The Inquest Read online

  For as much as many have taken in hand to put in writing an ordered declaration of those things which are most surely believed among us, and even though those who originally delivered these things to us were eyewitnesses of the events and ministers of the word, it seemed good to me as well, having had a perfect understanding of all these things from the beginning, to write to you, in order, most excellent Theophilus, that you might have no doubt about these things that you have been taught.

  There was in the days of Herod, the King of Judea, a certain priest named Zecharias…

  III

  THE TRIBUNE AND THE PREFECT

  Antioch, Capital of the Roman Province or Syria.

  March, A.D. 71

  With a purple-bordered white cloak flowing behind him like a flag in the wind and the sun glinting on his armor, military tribune Marcus Metellus Martius strode forward. Crossing the elliptical equestrian yard in the gladiatorial barracks complex with long, muscular strides, there was a smile on his face, his hand was outstretched. “So, Julius Varro, you and I are to be companions on an adventure in the south,” he said, firmly clasping Varro’s right hand. His voice was deep, his delivery measured. Martius was second in command of the 4th Scythica Legion, Collega’s legion. The unit was based to the east of Antioch at Zeugma on the Euphrates River, facing the Parthian Empire, Rome’s long-term enemy. Collega had assigned the tribune to the Nazarene enterprise, as Varro’s deputy and commander of the expedition’s military contingent.

  For several minutes the questor had been watching Martius exercising on horseback in the small arena, launching javelins from the back of a fast-moving horse with round wooden shields just the breadth of a man’s hand for targets. Martius had not missed a single target. Now, as the tribune’s groom led away his horse, Varro returned Martius’ handshake with enthusiasm. “An adventure in the south?” said Varro. “So it would seem, Marcus. I shall be glad of your strong sword arm.”

  The broad-shouldered, twenty-nine-year-old tribune was a little taller than Varro, with a strong oval face and thick brown hair. His eyes were a piercing blue. “I’ll gladly play Hercules to your Apollo. What will be the chances of a little action, do you think?”

  “According to the most recent reports there are still pockets of Jewish resistance in southern Judea. Still, I would have thought you had seen enough action for the time being.” Varro and Martius had been friends ever since both served as prefects of auxiliary units on the Rhine almost a decade earlier. Varro knew that Martius had fought alongside Titus in hectic Galilee battles early in Vespasian’s offensive to put down the bloody Jewish Revolt, coming out of the campaign with Titus’ praise, a Jewish arrowhead embedded in his thigh, and promotion to tribune of the 4th Scythica Legion in Syria.

  “There is never enough action for Marcus Martius,” the tribune returned with a boyish grin. “Are you going to the baths? I’ll walk with you.” The pair strolled side by side from the arena and into the labyrinth of buildings which made up the Antioch gladiatorial barracks complex. Callidus, Varro’s freedman, fell in behind them. From close by came the sounds of gladiators going through their paces in combat exercises, their trainers bawling insults at them in language salted with curses. “So, Julius,” said Martius as they walked, “you make your home in a gladiator’s barrack now?”

  “Since the fire, the choice of accommodation has been limited.”

  “Yes, the fire. We heard about it out at Zeugma of course, but seeing the damage for myself when I arrived in the city this morning, it was a shock, seeing the center of Antioch in ruins. You apprehended the culprits, so I hear.”

  Varro nodded. “A pair of greedy merchants: Priscus and Plancus. Some people were ready to condemn half the Jews of Antioch for the crime, but the evidence led us to the merchants.”

  “The word is that it was a clever questor, not the evidence, which made the difference,” said the tribune with a wink.

  Varro shrugged. “I merely asked myself who stood to gain from the fire, and pursued my inquiries accordingly.”

  Martius was smiling. “A modest questor, too, it would seem. What led you to the merchants?”

  “Well, I first became suspicious of Priscus when I learned that he had been celebrating ever since the fire. Here was a merchant who had supposedly lost most of his stock in the blaze, and he was leading a life of revelry. I sent my freedmen around the city asking questions about the high-living merchant, and in time they learned that Priscus and his friend Plancus had removed all their stock from the Foursquare Market and stored it in a warehouse on the river, just days before the fire. Ultimately, their slaves gave them up; they confessed everything.”

