The Inquest (31 page)

“I cannot run, questor!” Artimedes gasped, clutching at his chest with his left hand as he struggled along, slowing himself and Varro.

“You must!” Varro yelled. “Keep going!”

“I cannot…” As Artimedes spoke, a spear lanced into the middle of his back. The secretary let go of Varro’s sword-belt, staggered, then came to a stop, reaching around ineffectually for the spear between his shoulders with his right hand, as if he might pluck it out like a splinter. As Martius and the trumpeter kept running, unaware of Artimedes’ injury, the little bald man looked at Varro, who also came to a halt. There was an innate sadness in his eyes. “I am sorry, my boy,” he gasped, before crumpling to the ground.

Dropping his dagger to free one hand, Varro grabbed the end of the spear lodged in the secretary’s back and yanked hard. It had no barb and came free without difficulty. Flinging the spear away, he stooped to lift the secretary to his feet. As he bent, he felt a spear glance off his armor. “Get up, Artimedes!” he yelled, reaching under the Greek’s arm. Artimedes was limp. His shiny head sagged like the head of a straw doll. He was unconscious, or dead.

“Julius!” Martius was running back to the pair, sheathing his dagger as he came.

The musician had stopped in the track, and stood watching in horror. “Hurry, my lords!” the terrified trumpeter bawled as he saw Ben Jairus and his party drawing closer.

Varro tried to lift the Greek, but with just one free hand, he could not.

Now Martius joined him. “Is he dead?”

“I hope not.”

Martius switched his sword to his left hand, then each of them took one of Artimedes’ arms and between them they half carried half dragged him at the run. Publius fell in with them once they reached him. But they had only gone fifty paces when a band of twenty or more partisans washed from the trees and into their path.

“We can’t fight our way through them carrying the secretary,” Martius declared

“I will not leave him,” said Varro determinedly.

“Then we make a stand here,” Martius declared.

“If that is what we must do.”

They came to a halt, and lay Artimedes face down on the ground. Varro and Martius then stood back to back, the questor facing west, the tribune facing east.

“What should I do?” cried the terrified trumpeter.

“Stay with Artimedes,” Varro said. There was no other course he could advise.

The two partisan bands quickly linked up and flooded around the four Romans. At a distance of twenty feet they exchanged comments in Aramaic, laughing, pointing.

“What they are saying?” Martius asked as they tensely watched and waited.

“Does it matter?” Varro came back.

“Probably not. As a matter of interest, Julius, am I to take it that there was no Matthias ben Naum?”

“Apparently not. That was definitely not Ben Naum in the pit.”

“So, coming here was a waste of time?”

“So it would appear.”

Martius laughed. “Well, I would not have missed it for anything.”

“These have been an interesting few months,” Varro remarked.

“It has been a pleasure knowing you, questor.”

“It is not over yet, Marcus.”

“Trust in your luck, and pray to Fortuna? Is that it?”

Now there came the sound of pounding hooves behind the partisans, to the east. Jews on that side of the track began to scatter in sudden panic.

“What is it?” Varro called, unable to see what was happening in that direction.

“Fortuna shines on you, questor,” Martius returned, sounding elated. “Come!”

Varro turned, to see General Bassus’ chariot surging down the track toward them. As it came up, the chariot slue to a halt three hundred feet away, with the horses lifting up on their hind legs and pawing the air. Now Varro recognized the driver. “Hostilis!”

The Briton eased his horses around, coaxing them into backing up then going forward, making the seemingly impossible task of turning the chariot on the narrow track look easy. Very soon the chariot faced back the way it had come, with the open end beckoning Varro and his companions. “Hurry, my lords!” Hostilis anxiously called.

Now, seeing that the chariot was not going to run them down and that it was not accompanied by other chariots or cavalry as they had feared, partisans rediscovered their courage. Spears were loosed at Hostilis, who ducked out of harm’s way. But the rebel focus was on finishing off the Roman officers. With a yell, partisans came at Varro and Martius. Varro dodged anonymous blows and jabbed at contorted faces. He was soon separated from Martius. A spear went shooting past his ear. Something hit his breastplate. A sword glanced off his helmet as he sidestepped. There was a sudden, stinging sensation on his left upper arm. Seeing a round shield lying on the ground, he dropped onto one knee to grab it up. A bloodied hand and forearm were still attached to the shield’s handles, courtesy of a slicing blow from Martius.

