The Inquest

by Stephen Dando-Collins

  The middle-aged prisoner did not reply. His eyes flashed around the faces in the tent, as if half expecting someone to offer their help, or their pity.

  “Well?” General Bassus demanded. “You say you are Matthias ben Naum the apothecary. Answer the physician.”

  “It is difficult, my lord,” the prisoner stalled. “I need to think on it.”

  “Liar!” Bassus scoffed. He looked at the older prisoner, who had yet to utter’a word. “You, old man. How would you answer the physician’s question?”

  “I would make a cake of fine flour, pounded in vinegar,” the older prisoner immediately replied.

  One of Bassus’ freedmen at the second table laughed at this.

  “An alternative to pounding?” Diocles asked the prisoner.

  The question wiped the smile from the face of the amused freedman.

  “As an alternative preparation, I would boil the cake of flour and vinegar, to render it as glutinous as possible,” came the old man’s reply.

  “Very good,” said Diocles.

  “Remind me not to suffer a head wound,” Marcus Martius remarked. “I’ll not have you physicians playing at bakers and cooks with my skull as the oven.”

  “The older man is an apothecary, in your judgment, physician?” said Bassus.

  “The old man appears to have had some training, general,” Diocles replied.

  “Very well. Take the other one to join the first imposter on a cross.”

  “I would do the same!” the younger prisoner cried. “I would boil the flour and vinegar, as he said!”

  “Take him away!” Bassus ordered.

  Protesting loudly and struggling with his guards, the second man was dragged out.

  Varro looked at the last remaining prisoner. “You are Matthias ben Naum, apothecary of Jerusalem?” he asked.

  “I am,” the man replied.

  The questor was feeling elated. Everything was pointing toward Aristarchus having spoken the truth. For all that, he knew he had to proceed calmly and methodically with his next questions. “Were you present in Jerusalem forty-one years ago?” hr, yes.

  “You sound unsure.”

  “It was many years ago, my lord. I sometimes left Jerusalem, to visit relatives.”

  “The time that Jesus of Nazareth was executed. Do you know of whom I speak?”

  “I have heard the name.”

  Varro knew that if this genuinely was the apothecary that Aristarchus had referred to, and if he had participated in a conspiracy involving the death of the Nazarene, he was unlikely to implicate himself, let alone confess. If the questor was to gain the answers he needed, he had to proceed with some cunning. “How old are you?” he asked.

  “This is my seventy-second year of life. But my mind is still sharp, my lord.”

  “I’m glad of it. Until made a prisoner, were you practicing as an apothecary still?” I was.

  “What drug would you administer as a general painkiller?”

  “Myrrh, as a rule,” the old man replied.

  “Myrrh is overrated,” Bassus growled. “It has only minimal affect.”

  Varro suspected that the general was speaking from experience. “Apothecary, how would you disguise the taste of a soporific drug?” the questor asked

  “Why would you do that?” the old man asked suspiciously.

  “Answer the question, if you please.”

  “Vinegar,” the old man replied with a weary sigh. “Vinegar has many medicinal uses and is regularly administered. It would disguise the taste of another preparation.”

  Varro looked over to Pythagoras at the second dining table.

  The secretary could read his mind. “Lucius writes of vinegar, questor,” he said across the tent. “Marcus writes of vinegar, and of myrrh mixed with wine. Matthias writes of vinegar, and of vinegar mixed with gall.”

  General Bassus looked perplexed. “This makes some sort of sense to you, Varro?”

  “It does, yes,” Varro replied. “Apothecary, I want a patient to be so relaxed that to an observer he is to all intents and purposes dead. What drug would you administer?”

  The old Jew again looked guarded. “There are several which might be applied.”

  “Give me an example.”

  “Well, deadly nightshade for one. I cannot be certain about the result. I would caution that the dose would need to be exact, in proportion to the size and weight of the patient, and to their constitution. Too large a dose, and the recipient would die.”

