The Inquest

by Stephen Dando-Collins

  As Hostilis and the other personal servants moved in and out of the questor’s tent, serving the food being prepared outside by the cooks, Varro ran his eyes around his dinner companions, who sat elbow to elbow, four to a bench around the earthen table. Martius, in good spirits, talking convivially with the poetic Crispus, reviewing the days events. Venerius, in discussion with Alienus the guide and Pompeius the cavalry decurion about the superiority of Roman horsemanship. Gallo, a solitary figure, only speaking when spoken to. Pedius, discussing remedies for footsoreness with Diocles. Pythagoras, aloof, distant. Artimedes, embroiled with Callidus in a conversation about horoscopes. Antiochus, sitting at the end of the ‘U,’ shunned by all present.

  “A word with you all,” Varro called. “A word!”

  The conversations ebbed away, and all heads turned toward the questor.

  “In the morning, at sunrise, I shall enter the forest to meet with the rebels and to interview the apothecary Matthias ben Naum,” Varro began. There was sudden tension in the pretorium. All present knew that the Jews could be laying a trap for their questor. “As you will have heard, the rebels have agreed to provide safe passage for myself and four companions. I have decided who those companions will be.”

  “As your lictor, my lord,” Pedius spoke up, “I will of course accompany you.

  “Take me, my lord,” said Crispus.

  “No, take me, questor,” the one-eyed Pompeius chimed in, his voice as deep as a grave. “We need someone to give the Jews a fright, not a poem.” This brought a laugh from several of the diners and a characteristic cackle from Venerius.

  Varro dispensed the aggressive decurion a reproving frown, before continuing. “I shall take two military officers,” he announced. As he said it, he noticed Venerius shrinking back, as if to exclude himself from selection. “Tribune Martius…”

  “I plan to make a study of the flora and fauna of the forest while we are there,” Martius joked, raising smiles around the table.

  “The other…” Varro’s eyes came to rest on Decurion Alienus, the Egyptian provided to him by his cousin, “shall be you, Alienus. You are familiar with this part of the world, and you understand a little Aramaic.” Varro had also chosen him because he looked as if he could take care of himself in tight situation, and for one other reason—Alienus was not a member of the little ‘family’ that Varro had brought down from Antioch. If any of his companions on this risky venture in the forest were to meet an unpleasant end, Varro preferred it to be an outsider.

  Alienus nodded. “Very good, my lord. We will be going in armed, I take it?”

  “Yes, armed.”

  “Questor, I am prepared to go with you,” said Crispus. He sounded hurt at being left out. “I will go wherever you go, face whatever dangers you face. I am unafraid.”

  “I need you to stay with the expedition, Quintus. If Marcus and myself were to fall, command would devolve to you. In that event, you must complete this mission.”

  Crispus nodded vigorously. “I would not let you down. I swear.”

  “I shall also have need of a secretary, to record Ben Naum’s testimony.”

  “Naturally,” said Pythagoras, “as senior secretary that task shall be mine.”

  “No, Pythagoras,” Varro returned, causing a deep frown to appear on the secretary’s brow. “Whatever transpires, you must write the report that Gnaeus Collega is expecting, using the notes taken to date.”

  “Ah, of course.” This explanation pleased the white-bearded Greek.

  “That leaves the post of secretary in this little party to you, faithful Artimedes.”

  Artimedes gave an accepting nod. “I understand, questor.”

  “Then I am the last member of the party, questor?” Pedius said expectantly.

  “No, Pedius. Your task is the guardianship of the woman and the child, and of the Evangelist. Philippus is to be released once the expedition returns to Caesarea. If I do not return, the females are to be sent to the household of Paganus, a freedman of Antioch.”

  Pedius was gratified by his assignment. “Yes, questor.”

  Varro looked over to the centurion of the 4th Scythica. “Centurion Gallo…”

  Gallo’s eyes had dropped while the questor was speaking. Hearing his name, he looked up. “Questor? Am I to be the fourth man?”

  “No. Select one of your trumpeters as my fourth companion. One who can ride.”

