The Inquest

by Stephen Dando-Collins

  “The girl, Miriam, she has asked to see Tribune Martius.”

  Varro raised his eyebrows. He turned back to Martius. “Did you hear that?”

  Martius nodded. “Why not?” he said. “Bring the goddess to me.”

  Varro agreed, and Pedius hurried away. Miriam, Gemara and Philippus were all being kept at the marching camp set up outside the hot, steamy little city. It was half an hour before the lictor returned. When he did, he ushered Miriam into the room. All heads turned when she entered. Varro beckoned her to the bedside.

  The young beauty voluntarily removed her veil. “I have come to help you, tribune,” she said, looking down at Martius with pity in her eyes.

  “How?” he responded, looking back up at her with eyes which drank in her beauty. “By dying, in my place?”

  “By showing you the way to salvation. Accept Jesus Christ as your savior!”

  “Is that all, you have to offer?” Martius wheezed. “I expected better.”

  “Please, tribune, I beg you, have them carry you to the lake; permit Philippus to baptize you. Accept the Lord Jesus as your own personal savior.”

  “Can he save me, now?”

  She dropped to her knees beside the bed. “He can save your soul,” she said, almost in a whisper.

  “It is not my soul, I am interested in, my beauty.”

  “You must beg the Almighty’s forgiveness for slaying my brother.”

  His smile faded. “Would he forgive, those who injured me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well then, your God, is more magnanimous, than I.” Martius’ good humor had departed him. Now, he sounded angry. He tried to lift his head from the pillow, but only fell back. “I do not forgive! They, have deprived me, of my life.”

  “You must beg forgiveness! You must!”

  “Enough!” snapped Varro. Taking Miriam by the arm, he lifted her to her feet and steered her toward the door. “If this is your way of punishing him…”

  “I wish to save him, before it is too late,” she said earnestly, looking into the questor’s eyes with conviction. “If he will accept Jesus…”

  “No more of this,” said Varro angrily. He motioned to Pedius. “Take her back,” he said. “This was not a good idea.”

  Varro sat beside Martius’ bed, clasping his friend’s hand. Martius’ breathing now came in labored gasps. Polycrates, General Bassus’ physician, had come to see Martius, and he agreed with Diocles that the tribune was now too ill to be moved. On hearing this, Bassus had canceled the plan to take to the water that day for the journey north. Only when Martius’ condition had improved, the general decreed, would they set out from Sodom. It seemed a generous decision, but generosity played no part in it. Bassus was hoping that his own condition would improve sufficiently to enable him to discard the plan to return to Jerusalem, a plan pressed on him by Varro, and allow him to march on the last rebels at Masada as he had originally planned.

  “I, shall have, a merry time of it,” Martius suddenly said, opening his eyes. He had not spoken for an hour. Now, his voice was no more than a hoarse whisper.

  “When, Marcus?” Varro asked. “Where?” He put his ear closer to Martius.

  “The fields of Elysium,” Martius whispered. “Or Hades.”

  Gritting his teeth with frustration Varro watched his friend struggle for breath.

  “I think, that I, am going, to icy Hades, after all,” Martius wheezed after a time.

  “Why, Marcus?”

  “Cold. So cold.”

  As Varro watched, Martius ceased to breathe. Varro waited, hoping to see the chest rise again, but after a minute or so he knew that it would not. He lay Martius’ hand by his side. Then, he stood, and leaned over the tribune’s still form, and kissed his deathly cheek. “Good bye, my friend,” the questor whispered.

  Varro built a funeral pyre for Marcus Metellus Martius on the broad, flat roof of the merchant’s house where he had died, overlooking the small harbor of Sodom and the waters of the Dead Sea. The questor read Martius a long funeral oration. It was the least that he could do; Martius had no family; the civil wars had robbed him of parents and siblings, had made him an orphan. Apart from the few souls who gathered on the lonely rooftop at Sodom, there was no one to hear Marcus Martius described as the most honorable Roman since Marcus Cato, the most faithful deputy since Marcus Agrippa, and the most courageous soldier since Marcus Antonius.

