Centurion Gallo urged his horse to the gallop. To his rear, the two cavalrymen riding with him, caught by surprise at first, did the same. The stone-paved military road, just fifteen feet across, and built by legion engineers with a slight central camber so that rainwater ran off into culverts at the roadsides, cleaved through the wheat fields to the south of Antioch without deviation. Nobody knows better than an engineer that the most direct route between two points is a straight line.
The wiry, silver-haired Gallo wore the same red uniform and cloak as his legionaries, but his armor and equipment was richly decorated with gold and jet inlay. He also had the additional protection of metal greaves on his shins. His officer’s rank was confirmed by the fact that he wore his sword on the left and dagger on the right, the opposite configuration to that of the ordinary enlisted man.
The centurion had parted company with the advance guard near the coast, at a courier station a six-hour march south-west of Antioch, and accompanied by the two cavalrymen he was heading back up the road to rejoin Questor Varro and the main column. Glancing over his shoulder, Gallo grinned to himself as he saw the two troopers struggling to keep up. Now, with travelers appearing on the road in the distance, the centurion eased back to the trot, allowing the Vettonians to catch him up.
Titus Gallo was a man with a large chip on his brawny shoulder. After joining the 22nd Primigeneia Legion in his native Galatia as a twenty-year-old recruit, he’d risen to centurion of the fourth grade with the 12th Legion, stationed in Syria. A promising career had then met a brick wall under an incompetent general, Cesennius Petus, the same General Petus who was destined to return to the East to take up the governorship of Syria in the coming year. Petus had been recalled to Rome by Nero after his inept performance in Armenia, where he’d as good as surrendered to the Parthians, and many of his centurions had been dishonorably discharged or reduced in rank. Even though Titus Gallo felt that he had served well under a poor commander, he had been demoted four grades by General Corbulo, commander in chief in the East.
Gallo’s chance to redeem himself, and his career, had eventually come when the Jewish Revolt blew up. The 12th Legion was included in the task force led south from Antioch by the then Governor of Syria, General Gaius Cestius Gallus, to put down the uprising. But after reaching Jerusalem, General Gallus had led his army on a bloody retreat all the way back to Caesarea, losing six thousand men along the way. Gallus had died shortly after, some said of shame.
Titus Gallo had survived the Jewish campaign, but like many of the officers of the 12th he was blamed for the disaster that had befallen his legion. Transferred out to garrison duty on the Euphrates with the 4th Scydiica, he had spent five backwater years cursing General Petus for his cowardice, cursing General Corbulo for unfairly demoting him, cursing General Gallus for his ineptitude, and cursing the Jews for their rebellion. All in all, there were few people Titus Gallo did not blame for his situation, and there was not a Roman officer above the rank of centurion he would put his faith in, or a Jew he would trust. As far as Centurion Gallo was concerned this mission to Judea with Questor Varro had been sent by the gods to make up for past disappointments.
The 4th Scythica had become the butt of jokes among the other legions of the East. “The Tuskless Boars’ and ‘the Sleeping Boars’ they called Gallo’s unit, because the legion had not distinguished itself in combat in living memory. As far as Gallo was concerned there was nothing tuskless or sleepy about the men he led. The legionaries of the 4th Scythica marching into Galilee and Judea with him were eager for action, conscripts from Cisalpine Gaul enrolled the previous year. Gallo had been drilling them mercilessly ever since in the hope of a call to service against the Jewish rebels. Before long, he hoped, he would put that training to the test.
After Gallo had been riding for a little over an hour, the questor’s column came in sight. The centurion and the two troopers soon moved off the road, allowing the leading elements of the column to pass. As the group of officers drew level, the centurion urged his horse forward and eased in beside the questor and made his report on the move.
“There are several old marching camps at the courier station which would be suitable for the night, questor. I have marked out our camp site in one of them. There will be only an hour or two’s digging for the men. And your man Callidus said to tell you that the supply situation is adequate.”
Varro was hauling supplies with him, but where possible he wanted to live off the land as they journeyed south. He knew from reports from Caesarea, the Judean capital, that food stocks in much of the war-ravaged province had been exhausted, and the time would come when he would have to rely on the supplies he carried with him.
