The Inquest (33 page)

“Silence!” Varro growled, his voice almost unrecognizable, as he dragged her toward the bed in the corner of the room.

“Please…” she whimpered. “Please, do not do this.”

With one hand he roughly reached down and grasped her light, linen robe, and tried to unceremoniously drag it up. But, pressed closely together as they were, the garment would not respond. Cursing under his breath he pushed her back, so that she fell onto the bed. For a moment, he stood looking down at her sprawled there on the coverlet, fragile, unprotected, looking back up at him with fear in her eyes. Then he unfastened his belt and let it fall. “This is nothing less than you deserve!” he snarled, bending and pulling up her gown with such violence that the linen ripped.

As he cast the robe aside, Varro paused momentarily to take in the sight that now met his eyes. Miriam was totally and spectacularly naked. Her flawless, trim, curvaceous body shone as if it had been oiled. Her breasts were round and firm, each areola and nipple was dark brown. Her pubic hair was thick and the color of jet. As for her legs, they were stubbornly clamped together, but her last defense was not going to stop him. Reaching down with both hands he wrenched her legs apart, just as he would part a stubborn young bough from an olive sapling in the pruning season.

She made no sound, but her eyes spoke volumes; of her dread of what was to come, of her disappointment in him. He drew his tunic over his head and threw it to the floor, revealing a muscle-toned body, a smooth, well-defined chest, and his physical readiness to take her. Miriam had seen naked adult males in the flesh before. What slave had not? But in the sheltered surrounds of the court of Queen Berenice she had never seen a man fully aroused. Varro’s erect penis shocked and surprised her. Now he lay full length on top of her, crushing her beneath him so that she had to take short, sharp breaths. Taking her wrists, he pinned them back. Again his mouth found hers. She closed her eyes, and let his kisses smother her. But her eyes soon flashed wide, as, with a gasp, she felt him enter her, driving himself into her body. She cried out with shock and pain, as her hymen broke. Sad tears trickled down her cheeks.

He began thrusting in and out, his face contorted. She found herself gripping onto his back.
Her head nestled next to his. But, silently, she prayed that it would soon be over. His thrusts became more urgent, his breathing more rapid. And then he was arching his back, and letting out ecstatic groans of pleasure. Unable to resist the urge to draw him closer, she gripped his arms. He tensed, quivered from head to foot, let out a cry of exaltation, then collapsed clumsily onto her.

Briefly he lay on top of her, breathing hard, and dripping perspiration, before rolling away and lying beside her until his breathing returned to normal. He did not look at her, nor she at him. Then he rose to his feet. Finding her gown on the floor, he snatched it up and threw it in her direction. “Get dressed,” he snapped, angry, not with her now, but with himself. He turned his back on her as he himself dressed, overwhelmed by shame for forcing himself on her, and unable to look at her lest she see the guilt written on his face.

A thick mist surrounded Varro and Callidus as they crunched over the gritty orange beach to the waiting boats. As they walked Varro brushed his hands together to remove the last of the gray ash that still clung to his skin. He had just spent his last minutes at Sodom distributing his friend’s ashes on the Dead Sea, from a promontory little farther around the foreshore.

“According to the Sodomites, my lord,” Callidus remarked as they walked, “this mist hangs over the lake for a considerable time in the warmer months, often until the middle of the day.” He was pleased to be leaving this unpleasant place, pleased to be beginning the journey back to Antioch, and to his Priscilla. “They say the mist has something to do with the lake’s salt water.” Then, a new thought hit him. “I was thinking, my lord, after the funeral of Tribune Martius yesterday, we now know the significance of your dream. The one involving the chariot.”

“We do?”

“Well, yes, my lord. Obviously, it was General Bassus’ chariot. The figures in black were those who died with you in the forest. The charioteer was Tribune Martius.”

“The driver looked nothing like Martius,” Varro returned shortly.

“He did not? Oh.”