  Varro was feeling confident that he had found his man. The trick now was to link the apothecary with the death of the Nazarene. “Let us return to the year that Jesus of Nazareth died. It was in the reign of Tiberius, the consulship of Sejanus and Longinus.”

  The apothecary nodded warily. “I remember the year.”

  “There was a legion garrison quartered in the Antonia Fortress at that time. Which legion were those soldiers from?”

  “The 12th Legion, if I remember correctly.”

  “Correct.” The next question was a key one. “Be sure how you answer this. What was the name of the senior centurion of the Jerusalem garrison at that time?”

  The old man swallowed hard, conscious of the fact that all the eyes in the room were on him, conscious of the fact that Varro waited on his answer with intense interest. “I, I am not sure,” he replied, with obvious unease. “I cannot remember.”

  “Who was the Chief Priest of the Jews at that time?”

  “It would have been Joseph Caiaphas.”

  “Good. Before him?”

  “Simon ben Camithus, I think.”

  “After Caiaphas?”

  “Er, Jonathan ben Anunus.”

  “Well then, the Roman centurion in charge wielded more power in Jerusalem than the High Priest. Surely, you remember his name?”

  “Antonius.” The apothecary almost vomited out the name. “Centurion Antonius was in charge at that time.”

  Varro suppressed a wave of disappointment. “It was not Antonius. Think again.”

  “It was so many years ago,” the old man said in his defense. “I cannot remember.”

  “If you can remember of the name of the High Priests, you can remember the name of the senior centurion. This particular senior centurion was stationed at Jerusalem for at least three years, and probably much longer. Think again.”

  “It may have been Ventidius. Was it Centurion Ventidius?”

  “You are guessing,” said Varro, disappointed. If this man was Ben Naum, and if he had been involved in a conspiracy with the centurion in charge of the execution of the Nazarene, he would not have forgotten his name. Yet, he may have only been foxing. Varro tried another tack. “Does the name Josephus of Arimathea mean anything to you?”

  “No. Should it?” The apothecary looked genuinely at a loss.

  “Think again on the name of the centurion.”

  “Truly, I cannot remember.” Now the old man was sounding desperate.

  “I will give you a choice. It was either Centurion Coponius or Centurion Longinus. Which of those two? Before you answer, think on this. If you are pretending not to know, to throw me off the track it will not work. If you tell me the wrong name I will know that you are not Matthias ben Naum. Tell me the right name, and I will know that there is a good chance you are Ben Naum. Now, was it Coponius or Longinus.”

  The old man hesitated, and then he said, “The name Coponius is familiar. The centurion was Coponius. I am certain now. It was Centurion Coponius.”

  Varro shook his head. “Coponius was the name of a procurator of Judea,” he said, unable to hide his disappointment. “The name I was looking for was Longinus.”

  “Another damned liar!” Bassus declared. “This one we shall put to the torture, to see how much he does know. Then he will join the other two on a cross.”

  “No, please!” the old man dropped to his knees. “No torture, I beg of you, my lords.” His manacled hands were clasped in front of him. “I confess, I am not Matthia
s ben Naum. I am an apothecary, but I am not Matthias. My name is Saul ben Gamaliel.”

  “Why would you lie,” Varro demanded, “and claim to be Ben Naum?

  “For the reward.” Tears welled in the Jew’s eyes. “To perhaps win my freedom.”

  “You must have realized that we would find you out,” said Varro.

  “I was an apothecary, and I knew the real Matthias ben Naum.” Ben Gamaliel returned. “I thought I could make a success of the deception. And if I had said the centurion was Longinus, you would have believed me. If only I had chosen correctly…””

  “You say you knew the real Matthias Ben Naum?” Varro’s interest renewed. “How can I be sure you are not lying again?”

  “I knew him, I swear. He was staying under my roof until only a few nights ago.”

  “How can that be?”

  “Get up, get up, you sniveling apology for a man!” Bassus called. He motioned to the soldier at the end of the old man’s chain, who dragged Ben Gamaliel back to his feet.

