The Inquest (41 page)

“On your feet, big man,” said Gallo. “The questor desires your presence.”

Columbus was dragged to the
pretorium
. Sitting on his couch, Varro studied the massive figure who stood, swaying in front of him. “You have been drinking?”

“One cup, my lord,” the Numidian groggily replied. “The Jew gave me one cup.”

Varro turned to Antiochus, who still casually reclined on one of the other couches. “You gave Columbus wine?”

Antiochus shrugged. “One cup of wine. What of it? I had an excellent Falernian, and I was being hospitable. Apparently, the man has no head for it.”

“Perhaps there was something in the wine, questor,” Gallo suggested.

“I would not be surprised,” Varro agreed.

“Questor, if I may speak.” This time it was Pallas the medical assistant, who continued to sit on the floor at the end of the bed.

“Yes, Pallas. Speak.”

“Earlier this evening, Diocles had me deliver a sleeping draught to Antiochus.”

“Is that so?” Varro returned his attention to Antiochus. “Where is that sleeping draught now?”

“Somewhere in my tent,” Antiochus nonchalantly replied. “Mind you, one of your thieving oafs of soldiers may have stolen it when the centurions men searched the camp earlier. I would not put it past Gallo’s pickpockets and thieves.”

“My men are honest,” said Gallo defensively.

Varro turned to Columbus. “You have been asleep since you drank the wine?

“That must be the case, questor,” the big man returned, putting a hand to his throbbing head. “I am sorry, questor. I do not know what came over me.

Varro eyed him with disapproval. “You were asleep whilst on duty. You are relieved of your post. You may go. Return to your quarters.”

Looking desolate, the Numidian backed from the tent.

“Antiochus has been free to move about the camp all evening without his shadow,” Varro said to no one in particular. Once again he fixed a steely gaze on Antiochus. “You, of all people, had the best opportunity to bribe your own cook to poison Miriam and Gemara. With your sentinel asleep, you also had ample opportunity to kill your cook, to silence him, and to then lay the murder weapon at Callidus’ door.”

“Nonsense!” Antiochus scoffed. “There is nothing or no one to connect me with either the illness of the slave and the girl or with the cook’s death. Why would I want to kill my own cook? His cooking was not good, I will grant you…” He began to laugh; a forced, nervous laugh. But Antiochus’ false bravado was unconvincing.

“You may not find this amusing before the night is out, Antiochus,” the questor growled. “Suspicion hangs over you like a suspended sword.”

The smile faded from Antiochus face. His hand went to his throat. “I am tiring of all this. Accuse the Jew. Always accuse the Jew! It is the convenient course, even if it is not the just course.” He pulled himself to his feet. “Do I have your leave to depart?”

Varro nodded. “Yes, return to your tent.” He turned to Gallo. “Centurion, you will keep Antiochus under close scrutiny from this time forward.”

“Yes, questor,” said Gallo with satisfaction. “My best men will be assigned…”

“No, not your best men. You will personally take responsibility for Antiochus’ security. Until further notice, you will share his tent, you will go everywhere he goes, you will observe his every move. You will even watch him defecate; I do not trust him to as much as relieve himself honestly. Am I understood?”

A scowl had darkened Gallo’s face. “Yes, questor,” he sourly replied.

“Search his tent before you allow him to reoccupy it. Search for weapons, and search for the sleeping draught which he says he retained.”

“I told you, Varro, one of your men probably purloined it,” Antiochus countered.

“Pray that Miriam recovers, Antiochus. Your two lives are inextricably linked.”

In the middle of the night, Varro awoke. He had fallen asleep at Miriam’s bedside. Raising
his head, he yawned, and stretched. Taking Miriam’s wrist, he felt for a pulse. It was there, faint but regular. Her skin felt cold; not surprisingly, considering the chill of the night. He came to his feet, and pulled a blanket up under Miriam’s chin. At her side, Gemara rolled over in her sleep; the little one seemed to be doing much better. A snore arose from one of the dining couches. Varro’s companions were asleep. Crispus, Pedius, and the snoring Pallas had volunteered to join Hostilis and himself in keeping a vigil.