  “Er, yes, questor.” Gallo’s mystified expression mirrored the thoughts of everyone in the room apart from Varro. “A trumpeter? May I ask why?”

  By way of replying, Varro turned to Crispus. “Command, until I make my return, is yours once I enter the forest, Quintus. If you should hear my trumpeter sound ‘To Arms’ from the forest, you and your men are to come to our aid, at the gallop.”

  Crispus smiled. “I understand, questor. At the gallop! Faster even than that.”

  “Then…” Varro lifted his drinking cup. “Good Fortuna be with us all tomorrow.”

  His companions raised their cups. “Good Fortuna be with us all!” they chorused.

  An eerie ring of light circled the forest. Holding burning torches, Roman soldiers stood every few yards. Now and then, fresh torches were distributed around the line. The watches of the night had been reduced from the traditional four to three. At four-hourly intervals the watch changed with a chorus of trumpets, and a fresh line of almost four thousand men moved in to relieve the weary sentinels who had marched all morning, dug a camp in the middle of the day, and stood motionless in the sun through the afternoon.

  In the fourth hour of the night, after taking in the unique sight of the illuminated circle from the camp wall, Varro and Martius strolled through their camp. “Now that we know Miriam is a Nazarene,” Varro remarked as they walked, “I have told Pedius to allow her to spend time with Philippus during the day. If she so desires.”

  “I would not want to spend my days with that old charlatan,” Martius returned.

  Three figures now came bustling down the camp street toward them. Tribune Fabius led the way, with a freedman and a servant bearing a lantern close behind.

  “Varro! A word!” Fabius called agitatedly as he came up.

  “Be careful, Julius,” Martius counseled his friend in a low voice. “This turbulent fellow Fabius will not let sleeping dogs lie.”

  “What can I do for you, Quintus Fabius?” Varro asked.

  “I want you to assemble your freedmen, for inspection,” Fabius announced. “I suspect that your party harbors a criminal.”

  “You really do tire my patience, Fabius.” It was obvious to Varro that the petty Fabius was in search of revenge for coming off second best to Varro during the day.

  “You are reputed to have picked up a number of suspicious characters.”

  “You are misinformed, Fabius. Apart from a Nazarene informant who joined us in Caesarea, all my people came down from Antioch with me.”

  “You will forgive me if I satisfy myself?”

  “You seek someone in particular?”

  “As a matter of fact, I am—a Greek swindler by the name of Alcibiades. He tricked me out of a large sum of money at Caesarea.”

  “Just how did this Alcibiades manage to swindle you, Fabius?” Varro was unable to disguise his mild amusement.

  “Well, if you must know, I had arrived at Caesarea at the beginning of the spring and was waiting for General Bassus to arrive in the province when this fellow came to me with the information that he had discovered the ancient book of an Egyptian priest called Bolos which revealed the secrets of turning silver into gold.”

  “Alchemy?” Varro stifled a laugh. “You believed this fellow?”

  “Not at first, but when he provided an example of the science of Bolos…”

  “What manner of example?”

  “Before my very eyes,” Fabius continued, “he turned a silver sesterce into gold. He placed it one end of a device, and it came out gold at the other end.”

  “You genuinely b
elieved that he turned silver into gold?” Varro was incredulous.

  “It was gold sure enough, Varro,” Fabius fumed. “Then he asked me to give him one thousand silver sesterces, so that he could turn them into gold for me.”

  Varro could not believe his ears. “You gave him one thousand sesterces?”

  “No, I did not give him one thousand sesterces.” Fabius’ eyes flashed guiltily away. “I gave him five hundred. And then he disappeared. With my money.”

  Martius roared with laughter. “Five hundred sesterces!” A military tribune was paid forty thousand sesterces a year. A legionary, meanwhile, earned nine hundred a year. Fabius had given the swindler the equivalent of more than half a year’s pay for a soldier. “I knew you to be a simpleton, Fabius,” Martius declared, “and now you have proved it!”

  “I will have you know I took a precaution against thievery!” Fabius countered.

  “What manner of precaution?” Varro asked.

