The Inquest

by Stephen Dando-Collins

  “Prepare to row,” the questor called. As his oarsmen readied their oars he looked over to his left, to the five shadows in the mist; once those other craft were under way and disappearing into the gray void, he ordered, “Rowers on the right, pull together!” The six legionaries on the right side dragged on their oars. The nose of the boat came around. Varro’s last sight of Sodom was of white rooftops protruding through the mist, lit golden by the rising sun. The vision swung to his left, and then was gone. “Now, all pull together!”

  All twelve rowers now dipped their oars. The boat began to slide over the glassy surface, out onto the lake in the rippling tracks of the craft which had preceded it.

  Standing on the shore, Crispus watched the boats melt into the mist. Even after they had been engulfed by the soft gray cloud, he could hear them, could hear the rollicking of the oars and the swish of their blades, could hear disembodied voices out on the lake, ghostly, dull and empty. Once the questor’s craft had slipped from view, the prefect let out a deep sigh, then turned and walked up the beach toward the city, and the column waiting on the far side of it. Crispus envied his colleagues in the boats; he was not looking forward to his overland journey.

  No one spoke in the eerie stillness. Passengers sat with cloaks wrapped around them as a protection again the clawing damp air, and with heads bowed. Occasionally someone would cough, as the airborne brine tickled their throat. Perspiration rolled from the rippling arms and bare brown legs of the legionaries working with precision at the oars.

  After they had been rowing through the mist for little more than an hour, keeping the shore on their left and the next boat within sight, all the time veiled in silence but for the rolling of the oars and the gentle, rhythmical splashes generated by the gouging blades, a surreal voice called out from the distance. “All stop!”

  Passengers’ heads came up. The dripping oarsmen ceased to row. Even though Varro’s boat began to lose way, it went gliding across the water still, with oars raised, as if propelled by magic.

  “What’s happening?” someone in Varro’s boat asked.

  “Questor!” came the distant voice again. “Questor Varro, come alongside the general’s boat, if you please.” It was the physician’s voice.

  Varro ordered his men to resume rowing. Slowly he edged his craft past the four boats ahead of him, one at a time. The passengers sitting in the other craft, emerging briefly from the gloom and seeming to Varro to have the appearance of ghouls journeying across the Styx River on the journey to the underworld, watched the questor pass. As he came up to the general’s vessel, lying dead in the water and with its oars levitated, its features materialized from the mist like a mirage on the desert; first the long shape of the hull, then the distinctive canopy.

  “Raise oars!” Varro ordered.

  When his men lifted their oars to the vertical, the lengths of timber looked like a grove of limbless trees.

  “Why did you summon me?” Varro called as his craft bumped alongside the other with a hollow clunk of wood on wood. “Do you wish to link the boats with ropes, so none becomes lost in the mist?”

  “No,” came a reply. The face of Polycrates the physician appeared from under the canopy, just a few feet away from Varro.

  “What is it then, physician?”

  “General Bassus is dead.”

  XXV

  THE TWO SWORDS

  Caesarea, Capital or the Roman Province of Judea.

  June, A.D. 71

  The sea air! The wonderful, embracing, cleansing sea air. Away below the questor, as he stood on the citadel terrace taking in the vista, the port of Caesarea was a hive of activity. He could hear the laughter of laborers, could smell the aroma of landed fish wafting up from the quay. Out on the glittering Mediterranean he could count the billowing sails of at least ten large craft, merchantmen and warships. How different this was from the tomb-like atmosphere of Jerusalem, the bloodied grass of the Forest of Jardes, the clammy, salty air of Sodom. There was sadness too. The last time that he had stood on this terrace it had been with Marcus Martius at his side, and Artimedes had still been full of life. Yet, somehow, Varro felt that both would forgive him for enjoying the return to Caesarea. The questor took one more deep breath of sea air, then turned and walked back into his apartment in the white fortress. Pythagoras the secretary sat at a writing table, with pen poised, waiting patiently for Varro to resume his dictation. Two days earlier, the questor had commenced writing his report on the death of Jesus of Nazareth.

