The Inquest (8 page)

“Why would he do that, Your Majesty?” Crispus asked.

“Baptize them? They believed that the act of immersion washed away their sins.”

“If only it were that simple,” Martius remarked with a snort.

Agrippa cast him a disapproving glance. “The washing away of one’s sins in exchange for repentance and a commitment to a righteous life is an ancient rite among the Jewish people, one with a great deal of religious significance attached to it.”

“Did Johannes baptize Jesus of Nazareth?” Crispus asked.

“I believe he did, yes.”

Martius smirked. “A god admitting to the possession of sins? What is the world coming to?”

“What fate befell Johannes the Baptist, Your Majesty?” Varro inquired.

“Beheaded, by Herod Antipas, my great-uncle, when he was Tetrarch of Galilee.”

“For what crime?” Martius asked.

“Johannes voiced opposition to my great-uncle’s divorce from the daughter of the King of Nabatea and his subsequent marriage to the widow of Antipas’ brother. That was contrary to Jewish Law.”

“He was beheaded? Not crucified?” Martius asked with some surprise. “Was the Baptist a Roman citizen?”

“No. The matter was a complicated one. Antipas’ bride Herodias asked for the Baptist’s head through her daughter Salome, to silence the Baptist and end his criticism of her new marriage. Antipas gave it to her.”

“The politics of the sword,” said Martius grimly. “We Romans know all about that.” Less than three years before, Martius’ father, a supporter of the short-lived emperor Otho, had committed suicide following Otho’s defeat by Vitellius. Shortly after, Martius’ mother and ten-year-old sister, sheltering on the family’s estate in Picenum in the east of Italy, had been murdered by marauding supporters of Vitellius.

Varro glanced across the circular table to Martius, and saw a distant, pained look in his eyes. Varro and Martius had spent the evenings of the journey from Antioch talking about themselves and their families. Varro knew how Martius’ loved ones had died, and he guessed where his deputy’s thoughts now lay. The questor returned his attention to the king. “Your majesty, what, may I ask, became of the Baptist’s followers in the wake of his execution?” he asked.

“Some transferred their allegiance to Jesus, I believe. Perhaps one in ten of them. The majority apparently did not believe that the Nazarene had the same powers of prophesy as the Baptist.”

“So, Jesus took up the reins of the sect founded by Johannes the Baptist, following the Baptist’s death?” Varro established.

The king nodded in reply.

Crispus quickly asked another question. He seemed to have developed a particular interest in the subject of baptism. “Did Jesus also baptize people in the Jordan, Your Majesty?”

“I gather that he left that to his subordinates.”

“Your Majesty, what do you know about the circumstances surrounding the arrest and execution of Jesus?” Varro asked.

Agrippa sighed. “I cannot contribute any information in that regard, Varro. I was only three years of age at the time. You must ask people who were there.”

“Yes, of course.” Varro sounded disappointed.

“I have my own opinion about the execution, of course,” Agrippa then volunteered.

Surprised, titillated, Varro leaned forward. “Yes, Your Majesty…?”

“It is obvious to me that Jesus of Nazareth attempted to conform to the prophesies of Moses and the minor prophets,” the king solemnly declared.

Varro was mystified. “I am not familiar with this Moyses, Your Majesty. And, the ‘minor prophets’…?”

Agrippa smiled to himself. So many Romans considered themselves learned men, but, to his mind, more often than not their learning was confined to their own country, their own customs, their own gods, their own origins. So many insular Roman administrators had come to this part of the world full of Roman notions, only to run head-on into the sensitivities of subjects who saw the world through quite different eyes. “I shall not bore you with a long lecture on Judaism, questor. Suffice it to say, it was written, long, long ago, that a holy man, a descendant of an ancient king of the Israelites, would arise to save the people and become their new king. In Hebrew, the Jewish people call this savior the Messiah, or the ‘anointed one’ as you would say. In Greek, this translates as the Christos. This Messiah would be divine. To prove his divinity he would be crucified, and would rise again and walk among men two days after his death.”

“These prophesies are ancient, you say, Your Majesty?” said Varro.

“Many centuries old,” Agrippa replied. “To this day most Jews believe and expect that the Messiah is yet to come, but the followers of the Nazarene believe that Jesus of Nazareth was the Messiah.”

“Only a handful of Jews believe that the Nazarene was divine?” Martius asked.

