The Inquest

by Stephen Dando-Collins

  Antiochus was nodding. “We must all do everything in our power to ensure the success of the questor’s mission, Callidus.”

  “Then, I can rely on you, Antiochus, regarding this considerably delicate matter?”

  “My thanks for appraising me of the matter, Callidus. You may leave it with me.”

  Antiochus lolled on his divan, deep in thought and absently fingering the pouch at his throat. Antiochus was an insecure man. He had seen his father and other leading Jewish citizens of Antioch burned to death in the amphitheater. The fact that it had been his information that had resulted in their cruel deaths made Antiochus no less fearful for his own life. Before the Jewish Revolt, Governor Mucianus had been tolerant of the Jews of Syria, but Collega his replacement despised the entire race and the Revolt had given him the opportunity to kill Jews wholesale. Antiochus knew that, even though he had sworn off Judaism, Collega still considered him a Jew. It was Antiochus’ dread that one mistake, and not necessarily his own, could lose him Collega’s favor, and lose him his life. Antiochus had no intention of facing an agonizing death, on a cross, or a fire.. If he had to go, he would go by his own hand, rapidly, and painlessly. The hemlock seeds that he kept in the little leather pouch dangling around his neck were his guarantee of that.

  Momentarily, after Callidus had left him with the problem of the troublesome Miriam, Antiochus had thought of using his hemlock to dispose of the girl, but that would only deprive him of the means of his own last resort. That was not a sacrifice he was prepared to make. Applying his mind to the problem, the resourceful Antiochus had come up with a solution. That solution now came through the door to his tent.

  “You sent for me, Antiochus?” said Diocles the physician.

  Antiochus smiled. “Diocles, my dear fellow. Do come in. Take a seat.”

  “Your man said that you were not well,” said Diocles crossing the floor to stand looking down at Antiochus with a physician’s eye. “What seems to be the problem?”

  “A lack of sleep, Diocles. I am having great difficulty sleeping.”

  “Ah.” Diocles seemed pleased that it was nothing more serious. “Not unexpected, living under canvas the way we have been for the past few months. I myself am not sleeping as soundly as I would prefer.”

  “Please, sit.” Antiochus patted the divan. “Talk with me. I was most impressed with what you had to say about a bleeding corpse. Your knowledge is remarkable.”

  “Remarkable? Oh, I would not go that far. But, most civil of you, Antiochus. None of the other fellows on this expedition are as civil.” With a grunt, Diocles settled his ample figure beside his host. “I shall prepare you a sleeping draught, shall I?”

  “That would be most acceptable. Thank you, excellent physician.”

  “Good, good. I shall have my man Pallas bring it along to you presently.”

  “Is there much illness in the camp?”

  “Nothing of significance. Just the usual soldiers’ bumps and bruises.”

  “You would travel with an extensive medical chest?”

  “As extensive as the expedition’s limited transportation arrangements allow.”

  “Would you, for example, carry belladonna in your medical chest?”

  “Belladonna? Yes, yes, a small quantity. I use it, sparingly, for this and that. It is quite dangerous, of course. Too large a dose and it can be fatal. Quite fatal.”

  “I can imagine. Diocles, I was planning to decline the questor’s invitation to dine at his pretorium this evening and instead dine alone in my own tent.”

  “Oh, well, I am sure the questor would not mind. He is quite an agreeable fellow, really.” He frowned, as unpleasant memories came to the forefront of his mind. “Unlike some of the people on this expedition.”

  “One of my reasons for dining alone, Diocles,” said Antiochus, with a conspiratorial smile, “lies on the floor behind us.” He turned and indicated a wine amphora lying on its side at the rear of the tent.

  Following his gaze, Diocles’ eyes lit up. “Well, well, well. Private stock is it?”

  “Purchased from Procurator Rufus at Caesarea, at a bargain price. He was soon to return to Rome. It is a Falernian.”

  Diocles’ eyes widened. “A Falernian? Bacchus and Jove! The best Falernian, too, I’ll be bound; Rufus had expensive tastes. Oh, how I miss a good Falernian!”

  “Then, join me, good physician. Dine with me tonight, here, in my tent. I have an excellent cook. It will be just you, and I, and the Falernian,” he said with a wink.