  “What did the merchants hope to gain?”

  “It transpired that Priscus and Plancus were hugely in debt. So they conceived a plan between them to rid themselves of their creditors. They had their slaves set the fire in a section of the market which backed onto the city archives, and laid a trail of pitch all the way to the archives itself.”

  “What was the attraction of the archives?”

  “The building contained the records of every debt the merchants owed. Once the fire had swept through the records, Priscus and Plancus were debt free.”

  “Of course!” Martius threw back his head and laughed heartily.

  “Had Priscus not wined and dined his way into my sights,” said Varro soberly, “the pair might have evaded suspicion, and retained their heads.”

  “Not even Mercury will protect a felonious merchant. And now we go to Galilee and Judea to investigate a criminal of a different color. What do we know of this Nazarene? What was he? Nobleman? Slave? Priest? What was his crime?”

  “A wandering priest of sorts,” said Varro, “leader of an obscure Jewish sect, crucified for sedition. We have a letter written by one of his followers, Lucius, a physician, telling us something of the arrest, trial, and execution of the Nazarene. In addition, my man Callidus has questioned some of the Nazarene’s followers here in the city. They are a smug lot, he tells me, and make no attempt to hide their affiliation with the group.” He glanced over his shoulder to the freedman walking in his shadow. “Is that not so, Callidus?”

  “Yes, my lord,” Callidus came back. “Very smug. As if they are in possession of some special secret. They are despised by other Jews, for they introduce non Jews into their ranks. They even claim that one of the Nazarene’s followers, a fellow by the name of Cephas, converted a retired Roman centurion into their sect.”

  “I find that difficult to believe,” remarked a skeptical Martius. “A centurion?”

  “They said the centurions name was Cornelius, my lord,” said Callidus, “and he had come out of the 1st Legion on the Rhine to live in his retirement at Caesarea. They claim he later went into Asia to try to win more followers for the Nazarene. He went with Paulus of Tarsus, a Jew who first introduced the Nazarenes philosophy to Antioch.”

  “A Roman centurion would have more sense,” Martius gave a dismissive snort.

  “Tell the tribune what you learned about the subject of the inquiry from the Nazarene’s followers, Callidus,” Varro instructed.

  “Yes, my lord. This Jesus fellow, whose name in Aramaic was Yehoshua, or Joshua as we would say in Latin, was unmarried, and had four brothers and several sisters. His brother Jacob took on the leadership of the sect at Jerusalem following the Nazarene’s execution, but he was stoned to death by the Jewish authorities some time during the procuratorship of Lucceius Albinus…”

  Martius was nodding as Callidus droned on, but he was not taking in the details. Varro was the detail man, Martius was a soldier, a career soldier, and all that interested him was soldierly subjects.

  “The Nazarene was thirty-five years of age when he was crucified…”

  “When was this, Julius?” Martius interrupted the freedman.

  “In the latter part of the reign of Tiberius Caesar,” Varro answered.

  “So, we have to pick up a trail that is perhaps forty years old?”
Martius commented, raising his eyebrows.

  Varro nodded. “The witnesses to the events in question are probably dead, of old age, or else they perished during the Jewish uprising.” He sighed unhappily. “This will not be an easy task, Marcus. The crux of the matter is a claim by the Nazarene’s followers that the man rose from the dead two days after his execution, before disappearing. A claim I must disprove to Collega’s satisfaction.”

  “What? Rose from the dead?” Martius roared with laughter. “Not a difficult thing to disprove, I should have thought, Julius, my friend. Since it is physically impossible!”

  “Evidence, Marcus,” Varro glumly replied. “It will take evidence to destroy the myth that has grown around this man, indisputable evidence.”

  “So, do the Nazarene’s followers claim he still lives? Can we not arrest him and question him? Torture a confession out of him?”