“A small number of Jews, and some Gentiles, or non-Jews, hold that belief, tribune,” Agrippa told him. “There are good reasons to be skeptical of the claim that the Nazarene was the Messiah. Very few people, members of his family and some close followers, claimed to have seen Jesus alive following his crucifixion. If you have proven your divinity by rising from the dead, why would you not go far and wide to show the world that you had risen?”

“A good point, sire,” said Martius approvingly.

“We have a copy of a letter from one of the Nazarene’s followers,” said Varro, “in which the author states that the Nazarene
set out to
have himself crucified.”

Agrippa responded sagely. “As I have said, it has always been my contention that the Nazarene strove to conform to the old prophesies and so be declared the Messiah. For that reason, he would have willingly delivered himself up to be executed.”

“Having attracted only a portion of the Baptist’s following,” said Martius, thinking aloud, “Jesus felt that if he did not do something dramatic, such as claiming the mantle of this Messiah or Christos, he would always be seen as a mere disciple of the Baptist. As just a soldier, not the general.”

“The Jewish people have always been divided by various sects and false prophets,” said Agrippa gravely. “It is the nature of their faith that they will be tempted from the true path from time to time, to be tested by Heaven.”

“A false prophet?” Varro mused. “Do most Jews see the Nazarene in that way?”

“I imagine that is the case. I cannot speak for all Jews, questor.”

Varro shifted his position on the couch, leaning closer to Agrippa. “Your Majesty, in the strictest confidence, I can reveal that my mission is to prove that Jesus of Nazareth did not rise from the dead. Is there anything you could suggest, any line of inquiry I might follow, that would assist me in that quest?”

Agrippa looked at him without replying for a time, pursing his lips, as if deliberating on his
reply. “My good friend Flavius Josephus and I have discussed this very matter at some length,” he then said. “If I were you, questor, I would ask myself two questions. Firstly, can I find witnesses who would testify that those who claimed to have met and spoken with Jesus following his execution lied? In other words, prove that the Nazarene prearranged for friends to fabricate this story following his death to comply with the prophesies and confirm the myth of his divinity.”

Varro nodded. “I must admit,” he said thoughtfully, “I have wondered how the Nazarene’s followers could accept this story of the resurrection with so little evidence to support it. Nazarenes in Antioch seem to believe in it implicitly, yet they could not tell us why. A thinking man must conclude that it would take either great faith or great gullibility to believe that a man could rise from the dead, without substantial proof. The balance of probabilities would seem to point toward this story being a concerted fabrication. So, yes, that is a line of inquiry I must pursue—prove that the witnesses lied. The other question, Your Majesty?”

“The other question you might ask yourself, questor, is this. Did Jesus somehow fabricate his death, so that he was in fact not dead when he was taken down from his cross? This, of course, would have enabled him to appear to followers several days after the execution, and so confirm the prophesies.”

All four Romans looked at him with surprise bordering on astonishment. None had even considered this possibility.

“How might that have been achieved?” a disconcerted Varro asked.

“You are saying that the execution was a sham?” said Marcus with disbelief.

Agrippa shrugged. “I merely suggest that the question might be asked, tribune.”

“How could the Nazarene’s execution have been a sham?” Martius queried, making no attempt to hide rising anger. “Surely, that would have required the complicity of the
Roman
authorities at Jerusalem? That is a strong charge.”

“I could not say how it might have been done,” Agrippa coolly replied. “I merely point it out as a possibility to be explored. You might ask, where did the Nazarene go following his so-called resurrection? If he did rise, why did he so abruptly terminate his teachings? In my experience, fanatics cannot help themselves, they require an audience. They will loudly proclaim their doctrine, ignoring the likely consequences. As I said previously, fanatics are blind to reality and deaf to reason.”

“If he did not die on a cross, however that might have been achieved,” Varro said, speculating aloud, “he would have had to go into hiding or leave the province. If he were found alive, he would have been rearrested and executed all over again.”

“Ah, but if he were a god, as his followers claim,” said Martius, with a smile which broadened into a grin, “the Nazarene could not be killed. We could have put him on a dozen crosses, and he would have risen time and time again. Surely?”

Venerius, who had held his tongue ever since receiving the withering glance from Varro earlier, let out a cackle of laughter. Then, seeing no one else laugh, he quickly and self consciously wiped the smile from his face, and lowered his eyes once more.

There was now a poignant silence. All the diners had stopped eating. Varro realized that none of the king’s retainers had entered into the debate about the Nazarene. Was it through deference to Agrippa, he wondered, or was it because they preferred not to enter into speculation about the death of Jesus, for one reason or another?