Six boats were drawn up on the narrow, half-moon beach. A seventh had gone ahead the previous day to make arrangements for the main party to be met by litters and horses at the northern shore. Each boat was equipped with twelve oars. Allocated one of the craft by General Bassus, Varro had Centurion Gallo send him twelve of his men as rowers, and had chosen Callidus, Pythagoras, Pedius, Miriam, Gemara, Philippus and Hostilis to squeeze into the boat with him and the oarsmen. His party was assembled and waiting when Varro came down the beach with Callidus.

Fair-headed Prefect Crispus stood with the others. It would be Crispus’ task to lead the remainder of the questor’s column back to Jerusalem via the overland route. As before, the expeditioners would march in company with General Bassus’ army, led now by Tribune Fabius. It was likely to take the column seven days to make the journey. As for the party on the lake, if they met with calm waters all the way, they could be in Jerusalem that evening, after continuous travel all day and well into the night.

Varro reached out an ashen hand. “Take care of our people, Quintus,” he said, “and we shall see you in Jerusalem in a week’s time.”

“You can rely on me, questor,” Crispus earnestly replied, grasping his superior’s hand. “A safe journey to you.”

Varro ordered his party into their boat. On his order, the rowers, who had been standing in
the shallows at the prow end, heaved the craft out into the water. Ten of the twelve legionaries then took their seats on board; two held the craft stationary just off the beach as Varro walked through the mist to the other boats. Four boats were laden with General Bassus and his staff, the fifth with provisions. A bed not unlike a covered litter had been prepared in one of these craft. Varro pulled back the side covering and peered into the interior. On the bed lay Bassus, pale and perspiring. His eyes were closed. Polycrates, the silver-haired physician, sat at his side.

“The general?” Varro asked.

“Weak, questor,” the physician answered gravely. “Very weak.”

Hearing the voices, Bassus opened his eyes, then turned his head toward Varro. He lifted his face toward the figure beside the boat, and squinted at him. “Tell Caesar that I am doing my duty,” he said, before falling back and closing his eyes once more.

Varro looked at Polycrates.

The physician shrugged. “Delirious,” he said. “I cannot imagine who he thinks you are. He thinks that
I
am his wife.”

Varro nodded. “Your boat should lead,” he said. “I shall bring up the rear.

Varro crunched his way back to his craft through the damp, clinging mist, then splashed out to his boat and hauled himself in over the prow. As he took his seat in the bow, he ordered, “Push off!” The two remaining soldiers heaved the boat out into the shallows, then clambered inboard. It was a tight fit. There were not seats for all; Miriam, Gemara and Hostilis huddled on the ribbed floor between seated passengers and rowers. Miriam sat with her back to the questor; Varro, wearing his guilt like a stinking, soiled cloak, was grateful he would not have to look her in the eye during this journey.

“Prepare to row,” the questor called. As his oarsmen readied their oars he looked over to his left, to the five shadows in the mist; once those other craft were under way and disappearing into the gray void, he ordered, “Rowers on the right, pull together!” The six legionaries on the right side dragged on their oars. The nose of the boat came around. Varro’s last sight of Sodom was of white rooftops protruding through the mist, lit golden by the rising sun. The vision swung to his left, and then was gone. “Now,
all
pull together!”

All twelve rowers now dipped their oars. The boat began to slide over the glassy surface, out onto the lake in the rippling tracks of the craft which had preceded it.

Standing on the shore, Crispus watched the boats melt into the mist. Even after they had been engulfed by the soft gray cloud, he could hear them, could hear the rollicking of the oars and the swish of their blades, could hear disembodied voices out on the lake, ghostly, dull and empty. Once the questor’s craft had slipped from view, the prefect let out a deep sigh, then turned and walked up the beach toward the city, and the column waiting on the far side of it. Crispus envied his colleagues in the boats; he was not looking forward to his overland journey.

No one spoke in the eerie stillness. Passengers sat with cloaks wrapped around them as a protection again the clawing damp air, and with heads bowed. Occasionally someone would cough, as the airborne brine tickled their throat. Perspiration rolled from the rippling arms and bare brown legs of the legionaries working with precision at the oars.

After they had been rowing through the mist for little more than an hour, keeping the shore on their left and the next boat within sight, all the time veiled in silence but for the rolling of the oars and the gentle, rhythmical splashes generated by the gouging blades, a surreal voice called
out from the distance. “All stop!”