  All the expedition’s surviving luminaries were there on the rooftop to hear the questor’s oration. Crispus, Gallo, Pompeius and Silius represented the military, Pythagoras, Callidus, Pedius, Antiochus, and Diocles represented the civil offices. Tribune Fabius and his officers also attended. General Bassus could not; he had taken a turn for the worse; as Varro had told Martius, Sodom seemed not to be a healthy place. Varro also invited Miriam and Gemara to be there, knowing that, despite the fact that Miriam had upset his friend on his deathbed, Martius had been fond of both. As Varro was walking away, toward the steps which descended down the side of the house, and with Hostilis and Martius’ own servants setting the pyre alight behind him, Philippus, who had come as chaperone to the two females, came up and took his arm.

  “Questor, Miriam has something to say to you, in private,” said Philippus. “Will you hear her? I would deem it a favor.”

  “Very well,” Varro sighed. “Bring her to my quarters shortly.”

  The questor was using a large ground floor room in the merchant’s house as his office and bedroom. He retreated there immediately after the funeral. Removing his ceremonial white toga he passed it to Hostilis. Wearing just a belted tunic now, he was perfunctorily washing his face and hands when Philippus appeared at the open door with Miriam and Gemara.

  “You have something to say to me?” said Varro brusquely to Miriam as he dried his hands on a towel provided by Hostilis.

  Miriam nodded. “Yes, questor, but what I have to say is for your ears only.”

  Varro, in no mood to be dictated to, pursed his lips as he contemplated sending her away unheard.

  “Please,” she added softly. “It is important. For us both.”

  Varro shrugged. “If you must; but a few moments only,” he conceded, before motioning to Hostilis to leave the room.

  The servant quickly departed, shepherding Philippus and Gemara into the next room and pulling the door shut behind him. “My master will send for you,” he informed the Evangelist, taking up sentry duty at the door and folding his arms.

  Once the door closed, Varro glared at Miriam. “Well? Be quick. I have much to address before leaving Sodom.”

  She removed her headscarf, allowing her shining black hair to tumble down over her shoulders. “I must apologize,” she began.

  “Oh?” He was taken by surprise. “Apologize?”

  “It was wrong of me to have wished Tribune Martius dead.” She took a step toward him, to shorten the physical and emotional distance between them.

  “Yes it was,” he said tersely. “Very wrong.”

  “I was distraught, at the news of the death of my dear brother. I hope you will forgive me, and that I will be forgiven by the Almighty. It was Heaven’s will that my brother should die, as Philippus has pointed out to me. In wishing for revenge I gave in to human weakness. Jesus would not…”

  Impatiently he interrupted her. “The desire for revenge is natural. Was that all you had to say?”

  “Revenge is for sinners. To forgive your enemies, that is the greatest blessing.”

  “For myself, Miriam,” Varro responded with growing irritation, “I cannot forgive the Jews who lured me into the forest, then killed my four companions.” His voice was becoming sharper, louder. “Among them my best friend and the man who had been my adviser since I was a boy.”

  “It would take great strength to be able to forgive the perpetrators of such a terrible deed. But you have the strength, questor. Believe me, you have the strength.”

  “A secretary who would not harm a fly. A boy, a mere m
usician.” The questor, becoming angrier by the minute, paced back and forth in front of her, clenching and unclenching his fists. “I saw them killed, before my very eyes, unarmed, and wishing their murderers no harm! It was only through the loyalty of my courageous servant that I was saved from a similar fate.”

  “It was God’s will. Perhaps He has plans for you.”

  Glowering, he swung to face her. “Is that so? A god I do not even believe exists cannot possibly have plans for me!” His anger, usually slow to rise and easy to control, fueled by grief and frustration now, was boiling to the surface. “What nonsense is this you speak?”

  She looked up into his eyes. “Accept that what will be, will be. God makes it so.”

  “Your God willed the deaths of Marcus, and Artimedes, and the others? Of your own brother?” He grasped her by the shoulders, and began to shake her, as if to shake sense into her. “Is that what you are saying? He wanted them dead?”

  She did not reply. Her serenity, her self assuredness, the very certainty of her beliefs, were enough to annoy him all the more.