  “I am a native of Macherus, not of Jerusalem,” the Jew rushed to explain. “Matthias and myself were in the same guild, and when he fled Jerusalem last year he came to Macherus and I took him in. Last evening, we both tried to flee the town. He escaped with the fortunate few, I was apprehended by your soldiers.”

  “You’ve only been our prisoner for a day?” said Bassus. “This is hilarious!” he hooted with laughter. “A day! And you try to trick your way to freedom!”

  “How old is Matthias ben Naum?” Varro asked.

  “Close to my age. Perhaps a little older, perhaps a little younger.”

  “Is he in good health?”

  “When I last saw him he was in good health. He has a robust constitution.”

  “Would you recognize Matthias ben Naum if your were to see him again?”

  “Of course.”

  Varro nodded. That answer had just saved Saul ben Gamaliel from an appointment with General Bassus’ executioners.

  As the sun rose behind the hill of Macherus to introduce another sweltering day, the Roman army was on the move, proceeding down the Nabatea road toward the south. An army this size took several hours to vacate its camp site. Five thousand men of the ten cohorts of 10th Legion. Five thousand auxiliary light infantry in ten cohorts. Four wings of auxiliary cavalry and the one hundred and twenty men of the 10th Legion’s own cavalry unit, totaling two thousand troopers. Six thousand prisoners. And trundling along in the rear, fifteen hundred mules with their handlers, two hundred wagons and carts, a herd of cattle for fresh meat, a mob of sacrificial goats.

  Varro and his party would tag onto the end of the main column. The questor had gone through his camp to check that his column was lined up and in readiness to march. Now he strode out the gate, to where his mounted colleagues waited. Once Hostilis had helped him up into his saddle, he sat watching the passing parade. Soon a chariot came surging down the road beside the marching column, drawn by two superb white horses with plaited manes and tails, and adorned with gold horse ornaments.

  “A chariot, questor,” Callidus called.

  Varro nodded to his freedman. He knew that, rather than stating the obvious, Callidus was referring to the questor’s last dream, the one involving a chariot.

  Standing, uniformed and armored, with his scarlet general’s cloak flowing behind him, General Bassus drove Procurator Rufus’ handsome chariot, a vehicle decorated with scenes of beaten gold depicting Mars the Avenger. The general reined in opposite the questor. “Have you seen, Varro?” Grinning, Bassus pointed down the road, to a myrtle tree at the roadside. Two cross-beams had been nailed high on the trunk, and the two prisoners consigned to their deaths the night before for masquerading as the apothecary Ben Naum had been lashed up with arms outstretched. “Ben Naum trees,” Bassus said, with a roar with laughter. “The Jews make Ben Naum trees!” Then, with a lash of the reins along the backs of his steeds, he sent the chariot lurching off down the road again.

  Members of the questor’s party were smiling at the general’s pun, but Varro was not amused. He looked away from the two crucified men, but he could not escape the sight of death. Close by, on the plain spreading before Macherus, lay the corpses of the Jewish men slaughtered two nights before, naked, bloated, and reeking. There they would remain until they rotted away. Their bones would litter the plain for ever more. Varro was beginning to tire of the useless waste of life. He wished that the Jews had never revolted and cost Rome and themselves so dearly. He wished that the rebels who remained at large surrendered and spared themselves and their families. Death was no answer. Surely, he thought, while a man lived he could always hope for better times.

  The line of advance stretched for two miles down the road when in the third hour the questor’s column finally began to move off. Varro remained at the roadside and watched his people file past. Behind the freedmen on their mules came Miriam and Gemara astride Antiochus’ horse. Miriam’s eyes focused straight ahead, but young Gemara looked the questor’s way. The child gave Varro a smile as she passed, a smile that warmed his heart. In the last cart of his baggage train sat Philippus and Saul ben Gamaliel. The cart had been repaired and Ben Gamaliel was chained to the side. He looked miserable as the cart bumped and jolted along. The Evangelist raised his eyes when the cart drew level with Varro.

  “Do you expect your quest to end in the Negev, questor?” Philippus called.

  “Possibly so,” Varro replied, easing his horse in beside the moving cart and keeping pace with it. “Once I have my report, you shall have your freedom.”