A gray-headed man came at Varro. Forgetting the shield, Varro thrust upward and caught the man in the stomach. The Jew dropped his long Roman shield and went reeling away. Grabbing the fallen shield with his left hand Varro came to his feet. As he did, he instinctively spun around, just in time to use the shield to parry a blow from a sword. He swung at his assailant, missing. He swung again, and again. The partisan turned and fled.

Suddenly, Varro was alone. Bodies lay everywhere around the scene of combat. Martius was to his right, fighting two men simultaneously. He too had found himself a Jewish shield-square, small; but effective. Publius the trumpeter was bleeding from a head wound and trying to fend off three attackers by frantically swinging his trumpet around and around. Sword blows glanced off the metal of the instrument with hollow clangs. Between the two struggles, the questor could see a clear path to the waiting chariot. Artimedes lay where he had fallen. The back of the Greek’s skull had been battered into red, bloody mush by club or stone. If Artimedes had not been dead before, he was now. Varro sprang forward to go to aid of the trumpeter. In that instant he saw an arrow enter the boy’s throat. Young Publius dropped his trumpet, and fell backward to the earth clutching at his throat. A Jew began hacking at the fallen youth with a sword.

Angry for the first time that day, Varro ran at the Jew, bellowing: “Leave him be!” The partisan, bending over the body of the trumpeter, looked around, to find Varro’s sword sweeping across his face. The blow sliced through his jaw. Screaming, the man dropped to his knees with hands to his bloodied face. Varro looked toward the chariot. The path was still clear. “Now, Marcus!” he yelled on the run. “Now is our chance!”

Martius had dispatched one attacker with a thrust into the mouth. Now he knocked the other down with his shield. But instead of going in for the kill, he pulled away and ran after Varro. The questor tripped as he reached the chariot; dropping his shield he literally fell into it. Looking up,
he saw Hostilis with a broken spear skewering his thigh. The slave reached down and dragged his master into the back of the chariot. Martius came running up, covered in blood, but smiling. He seemed uninjured; it had to be Jewish blood. Varro reached out to Martius.

“Fortuna be praised!” the grinning tribune exclaimed. Dropping his shield, he reached up to grab Varro’s hand. In that moment, an arrow pierced him, entering just above his armor at the left armpit and penetrating his chest. Martius looked down at the arrow jutting from his body. “That was not part of the plan!” he said, almost in disbelief. Sheathing his sword, he grasped the arrow and broke it off, casting away the piece in his hand. He looked up at Varro, and smiled again. “Nothing serious,” he said, “thanks to the gods.” His smile disappeared. Martius collapsed into the back of the chariot.

Varro sheathed his sword and hauled his friend in beside him. Looking down the track, he saw Judas ben Jairus and others coming at the wide-eyed run, swords raised.

“Hold tight, my lords!” Hostilis called back over his shoulder, lashing the reins along the backs of his steeds. The chariot surged forward. Varro grabbed the rail with his left hand. With his right he gripped Marcus Martius’ armor, to keep his friend from falling out. Martius lay face down, feet hanging out the back of the bumping chariot.

“Marcus, we will soon be out of this,” Varro assured his friend.

Martius looked up at him with glazed eyes. “Soon be out of it,” he slowly, mechanically repeated.

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

Naked and bloodied, Marcus Martius lay stretched out on a table in the physician’s tent. Diocles’ assistants were washing down the tribune’s body, while he stood looking down at his patient, with Varro at his side. Regaining consciousness, Martius opened his eyes.

“Can you hear me, Marcus?” said Varro.

“I hear you,” Martius replied weakly. “What of the Jews? Are they dealt with?”