  “Oh!” Unable to take his eyes off the amphora, Diocles was caught between temptation and fear. “Do you think I could? The questor has forbidden me to drink, and Tribune Martius threatened me with bodily harm if I was found to have touched a drop.”

  Antiochus patted the doctor’s knee “Martius is dead. As for the questor, what he does not know will not harm him. Or you.” He clapped the doctor on the back. “You are such jolly company, Diocles, I insist that you join me. I will not take ‘no’ for an answer!”

  XXX

  THE BETRAYAL

  Capernaum, Northern Galilee, Tetrarchy of Trachonitis. July A.D.71

  Varro had finished dinner and now the questor, Crispus, Pedius, and Callidus were listening as Pythagoras stood at the writing table and read aloud the closing paragraphs of the now completed report, the Investigatio Nazarena. As the secretary was in mid-sentence, Centurion Gallo burst into the tent.

  “Questor! Diocles is rolling drunk,” the centurion reported urgently.

  Varro had received dinner apologies from both Diocles and Antiochus, and had thought nothing of it. Now, he was furious. “Where is the physician?” he demanded.

  “In his tent, questor.”

  Varro came to his feet. “I warned that man…!”

  “There was something else, questor,” said Gallo, betraying a little nervousness.

  Varro Scowled. “What now?”

  “The slave Miriam, and the child,” said Gallo. “They have taken ill.”

  Varro froze. “How ill?”

  “Very ill. After eating.”

  “Why did you wait to tell me?” Varro raged. He strode toward the tent door. “Take Diocles to them, at once!” he ordered.

  Gallo quickly stood aside to let the questor pass. Crispus and Pedius followed on Varro’s heel, with Callidus bringing up the rear. Left with his report, Pythagoras returned the volume to its protective leather cylinder with deliberate care before leaving the case in Hostilis’ safe keeping. Then he too departed the pretorium and walked in the direction of the tent shared by Miriam and Gemara, at the end of the line of tents of the freedmen.

  It was all Varro could do to stop himself running to Miriam’s quarters. When he arrived, a young soldier of the watch stood by the entrance with a frightened look on his face. Varro pushed back the tent’s flap, bent, and entered.

  In the light of a low lamp he could see two bedrolls on the floor. Miriam lay on one, with her knees drawn up into her stomach. Gemara was on the other, on her back. Both had been vomiting violently; they, their clothes, the bedding, the floor, were all splattered with foul-smelling puke. Ignoring this, Varro dropped to his knees beside Miriam. Gently, he rolled her over to face him. Her cheeks were flushed, there was a dazed, questioning look in her eyes.

  “Was it the food?” he asked, his voice hushed.

  She nodded slowly, and reached out and took his hand. Her grip was weak.

  Pedius slid into the tent behind Varro, looking worried. Crispus stood anxiously in the entranceway.

  “Pedius, you have charge of Miriam and the child. Who prepares their meals?”

  “Melitus, the cook of Antiochus, my lord.”

  “Why him?”

  “Melitus has prepared their meals ever since you put Miriam and Gemara into the care of Antiochus, questor,” Pedius replied. “He does it the Jewish way.”

  “Do you know what they ate this evening?”

  “Mushrooms, my lord. I saw Melitus bring the bo
wl. There it is.” He indicated a bowl on the floor. It still contained several mushroom pieces. “Melitus told me that he would be serving the very same dish to Antiochus and his guest tonight.”

  “What guest?”

  “I believe that Diocles dined in Antiochus’ tent this evening, my lord.”

  “Oh, did he?” To Varro, this information suggested the source of Diocles’ intoxication. “Are the mushrooms poisonous, perhaps?” he postulated. “Are either Diocles or Antiochus ill?”

  “Not to my knowledge, my lord.”

  “Gallo will bring the physician. You fetch water and cloth. Quickly!” Pedius hurried away.

  Callidus came to stand in the doorway beside Crispus. “What is their condition, questor?”

  “I cannot tell.” Varro looked over to the child. “Gemara? Can you hear me?

  Little Gemara nodded. Like Miriam, she was flushed in the face.