Slowly, quietly, the questor went to his portable shrine. Kneeling in front of the open shrine, he lit a taper from the flame of a lamp, then ignited the shrine’s incense burner. Varro did not consider himself religious. Faithful in his obligations and his observances, yes, but not religious. Every morning he touched the statues of his Lares in remembrance of his ancestors, but that was more through habit than any sense of deep devotion. He had offered up a prayer at the news of his mother’s death. Before that, his last prayer, his last real prayer, had been at the time of Martius’ funeral.

Now, watching the incense smoke wind a wispy course toward the ceiling, he whispered. “All-powerful Jove, best and greatest, protect her, I beseech you.” He knelt there for a time, drawing in the fragrant perfume, then came back to his feet. The prayer had seemed empty, fraudulent. It was almost as if he did not have the right. Two prayers in a year, and even then he had not been convinced that anyone had been listening. Now he was asking the gods for their help, to save Miriam? He turned for the door. Walking out into the night, he startled the four young legionaries assigned to guard the
pretorium
during this watch. They had a fire in a brazier a little way in front of the entrance, and, swathed in their red woolen cloaks, they stood around it, warming their hands and talking in low voices. On seeing the questor, the quartet quickly broke up; the soldiers scuttled back to their posts, two either side of the
pretorium
entrance.

It was eerily silent. A lamp fluttered at the water clock by the entrance, another pair of lamps glowed at the nearby 4th Scythica altar. Striding to the brazier, Varro warmed his hands. His eyes followed smoke from the fire as it trailed up into the night sky. No carpet of stars tonight. Thick gray cloud blanketed the sky. Could Miriam’s God be up there, looking down on him now? What a turmoil of emotions this Jewish girl had created within him. He knew now beyond doubt that he loved her, profoundly, absolutely, unquestionably. Just as he knew that she loved her God, profoundly, absolutely, unquestionably. How, he asked himself, could her belief in a single heavenly power be so profound, so strong? His own belief in the Roman gods was…flimsy. How had she been able to so easily forgive him for his monstrous act against her, when he could not forgive himself? How could she believe so completely that his report was built on a foundation of lies, when the evidence seemed to him so convincing? And now, she carried a child in her womb, his child, their child, the fruit of his selfish, loveless act. And she considered it a Heavenly gift. Now, at death’s door, despite having been defiled, despite being the victim of a murderous plot, this highly intelligent, well educated young woman not only still believed in her God as deeply as ever, she forgave those who had deliberately set out to end her life. What manner of faith was this, which, in the face of evidence that damned the very basis of its adherents’ beliefs, in the face of foul mistreatment and painful death, held firm to the last? He envied Miriam her certainty, her calm acceptance.

With his eyes to the heavens, the questor spoke to the God of the Nazarenes. “She is one of yours. If you exist, help her. She believes. She has no doubts. I cannot do what she asks, but you could not want that. If you are what she believes you to be, you do not want lies perpetuated in your name. If you are as powerful as she believes, you will save her.”

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

A trumpet was sounding ‘End of Watch.’ Varro opened his eyes. Outside, the men of the first watch of the new day would be moving into their places as the sun began to rise over the Sea of Galilee. In the gloom inside the
pretorium
, Pedius and Pallas were still asleep on couches. Crispus was sitting up; also roused by the trumpet call.

Varro lifted his head from the bedside, where he had slept. Miriam lay, just as he had last seen her. Gemara was not in the bed; she was nowhere to be seen. Varro guessed that, feeling better, the child had risen up in the night and gone outside. Shortly, he would look for her. For the moment, he focused on Miriam. The redness had departed her cheeks. Now, her face was the color of chalk. Yet, it was a serene face. Miriam looked like the statue of a goddess. He reached for her hand. Then he frowned. He felt her wrist.

Crispus pulled himself to his feet and came to stand at the end of the bed. “How has Miriam fared in the night, questor?” he asked.

Varro slowly looked up at him. “She has gone.” Varro’s voice was flat. The questor was numb. “My Miriam has gone.”

Crispus stared at the still form in the bed. “No!” He felt Miriam’s arm; it was as cold as stone. He lay a hand on her forehead; as cold as stone. “It may not be too late! I shall fetch the physician Boethus from the town!” He turned and ran from the tent.

