The Inquest (38 page)

Townspeople quickly moved aside as Gallo and his detachment of soldiers came marching through the narrow streets. The small column came to a halt outside the Two Goats Tavern. The shutters of the premises were drawn, which Centurion Gallo considered highly unusual for the late morning of a business day. When he rattled the shutters and called for attention, no answer came from within. Scowling, Gallo walked down the side of the tavern, to a door which led to stairs to the upper floor, where Atticus and Scaurus had their residence. The door was closed and locked. Calling his burliest legionary, Gallo told him to shoulder down the door. After four attempts, the soldier splintered the woodwork. Leaving Rufus and eleven men outside, Gallo drew his sword then led four men in through the door. Up the narrow stairs they quickly trod, to the landing. Splitting up, Gallo and his men went from room to sparsely furnished room.

“Centurion!” came the disturbed cry of one of Gallo’s men.

Gallo followed the voice to a room overlooking the street. There were two beds in the room. Sextus Atticus and Lucius Scaurus lay face up in the beds. Both were dead. Their skin had a purplish hue to it. Judged by the offensive odor they gave off, they had been dead for several days. Pulling a face at the stench, and sheathing his sword, the centurion went closer to study the bodies. There were no signs of violence, but both men were open-eyed. Gallo’s hackles were up; he felt sure that foul play had been involved.

A search by the centurion and his men of residence, tavern, and staff quarters in the rear found no trace of the tavern keepers’ servants. Neither did they find any valuables in the house; no gold, no silver, no cash. Gallo went back through the premises a second time, searching behind walls, in ceilings, under the floor. He was looking for something in particular. Eight days before, when Atticus and Scaurus had departed the Questor’s
pretorium
, they had taken weighty leather bags away with them. The bags had contained a large sum of money—twenty thousand sesterces, the questor’s reward for their testimony. Now, that money, like the servants of Atticus and Scaurus, had vanished.

Gallo reported back to the questor with the news that the two old goats of Capernaum were dead. He also told Varro it was his belief that the two former soldiers had been smothered to death in their beds by their servants, who had then rifled the premises, located the pair’s newly acquired wealth, stolen everything else of value, then locked up, and fled.

Unhappy at the news of the deaths of the old veterans, Varro sent Gallo and all his men to scour Capernaum and ask questions about the tavern-keepers’ servants, and about any recent visitors to the old men. Gallo’s hypothesis seemed a reasonable one, yet the questor could not help feeling there was a possibility that the old men had been murdered because of the testimony
they had given him. He hoped that theft had been the sole motive for the killings, but he would have preferred to have known that with certainty. He could not bring back Atticus and Scaurus, and he could no longer expect answers to his question about the desertion of Centurion Longinus, but he would like to identify their killers and establish the motive for their murders.

A mounted courier of the 4th Scythica’s own cavalry squadron rode up to the camp that afternoon. The dusty rider was conducted to Questor Varro at a Capernaum bathhouse.

Varro was about to enter the cold bath when the courier came to him.

“This has been following you from Antioch for weeks, questor,” said the soldier, removing a letter from his dispatch case, “and halfway around Judea.”

Varro took the letter. Identifying the seal of his uncle with some surprise—he rarely received correspondence from the reclusive younger brother of his late father—he opened the letter and read it:

Gaius Terentius Rufus at Rome to Julius Terentius Varro, Questor to the Propretor of Syria at Antioch, Greetings.

Esteemed nephew it is with leaden heart that your humble uncle must write to you at this time with the most tragic of news. It was on the day of the Festival of the Parilia that your beloved mother was seized by a severe pain in the head and collapsed at her house on the Aventine. The physicians were summoned, but there was nothing they could do to save the noble Julia Gratiana. If it is any consolation nephew those same physicians have subsequently assured me that after the initial seizure your mother would have suffered no discomfort and that death claimed her very swiftly.

It was only very recently that I received a letter at Nola from your mother in which she had told me in glowing terms that you had been given a very responsible assignment in your province of late and that she fully expected you to make a great success of that assignment. Julia also told me of her joy at receiving a letter from you at Antioch sending her greetings on the occasion of the Matronalia.