“Very good, centurion,” Julius Varro acknowledged.
As Centurion Gallo took up position in the group of riders behind the senior officers, the tribune Martius, riding on Varro’s far side, leaned closer to the questor. “You know, Julius, I have been thinking,” Martius said. “I read the Lucius letter last night, after we dined.”
This surprised Varro. Martius had consumed a large amount of wine at dinner—apparently not enough to dull his brain. “What was your impression of it, Marcus?”
“Informative. You had noted that this Jesus of Nazareth used several different names? What is more, one of his deputies, Simon the Galilean, was also called Petra, or Cephas, as the Greeks say. I ask you, why would you call a man ‘rock’?”
“I have no idea,” Varro confessed.
“Well, it is apparent to me that these people were engaged in secretive, seditious activities. Why else would they use false names, code names? Answer me that.”
“That is one of the many answers we are marching to Galilee and Judea to find, Marcus. It would not be wise to judge too soon. Would you not agree?
“Perhaps,” Martius returned with a shrug. He had already made up his mind that these Nazarenes had been nothing more than covert revolutionaries who had shrouded their activities in a religious veil.
Just before midday they reached a horse-changing station operated by the Cursus Publicus, Rome’s state courier service. The outpost was on a ridge looking out over the Mediterranean Sea. As Centurion Gallo had advised, there were the remains of several legion marching camps around about the station’s stable wings and central accommodation building. This would be the site of the expedition’s camp for the night.
A legion on the march built a new fortified camp every night of its journey. These temporary forts were used over and over again by different units traveling the same route at different times. The fort that the one hundred and ten fighting men of the Varro expedition found themselves in on their first day on the road to Beirut was much too large for them to defend in an emergency. So, after a piece of bread and a gulp of water for lunch, the legionaries set to work digging several new earth walls ten feet high and entrenchments ten feet deep to secure a smaller perimeter in one corner of the fort selected by their centurion. At the same time, Prefect Crispus’ cavalry troopers fetched water, foraged firewood for cooking fires, and brought in sacks of grain purchased by Callidus from a nearby village.
Once the walls had been completed to Centurion Gallo’s satisfaction the toiling legionaries set up the tents of the officers and officials, and then their own tents, following a grid pattern that Gallo had marked out using small purple, red and white flags. Each officer had a tent to himself, while the foot soldiers would sleep eight to a tent, in their squads. Five Vettonian troopers occupied each cavalry tent, with their saddles. Once tents were erected, the troops installed the officers’ equipment.
The questor, as expedition commander, had by far the largest tent. This pavilion, the column’s pretorium, would serve as Varro’s private quarters, as the expedition’s headquarters, and as the senior officers’ mess. Varro’s folding metal bed was set up in a corner; enlisted men had no such luxury, sleeping in their bedrolls on the ground. Three dining couches were unloaded from the carts and set up around a low table. A waist-h
igh work table and several stools were set up, and a number of lamps placed on pedestals. Finally, the men reverently set up the questor’s portable family shrine, no more than a large box on legs. When the shrine’s doors were opened, they revealed three small statuettes of the Lares, the Roman household goddesses, flanking a central statue of Jove. A small wooden box with an amber knob for a handle contained family relics. A pottery incense burner completed the religious equipment.
Freedmen each had a tent to themselves. Non-combatants would sleep in emptied carts, or beneath them. Slaves rigged canvas shelters for themselves between vehicles and set up cooking fires in the open. Hostilis, the questor’s handservant, would spend each night in the pretorium, sleeping on the ground at the foot of his master’s bed.
As the sun was setting, a trumpeter sounded the beginning of the first of the four watches of the night. The sentries chosen by lot by Centurion Gallo and the four cavalrymen of the night patrol who would check that they were not asleep at their posts now hurried to take up their positions. Every three hours, as determined by the water clock set up outside the questor’s tent, a new watch would be trumpeted.
