The Inquest

by Stephen Dando-Collins

  “He was one of the seventy?” Varro raised his eyebrows. “Then Josephus had to be a secret disciple. The chief priests would not knowingly have tolerated one of the Nazarene’s elders on their council.”

  “The document indicates as much,” Pythagoras remarked. “Whether Josephus of Arimathea was acting alone, or whether he represented or led a group of Pharisee conspirators, he was in a particularly influential position to orchestrate a secret plot. He had a foot in each of three camps. As a follower of the Nazarene, he was Jesus’ spy in the Sanhedrin, being privy to the deliberations of the chief priests. He had the ear of the Roman prefect, and, as a rich man, Josephus of Arimathea could afford to offer substantial bribes to parties to a subterfuge.”

  “A number of rumors circulated to the affect that Josephus of Arimathea did bribe the centurion Longinus, my lord,” Aristarchus volunteered.

  Both Varro and Martius straightened.

  “Bribed him to do what?” said Varro.

  “Watch what you say, scribe,” Martius cautioned. “You tread dangerous ground when you impugn the reputation of a Roman centurion.”

  “There were two principal rumors,” Aristarchus cautiously advised. “One had it that Longinus had taken money from Josephus of Arimathea to hand the body over. The second rumor had Centurion Longinus accepting a bribe to make it look as though Jesus of Nazareth had died on the cross, without actually going through with the execution.”

  This revelation was met with a momentary stunned silence.

  Martius was the first to speak. He was angry. “I will not have it! That Longinus might accept payment to hand over the body I can accept; that is not uncommon. But a criminal act on such a scale I find difficult, if not impossible, to accept.”

  “A man who can be bribed on one thing, tribune,” Crispus chimed in, “can be bribed on all things.”

  Martius scowled at Crispus. “Longinus risked his own neck to fabricate the death of the Nazarene, for money?” he countered. “Could Longinus have been that foolish?”

  “The centurion was arrogant,” remarked young Venerius. “All centurions are arrogant. This one would deny any complicity and lay the blame at the feet of the Jews. Whose word would be taken? That of a Roman citizen and centurion, or that of a Jew?”

  Martius, Crispus, and Venerius all began to talk at once.

  As anarchy threatened, Varro clapped his hands to end the clamor. His colleagues fell silent. “This is not a rhetorician’s classroom,” Varro scolded them. “I am questioning a witness. Besides, at this point we have nothing but an unsubstantiated rumor.” He returned the focus to Aristarchus. “Was any proof offered that such a plot existed?”

  The scribe shook his head. “The rumor about a sham crucifixion did not circulate until later that same year, after Centurion Longinus was himself executed for desertion.”

  “See!” Venerius sneered in Martius’ direction. “Your ‘law abiding’ centurion could desert, but could not be involved in a conspiratorial crime? I think not!”

  “Hold your tongue, Venerius,” Varro cautioned. “Go on, Aristarchus.”

  “The rumor had it that Josephus of Arimathea and Centurion Longinus had been complicit in a plot, and that Jesus of Nazareth was not dead when he was entombed.”

  “There would have been many witnesses to the crucifixion,” said Varro, “none the least of whom would have been Sadducees from the Great Sanhedrin. There can be no doubt they wanted the Nazarene dead, as he was a threat to their power. Any hint of foul play would have attracted their attention, Aristarchus.”

  “If I might put a question to the witness, questor?” said Martius. “Aristarchus, for all we know, your colorful tales regarding this rumor and that rumor may be nothing but fictions. Is there anyone who could support your claims?”

  Aristarchus thought for a time, then replied, “There was a Jewish apothecary at Jerusalem. According to one rumor, which I heard from several different sources, this apothecary was paid by Josephus of Arimathea to provide Centurion Longinus with a soporific drug which Longinus in turn administered to the Nazarene on the cross. This drug supposedly created the appearance of death. The apothecary could tell you himself.”

  “Why did you not tell us about this before?” Varro demanded.

  “I was about to, my lord, but I was interrupted.” Aristarchus cast his eyes to Martius, Crispus and Venerius, his interrupters.