I have now come to Rome to settle your mother’s affairs as her executor. The majority of her estate she has willed to yourself, but I should make you aware that she also allowed generous annuities to myself and to her staff and to her former under secretary and now your secretary Artimedes. Your mother has also granted manumission to the longest serving of her household slaves
.

Nephew, this news must come as a great shock to you, as it did to me. Your mother had by far the soundest constitution of any person of her age I could name. Her loss I can only ascribe to divine will. Soon I am to return to Nola. If you have any return communication for me you might address it to me there
.

Farewell
.

The boat rocked gently as it floated in the rippling waters off Capernaum. It was a small craft, built in the common style of edge-to-edge carvel planking. With just two oars, it was wide at the center, with pointed prow and stern. Normally used for conveying paying passengers from
lake town to lake town, it contained two bench seats running transversely. On one bench sat the rowers, Callidus and Hostilis. On the other, with their backs to this inexpert crew, sat Questor Varro and the slave Miriam.

The news of his mother’s death had devastated Varro. All thoughts of completing his report had gone to the wind. A month before, Varro would have shared his grief with Marcus Martius and Artimedes. Now, there was only one person he could think of turning to. Instructing Callidus to find him a small boat and to bring Miriam to him, he had embarked onto the Sea of Galilee in search of tranquility and consolation. Miriam had not said a word all the time she had been sitting by his side. She had made sure that no part of her body touched his, although, given the limited width of the boat, the gap between them was not large. They had not spoken since the boat left the shore.

A small Roman warship of fifty oars had just passed by, on patrol, with a long blue pennant trailing listlessly from its mast and with the marines on deck looking bored. The wash from the
pentekonter
subsided, and the Sea of Galilee returned to glass. On the questor’s instructions, Callidus and Hostilis had ceased to row. Hostilis had now closed his eyes, and sat, half asleep, soaking in the sun. Beside him, Callidus watched the sleek, narrow warship make its way around the lake toward Bethsaida, its oar blades flashing as they rose and fell. Callidus was thinking about the ship that would soon be taking Julius Varro and himself back home to Rome.

“My mother has died,” said Varro flatly, looking straight ahead.

“I had heard,” Miriam replied. “News travels fast in camp. I am sorry for your loss, questor, truly sorry.” She sounded genuine. “How did it happen?”

“She fell down dead, in our house at Rome. No warning. Just fell down dead.” He was still in shock at the news. “The physicians said that she did not suffer.”

“That would be a consolation for you.”

“It is.” He sighed. “We were close, my mother and I. She was a very wise woman. Much wiser than my father, I always thought. She would not have resigned herself to her fate the way he did. Had she been him, she would have fought to clear her name.”

“Was she beautiful?”

“Beautiful?” He nodded. “I always thought so. She was admired by many men. Several of Rome’s most distinguished men courted her once Nero had gone and it was no longer dangerous to associate with the widow of a Piso plotter, or an accused Piso plotter, but she vowed never to remarry.”

“A Piso plotter? What does this mean?”

This question brought a wry smile to his lips. It was easy to assume that everyone in the world was familiar with the politics of Rome, but, as he was discovering, it was wrong to assume anything in life. “Six years ago, Piso, a Roman senator, formed a conspiracy to murder Nero Caesar,” he explained. “The plot was discovered, and many leading men of the day were implicated. My father was one of those accused. He was innocent of the charge, but it was true that he had no love for Nero. He had held such hopes for Nero, the grandson of Germanicus Caesar, yet after a golden beginning, of early years of such promise, Nero’s reign turned from a dream to a nightmare.”

“Your mother did not remarry?”

“No. Her father would never have forced another marriage on her. He respected her too much for that. We all respected her. No woman of Rome was more respected than my mother. She gave me the confidence to make my own way in the world, to assume the responsibilities as head of my family, the responsibilities my father surrendered when he surrendered his life. I think,
like his brother Gaius, my father was not comfortable with responsibility. Gaius escaped to the country, and his farm. My father submitted himself to the executioner’s ax. He did not even have the courage to open his veins and take his own life. Nero gave him that option.”