At the sounding of ‘New Watch,’ Centurion Gallo and his tesserarius, or orderly sergeant, came to the questor’s tent. As they arrived, the trumpeter was departing and four legion sentries had just taken up their posts, two either side of the tent’s entrance. Under a small canvas canopy to one side of the entrance two slaves were fussing with the expedition’s water clock, setting it so that it would show the start of the twelve hours of the night the moment the sun set out over the Mediterranean. Another slave was lighting a lamp which would illuminate the clock.
Centurion Gallo and the auburn-haired sergeant, whose name was Claudius Rufus, parted the curtains hanging in the pretorium entrance and entered the large, square tent. They found Varro sitting at his work table, talking with the tribune Martius and the prefect Crispus. The two soldiers came to attention in front of the questor’s table, before Gallo held out a small wax tablet to expedition the commander. “If the questor would be good enough to provide the watchword…?”
To the centurion’s surprise, Varro did not accept the tablet. “Where is the officer of the watch?” he asked.
Gallo looked pained. “I, er, I do not know, questor.”
“Give Tribune Venerius my compliments,” said Marcus Martius beside Varro. “Ask him to report here to the questor.” The eyes of the expedition’s military commander narrowed a little. “At once!”
“At once, tribune,” Gallo repeated. He spun around. Thrusting the wax tablet into Rufus’ hands with a scowl, he hurried from the tent.
A few minutes later, the waiting occupants of the pretorium heard a raised voice outside before Gaius Venerius, the junior tribune, entered in a rush. He was wearing a casual tunic, and his face was red with rage. Centurion Gallo came close behind.
“This oaf Gallo laid hands on me!” Venerius raged. “I want him charged! I want him punished!” He turned to the centurion. “Buffoon!” he spat.
Gallo did not as much as blink. “Centurion Gallo reporting with the officer of the watch, questor, as ordered,” he formally announced.
“I am not the officer of the watch!” Venerius snarled. “Dimwit!”
“Oh, yes you are,” said Varro, in a low, controlled voice.
“What?” Venerius’ head snapped around.
“As a tribune of the thin stripe, Venerius, you will fulfil the duties of officer of the watch on this expedition, as you would in any legion or legion detachment.”
“No, no, no.” Venerius looked down at Varro and folded his arms. “As a thin-stripe tribune I am only required to serve for three months during my six-month posting, and I will have you know that I have done my three months. I am excused duties.”
“I will have no sightseers on this expedition, Venerius,” said Varro, making an effort to keep his anger from rising.
“As a thin-stripe tribune,” said Marcus Martius, rising up from his stool and coming threateningly around the table, “you will obey the orders of your superior, or you will face a court martial. Here, in this camp.”
Venerius paled. His arms unfolded and dropped to his sides, as if suddenly devoid of their strength. “You, you are joking?” he stammered.
“Am I?” The imposing Martius stood glaring at him. “The court martial of Gaius LICINIUS Venerius for insubordination would be well received back at Rome, would it not, thin-striper? I think not. Now, listen carefully. In a moment, you will run back to your tent, put on your armor, and arm yourself. You will then run back here and report for duty, after which you will pass the watchword to the sentries and report back to the questor when the distribution of the watchword has been acknowledged by all sentry posts.” His face was now just inches from that of the young man. “Do you understand, tribune of the thin stripe?”
Venerius’ mouth opened, but no sound came out.
“Might I also suggest, questor,” Martius went on, straightening and turning to Varro, “that the thin stripe tribune be assigned to the advance guard from tomorrow, to mark out the new camp each day. Centurion Gallo has far more important duties to attend to than camp marking.”
“Very well,” Varro agreed, trying not to smile. “So be it.”
“Might I also take the liberty of suggesting the watchword for the next twenty-four hours, questor?” Martius continued, turning back to Venerius.
“I am always open to suggestions, tribune,” Varro replied.
“Perhaps it might be ‘Obedience,’” Martius said, raising his eyebrows at Venerius. “Or perhaps ‘Humility.’ No, no, I think, ‘Respect.’ What think you, questor?”
“‘Respect’ it shall be,” said Varro. He held out his hand to Rufus. “The tessera?”
The soldier handed the wax tablet to the questor. Varro’s skinny, bushy-headed servant Hostilis appeared from behind him with a metal stylus. Varro took the writing instrument and quickly wrote ‘RESPECT’ in the wax. Laying aside the stylus he passed the tablet back to Rufus. Then he looked directly at Venerius. “Respect,” he said. He paused, for effect, then added. “You and the tesserarius are dismissed, centurion.”
