The Inquest (6 page)

The soldier handed the wax tablet to the questor. Varro’s skinny, bushy-headed servant Hostilis appeared from behind him with a metal stylus. Varro took the writing instrument and
quickly wrote ‘RESPECT’ in the wax. Laying aside the stylus he passed the tablet back to Rufus. Then he looked directly at Venerius. “Respect,” he said. He paused, for effect, then added. “You and the tesserarius are dismissed, centurion.”

Gallo and Rufus turned and left the tent.

The shocked Venerius stood looking from Varro to Martius and back again.

“Tribune Venerius,” Martius now said. “If you have not reported for duty in full uniform and equipment by the time the sun has set, you will be considered in breach of your orders and you will be charged accordingly. Well? What are you waiting for, boy?”

Venerius swallowed hard, then turned and left the tent.

Martius looked at Varro and Crispus the curly-headed cavalry prefect. His severe expression gave way to a grin. “That seemed to do the trick,” he said.

“Could you really court martial him, questor?” asked Crispus, in a lowered voice.

“Of course,” said Varro. “All that is required is a panel of three officers senior to, or equal to him in rank—you, Martius, and myself.”

“I would quite enjoy it,” said Martius. Then he frowned. “You don’t think I came on a little too strongly, do you, Julius? Any other thin-striper would have felt the back of my hand, but this annoying little monkey is Mucianus’ nephew, after all.”

“He cannot use his connections to escape his responsibilities,” said Varro emphatically. “You were quite right to set the boundaries, Marcus. This is only the first day of the mission; we must start as we mean to go on.”

Outside, on their way to the main gate to commence the distribution of the password, Gallo and Rufus were passing along beside the enlisted men’s tents, where cooking fires in front of tent doors glowed in the failing light. Every squad cooked its own food, and tonight the men would be eating hot broth and freshly baked bread oozing with a spread of olive oil. As they walked, Gallo and Rufus happened to look back, to see Venerius emerge from the questor’s tent then run to his own.

“Little toad!” Gallo growled, halting beside the standard bearer’s tent, where lamps radiated light onto the detachment’s sacred standard in its portable camp altar. He glowered toward the tent occupied by the thin-stripe tribune. “Accuse me of laying hands on him, would he!” Under Roman military law, this was a capital offense.

“He’s a fool, centurion” said Rufus. “You know what the men are calling him? ‘Soupy.’ Because he’s thick and wet.” Rufus guffawed.

“He’s no fool,” said Gallo coldly, “he merely acts foolishly. In his arrogance he doesn’t think before he acts. But accusing me of assaulting him was worse than foolish.” His face was set in as fierce an expression as Rufus had ever seen on the centurion. “For his trouble,” said Gallo, “Venerius has made himself an enemy, for life.”

By the afternoon of the third day into the journey, having made better than twenty miles each day, the expedition reached Laodicea on the Mediterranean coast, principal port of the province of Syria. Here, the men of the Varro expedition prepared to spend the night in a regular marching camp outside the city walls, setting up their small camp inside an existing temporary fortress as usual. The legionaries followed camp markers set out by the junior tribune Venerius, who was now riding with the advance guard by day and serving as officer of the watch each night as instructed.

After dinner in the questor’s tent, most of the officers and officials returned to their own quarters, but Martius lingered with Varro to discuss the expedition’s itinerary. With cups of diluted wine in hand, they each lounged on a separate dining couch. Both agreed that, after visiting Beirut, Sidon and Tyre, they should swing inland, to the city of Caesarea Philippi at the head of the Jordan River. From there, the former King of Chalcis, Herod Agrippa II, controlled a large region with Rome’s blessing, from southern Syria down into northern Galilee. General Collega had told Varro to include King Agrippa and his sister and co-ruler Queen Berenice on the expeditions itinerary. Agrippa and Berenice were Jewish, and Agrippa had been Guardian of the Temple at Jerusalem until the Revolt broke out. Both had tried unsuccessfully to prevent the uprising in Judea, with letters, speeches and troops. Agrippa had subsequently led his troops against the rebels, in the Roman armies commanded by Vespasian and Titus, and was considered a valuable and loyal ally of Rome. Agrippa had only been an infant at the time of the death of Jesus of Nazareth, yet it was agreed by Varro and Martius that as an influential Jew he was in an excellent position to shed some light on the Nazarene sect and the death of its founder.