  Now that the subject of a drug had been raised, Varro regretted not calling Diocles the physician to be present for the questioning. He momentarily contemplated suspending the session again to summon the doctor, but decided against it rather than interrupt the flow of evidence. “Do you know what drug was supposedly employed?”

  Aristarchus replied that he had only heard that the drug in question had the capacity to induce a deep sleep and slow the heartbeat, so that any person taking it had every appearance of being dead. He added that the drug had been mixed with vinegar to disguise it, and in that form it was given to Jesus to drink at the time of the execution.

  “Name this apothecary,” said Martius irritably.

  “His name was Matthias,” Aristarchus replied. “Matthias ben Naum.”

  Varro sat bold upright. “What name?”

  “Matthias ben Naum,” the Greek repeated.

  Varro looked over to Artimedes. The secretary nodded. He too recognized the name of Naum as the same the questor had heard in his first dream. “Naum?”

  “Yes, Matthias, the son of Naum,” the witness replied, looking mystified.

  Oblivious to Varro’s new train of thought, and antagonistic toward the scribe for implicating a Roman centurion in a significant crime, the tribune fixed his gaze on Aristarchus. “I believe that the scribe has concocted all this nonsense, questor,” he said accusingly. “If not for a reward, then to ingratiate himself. Or, is there another reason? Could it be that he is out to slander Gaius Pontius Pilatus? Is that your game, Greek? You have held a grudge against your former master all these years. You saw the questor’s visit as your opportunity to make Pilatus look a fool. What better way to achieve that end than to create the impression that Pilatus was hoodwinked by the Jews?”

  Aristarchus looked appalled. “Not true, my lord,” he said earnestly. “I swear it!”

  “You know the penalty for giving false evidence before a magistrate, do you not?” said Martius in a low, threatening voice. “It is a capital offense, scribe!”

  “Every word I have uttered here today has been the truth, my lord,” the Greek protested. “I harbor no grudge against Prefect Pilatus. Nothing could be farther from the truth. I have every reason to be eternally grateful to Pontius Pilatus. Before he returned to Rome, he set me free from the bonds of slavery. I have my lord Pilatus to thank for my freedom. Surely, there is no greater gift, no greater reason for gratitude.”

  His accusation demolished, Martius sat back, folding his arms.

  “Tell me about the apothecary Naum,” Varro resumed, now that his deputy had flung his accusations, and missed the target. “Could he still be alive?”

  Aristarchus replied with a shrug that it might be possible; Naum may have survived the Revolt, could be among the last prisoners being held by General Bassus. He knew for a fact, he said, that Matthias ben Naum was still practicing his art at Jerusalem just before the Revolt broke out. He had seen him there, at his business premises on one of the streets of the Upper City, advanced in years but apparently in good health.

  “You could recognize him again if you saw him?”

  “Oh, yes, my lord, I am certain of it.”

  Varro nodded slowly. “You have been most helpful. You shall have your endorsement, and a cash reward besides. I will have one of my secretaries pen a suitable testimonial. You can display it in your premises. Does that meet with your approval?”

  Aristarchus was beaming. “Indeed it does, my lord. Thank you, my lord.”

  “There is, of course, the matter of your credentials. Before I can entertain the matter of a r
eward, I will need confirmation of your identity.”

  “I have my manumission certificate, my lord, issued by Pontius Pilatus.” The scribe reached to the leather bag on his belt in which he normally carried a small wax tablet and stylus, like all members of his profession.

  “Yes, you can show that to us,” Varro responded, “but do you have any documentation to prove that you were the prefect’s secretary at Jerusalem?”

  “Well, no. That information would be available in the archives at Caesarea.”

  “Very well. One of my secretaries will return to Caesarea, to confirm that information.” Varro looked over at Artimedes, who nodded to affirm that he understood.

  “Very good, my lord,” said Aristarchus with a continuing smile. “The secretary will have no trouble finding the necessary record.”

  “In the meantime, you will be placed in the custody of Centurion Gallo.”

  The smile dropped from the scribe’s face. “I am a prisoner?”