“They rushed from the forest on our heels,” Varro advised, “and threw themselves onto our auxiliary line. Once they had exhausted themselves, the 10th was sent in against them. Not a rebel survives, Marcus. They were killed to the last man.”

“Fools,” Martius commented, his voice as soft as a breeze.

“Worry not, you will come out of this, Marcus,” Varro assured him. “Your wound is not fatal.” Varro had no medical training, and was not qualified to make such a statement. It was more a profound hope than a known fact.

“It’s the physician who worries me,” Martius responded. “Is he sober?”

Varro smiled. At least his friend had his wits about him. Not that he could necessarily say the same about Diocles. The physician was white-faced; he appeared to tremble, faintly, but perceptibly. “Listen to me, Diocles,” he said, in a steady, controlled voice. “If the tribune dies, then so do you. Do you hear me?”

Diocles did not look around. “He will not die,” he replied, in a quavering voice which failed to inspire confidence.

“Then do what you are trained to do. Save my friend.”

Diocles now instructed his assistants to roll the patient onto his right side. Martius groaned as he was turned. Blood was seeping from the wound caused by the Jewish arrow, with the arrowhead still embedded beneath the left arm, and also from a second wound, an incision near the arrow’s entry point; at some point during the fighting, Martius had been jabbed in the side with a spear. Diocles looked down at his hands. Momentarily they quivered, the combined result of weeks without a drop of wine, the status and condition of his patient, and the questor’s threat. The doctor inclined his eyes to the tent ceiling, and offered up a silent prayer. ‘Asclepius, son of Apollo, god of health and protector of physicians, many times I have sought your aid, but I have never needed it more than today. Steady my hand and sharpen my eye so that I might save this man.’

“Are you capable, physician?” Varro called. “Can you do this?”

Diocles returned his eyes to the patient. “There is nothing to be concerned about,” he responded. He nodded to an assistant, who placed a roll of cloth between Martius’ teeth. One assistant then held the patient’s wrists, another, his feet. “Scalpel.” Handed a scalpel, Diocles hesitated above the arrow’s entry point. Asclepius, do not fail me,’ he implored the heavens one last time, before commencing to dig into the wound. The arrowhead was in deep; he had to burrow like a termite around the jagged shaft. He felt his patient tense from head to foot with the pain, and knew that Martius was biting hard into the cloth, but the tribune did not make a sound. Beside him, Varro watched his every move.

It took time, but eventually Diocles, perspiring freely, was able to dig out shaft and
arrowhead, which he cast into a bowl. He then smeared ointment from a jar into the wound. “Bandage,” he gasped. There was still the risk of the patient bleeding to death. The bandaging must be proficient. In his head, Diocles could hear the voice of his first medical instructor, Philemon of Athens. ‘Strength is imparted by the compression and the number of folds of the bandage. In one case the bandage effects the cure, and in another it contributes to the cure. For these purposes this is the rule—that the force of the constriction be such as to prevent the adjoining parts from separating, without compressing them much, and so that the parts may be adjusted but not forced together; and that the constriction be small at the extremities, and least of all in the middle.’

Varro watched the physician wind a lengthy bandage around Martius’ torso. Martius’ eyes were closed. “Marcus?” he anxiously called.

“Still here,” came a wheezing reply. Martius’ face was becoming flushed.

Varro nudged Diocles. “He seems to be having difficulty breathing, physician.”

“He was also speared,” Diocles replied as he worked. “The spear may have punctured the left lung. He will breath more easily momentarily, I assure you.”

Minutes later, once the bandaging was complete, Martius was rolled onto his back once more. He began breathing with less difficulty.

“The arrowhead is removed, and the flow of blood stemmed,” Diocles announced.

“What now?” Varro asked.

“We are in the hands of the gods, questor. Pray that infection does not set in.”

Varro looked at his friend. “You are strong, Marcus. You can come through this.”

With his eyes still closed, Martius nodded slowly. Then he stopped moving.

“Marcus?”

Diocles put an ear to the tribune’s chest. “He breathes; the tribune has again lapsed into unconsciousness, questor,” he pronounced, “because of the blood he has lost. The body will replace the blood naturally. All he needs now is rest.”

