With his eyes still closed, Martius nodded slowly. Then he stopped moving.
“Marcus?”
Diocles put an ear to the tribune’s chest. “He breathes; the tribune has again lapsed into unconsciousness, questor,” he pronounced, “because of the blood he has lost. The body will replace the blood naturally. All he needs now is rest.”
Varro felt comforted by this. “I know that he will recover,” he said positively. Now, he saw Hostilis standing to one side. The broken shaft of a spear protruded from the servant’s right thigh. Varro himself had a flesh wound on the arm, which one of Diocles’ assistants now tended to. “Look to my man Hostilis now, Diocles,” Varro commanded.
Diocles instructed Hostilis to lie on another operating table. Once the Briton had complied, the physician prepared to withdraw the stump of the spear.
Varro looked over to Pythagoras. “Hostilis saved my life today,” he told him, “and Tribune Martius’ life. You will prepare manumission papers for Hostilis. He is to be granted his freedom the moment that we return to Antioch.”
Hostilis had overheard. “Thank you, my lord,” he called, before crying out with pain as Diocles began to pry the offending length of wood from his leg.
“I shall prepare the manumission document for your seal, questor,” said Pythagoras. “May I ask, is there is no possibility that Artimedes might be found alive?”
“Artimedes is dead,” Varro replied with a sad sigh. “As are Alienus and the boy trumpeter. I saw them all die.” A thought hit him. “Can anyone tell me, how did Venerius come to be in the forest? As we were coming out, we passed a naked body lying beside the track. It had lost its left hand and its head. I swear, I recognized the face as belonging to Venerius. How was it he was there?”
“Tribune Venerius volunteered to come to your rescue, my lord,” Hostilis called, before letting out another howl of pain. Hostilis knew perfectly well that Gallo had tricked Venerius into joining him in the chariot, but he saw no point in disparaging the dead officer cadet, or the live centurion. Hostilis was not one to do anything without carefully thinking through both the consequences and the advantages of his act.
“He volunteered?” Varro was astonished. “Who would have credited it? Venerius found his courage. Wonders will never cease!”
It was the afternoon. In his pretorium, Varro sat at Artimedes’ compact, folding writing table, penning the last of two letters. Hostilis had brought Artimedes’ writing instruments to him: the table, a writing frame, a box of quills and inks, and the questor’s seal, that of a bearded Neptune, god of the sea, with his trident. This was Varro’s family seal, first used by his grandfather after he had served Caesar Augustus as an admiral. This seal was Varro’s signature. On letters it informed the recipient of his identity. On death warrants it sealed a condemned man’s fate. On manumission papers it set an enslaved man free.
The first letter that he had written was to his mother, to tell her that her favorite, Artimedes, was dead. In describing the morning’s events, Varro had claimed full culpability for the secretary’s death, writing that he had foolishly led Artimedes into a trap, that he should have known better than trust the rebels. The second letter was addressed to the family of Gaius Licinius Venerius, to inform them of the junior tribune’s death, stating that Venerius had died bravely while trying to save the questor’s life.
Centurion Gallo entered the tent. Behind him came a centurion of the 10th Legion.
“Begging the questor’s pardon,” Gallo began. “We think we may have identified the body of the rebel leader. He was found wearing the armor and helmet of a Roman centurion. Is this Judas ben Jairus, my lord?”
As Varro looked around, the centurion beside Gallo lifted up a wooden spike of the kind that usually topped entrenchments. On the end of the spike sat a decapitated head, that of a darkly bearded man in his thirties. The centurion’s hand was red from the blood that had dripped from the dead man’s severed neck.
Varro took in the head, with its staring eyes and bloodied open mouth. He recognized the face of the man who had led the rebels in the forest that morning. “Yes, that is Judas ben Jairus,” he confirmed with a sigh before returning to his writing.
“We thought as much,” said the centurion of the 10th. “We have counted three thousand and ninety seven dead Jews. For ourselves, and apart from your thin-striper and the decurion, we lost just ten men of the 10th killed today. A paltry price to pay.”