Passengers’ heads came up. The dripping oarsmen ceased to row. Even though Varro’s boat began to lose way, it went gliding across the water still, with oars raised, as if propelled by magic.

“What’s happening?” someone in Varro’s boat asked.

“Questor!” came the distant voice again. “Questor Varro, come alongside the general’s boat, if you please.” It was the physician’s voice.

Varro ordered his men to resume rowing. Slowly he edged his craft past the four boats ahead of him, one at a time. The passengers sitting in the other craft, emerging briefly from the gloom and seeming to Varro to have the appearance of ghouls journeying across the Styx River on the journey to the underworld, watched the questor pass. As he came up to the general’s vessel, lying dead in the water and with its oars levitated, its features materialized from the mist like a mirage on the desert; first the long shape of the hull, then the distinctive canopy.

“Raise oars!” Varro ordered.

When his men lifted their oars to the vertical, the lengths of timber looked like a grove of limbless trees.

“Why did you summon me?” Varro called as his craft bumped alongside the other with a hollow clunk of wood on wood. “Do you wish to link the boats with ropes, so none becomes lost in the mist?”

“No,” came a reply. The face of Polycrates the physician appeared from under the canopy, just a few feet away from Varro.

“What is it then, physician?”

“General Bassus is dead.”

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

The sea air! The wonderful, embracing, cleansing sea air. Away below the questor, as he stood on the citadel terrace taking in the vista, the port of Caesarea was a hive of activity. He could hear the laughter of laborers, could smell the aroma of landed fish wafting up from the quay. Out on the glittering Mediterranean he could count the billowing sails of at least ten large craft, merchantmen and warships. How different this was from the tomb-like atmosphere of Jerusalem, the bloodied grass of the Forest of Jardes, the clammy, salty air of Sodom. There was sadness too. The last time that he had stood on this terrace it had been with Marcus Martius at his side, and Artimedes had still been full of life. Yet, somehow, Varro felt that both would forgive him for enjoying the return to Caesarea. The questor took one more deep breath of sea air, then turned and walked back into his apartment in the white fortress. Pythagoras the secretary sat at a writing table, with pen poised, waiting patiently for Varro to resume his dictation. Two days earlier, the questor had commenced writing his report on the death of Jesus of Nazareth.

It was difficult working with so much hearsay and so little fact. For all that, in his methodical way Varro was attempting to put what he had into the most coherent form possible. He and Pythagoras had begun by laying out all the wax tablets containing the record of the testimonies of the numerous informants, and categorizing them by subject matter: pre-arrest, arrest, trial, execution, and post-execution. From that foundation he had begun to dictate to Pythagoras, prowling his day apartment and speaking his thoughts while Pythagoras sat at his writing table working in fresh wax. Every now and then Varro would pause, and both he and the secretary would consult the previous shorthand notes to refresh their memories about a particular point, before the questor resumed his dictation. Varro planned to spend a few more days here, working on the report, before resuming the journey back to Antioch, polishing the report along the way.

He was considering taking the coastal route north. The new Procurator of Judea, Lucius Liberius Maximus, a small, round-faced Spaniard and a former slave freed by the emperor Otho, had reminded Varro that on the coastal route stood Mount Carmel’s Sanctuary of Apollo. Liberius had recommended that the questor pay a visit to the sanctuary and seek a prediction from the priest of Apollo about his future. This priest was said to possess remarkable oracular powers; he was widely known to have accurately predicted the future of Caesar Vespasianus before he became emperor. Yet, Varro was not so sure he wanted an insight into his future. What if his life was all downhill from here? The way this mission was panning out, there would be little to look forward to either in Antioch or back at Rome.

“Begging the questor’s pardon?”

Varro, deep in thought about the future, looked up absently at the sound of his chief freedman’ voice. “Yes, Callidus, what it is it?”

“Forgive me for interrupting your work, my lord,” said Callidus from the door, “but there is someone to see you, someone I think you should see.

“Oh? And who would that be, Callidus?” Varro replied, a little impatiently.

“He says that he is Jesus, my lord.”

“What?” Varro raised his eyebrows at Pythagoras, and instructed Callidus to bring the man to him at once.