“We will have to dine with Herod Agrippa of course,” said Martius. “I hope he doesn’t go in for big banquets. I’m not one for meals that last all night. Good wine I can stomach in any quantity.” He took a sip from his cup. “But these minor potentates show off with expensive receptions and interminable meals. A man is ill for days after.”

“I suppose we should have brought along some musicians or singers, as our contribution to the entertainment on these occasions,” Varro mused, “but I really didn’t want to weigh down the expedition with supernumeraries. Can any of your men sing or play the flute or lyre, Marcus?”

“I should hope not,” returned Martius with a chuckle. “I lead legionaries, Julius, not an orchestra.” Then a thought hit him. “You could always prevail on our Prefect of Horse to recite one or two of his poems for the king.”

“Now that, Marcus, is an excellent idea.”

Martius looked at Varro in mock horror. “I was joking, Julius.”

Varro smiled. “I wasn’t. We should ask Crispus to favor us with a recitation of some of his work, so we can judge its worth.”

“Now?” It was more a suggestion than a question.

Varro shrugged. “Why not?”

Martius grinned. “I shall fetch the poetic prefect.” With that, he pulled himself to his feet, set down his cup, then went out into the night.

Outside, it was a pleasantly mild evening. A low hum of conversation lay on the air, rising up from the tents of the camp. Somewhere away to the tribune’s right there was a sudden gale of ribald laughter; Martius’ men were in good spirits. He walked past his own tent, and that of young Venerius, until he came to the tent of Quintus Crispus. As a tribune of the broad stripe, there was no door that Marcus Martius would hesitate to open, no tent he would not walk into without warning. Parting the entry curtains, he stepped inside Crispus’ tent.

In the light of a single lamp, Quintus Crispus stood with tunic pulled up around his chest. Kneeling before him was a young man, naked from head to toe, sucking the prefect’s erect penis. The young man saw Martius first. His eyes widened, and he pulled back. “Don’t stop!” Crispus wailed. Then he saw the young man’s eyes, and turned to follow his terrified gaze. “Martius!” he exclaimed with horror. “I, I can explain.”

“With a poem, no doubt, Crispus!” Martius snarled. He strode forward and grabbed hold of the naked young man’s right ear with his left hand. “Up, you!” he commanded, dragging him, wincing, to his feet.

“Please, Martius, this is Fulvus, one of my Vettonian troopers,” Crispus gushed, pulling his tunic down as he spoke. “He was helping me…”

“So I could see!” Martius sneered, continuing to hold the naked Spaniard’s ear, so that he was forced to stand with his head tilted to one side. The black-haired Fulvus was tall, slim, and aged in his twenties. His tawny skin glistened in the lamp light, and Martius guessed that Crispus had rubbed him with oil at the outset of their tryst. Fulvus’ jutting penis was slowly lowering, like a flag coming down a flagpole. “Outside!” Martius barked. The tribune dragged the soldier to the door then out into the night.

Crispus hurried to follow. “Please, Martius, don’t hurt him!” he wailed. “I beg of you, don’t hurt him!”

Outside, Martius hauled the stark naked trooper toward the questor’s pavilion.

Crispus hastened in their wake. “Martius! Tribune! Please!” he cried.

“Give me a knife!” Martius yelled with unbridled anger. “A knife, someone!”

“Please, Martius!” Crispus continued to plead.

“There has been a crime committed,” Martius called, deliberately elevating his voice so that it would carry. “A crime committed in the camp. Give me a knife!”

As the pair came up, the four legionaries on duty outside Varro’s tent looked at the tribune and the naked cavalryman in astonishment. Nearby, the heads of legionaries poked from the doorways of tents, attracted by the shouting. Seeing what was going on, men began to tumble out into the night and run toward the questor’s tent.

Martius looked at the nearest sentinel. “Your dagger, soldier,” he commanded.

The legionary immediately reached to the sheath belted on his left hip and drew his
pugio
, the standard legion dagger. He held it out to the tribune, vertically, so that the officer could grasp it by the handle. Martius took the weapon from him. “On your knees!” he snarled to Fulvus, using his hold on the young man’s ear to force him down. And then Martius waited, for an audience.