Agrippa now lay aside his napkin and pulled himself to his feet. Having had enough of the meal and the conversation, he was departing. His eight guests all respectfully came to their feet.

“To my mind,” said the king, “Jesus of Nazareth was a learned, pious and well-meaning teacher, a man with a prophetic gift, and a talent for deception. Nothing more.” He cast a cursory glance around the circle of men. “I wish you well on your quest, my lords.” Agrippa paused to allow servants to help him into slippers, then walked across the tiled floor and out the door. With his departure, Varro and Martius looked at each other, sharing the same thought: Was it possible, as Agrippa had suggested, that Jesus of Nazareth had fabricated his own death?

Caesarea Philippi, Capital or the Tetrarchy of Trachonitis.
March, A.D. 71

The two Romans lay naked but for a coat of thick gray mud. After working up a sweat tossing around a medicine ball, Varro and Martius had progressed through the Caesarea Philippi bathhouse’s three baths, ice cold, tepid, and steaming hot, then stretched out on tables, side by side, face down, while slaves fastidiously coated them with mud before dragging it off again with scrapers of sharp-edged animal bone.

“Where is Crispus?” Varro asked as they lay there undergoing the uncomfortable treatment. “I expected to see him here at the baths. He mustn’t be allowed to hide away.”

“I had him escort your man Callidus,” Martius replied. Varro had that morning instructed Callidus to post notices throughout the city asking anyone with knowledge of the circumstances surrounding the death of Jesus of Nazareth at Jerusalem during the reign of Tiberius Caesar to come forward. According to the Lucius Letter, the Nazarene and his chief followers had come to Caesarea Philippi and other towns of the area in search of converts, so there was a chance that someone here might have useful information. “Besides, Crispus has no need of the bathhouse.” There was amusement in Martius’ voice. “He informs me he took a dip in the Jordan River this morning.”

“In the Jordan River?” said Varro, surprised. “Can he swim?”

Martius shrugged. “He probably neither knows his letters nor how to swim, as the saying goes.”

“But, why take a dip in the river?”

“The Jews seem to think the waters of the Jordan have certain powers.” Martius smirked. “I asked lover boy if he thought his dip might wash away his sins.”

Varro frowned. “Crispus’ misjudgment on the road here is in the past, Marcus,” he said disapprovingly. “Let him be.”

“As you wish,” the tribune responded, smiling still.

Varro now became aware of his chief slave standing near. “What is it, Hostilis?”

“Master, Bostar, Chamberlain to Her Majesty Queen Berenice seeks a word,” the slave advised. Roman bathhouses were common places for business and social meetings.

“Very well, send him to me,” Varro responded, and Hostilis withdrew.

“Can
you
swim, Julius?” said Martius as the slaves continued the mud treatment.

“A little. My nurse felt I should. And you?”

Martius shook his head. “Like most Romans, I can only tolerate water in the bathhouse. As for sea voyages, they leave me cold.” He was thoughtful for a moment. “Did you know that Gaius Julius Caesar saved himself during a battle against the Alexandrians by swimming to safety, after his own men capsized his boat?”

Varro nodded. “I have read his
Commentaries
.” Varro was not as avid a student of military history as the tribune, but, like his colleague, he had been schooled on the campaigns of Julius Caesar. “Not that I necessarily believe it. He must have been in full armor at the time; he would surely have sunk like a stone.”

Martius laughed. “Shameless, outspoken, and questioning. I do believe you have the makings of a first class Cynic, my friend.”

Shortly after, the tall, bony eunuch Bostar approached, clad in a saffron-colored robe and adorned with a necklace of gold. His shaven head glistened with perspiration.

“Greetings, Bostar,” said Varro from the scraper’s table.

Bostar bowed. “I bring greetings from Her Majesty Queen Berenice,” he said formally, in Greek, as he straightened, without looking at the nude questor. His voice was nasally, almost comic. “Her Majesty bids you dine with her tonight at her palace.”

The questor glanced at Martius. “Just myself?” he asked, with a hint of concern in his voice. Varro knew that the queen was reputedly a fabulous beauty and temptress, that she had been married three times, and that she had been the mistress of Titus, the emperor’s son, for the past four years.

“Yourself, Tribune Martius, and Prefect Crispus, my lord,” Bostar replied.

“Ah.” Varro was relieved. The idea of a lone tryst with the queen had been a worrying one. For one thing he did not consider himself in Titus’ league. “Not to Tribune Venerius?” he asked. “He too is a Roman knight, Bostar.”