Pallas and Pedius now stirred. Varro was mechanically rising to his feet as the pair moved to the bedside. Pallas came and took Miriam’s hand, feeling for a pulse. He looked at Varro, and shook his head. “I am sorry, questor.” Beside the Greek, tears were trickling down the face of Pedius the lictor.

As if mesmerized, Varro walked to his writing table. He took up the cylindrical leather case which contained his report. It had lain there where Hostilis had left it when he retired for the night. Varro slipped the thick roll of parchment free, letting the case fall. The leather cylinder hit the ground with a hollow tone. Report in hand, the questor walked slowly out the door. Hostilis, on the floor where had slept, sat up. Seeing his master disappearing out the tent doorway, he quickly came to his feet. Yawning, stretching, and scratching his head, the servant followed after the questor.

Pale and drawn, Varro paused a little way outside the
pretorium
door. In full armor, helmets, and equipment, the sentries of the new watch stood in their pairs either side of the tent’s entranceway. One member of the quartet was Rufus the orderly sergeant. Around about, the camp was slowly coming to life. If the expedition were on the move, tents would be down and the baggage train packed by this time, with the column ready to march. In the time since the questor had been encamped here outside Capernaum and engaged in his report writing only the men of the new watch were active at dawn. In dribs and drabs their off-duty comrades would come crawling from their tents, like boars from their caves, as the sun rose higher in the sky.

Lamps still shone at the water clock and at the legion altar. In front of the
pretorium
, the coals of the sentries’ overnight fire glowed orange in the brazier. Varro raised his eyes to the sky. The grayness of earlier in the night had given way to a threatening congregation of clouds of inky black. In the distance, thunder boomed. A cold breeze suddenly swirled, fanning the embers
in the sentries’ fire from orange to red. Had Marcus Martius been here, the questor reflected as he looked at the fire, the tribune would have made the observation that the gods were not happy.

Hostilis appeared beside him. In his master’s hand the servant saw the roll of parchment, the end result of the labors and losses of the past four months. He did not know what was in the questor’s mind, but he did know that grief can sometimes make people do strange things. “Should I not take the report to Pythagoras, master?” he asked softly in the questor’s ear, “for safe keeping?”

Varro looked at Hostilis, then looked at the fire.

“Master?” Hostilis persisted.

At that moment, Pedius emerged from the tent behind the questor and his servant. The lictor heard thunder boom, rolling closer. In the grimy light of the new day he also saw Antiochus, walking determinedly down the camp street toward the
pretorium
with the fully equipped Centurion Gallo on his heel.

“Questor!” Antiochus called as he approached “I demand that you remove this oaf from my tent! I did not sleep a wink all night. Nothing I have done warrants close custody.” Now Antiochus realized that Varro had a volume in his hand, and recognized it as the
Investigatio Nazarena
. He came to an abrupt halt on the far side of the sentries’ fire. “Questor?” He saw Varro’s odd expression, and thought that he could read his mind. “Would you not like me to take your report from you, my lord?” His tone was appeasing now. “I will ensure that it is kept safe. I will personally place it in General Collega’s hands. Let me have the report, questor.” As he spoke, thunder clapped close by.

The gathering was complete when Pythagoras appeared from the direction of his tent, alerted by the voices. “Questor? What is happening?” he queried as he hurried up.

“He has the report,” Antiochus said anxiously.

“Miriam has died in the night,” said Pedius, his voice betraying his emotion.

“I see. That explains much.” With his hand outstretched, Pythagoras walked up to Varro. “Give me the report, questor.”

Varro looked at him blankly. “Miriam has gone,” he said.

“You cannot bring her back,” said Pythagoras in a low, soothing voice. “Nor can you cremate the guilt you feel. Here, let me have the report.” Carefully, he eased the thick scroll from the questor’s grasp.

Varro did not resist. He allowed the secretary to take charge of the document. For, now the questor’s gaze was fixed on Antiochus, standing across the fire from him. “You killed her, Antiochus!” Varro denounced. “You poisoned her!” He began to walk around the fire toward the Jewish magistrate. “You took belladonna from the physician’s tent, and had your cook lace the dish of mushrooms with it.”

