The Inquest (32 page)

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.”

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 rasped. “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?”

“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 musician.” 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.