“No, my lord, the invitation is extended to you three alone. It does not include Gaius Licinius Venerius.”

Varro could not imagine why Venerius was excluded, not that it mattered. “Of course, my colleagues and I shall be pleased to accept Her Majesty’s kind invitation.”

“I shall inform Her Majesty.” Now Bostar dropped his eyes, and his formality. “If I may say, questor, Her Majesty has been very low since my lord Titus departed. It will be a tonic for her to have Roman officers to dine.” He looked Martius’ way. “Especially officers who fought alongside Titus Vespasianus.” His narrow eyes flashed back to Varro. “Might it be possible for your lordship to provide some form of entertainment at the banquet? Her Majesty needs cheering.”

“Entertainment? What manner of entertainment, Bostar?”

“Her Majesty has cultivated tastes.”

“I see…” Varro had an idea. “Yes, of course. Prefect Crispus is an accomplished poet, and has published extensively. He shall recite for the queen.”

The eunuch’s stone features gave way to a wide smile. “That would be most acceptable, my lord. Most acceptable indeed. We must make every effort to help Her Majesty take her mind off her troubles.”

Queen Berenice’s palace was adjacent to that of her brother Agrippa. It was a deferential distance down the slope, but just as elegant, just as Roman. Like Agrippa, Berenice had Jewish roots and Roman tastes. Like Agrippa too, she had been an astute political player, often interceding with the Roman procurators in Judea on behalf of the province s Jews in the frequent disputes which arose between Jewish and gentile residents and between the Jews and the Roman authorities, yet always remaining faithful to Rome. Both Agrippa and she had kept a palace at Jerusalem, and had frequently gone there. Now, like Jerusalem as a whole, the royal couple’s Jerusalem palaces had gone to dust.

On their arrival at the queen’s winter residence, Varro and his three companions were ushered into a dining hall which had as its centerpiece a pool spread with yellow pond lilies. The vast room’s walls were decorated with murals depicting rural and agricultural scenes. Three dining couches of solid gold were arranged in the traditional ‘U’ around a low square table. A female
chorus, anonymous behind stage masks, occupied a balcony overlooking the hall, delivering austere Greek songs without accompaniment, their voices echoing around the tall walls and marble columns. At the door the Roman officers were met by a flock of servants, all female, and all modestly attired. As was the custom in homes rich and poor throughout the Roman world, the women removed the men’s footwear, then washed their feet and provided slippers.

Varro deliberately ignored the servants as they performed the chore—it was considered equally embarrassing to both slave and visitor for one to look the other in the eye. For his dignity and the servants’ comfort the questor chatted with his companions as if the slaves did not exist.

Once one slave girl had completed this task, another, more senior female slave came to the questor and took his hand, to lead him to his place at the banquet table. For a moment, as he placed his hand in hers, the eyes of Roman knight and slave met, and Varro was hit by the striking beauty of the girl. It was more than the fact that he had not seen a woman without a veil for weeks, not since he had last visited Octavia at her father’s Antioch house. This slave girl was seriously arresting. Her smooth olive skin seemed to glow. Her jet black hair, plaited and wound around the top of the head in the style of a Roman matron, shone with vitality. She had the perfectly proportioned face of a goddess, and capacious eyes which dragged Varro in like the net of a fisherman. And then she smiled. The affect left him almost breathless. It was the strangest feeling, unlike anything he had ever before experienced.

Never having been able to determine a woman’s age with any accuracy, he could not be sure whether she was a teenager or in her twenties. Bedazzled, he allowed himself to be led by her to one of the dining couches, to the honored position on the left, beside the low fulcrum. There, she let go of his hand. In that parting of the hands it was if sparks flew. She then handed him a napkin, which he accepted dazedly. Lying down beside the head of the couch and resting his left elbow on a cushion, he watched her move away, his head turning to follow her as she glided past the ornamental pool to the end of the hall.

“One must give all credit to the queen,” said Martius as he reclined beside Varro, having been led to his place by another exotic Eastern beauty, “her taste in maidservants cannot be faulted. These women are a feast for the eyes. Would you not say so, Julius?”

“You said something?” said Varro, reluctantly looking around to Martius.

“Comely beauties, Julius,” Martius said with a wink. “Berenice surrounds herself with comely beauties.”

“Yes.” Varro nodded. “Beauties.”