  “How can you believe in such a malevolent god?” he demanded, shaking her again like a man demented. “How? Tell me!” He could feel her breath on his face; soft, and warm. “Your infernal God took away those I loved!” he raged. “After your people lied to me, they broke their word, they lured my friends to their deaths! Damn your God! Damn your people! And damn you!” As far as Varro was concerned, this woe-filled quest of his had become a pointless wild goose chase. It had achieved nothing but death and misery. And he was powerless to change a thing.

  A feeling came over him which he could neither fully comprehend nor control. In his anger he was suddenly filled with twin desires, to punish Miriam, and to ravish her. And in that moment he let go of all restraint. “Damn you, girl!” Hauling her close, he fastened his mouth over her soft, damp lips.

  Miriam tried to resist. “No!” came her muffled cry. Her headscarf fell from her hand as she tried to push him away.

  In response, his right arm slid behind her back and pressed her hard against him. His mouth slid from her lips and down to the smooth, olive skin of her elegant neck. The more she struggled, the tighter his hold became. Julius Varro was a powerful man, and she, just half his size and strength, was in his power.

  “No!” she gasped. “Please! This is wrong,” she said, now trying to reason her way out of her predicament. “You know it is.” But, beyond reasoning, he paid her no heed. Fleetingly she thought of calling out for help. But Miriam was only a slave. At best, she would be ignored. At worst, Varro could have her punished. “You don’t really want it to be this way,” she cried, desperate now, and hoping that an appeal to his heart might bring him to his senses. For she knew that Varro was in love with her; she had known for months.

  “Silence!” Varro growled, his voice almost unrecognizable, as he dragged her toward the bed in the corner of the room.

  “Please…” she whimpered. “Please, do not do this.”

  With one hand he roughly reached down and grasped her light, linen robe, and tried to unceremoniously drag it up. But, pressed closely together as they were, the garment would not respond. Cursing under his breath he pushed her back, so that she fell onto the bed. For a moment, he stood looking down at her sprawled there on the coverlet, fragile, unprotected, looking back up at him with fear in her eyes. Then he unfastened his belt and let it fall. “This is nothing less than you deserve!” he snarled, bending and pulling up her gown with such violence that the linen ripped.

  As he cast the robe aside, Varro paused momentarily to take in the sight that now met his eyes. Miriam was totally and spectacularly naked. Her flawless, trim, curvaceous body shone as if it had been oiled. Her breasts were round and firm, each areola and nipple was dark brown. Her pubic hair was thick and the color of jet. As for her legs, they were stubbornly clamped together, but her last defense was not going to stop him. Reaching down with both hands he wrenched her legs apart, just as he would part a stubborn young bough from an olive sapling in the pruning season.

  She made no sound, but her eyes spoke volumes; of her dread of what was to come, of her disappointment in him. He drew his tunic over his head and threw it to the floor, revealing a muscle-toned body, a smooth, well-defined chest, and his physical readiness to take her. Miriam had seen naked adult males in the flesh before. What slave had not? But in the sheltered surrounds of the court of Queen Berenice she had never seen a man fully aroused. Varro’s erect penis shocked and surprised her. Now he lay full length on top of her, crushing her beneath him so that she had to take short, sharp breaths. Taking her wrists, he pinned them back. Again his mouth found hers. She closed her eyes, and let his kisses smother her. But her eyes soon flashed wide, as, with a gasp, she felt him enter her, driving himself into her body. She cried out with shock and pain, as her hymen broke. Sad tears trickled down her cheeks.

  He began thrusting in and out, his face contorted. She found herself gripping onto his back. Her head nestled next to his. But, silently, she prayed that it would soon be over. His thrusts became more urgent, his breathing more rapid. And then he was arching his back, and letting out ecstatic groans of pleasure. Unable to resist the urge to draw him closer, she gripped his arms. He tensed, quivered from head to foot, let out a cry of exaltation, then collapsed clumsily onto her.

