The Inquest

by Stephen Dando-Collins

  “Dung will always attract insects,” Martius remarked.

  “Quite so, my lord, but…”

  “I cannot see Venerius becoming too intimate with Antiochus,” said Varro. “The boy dis likes anyone he does not consider his equal. Fear not, faithful Callidus, once we are on the march again, the thin-striper will be far too occupied to cause trouble.”

  “I hope you are right, my lord. I raise this concern because, before we left Antioch, I had occasion to consult a seer of considerable perspicacity. She warned that there would be danger on this enterprise. Danger from within.”

  “We always knew this expedition would have its dangers, Callidus,” Varro responded with an impatient scowl. He knew Callidus as a meddler by nature. “Thank you for your concern. Now, the arrangements concerning the child, if you please.”

  Callidus fought down a sudden wave of resentment at having his concern dismissed so lightly. “Very good, my lord,” he sourly returned, before hurrying away.

  Procurator Rufus strode into the room followed by an entourage of freedmen assistants. He had sent word that he wished a meeting with Varro as a matter of urgency. “Cousin, we have not seen enough of each other since your arrival in Caesarea,” he declared with the most convivial air.

  “We both have much to occupy us, Rufus,” Varro replied. “As you can see.

  Varro reclined on a divan, Pythagoras sat at a table writing, with Artimedes at his elbow, while Martius was pacing back and forth, in mid flow as he dictated all he could remember of his exchange with Ishmael in the arcade beneath the city amphitheater.

  “I was wondering, cousin,” Rufus began again, “when did you have a mind to be moving on from Caesarea? You must have much to do, many places to visit outside the capital. If it were me, I would not waste any time before I went up to Jerusalem.”

  “There is nothing there, Rufus,” said Marcus Martius. “The place is leveled.”

  “As well I know,” said the procurator with his ‘Turnus’ smile. “However, General Bassus is at Jerusalem, with three thousand Jewish prisoners. There may be some among the prisoners who could provide the questor with information.” From Decurion Alienus, Rufus had learned that the questor was asking questions about the death of a Jew at Jerusalem four decades earlier. “What you would not know, is that Bassus is planning to soon leave Jerusalem and take the 10th Legion campaigning against the last rebel strongholds in the south, and I gather he will be taking the prisoners with him to maintain his lines of supply. I would not tarry before I went up there, Varro. You will miss him.”

  “Thank you for your advice, Rufus,” Varro returned.

  “Pleased to be of help, cousin. Any time.” Wearing a wicked smile, the diminutive procurator strutted from the room; his silent retinue trotted along behind.

  “The little worm wants you out of his hair, Julius,” said Martius.

  “I know. Yet, if what he says about Bassus is true, we should not waste any more time here. Once the festival is out of the way tomorrow we shall move on to Jerusalem.”

  In the dead of night the questor sat up in his bed, in a cold sweat. “Not again,” he groaned to himself. Hostilis had heard his master cry out in his sleep, and appeared in the doorway with a lamp. After satisfying himself that the questor was safe and well, he took it on himself to summon Callidus and Artimedes.

  “Another dream, questor?” said Artimedes when he and Callidus arrived. “I did say there may be a series of them. Clearly, you are being given messages by greater powers than ourselves. Shall I send for Pythagoras to assist in the divination?”

  “No, that will not be necessary,” Varro responded with a yawn.

  This pleased Artimedes. “Then, perhaps you would be good enough to relate the details to myself,” he said, assuming the air of an authority.

  “Oh, very well,” Varro wearily agreed. He had too much respect for his former tutor—and even a little residual childhood fear of him—to refuse.

  As the two freedmen stood at his bedside, Varro sat and described as much of this latest dream as he could recall. It had not been a complicated dream. He had seen a finely decorated chariot, drawn by high spirited horses, and driven by a figure in black. Then, watching the chariot, he had seen a group of anonymous people, all clad in black as if they were mourners at a funeral.

  “That was all the dream contained?” Artimedes then said, sounding disappointed.

  “The decorated chariot could mean that you can one day look forward to celebrating a Triumph, my lord,” the always literal Callidus suggested.

  “There were only two horses, Callidus,” Varro replied. “Not four. It was not a triumphal quadriga”

  “What number of mourners, my lord?” Artimedes asked.