Varro nodded glumly. He had seen enough death this day. He continued writing.
Gallo and his companion looked at each other, shrugged, then took their leave with the gory trophy, only for another visitor to enter the tent almost immediately.
Impatient with the interruptions, Varro looked up with a scowl, to see Pedius standing before him. “Yes, what is it, lictor?”
“You asked for Miriam to be brought to you, my lord?”
Varro lay aside his pen. “Bring her in.” He was not looking forward to this.
Pedius withdrew, only to return moments later with Miriam.
“You may remove your veil if you wish,” said Varro, coming to his feet.
“I am perfectly comfortable as I am, thank you,” she said, haughtily.
He cursed her to himself. Why did she have to be so difficult? This woman confused him. Before now no one had ever made him feel so angry and yet so completely benevolent at the same time. He had not suggested she remove her veil for any significant reason, he would simply like to look on her face. Still, it was not important. Coming out from behind the writing table he stood in front of her. “Your brother led us into the forest this morning,” he said. He waited for a reaction, but when he received none he continued. “He led us into a trap.” Another pause. Still no reaction. “Artimedes is dead, and so are Alienus and Venerius. Tribune Martius has been injured; severely injured.”
“I am sorry to hear about Tribune Martius, and the others.”
Varro thought that she did sound genuinely sorry. “You have heard, Miriam,” he went on, “that every Jew in the forest has been killed? Every one?”
“Jacob may have escaped,” she came back.
“He is dead.” Varro had planned to be kinder, but it came out matter-of-factly.
“How can you be so sure?”
“I saw him killed.”
“By whom?”
“By Martius.”
She did not say anything.
“Your brother is dead, Miriam. I am sorry, but he brought it on himself.”
“If Tribune Martius truly did kill my beloved brother,” she now said, with a voice taut with emotion, “then I hope that he too dies.”
He sighed. “I am sorry you feel that way.”
“May I go now?”
“Very well. Pedius, take her back to her quarters.”
Varro slouched unhappily back to the writing desk and resumed his seat. When he looked up, Miriam and the lictor had gone, and Hostilis was limping in the doorway bearing a water ewer. There was a bandage around his thigh, his face was white.
“Sit down, Hostilis,” said Varro grumpily. “Rest your leg.”
Hostilis put the ewer down and then settled on the tent’s earthen floor.
When Varro finished the Venerius letter Hostilis quickly hopped up. He brought a lamp so that his master could drip sealing wax onto the back of the document, forming a small yellow, streaky mound which had the appearance of liquid onyx.
“How long have you been able to drive a chariot?” Varro asked as he applied Neptune to the melted wax.
“I was trained to drive in my youth, master, in Britain.”
“Well trained, at that. Fortunately for me.”
“In my younger days, I was able to run out onto the pole while the chariot was in motion and then run back to the driving position, without losing my balance or losing control of the chariot.” This was unusual loquacity for Hostilis.
Varro smiled. “Quite a trick.” He realized that in all the years that Hostilis had s
erved him he had known very little about the man’s past. Not that he had been interested enough to inquire before now. “Your name was not Hostilis when you were in Britain,” he said, as he waited for the wax to harden. “That is your Roman name.”
“Yes, master.” Hostilis fanned the wax to make it dry more quickly.
“What were you named before?”
“My name was Mordoc.”
“Mordoc? Does it have a meaning?”
“Son of the Sea, Master.”
Varro looked surprised. “Why Son of the Sea?”
“My father was a fisherman. He was training me to also be a fisherman when King Prasutagus’ Horse Master came to our village by the Sunrise Sea and chose me to train as a charioteer, in the king’s service.”
“Why were you chosen?”
“The Horse Master said that I had the look of a charioteer, whatever that meant.”
“He must have seen the talent you displayed today when you saved my life, and your courage. In addition to your freedom, on our return to Antioch you shall have one hundred thousand sesterces, Hostilis, for the talent and the courage you showed today.”
