The Inquest (40 page)

“The cook’s tent,” Gallo ordered. “Quickly!”

As the soldiers headed down the street at the trot with the centurion leading the way, Antiochus, running in the opposite direction, reached the questor’s tent. Inside, he found Varro, white-faced, at Miriam’s bedside. Miriam herself lay motionless. Pallas and the other medical assistants stood around, while Pedius gave the child Gemara a drink of water from a cup with Hostilis holding her head. Pythagoras sat, bored, at the writing table. Callidus was to one side, with arms folded. When he saw Antiochus, Callidus quickly lowered his eyes and turned away.

The questor looked up and spied Antiochus in the doorway. His expression became fierce. “Antiochus! Diocles is drunk. Explain, if you will…!”

“Murder!” Antiochus exclaimed.

Varro was taken by surprise. “What?”

“My cook has been murdered!” Antiochus cried, gesticulating with his arms. “There is a murderer in your camp, Julius Varro!”

On the other side of the camp, Gallo and his men reached the tent of Melitus the cook. Gallo and two soldiers pushed in through the tent entrance. A figure lying on the floor, face down. “A glimmer here,” Gallo instructed. A lantern was passed into the tent, and while one of his two companions held the light, Gallo dropped to one knee beside the prone figure, that of a short, burly, hairy man. A large pool of blood soaked the ground. When he rolled the body onto its back, Gallo recognized the dimpled features of Melitus the cook. The man’s throat had been cut. Bending closer, Gallo inspected the deep wound. The centurion had no medical credentials but
he had seen many a severed throat during his thirty-two years with the legions. He himself had slit a few throats during that time. In Gallo’s experience, it was easier and more expedient to cut a man’s throat from behind. From the wound, he now adjudged that Melitus had been attacked from behind.

Once Gallo had reported this gruesome discovery to the questor, Varro ordered that no one be permitted to leave the camp. Gallo turned out all his men, to search every tent and every cart. Every sword and dagger in the camp was also to be inspected by the centurion, for traces of blood. Varro made Antiochus remain in the
pretorium
while the search was conducted. The Jewish magistrate was sitting on a couch when Prefect Crispus returned bringing a thin old man with ruffled gray hair and rosy cheeks.

“Questor, this is Boethus, a Jewish physician of Capernaum,” said Crispus.

Varro quickly rose and stepped back from the bed to allow the physician freedom of movement. “Boethus, examine the young woman and the child, if you please,” he said. “I think they have been administered poison, in their food, a dish of mushrooms.”

Without a word, the elderly man went to Miriam’s side. He felt her pulse, put an ear to her face, listened to her chest, and put a hand on her forehead. Then he moved around to the other side of the bed to repeat the procedure with Gemara.

“We were fortunate to locate Boethus, questor,” said Crispus as he watched the doctor at work. “He tells me that he has only recently returned to Capernaum, after some time away. At Caesarea, I believe.”

Varro nodded absently; he was not particularly interested in the physician’s travel history. When Boethus had completed his examination of Gemara the doctor stood back.

“Well?” Varro queried.

“The older one seems to be in a coma,” said Boethus. “Her breathing is shallow, but she has no fever. The younger one is weak, but appears less seriously affected.”

“Is there not something you can give them?” Varro asked unhappily.

“Give them water, if they will take it. That is all. In other circumstances I might prescribe a purgative for the child, but at her age it may do more harm than good.”

“What of this young woman?” Varro asked, resuming his seat beside Miriam.

“As I said, a coma,” the physician replied matter-of-factly. “She may come out of it, she may not. I have no way of telling.”

“There is nothing you can do for her?” Varro’s tone was now one of despair. “Nothing to prevent her from dying?”

“I am not a magician, my lord. You will find any number of those in this part of the world. I do not have a prescription for miracle cures. I cannot prevent her death any more than I could bring her back from the dead. Resurrection is the stuff of myth, questor. Do not let anyone tell you otherwise. Now, if that was all…?”

Varro looked at him and sighed. “Thank you, yes, that is all.”

Boethus began to walk toward the door. “Keep them both comfortable, and wait,” he said as he went. “That is all you can do.”