  “Not at all,” Varro replied. “You shall be my guest, Aristarchus.”

  “I may retain my money?” Aristarchus’ hand went to a bulging purse on his belt.

  “Of course. Only prisoners are deprived of their possessions. I will ask you to remain with us only as long as it takes to ascertain whether Matthias ben Naum is among General Bassus’ prisoners,” Varro replied. “You did say you would recognize Ben Naum if you saw him again.”

  Aristarchus looked suddenly unwell. “Yes, my lord,” he acknowledged.

  “Then you will be able to pick him out from among Bassus’ prisoners. We march in the footsteps of General Bassus and the 10th Legion.”

  “With free transport, food and lodging in the meantime,” said Martius with a wink Varro’s way, “courtesy of the questor.”

  As Callidus led the scribe from the tent, Varro and his officers came to their feet.

  “Another stray dog joins our wandering band,” young Venerius sneered. “All we need now is a snake charmer.”

  “A lying dog,” said Martius, stretching. “You mark my words, questor, he may well have been Pilatus’ secretary, but the scribe’s slandering rumors are pure invention.”

  XVII

  THE SCENE OF THE CRIME

  Jerusalem, Roman Province of Judea. May,

  A.D. 71

  Viewed from the Mount of Olives, the scene was one of serenity. There was little to advertise the fact that a famous city thousands of years old had once spread from the foot of the mountain. The giant Temple Mount was still to be seen, a rectangular, flat-topped man-made monolith flanked by walls of massive white Judean stone. Of the so-called Second Temple itself, a vast complex of buildings erected on the Temple Mount by Herod the Great where once an older structure built by King Solomon had stood, nothing remained. On a rise to the west stood a fortress built by the 10th Legion in the ruins of the Palace of Herod, around three ancient towers left standing by Titus. This legion fortress provided the only sign of life. Auxiliary light infantry were visible at sentry posts and moving along the walls. Their cloth standards fluttered in the breeze from the fortress’ tallest tower. Between fortress and Temple Mount lay a valley of broken stone, dirt, and dust. Among the rubble, hints of once mighty buildings protruded. Titus and his legions had devastated Jerusalem during their five month siege. In their wake, Varro’s cousin, Rufus, had leveled the ruins they left behind, earning himself the Turnus epithet.

  “A million Jews died down there last year, questor,” said Decurion Alienus, as they took in the view from the mountain slope, “and thousands of Roman soldiers.”

  Unlike Alienus, whose mind was filled with the faces of Roman friends and colleagues who had perished here at Jerusalem, Varro’s mind was on his investigation. “So,” he said, “you were quartered here on the Mount of Olives during the siege?”

  “Yes, questor. The men of the 10th Legion had their camp up here, and my Libyan troopers and myself camped with them. Down in the valley, over to the northwest…” He pointed to the spot. “Titus had his main camp there, with the 5th, 12th and 15th Legions.”

  “And we are standing on the likely site of the olive press, the one called Gethsemane?”

  Alienus cast his gaze to left and right. Clustered behind them stood Varro’s officers and officials, talking among themselves.. “I cannot be entirely sure, my lord. When we first arrived here last spring this mountainside was covered with olive trees. We cut down every single one. There were several olive presses on the mountain when we arrived. The one here would have looked directly down on the Temple, and was within an easy walk of the city. If I had to hazard a guess, my lord, this was Gethsemane.”

  Varro nodded. “Then, in all likelihood, this is where the Nazarene was arrested in the early hours of the Friday morning prior to the Passover, forty-one years ago. Lead on, Decurion. We shall trace Jesus of Nazareth’s last hours from here, step by step.”