Hostilis looked at him in astonishment. Manumission had been at the back of his mind when he had leapt into General Bassus’ chariot that morning, but he had never given a moment’s thought to a financial reward should he succeed in conveying his master to safety. “That is too much, master,” he protested.
Varro shook his head. “It is a pittance to a man like myself. You are of course welcome to remain in my service, my paid service. But you will be free to choose your future course. You might choose to go into business, for instance.”
Hostilis looked at him with even more surprise. “Could I?”
“Buy yourself a fishing boat, Hostilis,” said Varro earnestly, clapping the servant on the back. “Or a fleet of boats. Either that, or join one of the chariot racing teams.” He smiled. “After the display I witnessed today, there is no reason why you could not achieve fame and fortune in the hippodrome.”
Hostilis was nodding. Hopes and dreams had been ingredients missing from his life for the past eleven years. “I will think on it, master.” For the first time in all the years that Varro had known him, Hostilis smiled. “Thank you, master.” And for the first time in years, Hostilis dared to think about his home, and family, on the other side of the world.
Hostilis was asleep under a blanket on the floor—dreaming his dreams, Varro thought to himself as he continued to write. The questor was now penning a eulogy to the men who had died in the forest, the men he would be cremating come the new day. Artimedes in particular, he felt, was deserving of his finest words, his most heartfelt sentiments. As he sat with pen in hand, his mind was drawn back to the last moments of Artimedes’ life. Invariably, those thoughts strayed to his own brush with death. He saw the face of the man he had killed, and saw the horror struck realization in the man’s eyes as Varro’s sword came down on him, the realization that he was about to die. Varro saw his sword plunge into the stomach of the gray-headed man, saw his blade destroy the face of the trumpeter’s assassin.
As the events contained in those minutes in the clearing and on the track came crowding back, it seemed to Varro that he must have killed ten men and wounded a hundred. Yet, when he analyzed it, he had killed just the one, had wounded a handful more. Now that he thought about it, it seemed a miracle that he himself had come out of that morning with nothing less than a nick on the arm. Three of the four men he had led into the forest were dead, the fourth was fighting for his life. Why he had been spared he could not say.
His thoughts returned to Artimedes. What a waste his death seemed; so pointless, so unnecessary. Everything now pointed to the fact that Ben Naum had either never been in the Forest of Jardes or had died with the three thousand and ninety-six other Jews who perished in and around the forest that morning. Either way, the questor’s trail had ended at the forest. Now, he had no more witnesses to pursue, no more evidence to collect. He must turn his expedition around and return to Antioch. Somehow, he had to write his report for General Collega, a report based on gossip and hearsay, much of it from unreliable witnesses. It was not what he had hoped for. Such a report would not convince him, and he doubted it would convince any other thinking person.
Smoke plumed up from the funeral pyre behind them as Varro and his retinue walked solemnly back in through the camp gate. As his colleagues dispersed, Varro, carrying the eulogy he had read beside the pyre, walked toward the baggage section of his camp, accompanied by Pedius.
Outside the tent of the Evangelist, Philippus sat on the ground. He was talking to Miriam and young Gemara, who like wise sat cross-legged in the sunshine. At the approach of the questor and his lictor, the trio respectfully came to their feet, with the females helping the elderly Evangelist up.
“I have just cremated my tutor and secretary,” Varro sadly announced, “and those who died with him.” He focused on Miriam. “I have also sent Prefect Crispus to the forest, to find the body of your brother among the Jewish dead, and to bury It. Crispus knows your brother’s face.”
Miriam did not reply. To Varro’s frustration she merely looked away.
“I shall now return to Antioch,” Varro continued. “You, Philippus, will be released at Caesarea along the way.”
“Your investigation is at an end, questor?” the Evangelist inquired.
“It is”.
“How is Tribune Martius faring?”
“He spent a comfortable night, but he is still gravely ill.”