Julius Varro now emerged from his tent, with his servant Hostilis just a pace behind. “Marcus, what is going on?” the questor demanded. His eyes flashed from Martius to the naked cavalryman to the distressed Crispus.

“The poet was having his penis sucked by one of his acolytes, questor.”

Varro looked at Crispus. “Quintus, you idiot!” he said, more in disappointment than in anger. “Not in my camp.”

“Please, please, forgive me, questor, I did not think…” Crispus began. His voice trailed away. He could not defend the indefensible.

Varro looked around them. Scores of off-duty soldiers had quickly formed in a semi circle around the entrance to the questor’s tent. “What do you propose to do, Marcus?” Varro asked his deputy.

“These men all know military regulations, questor,” Martius returned. “Or they should!” He raised his voice a little more. “In case any of you have forgotten, as this wretch obviously had, I will remind you. It is a capital offense for a Roman soldier to steal in camp. It is a capital offense to give false evidence to a tribune. It is a capital offense to strike an officer. It is a capital offense to be convicted of the same lesser offense three times. And…” he stressed each word that followed. “It is a capital offense, punishable by death, if a Roman soldier, auxiliary or citizen, who, in full manhood, commits a homosexual act!” He looked down at the trooper. “How old are you?”

“I am twenty-eight years of age, tribune,” Fulvus replied with a shaking voice, looking up at
Martius with pleading eyes. It was the first time he had spoken. He knew his crime would only be exacerbated if he were to speak without permission.

“Then, you are in your full manhood, are you not?”

“Yes, Tribune.”

“You are an auxiliary soldier, a non citizen, and you were caught in the act of an homosexual offense in this camp?”

“Yes, Tribune.”

“Then, you are condemned by your own words.” With that, Martius brought the dagger up, and, without hesitating, pushed it several inches into the left side of Fulvus’ throat. Fulvus’ eyes bulged with horror. Many of the men watching gasped with surprise.

“No!” Crispus exclaimed.

Martius dragged the blade across the breadth of the Vettonian’s throat, left to right, severing his windpipe. He let go of his ear. With blood spurting from the incision, coating his perfect olive skin, and grasping for his throat, Fulvus toppled onto his side. He lay, quivering on the ground, gurgling grotesquely as he drowned in his own blood.

“So die all perverts!” cried a soldier in the forefront of the crowd, looking directly at Prefect Crispus as he spoke. Crispus, unable to watch Fulvus die, looked away.

Martius handed the execution weapon back to its owner. “Clean it thoroughly before you sheath it, soldier,” he instructed. Then, seeing Crispus turning away, he strode to him. Grasping a handful of his yellow hair he pulled his head around, to observe the cavalryman’s death throes. “This is
your
punishment, Crispus. Watch your lover die!”

Finally, Fulvus stopped moving. A soldier knelt beside the body. “He is dead,” he pronounced unemotionally. Legionaries considered auxiliaries lesser beings. An auxiliary executed for a capital crime earned no more respect than a dead animal. “What do you want us to do with the body, Tribune? Throw it out the camp gate?”

“No, string him up on a tree beside the highway in the morning,” Martius ordered, “for all the world to see. And put a notice on the corpse: ‘DISGRACEFUL FULVUS, VETTONIAN AND PENIS SUCKER.’”

The soldier laughed. “Yes, tribune.”

Varro did not say anything. He turned and went back inside his tent. Martius pushed Crispus away with disgust, then followed the questor into his quarters.

“There is only one way for these people to learn what military law and discipline are all about, Julius,” he said, as Varro slumped onto a couch. Martius could see that the questor had not enjoyed the summary execution, as much as he might support its legality.

“I know,” Varro sighed.

Outside, Crispus backed away from the execution site with the eyes of leering, sneering soldiers following him, then turned and hurried back to his own tent. Once inside, he sank to his knees, and began to shake uncontrollably.

The Road to Beirut, Roman Province of Syria.
March, A.D. 71

Two shaggy black goats. Billy Goats. They were old, very old. The little beards jutting from their chins were gray with age. Varro could see the ancient animals standing, looking at him, as if transfixed. From behind him, someone spoke. “Naum,” called the voice. “Naum,” it repeated, over and over again. Varro spun around to see who had spoken, but no one was there. He turned back to the goats, and watched as a shadowy figure walked up to the animals. The figure drew a sword, a Roman
gladius
, the legionary’s short sword, the kind with a pointed tip. And as Varro watched, in horror, the figure used the sword to gouge out the eyes of the two old goats. With that, Varro awoke, sitting up in his bed with a start.

