The Inquest

by Stephen Dando-Collins

  The sword, a former Roman sword, came down on the neck of Gaius Licinius Venerius, nephew of Licinius Mucianus. It cleaved the head of the boy named for Venus goddess of love from his shoulders. The decapitated body collapsed to one side. The head, still wearing a richly decorated helmet, toppled off and rolled down the track for several feet, over and over, before coming to rest. Venerius’ lips continued to move.

  The trumpeter had sounded ‘To Arms’ a dozen times. Martius had rejoined Varro and the others. Both Martius and Varro had swords in one hand, daggers in the other. Artimedes and the trumpeter stood behind them. The petrified trumpeter still had his instrument over his shoulder.

  “I’ll take care of the boy,” Martius said to Varro, casting his eyes around the clearing as the partisans began to edge forward, slowly tightening the ring around them. “You look after your Greek.”

  “I would prefer it if we had shields,” said Varro, carefully watching the nearest partisans, expecting them to dash forward to the attack at any moment.

  “Are you ready to make a break for it?”

  “Which direction?” Varro asked.

  “Toward the horses,” Martius replied.

  “They will expect that,” Varro came back.

  “We ignore the horses, and in the confusion keep running, with the speed of Mercury, along the track. Agreed?”

  Varro decided it was better than no plan at all, and the track would lead them out of the forest. “Agreed.”

  “You other two, take hold of our belts,” Martius instructed, “and do not falter.”

  Artimedes and the trumpeter took hold of the officers’ sword belts.

  “On your word,” said Varro.

  “Mars, Minerva and Fortuna, don’t desert us this day! Ready, Julius? Now!”

  With Martius and Varro running side by side and dragging the two non-combatants along behind them, the quartet charged toward their horses, whose reins had been taken by rebels. Letting out a shout, the partisans of the ring ran forward, with several launching spears in the direction of the running Romans. Their hasty, poorly directed volley missed the Romans. Arrows whizzed by, too high to hit their targets.

  Martius ran toward a Jew in front of the horses who jabbed a spear at him with an overhand thrust. Martius easily knocked aside the spear then brought his sword up into the man’s groin. The Jew went down, clutching at his groin and screaming. Martius and the trumpeter ran right over the top of the downed man.

  A short, bare-headed partisan with a round shield and short sword came at Varro, swinging his weapon wildly. The sword swished past Varro’s nose; Varro felt the wind of its passing. As Varro’s running momentum carried him forward he crashed his own sword down onto the man’s head. It sliced into the partisan’s skull, split it, and exposed the brain matter. The man dropped. He was dead before he hit the ground.. This was the first time that Julius Varro had physically killed anyone. He had sent men to be executed by others, he had led auxiliary units which had killed German raiders, but he himself had never inflicted a lethal blow. As a youth, he had wondered what it would feel like to kill a man. Now he knew. It felt like nothing. He was so focused on staying alive that the act of homicide simply did not register. At that moment it held no more significance for him than the need to draw breath.

  Martius swung at a teenaged partisan in his path who raised a wicker shield. The tribune’s blow shattered the wickerwork. The shield disintegrated. Martius swung again, and sliced off the man’s left arm at the shoulder. The limb fell to the ground. Blood gushed from the stump just below the man’s shoulder. Screaming with horror, the youth dropped his spear, grabbed at the stump of his arm with his right hand, and reeled away.

  In the face of this fierce Roman onslaught, other partisans in their path fled to left and right, some throwing away their weapons to run unencumbered. Jews who had secured the five Roman horses quickly led them into the trees to prevent their riders from regaining them. This permitted a gap to suddenly open in the partisan line, as Martius had hoped. Martius and Varro dived through the opening, dragging Artimedes and the young trumpeter with them. As they ran along the track, Varro, looking over his shoulder, past the panting Artimedes, could see Judas ben Jairus himself leading a group of ten or twelve determined and well armed pursuers.

  “I cannot run, questor!” Artimedes gasped, clutching at his chest with his left hand as he struggled along, slowing himself and Varro.