“What of General Bassus?”
“As well as can be expected.”
Philippus nodded sagely. Then he said, “There is a city, not far from here. A Nabatean city. It is located on the southern edge of the Dead Sea. They have boats at this city. From there, you could gently take the general and the tribune north by water. After that, it would only require a day’s cross-country journey to Jerusalem. Much more comfortable for them than the overland route.”
This suggestion made sense to Varro. Perhaps, Varro thought, Philippus saw the water journey as a means of speeding his own return to Caesarea, but whatever his motive, his advice seemed sound. “And the name of this city?” Varro asked.
“Sodom,” Philippus replied. “The city is called Sodom.”
XXIV
THE SINS OF SODOM
Sodom, Kingdom of Nabatea. May, A.D. 71
Sunlight was slicing in through gaps in the closed shutters of the eastern windows.
“A new day, Marcus,” Varro said softly, as his friend opened his eyes.
“Where is this?” Martius asked, breathing with difficulty as he lay in a comfortable bed. “Where have you brought me, Julius?”
“You are in the commandeered house of a merchant in the city of Sodom, at the southwestern end of the Dead Sea,” Varro answered. Sitting on the bed beside Martius, he wiped his friend’s perspiring brow with a cloth soaked in vinegar.
Martius nodded slowly. “The Dead Sea?” he said after a time. “Appropriate.”
“You are not going to die.”
“Am I not?” Martius smiled weakly. “We all have to die, sometime, Julius. I shall die in Sodom.”
“You will not. Today we shall put you in a boat and take you across the lake to Jerusalem. You will be more comfortable there. This barren city is too hot, too humid. The air is sulphurous. It would be injurious to any man’s health to spend too long here.”
“A boat trip? Sounds diverting. Be sure the boat does not sink, Julius. I might drown, and then where would we be?” He tried to laugh, but that only brought on a violent coughing fit which seized his entire body and shook him from head to toe.
Diocles quickly moved in, and standing at the head of the bed, which had been moved out from the wall, he grasped Martius’ shoulders and held them, as if that might ease the coughing spasm. “You must not laugh, tribune!” he warned Martius once the coughing had come to an end.
“Why?” Martius r
asped. “Afraid I will laugh myself to death, physician?”
“You heard him,” Varro scolded. “No laughing.”
“He is right, of course,” Martius responded. “Death is no laughing matter.”
Diocles moved around to the far side of the bed and lay his ear on Martius’ chest. He could hear fluid rattling in Martius’ one remaining good lung. It was not an encouraging sign. “There is nothing more I can do for him, questor,” he confessed with sad resignation, standing back. “It is out of my hands.”
Varro reached over and took his friend’s right hand, clasping it at the wrist. “You have been my strong right hand, Marcus,” he said, determined not to sound emotional.
“You can always find another right hand,” Martius replied.
“Not like the one I have.”
Martius lay quietly for some minutes. Then he said, slowly, a few words at a time, “Did I ever tell you, about the beggar, in Caesarea? The one I cured, of lameness? He predicted, a cruel and painful death, for Alienus and myself. There, is a salutary lesson, for you. A fellow, should never, waste, his miraculous powers, on beggars.”
“He should not talk,” said Diocles. “He should preserve his strength.”
“Did you hear?” Varro asked his friend. “Preserve your strength, Marcus.”
“I heard. Tell the simpleton, I have no strength to preserve.”
“You should rest,” Varro urged. “Please rest.”
“I will be at rest soon enough. You know, Julius my friend, I have one regret.”
“What is that?”
“I regret, that I did not bed the slave girl, Miriam. You, were never, going to get around to it. You have made a goddess of her, in your head.”
Varro smiled. “Is that so, Marcus?”
“She is only, a woman, my friend. Only a woman.”
“My lord questor?” It was the voice of Pedius.
Varro looked around. His subordinates were in the room with him. They had been sharing his vigil since before dawn. “What is it, Pedius?”
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