  It was difficult working with so much hearsay and so little fact. For all that, in his methodical way Varro was attempting to put what he had into the most coherent form possible. He and Pythagoras had begun by laying out all the wax tablets containing the record of the testimonies of the numerous informants, and categorizing them by subject matter: pre-arrest, arrest, trial, execution, and post-execution. From that foundation he had begun to dictate to Pythagoras, prowling his day apartment and speaking his thoughts while Pythagoras sat at his writing table working in fresh wax. Every now and then Varro would pause, and both he and the secretary would consult the previous shorthand notes to refresh their memories about a particular point, before the questor resumed his dictation. Varro planned to spend a few more days here, working on the report, before resuming the journey back to Antioch, polishing the report along the way.

  He was considering taking the coastal route north. The new Procurator of Judea, Lucius Liberius Maximus, a small, round-faced Spaniard and a former slave freed by the emperor Otho, had reminded Varro that on the coastal route stood Mount Carmel’s Sanctuary of Apollo. Liberius had recommended that the questor pay a visit to the sanctuary and seek a prediction from the priest of Apollo about his future. This priest was said to possess remarkable oracular powers; he was widely known to have accurately predicted the future of Caesar Vespasianus before he became emperor. Yet, Varro was not so sure he wanted an insight into his future. What if his life was all downhill from here? The way this mission was panning out, there would be little to look forward to either in Antioch or back at Rome.

  “Begging the questor’s pardon?”

  Varro, deep in thought about the future, looked up absently at the sound of his chief freedman’ voice. “Yes, Callidus, what it is it?”

  “Forgive me for interrupting your work, my lord,” said Callidus from the door, “but there is someone to see you, someone I think you should see.

  “Oh? And who would that be, Callidus?” Varro replied, a little impatiently.

  “He says that he is Jesus, my lord.”

  “What?” Varro raised his eyebrows at Pythagoras, and instructed Callidus to bring the man to him at once.

  Callidus led in a tall, slim man with gray hair and beard. He was severely wrinkled, and Varro, sitting on a chair now, guessed that he might be aged in his seventies, perhaps older. “Who are you?” the mystified Varro asked. He, Pythagoras and Callidus eyed the man intently.

  “My name is Jesus,” the stranger replied in a deep, mellifluous voice.

  Varro and his companions looked at him in astonishment.

  “You truly are Jesus?” Varro said. “Jesus of Nazareth?”

  A smile broke across the man’s face. “I am Jesus of Cana, my lord. More precisely, Yehoshua bar Annas, or, if you prefer, Joshua. Jesus, the humble rope maker.”

  Varro could not help but laugh at himself for having believed, if only for a moment, that Jesus of Nazareth had indeed survived his execution and walked in the questor’s door forty-one years later. “What can I do for you, Jesus the rope maker?”

  “I heard some little time ago,” said Bar Annas, “that the questor was offering payment for information about events surrounding the death of Jesus of Nazareth many years ago. By the time that I had learned of this and came to the citadel, I was told that Your Lordship had left Caesarea. Today, I heard that you have returned. So, here am I.”

  “You have information?”

  “How much is Your Lordship paying?�
��

  “I am a fair man, and will pay a fair price if the information is of value.”

  Bar Annas smiled mischievously. “If a man cannot trust a questor, who can he?”

  “What did you wish to tell me?”

  “I once knew a bandit, a Daggerman, of the band led by Joshua bar Abbas, who sold two stolen swords to a man by the name of Simon, a Galilean also called Simon Petra.” The informant cocked his head to one side. “Does this interest the questor?”

  “Perhaps. When was this?”

  “Just prior to the Passover during which Jesus of Nazareth was executed. It was of course against the laws of Rome to carry a sword, as it is now. Even the common soldiers of the Temple Guard were only permitted to go armed with staves. Although, I am sure I do not need to point that out to Your Lordship, a Roman magistrate.” He smiled again.

  “Go on.”