Callidus led in a tall, slim man with gray hair and beard. He was severely wrinkled, and Varro, sitting on a chair now, guessed that he might be aged in his seventies, perhaps older. “Who are you?” the mystified Varro asked. He, Pythagoras and Callidus eyed the man intently.

“My name is Jesus,” the stranger replied in a deep, mellifluous voice.

Varro and his companions looked at him in astonishment.

“You truly are Jesus?” Varro said. “Jesus of Nazareth?”

A smile broke across the man’s face. “I am Jesus of Cana, my lord. More precisely, Yehoshua bar Annas, or, if you prefer, Joshua. Jesus, the humble rope maker.”

Varro could not help but laugh at himself for having believed, if only for a moment, that Jesus of Nazareth had indeed survived his execution and walked in the questor’s door forty-one years later. “What can I do for you, Jesus the rope maker?”

“I heard some little time ago,” said Bar Annas, “that the questor was offering payment for information about events surrounding the death of Jesus of Nazareth many years ago. By the time that I had learned of this and came to the citadel, I was told that Your Lordship had left Caesarea. Today, I heard that you have returned. So, here am I.”

“You have information?”

“How much is Your Lordship paying?”

“I am a fair man, and will pay a fair price if the information is of value.”

Bar Annas smiled mischievously. “If a man cannot trust a questor, who can he?”

“What did you wish to tell me?”

“I once knew a bandit, a Daggerman, of the band led by Joshua bar Abbas, who sold two stolen swords to a man by the name of Simon, a Galilean also called Simon Petra.” The informant cocked his head to one side. “Does this interest the questor?”

“Perhaps. When was this?”

“Just prior to the Passover during which Jesus of Nazareth was executed. It was of course against the laws of Rome to carry a sword, as it is now. Even the common soldiers of the Temple Guard were only permitted to go armed with staves. Although, I am sure I do not need to point that out to Your Lordship, a Roman magistrate.” He smiled again.

“Go on.”

“I always remembered this story, because my friend tried to sell more swords to this Simon of Galilee, but Simon, who was a follower of the Nazarene, he said. ‘Two swords will be enough to ensure two men are arrested, and that is all my master will require.’ I thought it strange that a man would want to be arrested.”

“Could it be that you were the bandit who sold the swords to Simon of Galilee?”

Bar Annas looked horrified. “Oh, no, my lord. Not I, my lord. I am an honest man. I love Rome. Caesar be praised!”

Varro was not impressed with the theatrics. “Is that all you have for me?

“That is all, my lord.”

“Go with my man Callidus. He is the keeper of my purse. He will pay you for your morsel of information.”

“How much?” Bar Annas demanded.

“Give him a hundred sesterces, Callidus,” said Varro dismissively.

“Is that all?” Bar Annas retorted. “I thought it worth five times as much.”

“Have a care for your own safety, storyteller,” Varro growled, “and remember who you are talking to. Your information is not new to me; I have a document which also mentions the acquisition of the swords and the fact that only two swords were considered necessary to attract
the attention of the authorities. Therefore, your information it is not particularly valuable to me. One hundred sesterces or nothing.”

The artificial smile reappeared on the face of Bar Annas. “Thank you, my lord. You are most generous,” he said, sounding neither genuine nor happy. “Now you mention it, one hundred sesterces was just the figure I had in mind.”

“Then we are of one mind. Take him out and pay him, Callidus.”

Once Callidus had led the informant from the room, Varro drew himself to his feet. “A one-time bandit and malefactor, if I am not mistaken,” he said, half to himself. “His confirmation of the story of the swords is useful, just the same, Pythagoras. There can be no doubt that Jesus set out to have himself arrested for bearing arms.”

The following day, Varro sent for Philippus the Evangelist. The Nazarene stood before him as Varro reclined on a divan eating figs for lunch during a break in report-writing.

“Your report goes well, questor?” he asked cordially. He had expected to be released by this time, but he made not mention of his continued detention.

“Well enough,” Varro began. He held up a letter. “I have received a petition seeking your release, Philippus, from a Roman citizen, Quintus Pristinus, a former legionary of the 15th Legion now resident in Caesarea who was awarded two gold crowns by Caesar during the Judean war, for his bravery. Pristinus thinks highly of you.”