The questor’s personal slave Hostilis was almost instantly up from his sleeping place on the floor at the foot of the bed and standing at his master’s bedside. The slave held an oil lamp which lit his square face from below and gave him an eerie, black-eyed ghoulish appearance. “You called out, master?” said Hostilis with concern.

“I did?”.

“Were you perhaps dreaming, master?”

Now Varro realized that he was bathed in a cold sweat. An image flashed into his mind, of the two blinded billy goats. The recollection caused him to he shiver, briefly, involuntarily. “Yes, yes, I remember now. It was a dream, Hostilis.”

Another figure appeared in the doorway behind Hostilis. “Is everything in order, my lord?” It was the voice of Callidus. “I heard you emit a cry of considerable volume while I was taking the night air.” Callidus had a problem sleeping; his solution was to walk until he exhausted himself.

“I was dreaming, Callidus,” Varro explained. “There is no need for concern. It was nothing but a dream. Go back to bed.”

“Ah, a dream,” said the freedman, coming to stand beside the questor’s bed. Callidus placed great store in dreams, which in his opinion were much more authoritative then fortune tellers. He had once dreamed that he was wearing a crown, and within a week he’d been given his cap of freedom and manumitted by his master. Another time he had dreamed he had to choose between a plump sow and a bowl of fishes, and days later he had for the first time met the ample Priscilla, who had told him he must give up all his other female companions if he wanted to share her bed; which he had. “The dream may have been sent to guide you, my lord,” he said, looking down at his superior with a mixture of interest and concern.

“Do you think so?” Varro responded. He had never been one to have dreams, prophetic or otherwise. Not dreams that he remembered, anyway. His mother, on the other hand, frequently experienced them and swore by their predictive powers. She even employed a slave whose sole duty was the interpretation of her nocturnal visions.

“Tell me about your dream, my lord,” Callidus urged. “It may be important.”

Sitting in his bed, Varro proceeded to describe all he could remember of the dream. He told himself that he did it to humor his freedman, yet the dream had seemed so shockingly real he felt compelled to revisit it, as if to assure himself that is was the product of imagination, not of memory.

“Two goats?” said Callidus pensively once the questor had finished.

“Do you think there is anything in it, Callidus?” said Varro. “I cannot imagine what it could possibly mean. If it means anything at all.”

Callidus scratched his head. “Well, of course, goats are sacrificial animals, my lord. It would not surprise me if the gods are telling you that they want you to sacrifice another goat, or perhaps two, to guarantee the success of your mission.”

“Perhaps.” Varro nodded slowly, unconvinced. The fact that the dream had lodged in his mind as vividly as if it were a living memory continued to trouble him. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he placed his feet on the woolen rug covering the floor. “Bring Artimedes,” he instructed Hostilis. “He claims some expertise in this area. Perhaps the secretary can shed light on the matter.”

When, a few minutes later, a yawning Artimedes was ushered into the questor’s room by Hostilis, Varro was standing, dampening his face to refresh himself, using a bowl and pitcher of water which were kept on the side table.

Varro’s secretary had been a member of his family’s staff for a number of years. Initially, the little Greek had served as under secretary to Varro’s mother and been one of her favorites. In the few years before Varro had gone off at eighteen to do his mandatory six months service with the legions as an officer cadet, Artimedes had been the youth’s tutor. When Varro’s Syrian appointment had been confirmed, his mother had transferred Artimedes to her son to act as his personal secretary. Varro knew that the secretary frequently wrote home to Rome to keep Varro’s mother confidentially appraised of her boy’s welfare, but he never let on that he was aware of the correspondence. Artimedes, Varro also knew, was a highly superstitious man who shared his mother’s passion for horoscopes, omens, and the divination of dreams.

“Artimedes, can you decipher my dream?” Varro asked.

“Tell me about it, my lord,” said the secretary, his gravity laced with anticipation.

So, settling on the edge his bed, Varro once again recounted his dream, this time for Artimedes’ benefit, with the secretary, Callidus and Hostilis clustered at the bedside bearing studious expressions. “There,” he said when he had finished. “What construction do you put on it, Artimedes?”