  “Four, I think. Perhaps five. Four or five. They were very indistinct.”

  “Hmmm.” Artimedes began pacing the room with his hands clasped behind his back. “I cannot discern a clear connection with your earlier dream. We must treat this as a separate case, I think. Now, to dream of falling from a chariot, or to see others falling from a chariot, this denotes a displacement from a position of authority.”

  “No one fell from the chariot,” Varro assured him.

  “Were you the driver of the chariot? Or were you a passenger in the chariot?”

  “Neither.”

  “A pity. This foretells favorable opportunities, if used to the good. The mourners, then. To dream of going in mourning clothes to a funeral denotes the loss of a husband or wife. Clearly, as you are not married, that does not apply. To witness a funeral denotes an unhappy marriage or sickly offspring. Again, that is not applicable. To dream of a funeral of a stranger, this warns of unexpected woes.”

  “I cannot be sure that it was a funeral, Artimedes,” the questor sighed.

  “The horses, then. The horses offer some promise. Many, many things can be divined concerning horses in dreams. Horses seen drawing a conveyance generally denote wealth, although with some encumbrance. What color were the horses? This is important, questor. Were they black, or gray, or white, or spotted, or dappled…”

  “I cannot remember, Artimedes,” said Varro, his patience running thin. “I honestly do not think the color of the horses is significant. Perhaps I merely dreamed of a chariot because of the chariot races tomorrow, and perhaps the spectators were dressed in black because…Oh, I don’t know! Let us pass it off for now. Go back to your beds.”

  “Chariot races, mourners,” mused Artimedes. “Perhaps death awaits you at the hippodrome tomorrow, my lord.” The questor was duty bound to attend the festival races.

  Varro looked up at him, in two minds. One half told him to dismiss his dream as nothing more than a fantasy. The other half told him to take heed of the dream, to treat it as a genuine premonition, as he knew his mother would.

  “You will remember what happened to Gaius Julius Caesar after he ignored the warnings of a seer, questor,” Artimedes pressed. “It would be advisable to stay some distance from the hippodrome tomorrow.”

  Varro looked to Artimedes, in two minds.

  “Aristotle once said that we cannot credit what sometimes can be divined from our dreams, questor,” the secretary said. “There was no man more learned than he.”

  “Very well, very well,” the questor exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. “I shall not go to the hippodrome tomorrow. There, does that satisfy you?”

  “What will you tell the procurator, my lord?” Callidus asked.

  “Tell him…Tell him…” Varro swung his feet from the bed. “Tell him that the questor’s column marches tomorrow. He recommended that I make haste to find Bassus and his prisoners, and so that is what I shall do.”

  “Tomorrow, my lord?” Callidus looked and sounded appalled. “The provision situation! With the holiday, it will take time to secure supplies, considerable time…”

  “Then begin your preparations now,” Varro instructed, coming to his feet. “Alert the officers. Work through the night. I want to be marchi
ng out of this city by no later than the beginning of the fourth hour tomorrow.”

  Callidus looked bemused. “How many days’ rations, my lord?”

  “Enough rations for fourteen days. And Philippus the Evangelist is to travel with us; he is too valuable a source of information about the Nazarene’s activities to let slip from our grasp just yet. Philippus may yet solve a mystery or two for me.” He looked at Callidus, scowling. “Well, what are you waiting for, man? We march for Jerusalem!”

  XV

  THE BROKEN ROAD

  Roman Province of Judea. April, A.D. 71

  According to his guide, Decurion Alienus, the questor would make far better time if, rather than take the inland route, he followed the coastal road down the Maritime Plain beside the Mediterranean to the town of Joppa, and then swung inland ten miles to Lydda. At Lydda, another road winding east up into the Judean Hills would lead the questor to Jerusalem. Originally a Jewish town, Lydda had been burned to the ground by General Gallus during the first year of the Jewish Revolt. Since then, it had been partly rebuilt by non Jewish settlers.