  Under a frying May sun, the guide led the questor and his party down from the red stone and dry earth of the denuded mountain, across the Kedron Valley, and up into the Lower City. They went first to the site of the house of the former Jewish High Priest Ananus. This location was fixed for the questor by Antiochus, who had visited Jerusalem several times in his youth as a Passover pilgrim and knew the city layout well. From one rubble-strewn site to another, Antiochus guided the party to a corner where once the house of High Priest Josephus Caiaphas had stood. From there, they walked beside the towering western wall of the Temple Mount, past its blockaded staircases, to the place, at the northeast corner of the Mount, where the Antonia Fortress had once stood. A single course of massive stones gave an impression of the layout of the rectangular fortress built by Herod the Great. According to Antiochus, the fortress had originally been called the Baris but was renamed by Herod in honor of his great Roman friend Marcus Antonius.

  “The legionaries of the Roman cohort garrisoning the Antonia were massacred when the Jews launched their uprising without warning,” Alienus commented with disgust. “Our men stood no chance at all. Last summer, Titus had the fortress reduced, stone by stone, before we launched the final assault on the Temple.”

  Varro called for Aristarchus, the former secretary to Prefect Pilatus, brought to Jerusalem chained in a cart with Philippus the Evangelist. Now, released from his manacles, the scribe was led to the questor, who asked him: “It was to this place that the Nazarene was brought, to be questioned by Pilatus?”

  Aristarchus nodded. “This is where the Antonia stood, yes, my lord. A long flight of steps, here, led up to an iron gate. I find it hard to believe that nothing remains. Quite astonishing. The city that I knew, the handsome Antonia and the Temple, all gone.”

  “A city of fools,” commented Antiochus acidly behind him.

  The scribe pointed to a mound of earth two hundred yards away; this had been the palace of Herod Antipas, he said. Each of the four legions involved in Titus’ siege had built massive ramps of earth against the northern and western walls of the Temple Mount for the final Roman assault. Rufus had pulled down the ramps and distributed the earth among the rubble. This mound, where Antipas’ flat-roofed pyramidal palace had once stood, was the remnant of one of those ramps. King Agrippa and his sister Berenice had later acquired the palace, and used it whenever they came to Jerusalem.

  “The Nazarene was then returned here to the Antonia,” said Varro, thinking aloud. “Pilatus endorsed the warrant which you wrote, Jesus was flayed, then three prisoners were brought out, down the steps to where we now stand, on their way to their execution. Take us to the place of execution, Aristarchus.”

  As commanded, the scribe led Varro and his companions to the execution site. Their route took them over the worn cobblestones of a narrow street which ran across the excoriated landscape to the west. As they went, Alienus indicated a spot to their left, where, he said, the men of the 10th Legion had unearthed a huge trove of buried Jewish treasure weeks after the end of the siege. Beside the white stone fortress where the Roman mili
tary banners flew, and where the expedition members had made their quarters on arrival the previous day, the stumps of gateway pillars marked the city’s Water Gate.

  “The prisoners and their escort would have emerged from the city at this point, questor,” said Aristarchus as the party passed through the opening. “There, where the fortress now stands, that was the Palace of Herod, where I spent the middle part of the day with Prefect Pilatus. The execution site is that rocky rise over there.” He pointed away to their right. “It was called calvaria, or, as the Jews say, Golgotha.”

  “The Skull? Varro remarked. “It most certainly looks like a skull.”

  He led the way, following the road inclining up to a rise and which a northbound traveler would take on the first steps on a journey to Galilee or Syria. It took just a few minutes to reach the base of the rocky outcrop.

  “There were dead trees up there,” said Aristarchus. “Condemned men were required to carry the cross beams on which they were to be crucified. The cross beam would be nailed to the trunk, and the prisoner would be lashed to the cross so formed.”

  Varro clambered up onto the rocks. On the rise he found the sawn-off stumps of dead trees embedded in the dry, rocky earth. Even the dead trees had been cut down during the siege. Here, on this rock, hundreds of men had met their deaths over the years. Yet, to Varro, it did not seem a haunted place. Not like the Temple Mount and the Antonia, which had made his skin crawl. The questor looked back toward the site of the city. This would have been the Nazarene’s last earthly vision: the city walls, the Temple, the Mount of Olives rising behind it, assuming he was crucified facing Jerusalem. Perhaps, Varro thought, he had been deliberately faced the other way, with his back to his holy city. On this rock, the Nazarene had died. Or had he?