  Varro shook his head. “The body disappeared, shortly after the execution. He has never been seen since.”

  “All very convenient. So, we’re looking for grave robbers?”

  “I suspect the evidence that General Collega requires is simply no longer there to be found. I didn’t ask for this assignment, and now I fear I will fail to come back with the proof that Collega requires. As the Spanish say, sent for wool, I will come back shorn.”

  Again the tribune laughed heartily. Then he looked at Varro. “You need evidence, you say?” He winked at his friend. “Invent it, Julius. Invent it!”

  Now it was Varro’s turn to laugh.

  “I could have extracted evidence from the Nazarenes I questioned, my lord,” Callidus then declared. “Had you permitted me to loosen their tongues my own way.”

  “A non-productive exercise, as I have told you, Callidus,” Varro returned, a little impatient with the freedman’s forthrightness. “These people, who told you they never even laid eyes on the Nazarene when he was alive, will send word to their people in the south, warning them that a Roman questor is asking questions about the Nazarene. If you were one of these people and word were to reach you that the questor was applying torture to Nazarenes, would you not go into hiding?”

  “Well, yes, I suppose so, my lord,” Callidus begrudgingly agreed.

  “That is why your master is the questor and you are the freedman, my dim witted fellow,” Martius scolded him. “Manumission relieved you of the bonds of slavery, not the bonds of stupidity.”

  Callidus did not reply. He was not well disposed toward the questor’s new deputy.

  As the trio reached the entrance to the barracks bathhouse, a tall, gangly officer in a white cloak and wearing a long cavalry sword on his left hip came marching deliberately toward them. As he drew nearer, the officer removed his helmet and slipped it under his left arm, revealing a delicately featured visage and a head of golden curls.

  “Here’s a new face,” said Martius.

  “My new cavalry commander, I think,” said Varro. “Greetings, friend.”

  The blond reached out his right hand to Varro, smiling. “Quintus Cornelius Crispus, Prefect of Horse,” he cheerily announced.

  “Julius Terentius Varro,” said the questor, returning the handshake. “Welcome, Crispus. You have brought my cavalry contingent?”

  The twenty-five-year-old prefect nodded. “With Decurion Pompieus and thirty troopers of the Vettonian Horse, reporting for duty on the questor’s mission to Galilee and Judea, as ordered by General Collega.”

  “Very good. This is Tribune Marcus Metellus Martius, your immediate superior.”

  “Tribune.” Still smiling, Crispus held out his hand to Martius.

  Scowling, Martius briefly took his hand. “You are new to Syria, prefect?”

  “I landed at Laodicea from Rome two weeks ago, tribune.”

  “A green apple,” Martius growled malevolently. “Where were you previously, Crispus? With which unit?”

  Crispus swallowed hard. “The Second Wing of the Egyptian Horse, in Macedonia, my lord.”

  “Egyptians! Macedonia? Not exactly a hotbed of action, is it, prefect?”

  “Er, no, tribune,” Crispus conceded. As the blood drained from his face and the enthusiasm drained from his spirit, and seeing Callidus smirking at him, he turned to the questor for support. “My lord, I, er…”

  “We march at dawn the day after tomorrow, Crispus. Have your men ready.”

  “Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord. My men are ready now, my lord,” he gushed, eager to please the questor.

  “The day after tomorrow will suffice,” Varro returned.

  “Egyptians? Macedonia?” Martius grumbled to himself, beginning to ascend steps to the bathhouse door.

  Crispus fell in beside Varro, as the questor also began to climb the steps, and Callidus brought up the rear.

  “Would a fellow have much chance of writing a little poetry on this assignment, do you think my lord?” Crispus asked.

  “Poetry!” Martius bellowed in front, spinning around to face the others as they came up. “Did you say poetry, prefect?”

  “Er, yes, tribune.” A fearful Crispus quickly turned to Varro. “I have published an amount of verse, my lord. My friend the noted poet Statius says that my work shows great promise. I had thought, with the Jewish business all but dealt with, there could be a lull or two during this expedition when I might be able to put pen to paper. I had hoped to use the journey out from Rome to advantage, but I am not a good sailor, and composing verse aboard a tossing merchantman is no easy feat.”

