and rapidly so, Bassus could not afford heavy casualties here at the Forest of Jardes, and the general had decided to consult the gods before launching an attack. In the quest for guidance a goat had been sacrificed to Mars, god of war. The entrails of the animal had been found to be deformed. Reading this ill omen as a danger signal, Bassus had held off giving the order to advance into the forest. His anxiety had brought on an excruciating attack of pain and abdominal cramps, and the general had collapsed.

Varro heard shouting in the camp behind him. He and his colleagues, who stood on the camp rampart by the
pretorian
gate, looked around. Tribune Fabius, deputy commander of the 10th, had emerged from the general’s tent and was issuing orders to waiting centurions and prefects. Varro looked to Martius, who stood farther along the rampart, closer to the
pretorium
. “Did you hear what was said, Marcus?” he called.

“No, but I will find out,” Martius replied, before shimmying down a ladder. He soon collared one of Fabius’ centurions. The pair spoke animatedly for a few moments before Martius climbed back up to the ramparts.

“Well?” Varro queried impatiently.

“It seems the general mentally rejoined us long enough to instruct Fabius to arm the auxiliaries with axes,” said Martius with an amused smile. “Bassus has decided to cut down the Forest of Jardes. Defoliating the Jews, and eliminating our firewood shortage at the same time. Very clever really.”

Now Crispus called out. “Questor! Look!” He was pointing toward the forest.

Varro and Martius both followed the prefect’s gaze, to see a lone rider slowly coming out of the trees. He wore a white tunic and rode with his arms horizontally outstretched, to signify that he was unarmed.

“A Jewish envoy, it seems,” Martius remarked. “This should prove interesting.”

They watched as Tribune Fabius was summoned to the camp wall. Once he came up onto the ramparts and sighted the rider for himself he issued an order. A troop of Roman cavalry galloped to the rider and surrounded him. The man dismounted, was searched for weapons by two troopers, and was then led through the 10th Legion’s ranks toward the camp. As he was brought in the
pretorian
gate, Varro and his officers came down off the wall and joined Tribune Fabius and several of his subordinates who had also descended. The combined group stood just inside the gate, waiting for the Jew.

The envoy was an athletic figure in his twenties, with curly black hair and a perfectly sculpted face. “My name is Jacob,” he said in a firm voice as he came to a halt in front of Fabius. “I claim the neutrality afforded ambassadors of peace by all nations.”

Fabius, himself a handsome-faced man, although slim and slight in comparison to the young Jewish ambassador, folded his arms. “You bring a message for my general, Jew?” he tersely inquired.

“My leader, Judas ben Jairus, seeks terms for an honorable cessation of hostilities,” Jacob replied. As he spoke, he ran an analytical eye over the assembled Roman officers, assessing their
rank and caliber.

“General Bassus offers no terms,” Fabius haughtily replied. “He will accept only total and immediate disarmament and unconditional surrender.” As Fabius knew, this had been Bassus’ tenet since embarking on his campaign.

Jacob’s eyes returned to Fabius. “Judas will not agree to unconditional surrender,” the envoy advised unemotionally. “He is prepared to disarm, if you let the people with him go free into the desert, to start a new life.”

“Impossible!” Fabius snapped. “Go back and tell your leader that his options are twofold: unconditional surrender, or death.”

“Sent to receive terms, I won’t return without them,” Jacob defiantly declared.

“Impudent Jew!” Fabius exploded. “You will not dictate to me!” He nodded to the cavalrymen of the escort. “Lash him to a cross up on the camp wall, where his friend Judas ben Jairus can see him. That will be General Bassus’ answer.”

“You violate the neutrality of an ambassador!” Jacob angrily retorted as troopers grabbed his arms.

“You Jews have violated your word at every opportunity during this war,” Fabius bitterly replied. “More than once you have ignored the neutrality of Roman ambassadors. Like for like, Jew.”

“Wait!” Varro spoke up. “The man is right, Fabius. No matter what the other side does, we are Romans and we ought to observe the neutrality of envoys.”

The troopers who were in the process of hauling Jacob away looked uncertainly from questor to tribune.

Eyes blazing, Fabius swung on Varro. “These people have lost the right to civil treatment,” he snarled in the questor’s face. “Not that I need excuse myself to you, Varro. You have no standing here. General Bassus has only tolerated your presence out of the goodness of his heart. So, mind your business.” He turned to the cavalrymen. “Take the Jew away! Give him a slow cross.”