  “The physician is coming,” Varro told her. “He will make you well.” Varro looked up at Callidus. “Where is that damned physician?” he growled.

  “Help…Gemara…first.” It was Miriam who spoke, one difficult word at a time.

  Varro returned his attention to her. “You will both be helped,” he assured her. “Can you tell me about your condition? What are the symptoms?”

  “Cannot…swallow,” she said.

  At the door, Callidus stood aside to admit Centurion Gallo.

  “My lord,” Gallo began, guiltily, “the physician has collapsed.”

  “He has what!” Varro exploded, his voice so loud that the entire camp could hear.

  “Unconscious. It is the wine.”

  “Where did he lay his hands on it?” Varro demanded.

  “It seems that Antiochus gave him wine at dinner.”

  “Damn the man!”

  As Varro spoke, Miriam suddenly vomited again. “I…am…sorry,” she groaned when her stomach had ceased its upheavals.

  “No matter,” he said, gripping her hand. “If there was poison, that will eject it.”

  She frowned up at him. “Poison?”

  “The mushrooms. They, er, may have been bad.” He would not share his suspicion with her that perhaps she and Gemara had been deliberately poisoned.

  “Shall I fetch the physician’s assistants, questor?” Gallo asked.

  “Yes, yes, do that,” Varro agreed. “Bring Pallas and the others, and bring Diocles to his senses! Dowse him with water! Do whatever is necessary. But hurry!”

  Gallo turned and disappeared into the night. As he departed, Pedius returned, bringing bowls of water and lengths of cloth. Using these, Varro washed Miriam’s face, neck and arms, while Pedius tended to Gemara in the same fashion.

  Crispus called from the door. “There may be a physician in the town. Shall I…?”

  “Yes, Quintus, a good idea,” Varro responded. “Search the town for a physician. Take as many men as you need. But, whatever you do, hurry!”

  “I shall not fail you, questor.” Crispus rushed out into the night.

  Feeling helpless, Varro continued to kneel beside Miriam, looking down at her.

  Miriam sensed the questor’s anxiety. “Will I…die?” she asked him.

  “Die?” Vigorously he shook his head. “No, no, no. Put such foolish thoughts from your head.” But his fears for her made him sound unconvincing.

  “There is…something…you must…know,” she said weakly. “Come closer.”

  Frowning, he lowered his face to within a hand span of hers. “What is it?”

  “I am…with child.” She swallowed, with great difficulty. “Your child.”

  He looked at her in disbelief. “A child?”

  She nodded slowly, her eyes answering his unspoken questions, confirming the truth of her statement. “It is…a gift,” she added. “A Heavenly…gift.”

  Varro now quickly made a decision, “we will transfer them to die pretorium” he announced. “Pedius, you bring Gemara. I shall carry Miriam. Callidus, you bring the bowl containing the mushrooms; it warrants closer inspection.” He slipped his arms around Miriam. “You will be more comfortable in my tent,” he said softly, as he came to his feet with her. “Hold onto me.”

  Once he reached his pavilion, Varro laid Miriam on one side of his bed. Pedius placed Gemara on the other. Callidus was sent to redirect the physician’s assistants, and before long the round-faced Pallas and his two colleagues arrived, only to hover uselessly around the bed. They provided the only medical expertise yet available, as Centurion Gallo had been unable to revive Diocles. Varro stood beside Miriam. Looking up at him, her large dark eyes were anchored to his.

  “You will recover,” he assured her. “The worst has passed.” Gently he lifted her head and put a bowl of water to her lips. “Drink. It will help.”

  She attempted to swallow, but could not.

  Varro eased her head back onto the pillow, then looked up at Pallas with a pained expression. “Is there nothing we can do?”

  The physician’s assistant shook his head. “Nature must take its course, my lord.”

  Varro lowered himself onto a bedside stool, never taking his gaze from Miriam.

  Slowly, she reached up to his face, and drew it down, closer. “You know…that I have forgiven…you,” she whispered, “just…as I forgive…those…who have done…this…to me. Do not…grieve…for me. For I…am saved.”

  He could feel tears welling. He had never cried in his life, and he was determined not to now. “I love you,” he told her softly.