  “I always remembered this story, because my friend tried to sell more swords to this Simon of Galilee, but Simon, who was a follower of the Nazarene, he said. ‘Two swords will be enough to ensure two men are arrested, and that is all my master will require.’ I thought it strange that a man would want to be arrested.”

  “Could it be that you were the bandit who sold the swords to Simon of Galilee?”

  Bar Annas looked horrified. “Oh, no, my lord. Not I, my lord. I am an honest man. I love Rome. Caesar be praised!”

  Varro was not impressed with the theatrics. “Is that all you have for me?

  “That is all, my lord.”

  “Go with my man Callidus. He is the keeper of my purse. He will pay you for your morsel of information.”

  “How much?” Bar Annas demanded.

  “Give him a hundred sesterces, Callidus,” said Varro dismissively.

  “Is that all?” Bar Annas retorted. “I thought it worth five times as much.”

  “Have a care for your own safety, storyteller,” Varro growled, “and remember who you are talking to. Your information is not new to me; I have a document which also mentions the acquisition of the swords and the fact that only two swords were considered necessary to attract the attention of the authorities. Therefore, your information it is not particularly valuable to me. One hundred sesterces or nothing.”

  The artificial smile reappeared on the face of Bar Annas. “Thank you, my lord. You are most generous,” he said, sounding neither genuine nor happy. “Now you mention it, one hundred sesterces was just the figure I had in mind.”

  “Then we are of one mind. Take him out and pay him, Callidus.”

  Once Callidus had led the informant from the room, Varro drew himself to his feet. “A one-time bandit and malefactor, if I am not mistaken,” he said, half to himself. “His confirmation of the story of the swords is useful, just the same, Pythagoras. There can be no doubt that Jesus set out to have himself arrested for bearing arms.”

  The following day, Varro sent for Philippus the Evangelist. The Nazarene stood before him as Varro reclined on a divan eating figs for lunch during a break in report-writing.

  “Your report goes well, questor?” he asked cordially. He had expected to be released by this time, but he made not mention of his continued detention.

  “Well enough,” Varro began. He held up a letter. “I have received a petition seeking your release, Philippus, from a Roman citizen, Quintus Pristinus, a former legionary of the 15th Legion now resident in Caesarea who was awarded two gold crowns by Caesar during the Judean war, for his bravery. Pristinus thinks highly of you.”

  Philippus smiled warmly. “As I think highly of him. Pristinus is a good man; he follows the way of our Lord.”

  Varro nodded slowly. “I thought as much. One of your converts is he?” He shrugged. “Each to his own, Nazarene. I may not agree with your philosophy, but I cannot fault your humanity. I had intended keeping you with me until I had completed my report. However, give me your word that you will remain in Caesarea and make yourself available to me should I have any further questions, and you are free to go.” In reality, Varro had decided that Philippus could add nothing more to his investigation. Philippus nodded. “I will of course place myself at your disposal, questor.”

  Varro called to Callidus at the door. “This man is free to go, Callidus.” He returned his attention to the Evangelist. “May good Fortuna attend you in future. You may yet make that visit to your daughter at Tralles.”

  Philippus shrugged. “Who can know what Heaven plans for us? With respect, may I ask, what plans do you have for Miriam, and the child?”

  “They will return with me to Antioch, and possibly also to Rome.”

  “To Rome?” There was a note of concern in the Evangelist’s voice. “Would you not consider granting Miriam her freedom?”

  Varro frowned, annoyed. “At some future time, yes, I shall manumit the slave. Miriam was gifted to me by Queen Berenice, Philippus. I will not insult the queen by divesting myself of her gift. Not in the immediate future, anyway.”

  “The child is no slave.”

  “The child is an orphan. I will ensure that she is well cared for.” Varro’s changed tone mirrored his annoyance at Philippus’ intervention. “Was there anything else?”

  Philippus’ eyes strayed to the wax tablets on a nearby table. “You have found what you were looking for, questor?”

  Varro was unsure whether Philippus knew the exact nature of his report, although he would have been surprised had the Nazarene not guessed the reason behind the questor’s visit to Judea. That being the case, he had no doubt that Philippus would not be happy with the report once it was published. “I have,” he replied.