With Hostilis cross-legged on the floor at his feet, Varro had remained at the bedside, holding the unconscious Miriam’s hand. For how long, he did not know; Varro had lost track of time. Across the bed, Pedius sat beside Gemara. Pallas and his colleagues had spread on the floor
around the bed. Pythagoras was nodding off to sleep at the writing table. Crispus, Callidus and Antiochus reclined on separate dining couches, each locked in his private thoughts.

Reinvigorating the scene, Centurion Gallo came back through the tent entrance. He held a dagger aloft. “The murder weapon, questor!” he declared triumphantly.

Quickly coming to his feet, Varro hurried to inspect the dagger in the centurion’s hand. “How can you be sure it is the one?” he asked.

“You can still see the fresh blood on it,” Gallo said with a grin. “Mixed with the dirt. We found it half buried. I saw the hilt jutting up.”

“Where?”

“Behind the tent of Callidus.” Gallo cast his eyes in the direction of the freedman.

Callidus looked around, with both surprise and sudden fear written on his face. “Behind my tent? The murderer must have thrown it there.”

“There had been a hurried attempt to bury it,” said Gallo accusingly.

“Not by myself!” Callidus quickly protested.

“It would have been a convenient hiding place,” the centurion suggested, “for someone hurrying back from the tent of the cook.”

“Why would I kill the cook?” Callidus looked to Varro. “My lord…?”

“What reason indeed?” said Varro, slowly walking to Callidus’ divan. “Stand up.”

Callidus quickly scrambled to his feet. “My lord, I had nothing to do with this. You must believe me! I could not; I dined here, with you.”

“We do not know the time of the man’s death,” said Varro. Miriam’s condition had made Varro ready to strike out at any likely guilty party. “It may have taken place before we dined, before you joined me here.”

“My lord, please, this is a nonsense. I am Callidus,
your
Callidus, your most trusted freedman. We share your secrets, we too. How could you think that I could have anything to do with the death of the Jew’s cook?”

“I agree, to think that you, of all people, Callidus, could betray my trust, is unthinkable. Yet, the unthinkable has occurred in this camp.”

“My lord, I know that you have been made distraught by the evening’s events; considerably distraught. With respect, even a blind man could see that the murderer cast the dagger outside my tent, to cast blame my way. It is obvious!”

“Oh?” Varro folded his arms as he locked his freedman in a penetrating gaze. “Who would want to cast blame your way, Callidus? And why?”

Callidus resisted the temptation to look Antiochus’ way. “I cannot say, my lord. It is a mystery to me. I only know that I did not touch a hair on Melitus’ head. I ask you, what possible motive would I have for killing a cook, of all people?”

“The motive for the murder is clear,” said Varro, casting his eyes around all those in the pavilion as he spoke. “The cook was killed because he had laced the bowl of mushrooms with poison. The cook was killed to prevent him naming the person who provided the poison, and who also, no doubt, provided an inducement to commit the crime. Whoever killed the cook also set out to murder Miriam with the poisoned dish.” The questor returned his attention to Callidus. “Did you want Miriam dead, Callidus?”

Callidus paled, and shook his head violently. “No, my lord! Why, why would I want her dead? To think such a thing is, is, is nonsensical….”

“Is that so?” Varro turned to Hostilis, sitting on the floor. “Loyal Son of the Sea, tell Callidus what you told me this afternoon.”

Hostilis came to his feet. “Master, I told you that after you had been on the lake Callidus said to me that Miriam must not be allowed to return to Rome with you.”

His eyes flaring, Varro swung on Callidus, who was glowering at Hostilis. “What do you have to say to that? Why should Miriam not be permitted to return to Rome with me?” With his anger boiling over, he grasped Callidus by the shoulders and began to shake him, as if to shake the truth from him. “Well? Speak up! What is your answer?”

“Please, my lord!” Callidus cried, his face betraying his growing terror. His mind was racing. He could deny the slave’s accusation, but no one was more trusted by Varro since Hostilis had risked his own life to rescue the questor in the Forest of Jardes. “My lord, it is true, I have no great liking for the slave Miriam,” he admitted.

Varro released Callidus. “Why? What do you dislike about her?”

“Well, she is a Jew. A Nazarene. And she has shown no respect toward yourself.”

“None of these are good reasons to want her dead!”

“I do not want her dead, my lord! I swear! I had nothing to do with her poisoning, and I had nothing to do with the death of the cook. I am no murderer! Me, Callidus?”