  “You must!” Varro yelled. “Keep going!”

  “I cannot…” As Artimedes spoke, a spear lanced into the middle of his back. The secretary let go of Varro’s sword-belt, staggered, then came to a stop, reaching around ineffectually for the spear between his shoulders with his right hand, as if he might pluck it out like a splinter. As Martius and the trumpeter kept running, unaware of Artimedes’ injury, the little bald man looked at Varro, who also came to a halt. There was an innate sadness in his eyes. “I am sorry, my boy,” he gasped, before crumpling to the ground.

  Dropping his dagger to free one hand, Varro grabbed the end of the spear lodged in the secretary’s back and yanked hard. It had no barb and came free without difficulty. Flinging the spear away, he stooped to lift the secretary to his feet. As he bent, he felt a spear glance off his armor. “Get up, Artimedes!” he yelled, reaching under the Greek’s arm. Artimedes was limp. His shiny head sagged like the head of a straw doll. He was unconscious, or dead.

  “Julius!” Martius was running back to the pair, sheathing his dagger as he came.

  The musician had stopped in the track, and stood watching in horror. “Hurry, my lords!” the terrified trumpeter bawled as he saw Ben Jairus and his party drawing closer.

  Varro tried to lift the Greek, but with just one free hand, he could not.

  Now Martius joined him. “Is he dead?”

  “I hope not.”

  Martius switched his sword to his left hand, then each of them took one of Artimedes’ arms and between them they half carried half dragged him at the run. Publius fell in with them once they reached him. But they had only gone fifty paces when a band of twenty or more partisans washed from the trees and into their path.

  “We can’t fight our way through them carrying the secretary,” Martius declared

  “I will not leave him,” said Varro determinedly.

  “Then we make a stand here,” Martius declared.

  “If that is what we must do.”

  They came to a halt, and lay Artimedes face down on the ground. Varro and Martius then stood back to back, the questor facing west, the tribune facing east.

  “What should I do?” cried the terrified trumpeter.

  “Stay with Artimedes,” Varro said. There was no other course he could advise.

  The two partisan bands quickly linked up and flooded around the four Romans. At a distance of twenty feet they exchanged comments in Aramaic, laughing, pointing.

  “What they are saying?” Martius asked as they tensely watched and waited.

  “Does it matter?” Varro came back.

  “Probably not. As a matter of interest, Julius, am I to take it that there was no Matthias ben Naum?”

  “Apparently not. That was definitely not Ben Naum in the pit.”

  “So, coming here was a waste of time?”

  “So it would appear.”

  Martius laughed. “Well, I would not have missed it for anything.”

  “These have been an interesting few months,” Varro remarked.

  “It has been a pleasure knowing you, questor.”

  “It is not over yet, Marcus.”

  “Trust in your luck, and pray to Fortuna? Is that it?”

  Now there came the sound of pounding hooves behind the partisans, to the east. Jews on that side of the track began to scatter in sudden panic.

  “What is it?” Varro called, unable to see what was happening in that direction.

  “Fortuna shines on you, questor,” Martius returned, sounding elated. “Come!”

  Varro turned,
to see General Bassus’ chariot surging down the track toward them. As it came up, the chariot slue to a halt three hundred feet away, with the horses lifting up on their hind legs and pawing the air. Now Varro recognized the driver. “Hostilis!”

  The Briton eased his horses around, coaxing them into backing up then going forward, making the seemingly impossible task of turning the chariot on the narrow track look easy. Very soon the chariot faced back the way it had come, with the open end beckoning Varro and his companions. “Hurry, my lords!” Hostilis anxiously called.

  Now, seeing that the chariot was not going to run them down and that it was not accompanied by other chariots or cavalry as they had feared, partisans rediscovered their courage. Spears were loosed at Hostilis, who ducked out of harm’s way. But the rebel focus was on finishing off the Roman officers. With a yell, partisans came at Varro and Martius. Varro dodged anonymous blows and jabbed at contorted faces. He was soon separated from Martius. A spear went shooting past his ear. Something hit his breastplate. A sword glanced off his helmet as he sidestepped. There was a sudden, stinging sensation on his left upper arm. Seeing a round shield lying on the ground, he dropped onto one knee to grab it up. A bloodied hand and forearm were still attached to the shield’s handles, courtesy of a slicing blow from Martius.