Even before the questor had reached the end of his telling, the little bald Greek had begun to pace the room with hands clasped behind his back and mind whirring. “To dream of goats wandering in a field,” Artimedes now began, “signifies fine weather and an excellent yield of crops. But to see them stationary…”

“As they were,” said Callidus. “Were they not, my lord?”

“This denotes,” Artimedes went on, ignoring Callidus’ interjection, “cautious dealings and a steady increase of wealth.”

“Not an unwelcome omen, my lord?” Callidus enthused.

“Yes, but the gouging of the eyes, Artimedes? And the name of Naum?”

Ceasing to pace, the serious secretary glowered at Varro. “All in good time, questor. Have I not taught you the virtue of patience?”

Varro lowered his eyes. His former tutor still had the ability to rebuke him, all these years after the young man had ventured into the world as his own instructor. “Forgive me, Artimedes. Please continue.”

Artimedes resumed his pacing. “If a woman dreams of drinking goats milk, she will marry for money, and will not be disappointed,” he continued.

Varro made no comment. It was as if Artimedes was working through a catalogue of dreams in his head, discounting each possibility, no matter how remote, before moving on to the next. As
Varro had come to learn over the years, this was Artimedes’ methodical style; he knew no other way.

“Should a woman dream of riding a billy goat, this denotes that she will shortly be held in disrepute. But, clearly, you are not a woman, my lord. You did not dream of drinking goats milk, nor of riding a billy goat?” When Varro shook his head, the secretary asked, “They were billy goats? Not nanny goats?”

“They were billy goats,” the questor confirmed.

“These billy goats did not butt you? To dream that a billy goat butts you signifies that you must prevent your enemies coming into possession of your secrets or plans.”

“Ahah!” Callidus exclaimed, as if this was a significant revelation.

“Neither of the two billy goats butted me,” Varro said, with rising impatience. “What is the meaning of the gouging out of their eyes, Artimedes? And what is the meaning of the word Naum? Do you know?”

“I, er…I must confess, my lord, that I am at a loss to explain either.”

“Ah. Well, at least you are honest, Artimedes, as you always are. Where does that leave me, apart from well married and with fine weather and an abundant crop?”

Artimedes scowled back at his former pupil. “With respect, my lord, if I were you I would treat this dream with the seriousness it deserves. Clearly, we are not sent these messages for nothing. As Cicero wrote, ‘If the gods love men, they will certainly reveal their purposes to them in sleep.’”

Varro attempted to look serious. “Yes, of course.”

“Might I suggest, my lord, that you consult the Acting Governor’s chief secretary? Pythagoras is a far more learned man than myself. I am sure that Pythagoras will be able to reveal the secret of your dream.”

Varro knew that an unspoken rivalry had long existed between the two secretaries, and it occurred to him that perhaps Artimedes had made this suggestion in the hope of embarrassing Pythagoras. Alternatively, perhaps Artimedes wanted to be seen to giving way to his older colleague. Then again, perhaps Artimedes genuinely believed that Pythagoras could unlock the secret of the questor’s dream. “Very well.” Varro stifled a yawn. “Callidus, bring Pythagoras.”

A little later, General Collegas secretary joined the group in the questor’s quarters, looking unimpressed at being woken and summoned in the middle of the night. Now, Varro regaled Pythagoras with the details of his dream.

“I see,” said Pythagoras once the dream had been revealed. “Obviously, the goats represent the zodiacal sign of Capricorn,” he emphatically declared.

“Ah!” cried Artimedes. “Clearly this is the case.”

“That does make sense,” Varro agreed. “Go on, Pythagoras.”

“Two goats, two years,” Pythagoras pronounced with certainty. “Your dream, questor, was telling you that you must wait until two years have passed. When the second month of January arrives, something of importance will be revealed to you.”

“Yes, that is perfectly plausible, Pythagoras,” Varro responded, “but what am I to read into the blinding of the two goats?”

Pythagoras did not reply. This aspect required more thought.

“Might I suggest, my lord,” Artimedes then said, “following on from what my learned colleague Pythagoras has said, clearly this means that you will not be able to see what is to be revealed to you until the Capricorn constellation returns a second time.”

“Quite so,” Pythagoras was quick to agree.

“That would be logical, I suppose,” Varro conceded, without complete conviction. “And the name Naum? What am I to take that to mean?”