“Keep your distance, Varro!” Antiochus cried. He began to back away, forcing Centurion Gallo to step to one side.

“Murderer!” Varro exclaimed, still advancing, eyes blazing.

Without warning, Antiochus swung on Gallo beside him. Catching the centurion unawares, he whipped the dagger from the scabbard on the centurion’s right hip then shoved Gallo away with all his might. The centurion went sprawling to the ground. Antiochus then turned on Varro, with the dagger raised.

“Watch out, master, Antiochus has a weapon!” Hostilis called.

“Take care, Varro,” Antiochus cautioned, backing away, waving the dagger to and fro as the questor continued to advance on him. “Keep your distance!”

Meanwhile, Gallo pulled himself up onto one knee, and unsheathed his sword. “Soldiers!” he bellowed, “Protect the questor’s report!” He came to his feet with his eyes fixed on Antiochus.

In response to their centurion’s order, all four legionary sentries at the
pretorium
entrance drew their swords, and the two who were closest to Pythagoras stepped forward. As one, they grasped the shoulders of the secretary, in whose hands lay the
Investigatio Nazarena
. They anchored him to the spot.

There now came a deafening crack of thunder, so loud that it shook the ground and all that stood upon it. In that same instant, there was an explosive flash of silver-white light. It was as if a meteor had come crashing to earth. And then, there was silence.

Pedius the lictor slowly sat up. Like everyone else, he had been thrown to the ground by the lightning strike. With a spinning head he looked around about him, taking in an unbelievable scene of devastation.

Hostilis lay with his hands to his face. “My eyes! My eyes!” he was crying.

Centurion Gallo was sprawled on his back, with one bloodied forearm raised and with smoke rising from the body that was now naked beneath his armor. He was dead. The two metal-clad sentinels who’d had their hands on Pythagoras also appeared to be dead. The two other soldiers were horribly burned; one lay groaning, the other thrashed in agony. Pythagoras was also obviously dead. His body was blackened from head to toe.

Varro was just beginning to sit up. “I cannot see,” said the questor dazedly.

Pedius realized that he was the only one to have escaped without even the slightest injury. He saw the questor’s report lying on the ground by Pythagoras’ body. Like Pedius, it had not even been singed. Scrambling to the roll of parchment, the lictor grabbed it up. He tore a strip from the scroll, and threw it into the sentries’ fire. The parchment quickly burst into flame. “It burns, it burns!” he proclaimed to the heavens.

Varro heard the sound of ripping parchment, heard the lictor’s cries. “Pedius?” he called, as he dragged himself blindly to his feet. “Pedius, what are you doing?”

“I am consigning your report to the fire, questor,” Pedius gleefully replied. “It is burning well, Julius Varro,” he taunted the sightless questor. “This is Heavens fire. Heaven’s fire!”

“What are you saying?”

“I promised my new wife and the brethren at Antioch that I would do all in my power to frustrate your fool’s errand, questor, and I have not failed them, or my Father in Heaven! This will win God’s forgiveness for my sins.”

“You are a Nazarene? You, Pedius?”

“I had feared that the blaze I lit under the secretary’s cart would be the limit of my powers of intercession, but I need not have worried. My Lord God has shown me the way!” Slowly, deliberately, he tore another strip from the beginning of the report, and cast it into the brazier. As he looked down at the burning sheave of papyrus, the words on the page miraculously faded away, even before the flames reached them. “Burn, foul document! Burn!”

“No! It cannot be!” It was the voice of Antiochus. He was crawling across the ground toward the fire with one hand outstretched. Like Varro and Hostilis, he had been blinded by the lightning. Now, he used the heat from the fire to guide him.

“The
Investigatio
cannot be destroyed, must not be destroyed!” Antiochus cried. Coming to the brazier, he reached up into the fire in an attempt to retrieve what he thought was the entire report, only for the flames to lick his flesh. Crying with pain, he withdrew his burnt hand.