  “I can imagine,” Varro responded with an amused smile.

  “Poetry!” Martius exclaimed again. “If we do strike trouble in the south, Crispus, you can use that cavalry sword of yours to decapitate a few rebels with poetic flourish! Will that suit you?”

  Crispus smiled weakly. “Yes, tribune.”

  Martius turned and continued in through the bathhouse door. “Poetry!” he spat.

  Crispus looked at Varro with a plaintive expression.

  “You will find the tribune a harsh critic but a firm friend, Crispus,” Varro assured the prefect. “We can count ourselves lucky that he is going with us.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Crispus responded without conviction.

  Varro continued on up the steps. He sympathized with the young prefect; they could not all be dashing heroes like Martius, and to his mind Rome needed her writers as much as she needed her fighters. Just the same, knowing that he would have his friend Martius as his strong right hand made him feel a little better about undertaking this difficult mission. Only that morning Collega had informed him that he had accepted the offer made by Antiochus and was assigning the Jewish magistrate to Varro’s expedition as his interpreter. Collega was also sending along his secretary Pythagoras, supposedly to help Varro write his report about the death of the Nazarene, even though Varro had a perfectly capable secretary, Artimedes. But Varro knew Pythagoras’ brief would be to keep a covert eye on the questor and report back secretly to Collega in Antioch.

  IV

  AN IMPOSSIBLE MISSION

  Antioch, Capital of the Roman Province or Syria. March, A.D. 71

  ‘Come at once,’ said the message summoning Varro to the governor’s mansion on the eve of the expedition’s departure. The questor found his commander playing dice with six freedmen and a youth who looked vaguely familiar to Varro. Collega was never happier than when he was eating or when he was winning at dice.

  “Ah, questor,” said the smiling Collega, turning on the stool where he sat before the gaming table with the fritillus, the dice box, in hand. “Just one more throw,” he said, shaking the box. With a jerk of the hand he cast a pair of dice onto the wooden gaming board. All eyes watched the ivory cubes tumble and roll to a standstill. Leaning forward to read each die, Collega roared with delight. “I win!” At the same time, his companions threw up their hands and groaned with despair. “Par duplex! Double evens!” Collega gloated. “Pay up, all of you.”

  As the other players dug into purses, Collega came to
his feet. Briefly he winced with pain and put a hand to his lower back. “The old back problem,” he said in explanation to Varro. “It is nothing.” Then, looping his arm up over the taller Varro’s shoulder, he steered him across the room, to stand in an open doorway looking out from a small balcony over a sunken garden decorated with exquisite topiary. Below, water cascaded into a circular pool. The aromas of lush perfumes wafted up from the greenery.

  “You depart on the Nazarene mission tomorrow, Varro?” the general asked. It was a rhetorical question; Collega was intimately acquainted with all the details.

  “At dawn, my lord,” Varro returned.

  “Good, good. I have arranged for a physician to join your party. You may need a medical man where you are going.”

  “Thank you, my lord. That physician would be…?”

  “Diocles, the Corinthian. A very experienced and able man.”

  “Ah, Diocles,” Varro responded. Apparently Collega had forgotten that this was the same Diocles he had labeled an incurable drunkard, the same physician whose judgment he had called into question. But Varro could not say as much, could only graciously accept the doctor’s appointment even though he suspected the general was only trying to rid himself of Diocles. “Thank you, my lord.”

  “I also have another military officer for you.” Collega beckoned the young man who had been a spectator to the dice game.

  The youngster slowly rose up from the gaming table and strolled to join the pair. Wearing an expensive multi-colored tunic, and, on his left hand, the gold ring of a member of the Equestrian Order, he was a handsome boy of eighteen, with rosy cheeks, soft skin, and black hair cut in a severe fringe.

  “Questor, this is Gaius Licinius Venerius,” the general said in introduction, “the scion of a distinguished family.”