  “My fate is in God’s hands,” the Evangelist replied, sounding much more congenial than in recent days. “Your investigation is progressing well?”

  “With the help of Ben Gamaliel, your traveling companion there, I hope to soon locate a key witness, one who will cap my inquiries.”

  “May God guide you,” Philippus returned serenely.

  Beside him, the apothecary bore a hang-dog expression.

  “Be of good cheer, apothecary,” Varro called. “Soon we should overtake your friend Ben Naum, and you shall have your freedom.”

  “If it is so ordained,” the man gloomily replied.

  Varro was about to kick his horse to the trot when he heard shouting to the rear of the column. Following the pointing arms of cavalryman of his rearguard, he could see a small group of riders galloping from the direction of Jericho. At their head he recognized Venerius. Varro turned his horse toward the rear, and went to meet the horsemen.

  Several hundred yards behind the column the questor and Venerius came together. The junior tribune’s Vettonian troopers had a spare horse with them, and, as Varro converged on the small party he saw two bloodied bodies tied to the back of the animal. One body was clothed, the other, naked. Both hung head down.

  “I found him for you, questor!” Venerius crowed. Jumping down to the ground, he strode to the horse with its double load. Around him, his Spaniards grinned down from the backs of their horses. “I found the scribe.”

  “You found Aristarchus?” Varro also dismounted.

  Venerius slashed the ropes holding the two corpses in place. They fell onto the road, landing with a fleshy thud, like sides of beef. There they lay, arms splayed, face up. The trauma of their last living moments was reflected by their wide eyes.

  Standing, looking down, Varro did not recognize the clothed cadaver, a dark-headed man. Blood soaking his white tunic and a narrow horizontal rent at breast level indicated that he had died from a thrust to the heart from a bladed weapon. On the other hand, the round face of the bald, naked corpse was unmistakable. The mole on the right cheek provided confirmation. This was Aristarchus, the scribe of Emmaus. The flesh of his throat lay open in a deep incision which ran from ear to ear.

  “I said I wanted the scribe alive,” said Varro with displeasure.

  “He was already dead when we found him at the roadside, five miles outside Jericho,” Venerius advised, “throat cut, and denuded. The
other man we came across a little later, walking the road. I recognized his tunic as the one that Aristarchus had been wearing. Obviously, this rogue had been one of the robbers who killed the scribe, so I dispatched him on the spot.” He said it with an air that exuded a certain pleasure.

  “He may have been a Roman citizen,” Varro remarked with a scowl. The execution of a citizen without the benefit of a properly constituted trial was illegal.

  “He was no citizen,” Venerius confidently replied. “He wears a freedman’s plate.”

  Varro knelt beside the second body. Sure enough, there was a small, round bronze disc at the end of the leather strip, a freedman’s proof that he was not an escaped slave.

  Martius and Crispus now rode up. “So, the mole-faced scribe is dead?” said Martius, resting forward on a horn of his saddle to look down at the bodies.

  Varro came to his feet. In his mind he pictured Aristarchus the last time he had seen him alive. “This was not the scribe’s tunic, Venerius,” he said. “It is similar, but not the same. This man was not Aristrachus’ killer. Not on the evidence of the garment.”

  “No!” Venerius shook his head. “I will not have it. It is the same tunic.”

  “If the questor says it is not so,” said curly-headed Crispus, “it is not so.

  “It is not the scribe’s tunic,” Varro reiterated. “You killed an innocent man.”

  “Well, when all is said and done, does it matter?” Venerius countered with a nervous laugh. “I probably saved him a life of pain and sorrow. Who would want to live the life of a freedman, after all? He would probably thank me, if he could.”

  “You truly are a low, murdering piece of work, Venerius,” Martius growled.

  The young man’s eyes flared. “I take exception to that, tribune! You, who slit the throat of the Vettonian, accuse me of murder?”

  “I took no pleasure from it. Unlike you.”

  “You have one rule for yourself, and another for everyone else!” Venerius spat.