“I do find it difficult to picture you as a murderer, Callidus, but then again I have seen you take pleasure in the torture of prisoners at Antioch.” Varro turned to Crispus. “Quintus, until this matter is clarified, Callidus is to be confined, in chains.”

“My lord!” Callidus wailed.

“If it eventuates that you have had nothing to do with either crime here tonight, Callidus, then you shall have my apology.”

“I have committed no crime, my lord. I swear!”

“I sincerely hope that is the case. Yet, I confess, the trust we have shared all these years has been damaged today, if not destroyed. If no guilt attaches to you in this matter I think it best just the same that we part company. You will leave my service once this mission ends.”

“No, my lord!” Callidus dissented. “That will not be necessary. I am your most faithful servant, and always will be! Your interests are my interests.” In that desperate moment, Callidus made a decision to play a dangerous game. Confident that he would be proven innocent of any involvement in the death of Melitus the cook, he was playing for his future more than his present. Callidus had well grounded suspicions about the identity of the poisoner of Miriam and the murderer of Melitus, but making a bare assertion would not, he knew, bring success. The questor would have to work this out for himself, with a nudge in the right direction. “Just to show how my thoughts are always inclined toward the questor’s interests, my lord, I would strongly suggest that to find your murderer you should look at how and why the physician came to be drunk this evening. The key to the mystery lies in the cup.”

“That remains to be seen,” said Varro with irritation. He nodded to Prefect Crispus. “Take him out, Quintus.”

Crispus rose up, took Callidus by the arm, and led the devastated freedman to the door and out into the night.

Varro looked thoughtfully at Centurion Gallo. “You said earlier, Gallo, that Diocles dined with Antiochus this evening.” Varro turned to Antiochus, who continued to recline on a couch maintaining an air of nonchalance. “Do you deny it, Antiochus?”

“Deny it?” said Antiochus, with feigned surprise. “Why should I deny it? Yes, of course the physician dined with me.” He smiled superciliously. “Is that a crime?”

Varro ignored the question. “You pressed him with wine?”

“I had wine with dinner. I imbibe sparingly myself, bearing in mind your directive in regard
to excessive consumption. I did not
press
wine on the physician. I offered the Greek my hospitality, and he took advantage of it. He drank to excess, despite my cautions. He could not be persuaded to stop. In fact, the man became quite abusive. In the end, the fool could not even stand up. It was a lesson to me, not to be so hospitable.”

Varro turned to Gallo. “You found the inebriated physician in his own tent?”

“I did, questor.”

“I helped Diocles from my tent to his,” Antiochus quickly volunteered.

“On your own?”

“Columbus assisted me.” He was perspiring once more, a sign of his anxiety.

“After leaving Diocles in his tent, you then went where?”

“I returned to my own tent. And there I remained. Ask Columbus.”

“Gallo, bring Columbus to me.”

Columbus had his own small tent, adjacent to the much larger pavilion of Antiochus. When Centurion Gallo entered it with two men, one of them bearing a lantern, he found Columbus flat on his back, snoring.

“When we searched this tent earlier, centurion,” said the legionary with the lantern, “the gladiator did not as much as twitch a muscle. Snoring his head off, he was.”

“Some guardian he has turned out to be,” Gallo sneered, standing looking down at the massive figure sleeping like a baby. “Who knows what Antiochus has been up to tonight while this hippopotamus slept?”

Gallo’s two soldiers laughed. “Will we wake him?” asked the second legionary.

“Most assuredly,” said Gallo with relish. “Is that water I see?” He nodded toward a pitcher on the ground by the door.

“If not water, then piss,” the lantern-bearer guffawed.

“Either will serve the purpose,” said Gallo. “Give the Numidian a soaking.”

The second soldier took up the pitcher and upended it over the big man’s head. Water cascaded out. The saturated Columbus opened his eyes. He tried to sit up, but only fell back again. Dazedly, he looked up at Gallo.

“More water,” Gallo called. “A bucketful, this time.”

The soldier ducked out of the tent. Moments later, he returned with a bronze bucket slopping with water. He poured the entire contents over black Columbus’ head.

This had more of a revivifying effect. Columbus sat up, spluttering and wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “Are you trying to drown me?” he boomed.