  “Then it only remains for me to wish you well on your journey back to Antioch. Might I recommend that you travel by way of Capernaum?”

  Varro frowned. “I have already been to Capernaum.”

  Philippus smiled. “You may yet find answers at Capernaum.”

  This brought a perplexed look to Varro’s face. “Why? What do you know that I do not? Is there a particular reason that I should visit Capernaum?”

  Philippus shrugged. “Miriam was born at Capernaum,” he said.

  Varro focused on the Evangelist’s face, trying to discern any implied scorn or condemnation. The face was serene, as always. “What of it?” Varro returned.

  “It would be good for her to see her home one last time, if she is to go to Rome.”

  Varro did not respond. He motioned to Callidus. “Escort him to the gate,” Varro instructed, coming to his feet and walking to a window, turning his back on the Nazarene.

  “May God go with you, Julius Varro,” Philippus called as he took his leave.

  Varro leaned on the balustrade, looking out at the sea silvered by a rising moon. Hearing movement behind him, he looked around, to see Quintus Crispus approaching along the terrace, sallow faced and weary. As ordered, Crispus had led the expedition back to Jerusalem from Sodom. He would never forget that journey. Excruciating heat and draining humidity had dogged the column every step of the way during the first five days. Pack mules had dropped dead. Hundreds of Jewish prisoners also perished before the column reached Jericho. Sunstroke had caused fit soldiers to crumple in their tracks; an addle-brained Pannonian auxiliary had run wild, cutting down his own comrades before a centurion caught and killed him. On the last few days of the march, it had rained, non stop, saturating everything and everyone. By the time he reached Jerusalem, Crispus had looked ten years older than when Varro last saw him on the beach at Sodom, and had become more convinced than ever that soldiering was not for him.

  “You wished to see me, questor?” said the prefect, who was now Varro’s deputy.

  “I’ve decided to take the inland route, Quintus,” Varro advised, “via Capernaum.”

  “Oh?” Crispus sounded disappointed. “You will not be visiting Mount Carmel, my lord?” He had been looking forward to himself consulting the oracle of Mount Carmel.

  “I would rather remain ignorant of my future. Prepare to march by week’s end. We w
ill be back in Antioch before the autumn. This mission will soon be over.”

  XXVI

  THE GOATS OF CAPERNAUM

  Capernaum, Northern Galilee, Tetrarchy of Trachonitis.

  June, A.D.71

  The water lapped gently at his feet, washing over his military sandals and soaking his toes. Sitting on a gray-white rock beside the lake, Questor Varro gazed contemplatively out onto the Sea of Galilee. Water seemed to have dominated his life of late, from the Jordan to the Mediterranean, from the Dead Sea to this inland sea. Here, the still waters had a restful effect on him, as he watched fishermen in their boats half a mile out, dragging in their nets. Peace was what he sought now. Increasingly he had come to feel that his mission was a waste of time, and a waste of life. Martius had died, Artimedes and others had died, and for what end? He was close to completing his report, but he considered it a feeble document which in no way justified the cost of its compilation.

  “My lord?”

  Varro jerked from his discontented thoughts and looked around, over his shoulder, to see Callidus, standing on the rock behind him. A little further back, in the shadow of the town wall, a veiled Miriam stood, with her hands clasped in front of her.

  “Thank you, Callidus. That will be all. I shall see you back at camp.”

  Flashing Miriam a disapproving glance, Callidus motioned for her to join the questor, then headed off toward the town’s Water Gate.

  Varro smiled at Miriam. “Will you not sit beside me?” he called. “Please?” When she failed to move, he tried again. “Come and tell me what Jesus of Nazareth did here. I have read of it. There are letters, documents, which talk of him here at Capernaum.”

  Slowly she approached, halting a little behind him.

  “Sit,” he urged, patting the rock beside him. “I will not harm you. I swear, by all I hold sacred, I will never as much as lay a finger on you again.” “What he had done to her at Sodom had never left his mind. It had haunted him ever since that day.