  “The fellow gave me share scrip as security; scrip in the corporation running the largest horse farms in Syria, with hippodrome and army remount contracts.”

  “And, of course,” said Varro, “the scrip was a forgery?”

  Fabius lowered his head. “Yes,” he conceded.

  Again Martius roared with laughter.

  “An excellent forgery, but a forgery just the same,” Fabius said with a sigh. “As I discovered too late. Alcibiardes, or whoever he is, must have a scribe as an accomplice.”

  “This all seems so blatant, Fabius,” Varro remarked, shaking his head. “How could you have allowed yourself to have been taken in by so obvious a deception?”

  “Damn it all, Varro, I was the most senior Roman officer at Caesarea at the time! It did not occur to me that anyone would have the gall to thieve from me, of all people.”

  “That was what your thief was counting on,” said Varro. “The most skilled deceivers set their sights high.” As a magistrate, he spoke from experience.

  “I scoured Caesarea for the fellow. But what better way to escape than to fall in with a visiting officials party? I must insist that you turn out your people for inspection.”

  “What does your Alcibiades look like? Describe him to me.”

  “A Greek. A good-living Greek, with a paunch. Bald. Round-faced, and with a distinctive mole on his cheek. A man with a way with words.”

  Varro and Martius looked at each other.

  “A mole you say? Varro touched his own cheek. “Here? The size of a sesterce?”

  Fabius’ eyes widened. “You do have him!”

  “No. You will find your man outside Macherus, beside the Nabatea road,” Varro advised. “His name was not Aclibiades, but Aristarchus, and he was a scribe by profession. He would have been the one to forge your share scrip.”

  Fabius beamed. “Beside the Nabatea road you say? I will send a cavalry detachment to apprehend him at once.”

  “There is no hurry,” said Varro. “Aristarchus is going nowhere.”

  “Only as far as the wind will blow him,” commented Martius dryly.

  Fabius frowned. “I fail to understand.”

  “The man is dead, Fabius, and cremated,” said Varro “Someone cut his throat for his money. Your money. When he thought that his crime would catch up with him he fled my expedition, and into the arms of some cutthroat on the Jericho road.”

  Varro and Martius had gone to the camp wall, for one last look at the ring of fire before they turned in for the night. Fabius had left them in the camp street, feeling the fool he was, and feeling cheated of his revenge on the man who had swindled him.

  “It all makes sense now,” said Martius, inclining his head and taking in the stars. “Aristarchus was indeed a liar and a deceiver.”

  “Aristarchus knew it would only be a matter of days before we overtook the 10th, and its tribune, his victim Fabius. That was why he fled our camp.”

  “Did his escape have everything to do with Fabius and alchemy, and nothing to do with his testimony to us about Pilatus and the Nazarene? How much of what he told us about the rumored Nazarene execution conspiracy can we believe, Julius? If any of it?”

  “About the Nazarene, Centurion Longinus, Matthias ben Naum, and the drug? How much indeed, my friend? Let us hope that Ben Naum can answer that tomorrow.”

  XXII

  THE HOLE IN THE GROUND

  Forest of James, “Territory or idumea,

  Roman Province or Judea. May, A.D.71

  Morning had arrived, and clad the earth in her saffron robe. All eyes tracked to the forest. In the dawn’s low light, a single rider could be seen emerging. Varro settled his helmet on his head, fixed the chinstrap in place, then eased his horse forward. He led the way at walking pace through the line of troops with their spluttering torches, down the grassy rise toward the distant rider. Artimedes came next, followed by Martius and Alienus. Publius, a pale, curly-headed legion trumpeter of sixteen years of age whose instrument curled over his left shoulder, came last of all.

  The brother of Miriam sat waiting for them. As they joined him in the open, Jacob looked past the quintet. Like a flooding river, Roman troops were flowing from the camp and spreading to left and right behind the encircling line at double time. “What are they doing?” Jacob queried suspiciously.

  “Reinforcing the line,” Varro replied. “As a precaution. If your people play the honest game, the legion will not interfere. Is Matthias ben Naum waiting?”

  Jacob returned his attention to the questor. “Yes, he awaits.”