Annoyed by the tribunes attitude, Varro could have made an issue of it. Yet, he told himself, if he was to pick a fight with Bassus or his officers it would have to be a fight that he badly needed to win, because once he went down that road he might sour relations with the general and lose his valuable cooperation. So, as the hotheaded Jacob was dragged away yelling deprecations against Fabius and Romans in general, Varro kept silent. He watched from a distance as two lengths of wood were formed into a large ‘X’ by Fabius’ men. This was propped up on the camp rampart facing the forest. Jacob was then stripped and spread-eagled on the cross with his arms and legs tied in place. Varro was familiar with ‘slow’ cross. It was intended to draw out the agony of execution. The victim would die from a combination of starvation and exposure, lingering for many days before expiring. Varro had never personally consigned anyone to a slow cross, although such a punishment was within his power. He thought it enough that a prisoner paid with his life, it had never been in his nature to inflict unnecessary pain.

Fabius then sent several of his centurions riding to the edge of the forest where they called into the trees that Jacob would be freed alive if and when the remaining rebels gave themselves up. All the while, Jacob yelled at the top of his voice, warning his comrades in the forest not to trust these Romans who had violated his neutrality, and urging them not to surrender. Tribune Fabius soon tired of the prisoner s voice and ordered him gagged.

Now Pedius, Varro’slictor, came to the questor. With military operations pending, Varro had put Pedius in charge of the welfare of Miriam and Gemara. “Miriam is asking to see you, my
lord,” Pedius advised worriedly. “A matter of urgency.”

Accompanied by Pedius and Martius, Varro strode to where the expedition’s baggage animals were tethered. The veiled Miriam had been sitting on the ground with Gemara. She quickly came to her feet when she saw the questor.

“Pedius said that you wished to see me,” Varro began.

“I think that the man who has been put on the cross on the wall is my brother,” she announced. There was a slight quaver in her voice. “Please, will you help him?”

It was the first time Varro had detected a hint of emotion from her. It was also the first time she had sought his aid. Yet, he did not entirely believe her. “How do you know he is your brother?” he asked, suspecting she was merely aiming to help a fellow Jew.

“I heard him crying out. I recognized his voice.”

He looked into her beautiful dark eyes, trying to read them. “You recognized his voice? From here? I find that hard to believe.”

“Would you not recognize the voice of
your
brother?” she countered.

“Both my brothers are dead.” His voice was a monotone, his impassive reaction conditioned by years of grief for his two brothers, killed in Rome’s recent civil war.

“Five years ago, my brother Jacob, a free man, went to Jerusalem to celebrate the Passover,” Miriam went on, seemingly ignoring his comment. “He disappeared there, and I have not seen him since. I have thought him dead all this time.” Now she made her salient point. “Would you not recognize the voices of your dead brothers?”

Had he given her a direct answer, it would have been in the affirmative. His brothers’ voices lived eternally in his memory. Instead, he asked her a question. “How is it that your brother was free and you were not?”

“My father sold me into slavery.”

Varro was shocked. “Your father did that?”

“My brother was also in Queen Berenice’s service, but as a free man. The queen always permitted her free Jewish servants leave to take part in the Passover Festival. That last year, Jacob did not come back. I had always thought that he must have died in the war. Then, today, I heard his voice. To me, it was like a voice from Heaven.”

Varro looked questioningly to Martius, who nodded. Martius believed her.

“Come with me,” Varro instructed.

Leaving young Gemara with Pedius, Varro and Martius conducted the Jewish woman up onto the camp ramparts. Soldiers’ heads turned disapprovingly as she passed along the narrow boardwalk behind them. Varro knew that it was considered unlucky by Roman soldiers for a woman to mount a camp’s walls, but at this moment that was the least of his considerations. Seeing Antiochus among officials a little further along the wall Varro motioned for the Jewish magistrate to join them. When they reached the wooden cross and stood before the crucified man, Miriam suddenly burst into tears. Falling to her knees, she pulled aside her veil, and began to kiss the prisoner’s feet. Tears also began to form in Jacob’s eyes.

Varro did not need Miriam to tell him that this was indeed her brother. He ordered the nearest soldier to remove the gag from Jacob’s mouth. Once the gag had gone, Jacob began to converse rapidly with Miriam, and she with him, in Aramaic. Varro had anticipated this. He turned to Antiochus. “What are they saying?”

For a time, Antiochus listened to the emotion-charged exchange between brother and sister, before providing Varro with a commentary in Latin. “The girl reveals that she is a Nazarene,” he said, turning up his nose with distaste.

“Miriam is a Nazarene?” Varro remembered her interest in the house at Nazareth.

“Her brother is also a Nazarene,” Antiochus went on. He listened a little more. “No, he
was
a Nazarene, but he turned his back on the Nazarene’s doctrines, wise fellow. He tired of turning the other cheek, he says, and turned to armed rebellion against Rome instead. He was with Judas ben Jairus and his brother Simon during the fighting at Jerusalem—they were both leaders of one of the Jewish factions. He used tunnels beneath the city to escape with Judas in the last days of Titus’ siege.”