“Are you?”

For the first time, he looked at her. His eyes collided with her large, dark eyes. His heart missed a beat. “Am I what?” he responded.

“Comfortable with responsibility?”

He shrugged. “I have had no choice, Miriam.” He returned his gaze to the lake. “Now, of course, with my mother’s death, I have more responsibilities than ever.”

“You do have a choice, you know?” she said. “In all things.”

He nodded. “I am aware of that.”

“You should follow your heart.”

“I have a duty, to my mother’s memory.” His voice faltered. He cleared his throat.

“I’m sorry, that you have lost her.” Reaching across, she took his hand in hers.

Biting his lip, determined not to let his grief have the better of him, he gratefully, gently squeezed her delicate little hand. They sat like that, hand in hand, for a long time, not speaking, just looking at the water. Finally, he said, “Would you come to Rome with me? When I return in the new year?

“If you command it of me. Yet, with your mother’s passing, what duties would there be for me there?”

“It is not as an ordinary slave that you would go to Rome,” he said, turning to her.

She dropped her eyes. “Then, what role would I have?”

“You would only go to Rome if you chose to go to Rome.” He looked at her profile, absorbed by the perfection of her features. “I shall give you a choice, Miriam. You may either go to Rome, with me, or you shall have your freedom, and a bounty, and you may go wherever your heart takes you—back to Caesarea Philippi, here to your birthplace of Capernaum-wherever you choose.”

She drew her hand from his. “That is cruel,” she declared.

He was hurt. “Why? Why is it cruel? I am allowing you to follow your heart.”

“You say that I may have the choice of manumission, and money, against a choice of you, and Rome? That is a cruel choice to give.”

“You may have your freedom, which ever choice you make. At Rome, or here.”

“Freedom takes many forms,” she said wistfully.

“Do you understand what I am saying? I will not force you to do anything. If you choose to go your own way, then so be it. If you choose to accompany me to Rome, of your free will, then I will know that you have done it because you want to be with me.”

“As your mistress at Rome?”

“Yes.”

“Questor…”

“Will you not call me Julius?”

She shook her head. “I cannot. I am a slave, you are my master.”

He smiled. “That can soon change.”

She shook her head. “Even as a freedwoman, I could not call you by your first name. We are from different worlds, you and I, Julius Terentius Varro.”

“Do you not have feelings for me?” He was sounding exasperated. “If not, then say so, and you shall be free to go, and that will be the end of it.

“You would just let me walk away?”

“Yes.”

“You would forget me?”

“No. I could never forget you, Miriam. Never.”

She sighed. “This is so unfair.”

“Why? Nothing can be fairer than the choice I am offering you. Do you have any feelings for me at all, Miriam? Tell me.”

“I confess,” she said, “that I have grown fond of you. Fonder than I dare.”

“Then, could you, would you come away to Rome with me? Yes, or no?

She turned to look at him once more. “If I were to choose to go with you…?

“Yes…?” he responded expectantly.

““Would you accept Jesus of Nazareth into you life?”

He looked crestfallen. “You cannot ask that of me,” he protested.

“Why not? Jesus was a good man. You are a good man. Do you remember the night that Queen Berenice made a gift of me to you? She called me aside, and whispered something to me. Do you know what she said? She said, ‘Here is a man who will know the truth when he finds it. Help him find the truth.’ Jesus is the truth.”

“I do not deny that Jesus of Nazareth was a good man. A good man, a prophetic man. Perhaps, a good man manipulated by others, men with political motives.”

“Why must you think in terms of politics, of worldly concerns?” Her brow furrowed as she grew suddenly annoyed. “This is about faith, about opening your heart.”

“Miriam, how can you expect me to believe something that I know to be untrue?” He too was sounding annoyed now. “The religion of the Nazarene is all about ignorance, and superstition. Ignorance enslaves, superstition enslaves.”