  Varro nodded toward the forest. “Then lead on.”

  Jacob turned his horse around and headed for the trees at the trot.

  “Alienus and I will go first, questor,” Martius called, spurring his horse forward.

  Varro let the two officers precede him. With Artimedes at his side he came along close behind. As before, the boy trumpeter brought up the rear. Holding his reins with the right hand and his trumpet at his shoulder with the left, the youngster looked anxiously all around him as the Jewish envoy led the way into the trees.

  Easing back to the walk, Jacob followed a narrow track just wide enough to allow passage to a wagon or cart. The track meandered in a generally westerly direction. Two by two, the Romans followed him down the track at a short distance. The track climbed onto a rise, then fell away sharply to the left on the far side. There was no sign of life in the foliage to left or right. No animal stirred. No bird beat its wings among the branches. No partisan raised his head.

  Varro’s muscles were tensed. He was prepared to defend himself at the first sign of threat. Yet, despite feeling more vulnerable than at any other time in his life, he projected an aura of calm indifference. As a Roman magistrate should.

  After several minutes riding, they came to a natural clearing, roughly round in shape and some two hundred and fifty feet across. The grass had been pressed down, and there were circular piles of charcoal at regular intervals. It appeared to Varro that until recently there had been tents and cooking fires in this clearing, but he detected no movement in the surrounding trees. In the middle of the open space there was an oblong hole, freshly dug, ten feet long and four feet across. The earth from the hole had been thrown onto the ground behind it, forming a low mound.

  Jacob dismounted at the edge of the clearing.

  “This is the meeting place?” Martius called, as the Romans reined in around him.

  “This is the place,” Jacob confirmed. “Here we dismount.” He slipped from the saddle, and following his lead, Varro dropped to the ground. His four companions warily did the same.

  “What is the purpose of the hole in the ground?” Martius asked. With his left hand he held his sword scabbard, securing it so that he only had to reach over with his right and draw his sword with one swift, smooth motion.

  “You will see soon enough,” Jacob answered.

  “Probably intended to be our grave,” said Alienus with a wry smile.

  “We came in good faith, Jacob,” said
Varro impatiently. “Where is Ben Jairus?”

  Jacob nodded toward the far side of the clearing. As he did, three darkly-bearded men stepped from the trees. “That is Judas ben Jairus.”

  None of the Jewish partisans wore a weapons belt. Nor were there weapons in their hands. The central figure wore armor with silver and jet inlay, the armor of a Roman centurion he had killed in the Sanctuary of the Temple during the battle for Jerusalem. This was Judas, son of Jair, leader of the second last Jewish rebel force under arms.

  “Can they speak?” said Martius. “Or are they dumb?”

  “You must disarm before Judas will enter into any discussion,” Jacob advised.

  Varro shook his head. “First, I will speak with Matthias ben Naum. Where is he?”

  “Look in the pit.”

  All five Romans looked toward the excavation at the center of the clearing. From where they stood none could see into it. Varro tethered his horse to a bush. As the others did the same, the questor walked toward the pit. Alienus quickly joined him.

  With his right hand Martius grabbed Jacob by the back of the tunic. “You come with us,” he growled, hauling the Jewish envoy with him as he followed Varro.

  Artimedes and the trumpeter quickly fell in behind.

  When Varro and Alienus reached the edge of the pit and looked down they could see it was some seven feet deep and that a lone figure swathed in a brown cloak sat on the earth floor. The man was big-framed, gray-headed and gray-bearded, with well-tanned skin. He might have been aged in his sixties, or seventies. Looking up, and, seeing faces appear around the perimeter of his place of confinement, he smiled. “You are the Romans? Come to question me?”

  “You are Matthias ben Naum?” Varro responded.

  “I am he,” said the man, effortlessly drawing himself to his feet.

  Varro looked down at the Jew with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. He had marched across Judea to find this man, yet, the questor was strangely unexcited by what he saw. He had not imagined Ben Naum like this; he had pictured him small and wizened. This fellow was tall and powerful. The Jew held his right arm against his chest, as if it were injured.