  Briefly he lay on top of her, breathing hard, and dripping perspiration, before rolling away and lying beside her until his breathing returned to normal. He did not look at her, nor she at him. Then he rose to his feet. Finding her gown on the floor, he snatched it up and threw it in her direction. “Get dressed,” he snapped, angry, not with her now, but with himself. He turned his back on her as he himself dressed, overwhelmed by shame for forcing himself on her, and unable to look at her lest she see the guilt written on his face.

  A thick mist surrounded Varro and Callidus as they crunched over the gritty orange beach to the waiting boats. As they walked Varro brushed his hands together to remove the last of the gray ash that still clung to his skin. He had just spent his last minutes at Sodom distributing his friend’s ashes on the Dead Sea, from a promontory little farther around the foreshore.

  “According to the Sodomites, my lord,” Callidus remarked as they walked, “this mist hangs over the lake for a considerable time in the warmer months, often until the middle of the day.” He was pleased to be leaving this unpleasant place, pleased to be beginning the journey back to Antioch, and to his Priscilla. “They say the mist has something to do with the lake’s salt water.” Then, a new thought hit him. “I was thinking, my lord, after the funeral of Tribune Martius yesterday, we now know the significance of your dream. The one involving the chariot.”

  “We do?”

  “Well, yes, my lord. Obviously, it was General Bassus’ chariot. The figures in black were those who died with you in the forest. The charioteer was Tribune Martius.”

  “The driver looked nothing like Martius,” Varro returned shortly.

  “He did not? Oh.”

  Six boats were drawn up on the narrow, half-moon beach. A seventh had gone ahead the previous day to make arrangements for the main party to be met by litters and horses at the northern shore. Each boat was equipped with twelve oars. Allocated one of the craft by General Bassus, Varro had Centurion Gallo send him twelve of his men as rowers, and had chosen Callidus, Pythagoras, Pedius, Miriam, Gemara, Philippus and Hostilis to squeeze into the boat with him and the oarsmen. His party was assembled and waiting when Varro came down the beach with Callidus.

  Fair-headed Prefect Crispus stood with the others. It would be Crispus’ task to lead the remainder of the questor’s column back to Jerusalem via the overland route. As before, the expeditioners would march in company with General Bassus’ army, led now by Tribune Fabius. It was likely to take the column seven days to make the journey. As for the party on the lake, if they met with calm waters all the way, they could be in Jerusalem that evening, after continuous travel
all day and well into the night.

  Varro reached out an ashen hand. “Take care of our people, Quintus,” he said, “and we shall see you in Jerusalem in a week’s time.”

  “You can rely on me, questor,” Crispus earnestly replied, grasping his superior’s hand. “A safe journey to you.”

  Varro ordered his party into their boat. On his order, the rowers, who had been standing in the shallows at the prow end, heaved the craft out into the water. Ten of the twelve legionaries then took their seats on board; two held the craft stationary just off the beach as Varro walked through the mist to the other boats. Four boats were laden with General Bassus and his staff, the fifth with provisions. A bed not unlike a covered litter had been prepared in one of these craft. Varro pulled back the side covering and peered into the interior. On the bed lay Bassus, pale and perspiring. His eyes were closed. Polycrates, the silver-haired physician, sat at his side.

  “The general?” Varro asked.

  “Weak, questor,” the physician answered gravely. “Very weak.”

  Hearing the voices, Bassus opened his eyes, then turned his head toward Varro. He lifted his face toward the figure beside the boat, and squinted at him. “Tell Caesar that I am doing my duty,” he said, before falling back and closing his eyes once more.

  Varro looked at Polycrates.

  The physician shrugged. “Delirious,” he said. “I cannot imagine who he thinks you are. He thinks that I am his wife.”

  Varro nodded. “Your boat should lead,” he said. “I shall bring up the rear.

  Varro crunched his way back to his craft through the damp, clinging mist, then splashed out to his boat and hauled himself in over the prow. As he took his seat in the bow, he ordered, “Push off!” The two remaining soldiers heaved the boat out into the shallows, then clambered inboard. It was a tight fit. There were not seats for all; Miriam, Gemara and Hostilis huddled on the ribbed floor between seated passengers and rowers. Miriam sat with her back to the questor; Varro, wearing his guilt like a stinking, soiled cloak, was grateful he would not have to look her in the eye during this journey.