Gallo and Rufus turned and left the tent.
The shocked Venerius stood looking from Varro to Martius and back again.
“Tribune Venerius,” Martius now said. “If you have not reported for duty in full uniform and equipment by the time the sun has set, you will be considered in breach of your orders and you will be charged accordingly. Well? What are you waiting for, boy?”
Venerius swallowed hard, then turned and left the tent.
Martius looked at Varro and Crispus the curly-headed cavalry prefect. His severe expression gave way to a grin. “That seemed to do the trick,” he said.
“Could you really court martial him, questor?” asked Crispus, in a lowered voice.
“Of course,” said Varro. “All that is required is a panel of three officers senior to, or equal to him in rank—you, Martius, and myself.”
“I would quite enjoy it,” said Martius. Then he frowned. “You don’t think I came on a little too strongly, do you, Julius? Any other thin-striper would have felt the back of my hand, but this annoying little monkey is Mucianus’ nephew, after all.”
“He cannot use his connections to escape his responsibilities,” said Varro emphatically. “You were quite right to set the boundaries, Marcus. This is only the first day of the mission; we must start as we mean to go on.”
Outside, on their way to the main gate to commence the distribution of the password, Gallo and Rufus were passing along beside the enlisted men’s tents, where cooking fires in front of tent doors glowed in the failing light. Every squad cooked its own food, and tonight the men would be eating hot broth and freshly baked bread oozing with a spread of olive oil. As they walked, Gallo and Rufus happened to look back, to see Venerius emerge from the questor’s tent then run to his own.
“Little toad!” Gallo growled,
halting beside the standard bearer’s tent, where lamps radiated light onto the detachment’s sacred standard in its portable camp altar. He glowered toward the tent occupied by the thin-stripe tribune. “Accuse me of laying hands on him, would he!” Under Roman military law, this was a capital offense.
“He’s a fool, centurion” said Rufus. “You know what the men are calling him? ‘Soupy.’ Because he’s thick and wet.” Rufus guffawed.
“He’s no fool,” said Gallo coldly, “he merely acts foolishly. In his arrogance he doesn’t think before he acts. But accusing me of assaulting him was worse than foolish.” His face was set in as fierce an expression as Rufus had ever seen on the centurion. “For his trouble,” said Gallo, “Venerius has made himself an enemy, for life.”
By the afternoon of the third day into the journey, having made better than twenty miles each day, the expedition reached Laodicea on the Mediterranean coast, principal port of the province of Syria. Here, the men of the Varro expedition prepared to spend the night in a regular marching camp outside the city walls, setting up their small camp inside an existing temporary fortress as usual. The legionaries followed camp markers set out by the junior tribune Venerius, who was now riding with the advance guard by day and serving as officer of the watch each night as instructed.
After dinner in the questor’s tent, most of the officers and officials returned to their own quarters, but Martius lingered with Varro to discuss the expedition’s itinerary. With cups of diluted wine in hand, they each lounged on a separate dining couch. Both agreed that, after visiting Beirut, Sidon and Tyre, they should swing inland, to the city of Caesarea Philippi at the head of the Jordan River. From there, the former King of Chalcis, Herod Agrippa II, controlled a large region with Rome’s blessing, from southern Syria down into northern Galilee. General Collega had told Varro to include King Agrippa and his sister and co-ruler Queen Berenice on the expeditions itinerary. Agrippa and Berenice were Jewish, and Agrippa had been Guardian of the Temple at Jerusalem until the Revolt broke out. Both had tried unsuccessfully to prevent the uprising in Judea, with letters, speeches and troops. Agrippa had subsequently led his troops against the rebels, in the Roman armies commanded by Vespasian and Titus, and was considered a valuable and loyal ally of Rome. Agrippa had only been an infant at the time of the death of Jesus of Nazareth, yet it was agreed by Varro and Martius that as an influential Jew he was in an excellent position to shed some light on the Nazarene sect and the death of its founder.
The Inquest Page 5