  A gray-headed man came at Varro. Forgetting the shield, Varro thrust upward and caught the man in the stomach. The Jew dropped his long Roman shield and went reeling away. Grabbing the fallen shield with his left hand Varro came to his feet. As he did, he instinctively spun around, just in time to use the shield to parry a blow from a sword. He swung at his assailant, missing. He swung again, and again. The partisan turned and fled.

  Suddenly, Varro was alone. Bodies lay everywhere around the scene of combat. Martius was to his right, fighting two men simultaneously. He too had found himself a Jewish shield-square, small; but effective. Publius the trumpeter was bleeding from a head wound and trying to fend off three attackers by frantically swinging his trumpet around and around. Sword blows glanced off the metal of the instrument with hollow clangs. Between the two struggles, the questor could see a clear path to the waiting chariot. Artimedes lay where he had fallen. The back of the Greek’s skull had been battered into red, bloody mush by club or stone. If Artimedes had not been dead before, he was now. Varro sprang forward to go to aid of the trumpeter. In that instant he saw an arrow enter the boy’s throat. Young Publius dropped his trumpet, and fell backward to the earth clutching at his throat. A Jew began hacking at the fallen youth with a sword.

  Angry for the first time that day, Varro ran at the Jew, bellowing: “Leave him be!” The partisan, bending over the body of the trumpeter, looked around, to find Varro’s sword sweeping across his face. The blow sliced through his jaw. Screaming, the man dropped to his knees with hands to his bloodied face. Varro looked toward the chariot. The path was still clear. “Now, Marcus!” he yelled on the run. “Now is our chance!”

  Martius had dispatched one attacker with a thrust into the mouth. Now he knocked the other down with his shield. But instead of going in for the kill, he pulled away and ran after Varro. The questor tripped as he reached the chariot; dropping his shield he literally fell into it. Looking up, he saw Hostilis with a broken spear skewering his thigh. The slave reached down and dragged his master into the back of the chariot. Martius came running up, covered in blood, but smiling. He seemed uninjured; it had to be Jewish blood. Varro reached out to Martius.

  “Fortuna be praised!” the grinning tribune exclaimed. Dropping his shield, he reached up to grab Varro’s hand. In that moment, an arrow pierced him, entering just above his armor at the left armpit and penetrating his chest. Martius looked down at the arrow jutting from his body. “That was not part of the plan!” he said, almost in disbelief. Sheathing his sword, he grasped the arrow and broke it off, casting away the piece in his hand. He looked up at Varro, and smiled again. “Nothing serious,” he said, “thanks to the gods.” His smile disappeared. Martius collapsed into the back of the chariot.

  Varro sheathed his sword and hauled his friend in beside him. Looking down the track, he saw Judas ben Jairus and others coming at the wide-eyed run, swords raised.

  “Hold tight, my lords!” Hostilis called back over his shoulder, lashing the reins along the backs of his steeds. The chariot surged forward. Varro grabbed the rail with his left hand. With his right he gripped Marcus Martius’ armor, to keep his friend from falling out. Martius lay face down, feet hanging out the back of the bumping chariot.

  “Marcus, we will soon be out of this,” Varro assured his friend.

  Martius looked up at him with glazed eyes. “Soon be out of it,” he slowly, mechanically repeated.

  XXIII

  THE MASSACRE

  Forest or Jardes, Territory or idumea,

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

  Naked and bloodied, Marcus Martius lay stretched out on a table in the physician’s tent. Diocles’ assistants were washing down the tribune’s body, while he stood looking down at his patient, with Varro at his side. Regaining consciousness, Martius opened his eyes.

  “Can you hear me, Marcus?” said Varro.