  At Lydda, the column met a squadron of Thracian Horse cavalry coming down from Jerusalem, escorting dispatches from General Bassus bound for Rome. The squadron was led by Decurion Alaus Scevola, a big-nosed Gaul. Joining the questor at his Lydda camp for dinner, Scevola informed Varro that Bassus was departing Jerusalem for southern Judea just as he and his troopers were setting off on their journey. When Varro asked whether Bassus had taken all his Jewish prisoners with him, Scevola said he had; the general was planning to put the prisoners to work hauling his water. There was very little fresh water up there in the hills, said the decurion. South of Jerusalem in particular, the province was as dry as dust. Scevola urged Varro to take along plenty of water for his expedition, and to gather firewood for his cooking fires before he climbed up into the desolate hills. Much of the south was a wasteland, he said, but even around Jerusalem there was not a tree for miles, for Titus had cut down every single tree the previous year to use as firewood and building material during the siege. Jerusalem itself was an inhospitable place, said Scevola with distaste, and he was glad to be leaving it behind. The very ground there, he said, smelled of death.

  Scevola and his troopers passed on, but not before the decurion told the questor about an old Jewish rabbi living at Jamnia, twenty miles down the coast. The Jew had been permitted by Titus to leave Jerusalem during the siege and travel to Jamnia with a handful of religious students. According to an amused Scevola, to escape the clutches of the Jewish partisans holding Jerusalem, who would not let non combatants leave the city, the rabbi had arranged to be carried out in a coffin, as if to his funeral, with his students as pall bearers, and then gave himself up to Titus. Titus had subsequently permitted the rabbi to set up a Jewish academy of religious instruction at Jamnia.

  It occurred to Varro that the rabbi may have been at Jerusalem in his youth, during the last days of the Nazarene, and this warranted an interview. At dawn, he sent Crispus and his entire cavalry contingent down the highway to Jamnia, to bring the rabbi back for questioning at Lydda. While he waited for Crispus to return, Varro had his men multiply the expedition’s water supplies and cut and load firewood. Riding hard, Crispus should have achieved the round trip to Jamnia and back that same day, but it was not until the early hours of the following morning that horsemen dismounted at the camp’s pretorian gate then helped an elderly man down from a spare horse. Varro was awoken by Centurion Gallo with the news that Crispus was back.

  Crispus reported that he had brought an old Jew who identified himself as Johannon ben Zakkai, a ‘teacher of the Law.’ The rabbi, Crispus informed his leader, had refused to leave Jamnia at first, and Crispus had spent several fruitless hours trying to talk the Jew into coming with him. It had taken his one-eyed decurion Pompeius to lose patience with his prefect’s civil approach and threaten to crucify one of Johannon’s students before the rabbi had agreed to budge. Varro told Crispus to bring the Jew to him.

  A fragile-looking man, tall but very thin, bald with a gray beard, was ushered into the pretorium. Varro estimated that the man was perhaps in his seventies. Sitting on a couch, the yawning questor offered the Jew a stool, but a severe-faced Johannon shook his head, choosing to remain standing. “Were you present at Jerusalem some years ago when a man known as Jesus of Nazareth was crucified?” Varro then began.

  “I am a teacher of the Law,” Johannon testily replied. “As approved by General Titus Vespasianus, I study my peoples’ Law and I instruct my students in the Law, at a house of learning at Jamnia, the Beth Hamidrash. This is all that interests me.”

  “Yes, but were you present in Jerusalem forty-one years ago? That is not a difficult question to answer, Johannon.”

  “It is not of interest to me.”

  “It is of interest to me,” Varro came back, tired and irritated. He pulled himself to his feet, and began to walk around the rabbi. “Prior to the Revolt, had you always lived at Jerusalem? It is a simple enough question. Yes, or no?

  “Yes.”

  “Good. We are making progress, teacher. Have you heard of a Jewish teacher by the name of Jesus, or Yehoshua, a native of Nazareth in Galilee? Yes, or no?”

  When the man again replied in the affirmative, Varro asked if he had been present in Jerusalem when the Nazarene was crucified?

  “Many trouble-makers were crucified, in those times and later. I could not tell you where I was when any of them were executed. This Nazarene was a trouble-maker. I am not interested in trouble-makers.”

  “You are aware that his followers claim he was your Messiah?”

  “He was not the Messiah,” Johannon answered definitely.

  “How do you view the followers of this Nazarene, teacher?”