Varro felt comforted by this. “I know that he will recover,” he said positively. Now, he saw Hostilis standing to one side. The broken shaft of a spear protruded from the servant’s right thigh. Varro himself had a flesh wound on the arm, which one of Diocles’ assistants now tended to. “Look to my man Hostilis now, Diocles,” Varro commanded.

Diocles instructed Hostilis to lie on another operating table. Once the Briton had complied, the physician prepared to withdraw the stump of the spear.

Varro looked over to Pythagoras. “Hostilis saved my life today,” he told him, “and Tribune Martius’ life. You will prepare manumission papers for Hostilis. He is to be granted his freedom the moment that we return to Antioch.”

Hostilis had overheard. “Thank you, my lord,” he called, before crying out with pain as Diocles began to pry the offending length of wood from his leg.

“I shall prepare the manumission document for your seal, questor,” said Pythagoras. “May I ask, is there is no possibility that Artimedes might be found alive?”

“Artimedes is dead,” Varro replied with a sad sigh. “As are Alienus and the boy trumpeter. I saw them all die.” A thought hit him. “Can anyone tell me, how did Venerius come to be in the forest? As we were coming out, we passed a naked body lying beside the track. It had lost its left hand and its head. I swear, I recognized the face as belonging to Venerius. How was it he was there?”

“Tribune Venerius volunteered to come to your rescue, my lord,” Hostilis called, before letting out another howl of pain. Hostilis knew perfectly well that Gallo had tricked Venerius
into joining him in the chariot, but he saw no point in disparaging the dead officer cadet, or the live centurion. Hostilis was not one to do anything without carefully thinking through both the consequences and the advantages of his act.

“He volunteered?” Varro was astonished. “Who would have credited it? Venerius found his courage. Wonders will never cease!”

It was the afternoon. In his
pretorium
, Varro sat at Artimedes’ compact, folding writing table, penning the last of two letters. Hostilis had brought Artimedes’ writing instruments to him: the table, a writing frame, a box of quills and inks, and the questor’s seal, that of a bearded Neptune, god of the sea, with his trident. This was Varro’s family seal, first used by his grandfather after he had served Caesar Augustus as an admiral. This seal was Varro’s signature. On letters it informed the recipient of his identity. On death warrants it sealed a condemned man’s fate. On manumission papers it set an enslaved man free.

The first letter that he had written was to his mother, to tell her that her favorite, Artimedes, was dead. In describing the morning’s events, Varro had claimed full culpability for the secretary’s death, writing that he had foolishly led Artimedes into a trap, that he should have known better than trust the rebels. The second letter was addressed to the family of Gaius Licinius Venerius, to inform them of the junior tribune’s death, stating that Venerius had died bravely while trying to save the questor’s life.

Centurion Gallo entered the tent. Behind him came a centurion of the 10th Legion.

“Begging the questor’s pardon,” Gallo began. “We think we may have identified the body of the rebel leader. He was found wearing the armor and helmet of a Roman centurion. Is this Judas ben Jairus, my lord?”

As Varro looked around, the centurion beside Gallo lifted up a wooden spike of the kind that usually topped entrenchments. On the end of the spike sat a decapitated head, that of a darkly bearded man in his thirties. The centurion’s hand was red from the blood that had dripped from the dead man’s severed neck.

Varro took in the head, with its staring eyes and bloodied open mouth. He recognized the face of the man who had led the rebels in the forest that morning. “Yes, that is Judas ben Jairus,” he confirmed with a sigh before returning to his writing.

“We thought as much,” said the centurion of the 10th. “We have counted three thousand and ninety seven dead Jews. For ourselves, and apart from your thin-striper and the decurion, we lost just ten men of the 10th killed today. A paltry price to pay.”

Varro nodded glumly. He had seen enough death this day. He continued writing.

Gallo and his companion looked at each other, shrugged, then took their leave with the gory trophy, only for another visitor to enter the tent almost immediately.

Impatient with the interruptions, Varro looked up with a scowl, to see Pedius standing before him. “Yes, what is it, lictor?”