  “I hear you,” Martius replied weakly. “What of the Jews? Are they dealt with?”

  “They rushed from the forest on our heels,” Varro advised, “and threw themselves onto our auxiliary line. Once they had exhausted themselves, the 10th was sent in against them. Not a rebel survives, Marcus. They were killed to the last man.”

  “Fools,” Martius commented, his voice as soft as a breeze.

  “Worry not, you will come out of this, Marcus,” Varro assured him. “Your wound is not fatal.” Varro had no medical training, and was not qualified to make such a statement. It was more a profound hope than a known fact.

  “It’s the physician who worries me,” Martius responded. “Is he sober?”

  Varro smiled. At least his friend had his wits about him. Not that he could necessarily say the same about Diocles. The physician was white-faced; he appeared to tremble, faintly, but perceptibly. “Listen to me, Diocles,” he said, in a steady, controlled voice. “If the tribune dies, then so do you. Do you hear me?”

  Diocles did not look around. “He will not die,” he replied, in a quavering voice which failed to inspire confidence.

  “Then do what you are trained to do. Save my friend.”

  Diocles now instructed his assistants to roll the patient onto his right side. Martius groaned as he was turned. Blood was seeping from the wound caused by the Jewish arrow, with the arrowhead still embedded beneath the left arm, and also from a second wound, an incision near the arrow’s entry point; at some point during the fighting, Martius had been jabbed in the side with a spear. Diocles looked down at his hands. Momentarily they quivered, the combined result of weeks without a drop of wine, the status and condition of his patient, and the questor’s threat. The doctor inclined his eyes to the tent ceiling, and offered up a silent prayer. ‘Asclepius, son of Apollo, god of health and protector of physicians, many times I have sought your aid, but I have never needed it more than today. Steady my hand and sharpen my eye so that I might save this man.’

  “Are you capable, physician?” Varro called. “Can you do this?”

  Diocles returned his eyes to the patient. “There is nothing to be concerned about,” he responded. He nodded to an assistant, who placed a roll of cloth between Martius’ teeth. One assistant then held the patient’s wrists, another, his feet. “Scalpel.” Handed a scalpel, Diocles hesitated above the arrow’s entry point. Asclepius, do not fail me,’ he implored the heavens one last time, before commencing to dig into the wound. The arrowhead was in deep; he had to burrow like a termite around the jagged shaft. He felt his patient tense from head to foot with the pain, and knew that Martius was biting hard into the cloth, but the tribune did not make a sound. Beside him, Varro watched his every move.

  It took time, but eventually Diocles, perspiring freely, was able
to dig out shaft and arrowhead, which he cast into a bowl. He then smeared ointment from a jar into the wound. “Bandage,” he gasped. There was still the risk of the patient bleeding to death. The bandaging must be proficient. In his head, Diocles could hear the voice of his first medical instructor, Philemon of Athens. ‘Strength is imparted by the compression and the number of folds of the bandage. In one case the bandage effects the cure, and in another it contributes to the cure. For these purposes this is the rule—that the force of the constriction be such as to prevent the adjoining parts from separating, without compressing them much, and so that the parts may be adjusted but not forced together; and that the constriction be small at the extremities, and least of all in the middle.’

  Varro watched the physician wind a lengthy bandage around Martius’ torso. Martius’ eyes were closed. “Marcus?” he anxiously called.

  “Still here,” came a wheezing reply. Martius’ face was becoming flushed.

  Varro nudged Diocles. “He seems to be having difficulty breathing, physician.”

  “He was also speared,” Diocles replied as he worked. “The spear may have punctured the left lung. He will breath more easily momentarily, I assure you.”

  Minutes later, once the bandaging was complete, Martius was rolled onto his back once more. He began breathing with less difficulty.

  “The arrowhead is removed, and the flow of blood stemmed,” Diocles announced.

  “What now?” Varro asked.

  “We are in the hands of the gods, questor. Pray that infection does not set in.”

  Varro looked at his friend. “You are strong, Marcus. You can come through this.”