  “They are not of the true faith. They do not observe the Law.”

  Despite further questioning, this was as much as Varro could extract from the rabbi. Johannon dismissed the Nazarene and his followers as irrelevant, and had no information to offer. That was that. After an unproductive hour, Varro gave orders for the Jew to be taken back to his academy, his students, and his Law.

  Crispus and his troopers set off to return Johannon to Jamnia. Varro was impatient to overtake General Bassus and considered commencing the march up into the Judean Hills before his cavalry rejoined him, but, counseled by Martius to be cautious, he thought better of the idea. Scevola had warned that isolated partisan bands may still be in the hills. With mounted troops his most effective weapon against Jewish fire and fly tactics, Varro realized that going up into the high country without his Vettonians was like crossing the sea in a boat without a sail. He paused at Lydda another day.

  The column crawled along the snaking, inclining road with grunts of exertion from the men on foot and the animated cries of muleteers driving their beasts of burden. Now that they had left the lushness of the plain behind, it was as if they had entered another barren world. The sun reflected harshly from white Judean rock, forcing the men to keep their eyes lowered. Clouds of choking yellow-white dust thrown up by the column filled the air and coated men, animals, carts and equipment. The troops pulled their red neck-scarves up over their mouths, wiped the grit from their eyes, and toiled on.

  Varro had hoped to camp this next night at the hill town of Emmaus, a seemingly easy march of twelve to thirteen miles from Lydda, but it had been well into the morning before the column had struck camp at Lydda. Now, the weariness of the cavalry’s mounts and the general slowness of the climb into the hill country made Varro’s goal seem even less achievable. When the sun was almost directly overhead Varro submitted to the inevitability of not reaching the town that day and sent a message up to the advance guard ordering Venerius to mark out a site at the roadside for that night’s camp. As the messenger galloped away, the questor eased his horse to the side of the road, to watch the column struggle by and satisfy himself that men, animals and vehicles were in good order. The mounted members of his entourag
e followed suit. The infantry slogged past, their equipment swinging and clattering on the poles over their shoulders. The men were perspiring profusely, their rolling sweat cutting little rivers through the pancake of dust on their faces. But their step did not falter; their iron legs drove them on.

  The baggage train came abreast of the questor. First the strings of mules passed him, then the carts rolled by, one at a time. The very last cart was open. The front was filled with upright sacks of grain. In the back sat Philippus the Evangelist. There was a manacle on his left wrist, and a chain ran from this to a rail on the side of the cart. Dust-covered and downcast, Philippus did not look at the questor or his party as his conveyance trundled past.

  Varro waited until the exhausted troopers of the rearguard were almost on him then urged his horse forward. In single file, the questor and the riders with him slipped along beside the column, heading back to their usual position in the order of march. Varro swiveled in his saddle as he rode, to look back down the column. At that moment, Antiochus, next to last in the line of riders but for Columbus, was passing the rearmost cart of the baggage train. Unaware that the questor was watching him, Antiochus leaned over and spat on the head of Philippus as he passed. Without a word, the Evangelist wiped the spittle away with one hand. Antiochus looked up. Seeing Varro’s critical gaze locked on him, he quickly dropped his own eyes to his horse. Unhappily shaking his head to himself, the questor returned his attention to the road ahead.

  Titus Gallo’s eyes suddenly opened. Something had woken him as he lay in his bedroll. It was as black as pitch inside his tent; the night was without a moon. Gallo collected his thoughts. He was in the Varro camp on the road from Lydda, and he had been dreaming. His dream was still painfully fresh in his mind. He had been fighting the Jews again, on this same road, five years before. General Cestius Gallus had led his army back down the road, retreating from Jerusalem toward the coast. There was a village called Bethhoron, not far from Emmaus, and Gallo and his 12th Legion comrades had fought their way to it. The Jews had attacked them at the front and rear of their long straggling column of twenty-seven thousand men, and all along the flanks. The partisans had focused on the 12th’s 1st Cohort, going after the legion’s sacred golden eagle standard, eventually wresting it from its dying standard-bearer. The legion’s shame at that loss still wounded Gallo. He had been farther along the column in the 8th Cohort, but he had seen the eagle go, had seen legion commander and hundreds of 1st Cohort men fall.