“You asked for Miriam to be brought to you, my lord?”

Varro lay aside his pen. “Bring her in.” He was not looking forward to this.

Pedius withdrew, only to return moments later with Miriam.

“You may remove your veil if you wish,” said Varro, coming to his feet.

“I am perfectly comfortable as I am, thank you,” she said, haughtily.

He cursed her to himself. Why did she have to be so difficult? This woman confused him.
Before now no one had ever made him feel so angry and yet so completely benevolent at the same time. He had not suggested she remove her veil for any significant reason, he would simply like to look on her face. Still, it was not important. Coming out from behind the writing table he stood in front of her. “Your brother led us into the forest this morning,” he said. He waited for a reaction, but when he received none he continued. “He led us into a trap.” Another pause. Still no reaction. “Artimedes is dead, and so are Alienus and Venerius. Tribune Martius has been injured; severely injured.”

“I am sorry to hear about Tribune Martius, and the others.”

Varro thought that she did sound genuinely sorry. “You have heard, Miriam,” he went on, “that every Jew in the forest has been killed? Every one?”

“Jacob may have escaped,” she came back.

“He is dead.” Varro had planned to be kinder, but it came out matter-of-factly.

“How can you be so sure?”

“I saw him killed.”

“By whom?”

“By Martius.”

She did not say anything.

“Your brother is dead, Miriam. I am sorry, but he brought it on himself.”

“If Tribune Martius truly did kill my beloved brother,” she now said, with a voice taut with emotion, “then I hope that he too dies.”

He sighed. “I am sorry you feel that way.”

“May I go now?”

“Very well. Pedius, take her back to her quarters.”

Varro slouched unhappily back to the writing desk and resumed his seat. When he looked up, Miriam and the lictor had gone, and Hostilis was limping in the doorway bearing a water ewer. There was a bandage around his thigh, his face was white.

“Sit down, Hostilis,” said Varro grumpily. “Rest your leg.”

Hostilis put the ewer down and then settled on the tent’s earthen floor.

When Varro finished the Venerius letter Hostilis quickly hopped up. He brought a lamp so that his master could drip sealing wax onto the back of the document, forming a small yellow, streaky mound which had the appearance of liquid onyx.

“How long have you been able to drive a chariot?” Varro asked as he applied Neptune to the melted wax.

“I was trained to drive in my youth, master, in Britain.”

“Well trained, at that. Fortunately for me.”

“In my younger days, I was able to run out onto the pole while the chariot was in motion and then run back to the driving position, without losing my balance or losing control of the chariot.” This was unusual loquacity for Hostilis.

Varro smiled. “Quite a trick.” He realized that in all the years that Hostilis had served him he had known very little about the man’s past. Not that he had been interested enough to inquire before now. “Your name was not Hostilis when you were in Britain,” he said, as he waited for the wax to harden. “That is your Roman name.”

“Yes, master.” Hostilis fanned the wax to make it dry more quickly.

“What were you named before?”

“My name was Mordoc.”

“Mordoc? Does it have a meaning?”

“Son of the Sea, Master.”

Varro looked surprised. “Why Son of the Sea?”

“My father was a fisherman. He was training me to also be a fisherman when King Prasutagus’ Horse Master came to our village by the Sunrise Sea and chose me to train as a charioteer, in the king’s service.”

“Why were you chosen?”

“The Horse Master said that I had the look of a charioteer, whatever that meant.”

“He must have seen the talent you displayed today when you saved my life, and your courage. In addition to your freedom, on our return to Antioch you shall have one hundred thousand sesterces, Hostilis, for the talent and the courage you showed today.”

Hostilis looked at him in astonishment. Manumission had been at the back of his mind when he had leapt into General Bassus’ chariot that morning, but he had never given a moment’s thought to a financial reward should he succeed in conveying his master to safety. “That is too much, master,” he protested.

Varro shook his head. “It is a pittance to a man like myself. You are of course welcome to remain in my service, my paid service. But you will be free to choose your future course. You might choose to go into business, for instance.”