  She nodded slowly. “I know.” She stroked his face. “And I…cherish…you.

  “You will not die!” he said determinedly.

  “You are…a…good…man…Julius…Varro.”

  “Good, perhaps,” he said, glumly, “but powerless. There is nothing I can do to help you, Miriam. You must help yourself. You must fight this.”

  “There is…something…you…can…do.”

  He felt sudden hope. “What is it? Tell me, and I shall do it, at once!”

  “Destroy…the…false document,” she returned. “I beg…of…you.”

  Momentarily, he closed his eyes. “Not the report; you cannot ask it of me,” he responded. “It would be wrong. I have my duty to do.”

  She lowered her hand, but gazed up at him still. “You…were…lied to. It is…a…false…document.”

  “How can you be so certain of that? So much of the testimony rang true.

  “It is all…a lie!” she gasped.

  “So many have died to produce that report; I cannot disrespect their memories by destroying it.”

  “It is…the right thing…to do.”

  “How can perpetuating a lie be the good and right thing to do?” he asked her. “Surely, your Christus would not want that? I would do anything to help you. I would cut off my own right hand if it would help, if it made rational sense.”

  “You…do not…understand now. But…you will. When…you see…the light.”

  “What do you mean? Miriam?” He bent closer. “Tell me. What light?”

  “You have…sinned. But…once…you…find…the truth…you…will…sin…no more.” She had exhausted herself; her strength was fading fast.

  “What light, Miriam?” he persisted.

  Soundlessly she mouthed something more.

  “What was that? Miriam, speak again.”

  She whispered several more words. With his ear close to her lips Varro could just make out what she was saying: “Eloi, Eloi.” It was, he knew, Aramaic for, ‘My God, My God.’ Then she closed her eyes.

  Varro gently touched her cheek. “Miriam?” When she did not respond, and her eyes remained firmly shut, Varro looked around desperately to Pallas. “What is happening to her?” he demanded. “She does still live?”

  Pallas moved forward, and bent close. “She breathes, my lord. She has lapsed into unconsciousness.” He stepped back. “This is not uncommon, in such cases.”

  “You cannot revive her?”

  Pallas shr
ugged. “I could try.” He stepped up and slapped Miriam on the face.

  “No!” Varro cried, reaching up and staying the man’s hand when he went to hit her again. Miriam had not flinched. “Is that all you can do?”

  Pallas nodded. “Obviously, she is in a deep coma, my lord.”

  “What will follow?” Varro asked. “Can you tell me?”

  “Recovery, after a time,” the Greek gravely advised, “or death.”

  Varro looked at Miriam’s still face. Then he frowned. Miriam’s lips were turning blue. “Pallas, what is happening here? The lips, man!”

  Pallas leaned in for another close inspection. “Ah,” he said, straightening again.

  “Well?”

  “This is a telltale sign that the girl has been poisoned, my lord.”

  Varro’s face hardened. “Are you certain? There can be no mistake?”

  “No mistake, my lord.”

  “The mushrooms. You inspected what was left of the meal?”

  “I did, my lord.”

  “With what result?”

  “It is difficult to tell from appearance and smell alone. Mushrooms are a notoriously effective agent for masking poisons of many kind. It is said that Claudius Caesar was murdered with a dish of poisoned mushrooms.”

  “What would cause lips to turn blue? Is that characteristic of a particular poison?”

  Pallas nodded. “In my experience it is, my lord. Belladonna, my lord.”

  “Belladonna? I see.” Varro looked over to Gemara. Her condition appeared to be less critical; her eyes were still open, and her lips were only faintly discolored.

  Pallas seemed to read his thoughts. “The child obviously did not consume as large a quantity as the slave,” he surmised.

  Varro looked up at the medical orderly. “Is Belladonna easy to come by?”

  “Every apothecary is familiar with the plant, my lord.”

  “And every physician? Does Diocles carry Belladonna with him?”

  “A little, my lord.” Then Pallas realized the implications. “For medicinal use only. In small doses, it has sedative powers, and can be used as an antispasmodic. But Diocles watches over his medicinal supplies with great care, my lord. I can vouch for that.”