Pedius put a foot in the Jewish magistrate’s chest, and pushed him away. “Too late! Too late!” he triumphantly declared. “The report shall be destroyed this day, just as Pythagoras, one
of its authors, has perished! It is God’s will!”

Sobbing with pain and despair, Antiochus crawled away. He bumped into the baked body of Gallo, and let out a wail. “I too am a dead man! Collega will have my head for this. The report is destroyed. The Nazarenes prevail!”

Antiochus dragged himself into a sitting position, then reached to his throat. With a jerk, he separated his precious pouch from its leather necklace. Fumbling with the neck of the small leather bag, terrified that Pedius would see what he was doing and relieve him of his last resort, Antiochus forced an opening. Then, holding the bag with his throbbing, red-raw right hand, he emptied the contents into his left. With relief, he felt the hemlock seeds drop into his palm. In one quick movement he brought the hand to his mouth. Greedily he crunched the seeds between his teeth. Letting go of the pouch which had been his constant companion for half a decade, he swallowed, then lay back his head. “Jehovah, I am yours!” he called.

With a sudden dread that the apothecary who had sold him the hemlock seeds in Antioch had deceived him, Antiochus waited. Then, gratefully, he began to feel a numbness creep over his body, from his toes, to his legs, up his torso, and down his arms, which now sagged to his side. Antiochus smiled. His eyes closed. His breathing stopped. He sagged onto the corpse of the centurion, dead.

Report in hand, the demented Pedius had been watching the Jew take his own life. “Now Antiochus is no more!” he rejoiced. “It is all God’s will, questor. The report destroyed. Antiochus dead. Pythagoras dead. Gallo dead. All God’s will!”

All this time, one of the two badly injured legionaries, Rufus, had been groping around the ground. Now, he located his sword. With an effort he struggled onto his knees behind Pedius. “Protect the questor’s report,” he cried through his agony, repeating Centurion Gallo’s last order, as, summoning all his strength, he plunged the sword two-handed into the middle of Pedius’ back, falling forward to add impetus to the strike. The regularly-sharpened blade slid through Lictor Pedius’ body as if it were a sack of grain.

Pedius gasped with surprise, then, with a mystified expression, looked down, to see the bloodied, pointed tip of the sword emerge through the front of his tunic in the middle of his chest. Pedius opened his mouth, and let out a wild, animal-like cry as he realized what fate had befallen him. His eyes rolled up into his head, and Pedius sank to his knees, then toppled forward, brushing the brazier as he collapsed, to lay full length with the sword hilt jutting from his back. The report slipped from his dead grasp, and lay on the ground beside his body.

“What is it?” Varro called with frustration. “What’s happening now?”

“The traitor is dead, questor,” Legionary Rufus informed him from where he lay. “Your report is saved.”

“Dead? Pedius too? Can such carnage truly be God’s will?” Varro asked in confusion, trying to keep his balance. And then he felt a hand take his. A small hand.

“Come, master,” said a young voice.

“Gemara?” Varro responded. “Is that you?”

“I will show you the way,” the child replied.

She led him, stumbling, from the camp, to the lake. He was unaware of anyone else but her. “Where are we going?” he asked, as he heard waves breaking on the shore of the Sea of Galilee.

The child did not answer. Gemara led him along beside the water, toward the rising sun.

It was now that Quintus Crispus came running into the camp from the direction of the town, where he had been searching unsuccessfully for the local Jewish physician. Crispus had heard the explosion of the lightning strike, and, open mouthed, he stood beside the brazier and
surveyed the scene of devastation, as stunned soldiers began to join him from their tents. And then he saw the questor’s report lying on the ground at his feet. Quickly he stooped and picked it up. A quick inspection told him that the opening lines had been torn away, but essentially the
Investigatio Nazarena
and its conclusions remained intact. And then Crispus saw Julius Varro being led away by the child Gemara, following the lake. The cavalry prefect went to call out to Varro, but something stopped him. Somehow, he knew that the questor would not be returning. Again Crispus glanced at the report in his hand. Then he looked at the low fire in the brazier beside him. As Varro’s deputy, he should deliver the questor’s report to General Collega. Or did the report have another destiny? The young man who had several months before bathed in the Jordan River to wash away his sins, gazed into the fire.