“Naum may have something to do with the sea,” Artimedes conjectured. “Perhaps it relates to the word
naus.
” In Latin,
naus
was a nautical term. “Could it be that you will have to cross the sea to learn the answer to your dream?”

“No, I think not,” said Pythagoras definitely. “To my mind, now that I think on it, the word Naum has a Hebrew ring to it.”

“Hebrew?” said Varro. “Yes, it does, does it not. I had not thought of that. Perhaps I should be talking to Antiochus the Jewish magistrate. Thank you, gentlemen, you have both been most helpful. The dream does seem to make some sort of sense now, thanks to your expert powers of elucidation.” Varro was not entirely convinced that the dream’s mysteries had indeed been successfully explained, but courtesy and the sensibilities of the two secretaries required that he let them believe they had served him well. Once his staff had left him, he lay back down. He was soon fast asleep.

Next morning when he awoke, the dream was still as fresh in his mind as it had been the night before. So Varro sent Hostilis to fetch Antiochus the Jewish magistrate. In the meantime, Marcus Martius entered the questor’s tent and bade him good morning. For Marcus’ benefit, Varro again retold his dream, and as he regaled him with the story they were dutifully joined by Artimedes and Callidus.

Martius suggested that the dream had been sponsored by the events of the previous evening. “Crispus and the Vettonian,” he said, taking up an apple from the questor’s table and munching into it, “acting like a pair of silly goats.”

Varro looked questioningly at Artimedes. “Could it be that simple?”

“Anything is possible, my lord,” said the Greek. “But I tend to favor the construction put on your dream by my colleague Pythagoras.”

The Jewish magistrate then arrived, looking worried as he bustled into the questor’s pavilion. “Your man said that you had need of my advice, my lord,” he warily began, with his hand at a small leather pouch which Varro noticed the Jew habitually wore on a leather thong around his neck, fondling it nervously, unconsciously.

“Tell me, Antiochus, the word Naum; does it have any significance among the Jewish people?”

Antiochus seemed to squirm inwardly. “With respect, my lord, as you know, I have sworn off Jewish religious practices.”

Varro’s brow wrinkled in a frown. “Antiochus, am I to take it that in swearing off the religion of the Jews you have emptied your head of Hebrew and Aramaic? That being the case, you will be of absolutely no use to me as an interpreter on this mission, and I will have to send you back to General Collega.”

This brought a mirthful snort from Callidus.

“That will not be necessary, my lord,” Antiochus smarted. “It is just that the word Naum has a religious significance to some Jews.”

Varro nodded. “Please explain.”

“As you instruct, my lord.” Antiochus’ tone made it clear that he was doing this under sufferance. “Naum is said to be the direct descendant of Adam, the first man created by the God of the Hebrews.”

“Arrant nonsense!” Martius sneered.

“Yes, tribune, nonsense, as you say,” Antiochus hastened to agree. “The beliefs of the Jews
are indeed all nonsense. I thank the gods that I was able to see that for myself and repent, before it was too late.”

“So, this Naum fellow?” said Varro. “He would not be living? I could not interview him?”

“No, questor,” Antiochus replied. “He lived some generations ago.”

Artimedes spoke up. “Now that the magistrate mentions it, my lord, I recall some reference to this man Naum in the religious hierarchy listed in the Lucius Letter. May I read from the letter?”

“Please do, Artimedes.”

The Lucius Letter was kept in a leather cylinder in the questor’s quarters. While everyone waited, Artimedes removed the letter and affixed it to a reading frame. After bringing several lamps close to improve the light for reading, Artimedes scrolled through the letter until he came to a listing of the antecedents of Jesus of Nazareth. “Here it is, my lord, the reference that I spoke of.” With an air of gravity, Artimedes proceeded to read the section in question aloud, with his chin jutting, and projecting his voice like a rhetorician declaiming on the rostra in the Forum of Rome. “
And Jesus himself began to be about thirty years of age, being, as was supposed, the son of Josephus, who was the son of Heli, who was the son of Matthat, who was the son of Levi, who was the son of Melchi, who was the son of Janna, who was the son of Josephus, who was the son of Mattathias, who was the son of Amos, who was the son of Naum…
” Artimedes stopped, and looked over to the questor. “Naum, my lord.”