“I wonder if the queen herself is as beautiful as they say,” said Crispus in a half whisper as he took his place beside Martius. He also secretly wondered whether the queen would like his poetry. He had chosen what he considered to be his eight best shorter works to recite tonight as the Romans’ contribution to the evening’s entertainment, pieces he knew by heart. All on the theme of love.

“I hear she is in her forties,” said Martius. “Past her best, one would expect.”

As he spoke, curtains at the far end of the room parted, and a slim, elegant woman swept into the hall, a shimmering gown of golden thread trailing behind her. Maidservants trotted in her wake, concerned with the train of the dress, and Bostar the chamberlain followed close behind. The three Romans quickly came to their feet.

“Good evening, my lords,” said Queen Berenice as she reached the central couch. “I cannot tell you how happy I am that you were able to dine with me. We see so few Roman knights.” With the maidservants fussing over the spread of her dress, she reclined on the central couch.

Berenice was forty-three years of age. She had two sons in their twenties, fathered by her
second husband, the late King Herod of Chalcis in Greece. Yet, she looked barely out of her twenties herself, with soft, pampered skin, and not a wrinkle or imperfection to be seen. The secret of her faultless complexion was rumored to be Canopus ointment, from a town in Egypt famous over centuries for producing an oil for embalming and preserving the dead. Her eyes were the queen’s crowning glory. They were huge, like dishes, and dominated her face, drawing the viewer’s attention away from the fact that her nose was a little over long in comparison to the rest of her face. And when she smiled, as she did now, so beguilingly, it was as if the entire room lit up. In those first few moments, as they soaked in Queen Berenice’s radiance, Varro and his companions knew why Titus had fallen for a woman thirteen years his senior.

“It gives my colleagues and myself great pleasure to be able to take advantage of your invitation, Your Majesty,” said Varro.

“Then, we should all have a jolly time, questor,” said Berenice breezily as she made herself comfortable and the maidservants retired. She waved for her guests to resume their places, and as they returned to the prone position Bostar reclined alone on the third couch.

Food and wine was now delivered to the table in relays of slaves from the palace kitchens, and the three slaves who had escorted the Romans from the door on their arrival reappeared, each to become a personal servant to the man she had placed, to attend to his every need throughout the meal. So it was that the beauty who had led Varro to his place, the girl with the magnetic eyes, became his silent accomplice for the evening. Varro could not take his eyes from her as she now brought a plate of purple damask plums and held the fruit in front of him.

“I believe, Marcus Metellus Martius, that you were with Titus Vespasianus when he fought the rebels at Taricheae,” said the queen as she nibbled a date.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Martius returned, taking a plum. “I served him during the battles for both Taricheae and Tiberias.”

“Were you with him when he suffered his wound?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. I was standing close by; no more than the distance between Chamberlain Bostar and myself now.”

“It was a stone, I believe. He would not tell me anything of it. I only know that it left his arm a little weakened.”

“Yes, Your Majesty, it was a stone, launched from a rebel catapult on the city walls. A missile about the size of your hand.” He glanced at her hands, and, noting that they were dainty, added, “Or more the size of mine.” He held up his right hand in a fist. “It hit him here…” Now he touched the biceps of his left arm. “On the unprotected arm. The blow was enough to knock him from his feet. We all ran to him, but he quickly picked himself up again, sending away the physicians and telling us all to pay attention to ourselves. Not a word of complaint did we hear from him, then, or later.”

“He is not one to complain,” Berenice said, her voice full of affection and pride.

“Your Majesty must be missing my lord Titus,” said Martius, “now that he is returning to Rome.”

Varro jabbed his companion in the ribs. It was obvious that Berenice was pining for her lover, but it was insensitive to remind the queen of the fact that Titus was on the way back to Rome, leaving her behind here in the East.

“My lord Titus’ presence brightened all our days,” Bostar interjected diplomatically.

“Yes, brightened all our days,” the queen echoed sadly.

“We enjoyed dining with your brother, King Herod Agrippa, last evening, Your Majesty,” said Varro, quickly trying to change the subject, and trying to maintain his focus on the
conversation and ignore the beautiful girl who hovered so close to him at times that he could almost drink the rich perfume which wafted from her skin.

“I understand that you asked my brother about Jesus of Nazareth, questor,” said the queen.

“Indeed I did, Your Majesty. Acting Governor Collega has commissioned me to undertake an investigation into the circumstances surrounding the death of the Nazarene.”

“So I understand.” Her eyes flashed momentarily to Bostar, betraying the fact that her chamberlain was the source of information about the Romans and their quest.