Philippus smiled warmly. “As I think highly of him. Pristinus is a good man; he follows the way of our Lord.”

Varro nodded slowly. “I thought as much. One of your converts is he?” He shrugged. “Each to his own, Nazarene. I may not agree with your philosophy, but I cannot fault your humanity. I had intended keeping you with me until I had completed my report. However, give me your word that you will remain in Caesarea and make yourself available to me should I have any further questions, and you are free to go.” In reality, Varro had decided that Philippus could add nothing more to his investigation. Philippus nodded. “I will of course place myself at your disposal, questor.”

Varro called to Callidus at the door. “This man is free to go, Callidus.” He returned his attention to the Evangelist. “May good Fortuna attend you in future. You may yet make that visit to your daughter at Tralles.”

Philippus shrugged. “Who can know what Heaven plans for us? With respect, may I ask, what plans do you have for Miriam, and the child?”

“They will return with me to Antioch, and possibly also to Rome.”

“To Rome?” There was a note of concern in the Evangelist’s voice. “Would you not consider granting Miriam her freedom?”

Varro frowned, annoyed. “At some future time, yes, I shall manumit the slave. Miriam was gifted to me by Queen Berenice, Philippus. I will not insult the queen by divesting myself of her gift. Not in the immediate future, anyway.”

“The child is no slave.”

“The child is an orphan. I will ensure that she is well cared for.” Varro’s changed tone mirrored his annoyance at Philippus’ intervention. “Was there anything else?”

Philippus’ eyes strayed to the wax tablets on a nearby table. “You have found what you were looking for, questor?”

Varro was unsure whether Philippus knew the exact nature of his report, although he would have been surprised had the Nazarene not guessed the reason behind the questor’s visit to Judea. That being the case, he had no doubt that Philippus would not be happy with the report once it was published. “I have,” he replied.

“Then it only remains for me to wish you well on your journey back to Antioch. Might I recommend that you travel by way of Capernaum?”

Varro frowned. “I have already been to Capernaum.”

Philippus smiled. “You may yet find answers at Capernaum.”

This brought a perplexed look to Varro’s face. “Why? What do you know that I do not? Is there a particular reason that I should visit Capernaum?”

Philippus shrugged. “Miriam was born at Capernaum,” he said.

Varro focused on the Evangelist’s face, trying to discern any implied scorn or condemnation. The face was serene, as always. “What of it?” Varro returned.

“It would be good for her to see her home one last time, if she is to go to Rome.”

Varro did not respond. He motioned to Callidus. “Escort him to the gate,” Varro instructed, coming to his feet and walking to a window, turning his back on the Nazarene.

“May God go with you, Julius Varro,” Philippus called as he took his leave.

Varro leaned on the balustrade, looking out at the sea silvered by a rising moon. Hearing movement behind him, he looked around, to see Quintus Crispus approaching along the terrace, sallow faced and weary. As ordered, Crispus had led the expedition back to Jerusalem from Sodom. He would never forget that journey. Excruciating heat and draining humidity had dogged the column every step of the way during the first five days. Pack mules had dropped dead. Hundreds of Jewish prisoners also perished before the column reached Jericho. Sunstroke had caused fit soldiers to crumple in their tracks; an addle-brained Pannonian auxiliary had run wild, cutting down his own comrades before a centurion caught and killed him. On the last few days of the march, it had rained, non stop, saturating everything and everyone. By the time he reached Jerusalem, Crispus had looked ten years older than when Varro last saw him on the beach at Sodom, and had become more convinced than ever that soldiering was not for him.

“You wished to see me, questor?” said the prefect, who was now Varro’s deputy.

“I’ve decided to take the inland route, Quintus,” Varro advised, “via Capernaum.”

“Oh?” Crispus sounded disappointed. “You will not be visiting Mount Carmel, my lord?” He had been looking forward to himself consulting the oracle of Mount Carmel.

“I would rather remain ignorant of my future. Prepare to march by week’s end. We will be back in Antioch before the autumn. This mission will soon be over.”