The Inquest (21 page)

“The gods of the underworld are not happy with us!” one man called.

“Pluto is punishing us!” cried another.

“Why would Pluto be punishing you, soldier?” Martius responded.

“For going to Jerusalem, tribune,” came the reply.

“We are being warned not to go to Jerusalem,” said another.

“The place is stained with the blood of Roman soldiers,” someone else called.

“Might not the gods simply be reminding us of their power?” said Martius.

“How so, tribune?” a soldier came back.

“Think about it. It was not so long ago that the Jews celebrated their Passover Festival at Jerusalem at this time of year, flocking to their Temple from around the world to pay homage to their lone god. Yet now, there is no Temple. Why? Because the soldiers of Rome razed it to the ground.”

“He’s right,” came a rank and file voice. “The legions destroyed Jerusalem.”

“Where do they celebrate their Passover now?” said another, with mirth in his voice, catching the sudden change of mood.

“In Hades!” someone said, bringing a chorus of laughter.

“The gods are not warning us away from Jerusalem, tribune?” called a doubter.

“The gods were only reminding you that the soldiers of Rome have destroyed the heathen Temple and changed the lives of the Jews forever,” Martius responded. “Believe me, you men can march into Jerusalem without fear, and proud to be legionaries of Rome, the finest soldiers that the world has ever seen! You are the rulers of the world!”

This brought a boisterous, resounding cheer from the soldiers.

“You heard the tribune,” said Gallo, now striding into their midst. “Fall in!

Without further comment the men began to file into their infantry squads and cavalry troops and form up in neat formation, as others hurried from throughout the camp to do the same. While Martius had been marshalling the men, Varro had emerged from his tent, and as his staff joined him he had listened with an approving smile to the way the tribune had handled the situation. Now Martius saw him, and yielded the tribunal.

As Varro went to step up, Callidus slid in beside him. “Could it be that it was Pluto you saw in your dream, my lord?” he asked. “In his chariot. To my mind there is a considerable possibility that you were being forewarned of tonight’s events.”

“Possibly so, Callidus,” Varro replied. In reality, the figure in his dream looked nothing like the image of Pluto with which all Romans were familiar, and the horses drawing the chariot in the dream had not been winged like Pluto’s steeds. Varro had by this time come to the conclusion that his dreams had a life of their own and did not warrant either explanation or divination. He climbed up onto the tribunal. “By the end of this watch I want full and accurate reports concerning the injuries and damage caused by the earth tremors,” he announced to the assembled troops. “Now that we are all awake, we shall remain on our feet and make all necessary repairs. I want to be able to march at dawn. If there is another tremor in the meantime, I expect you all to act like the soldiers you are. Centurion Gallo, you may dismiss the men.”

Varro stood looking at the crevice which cut across the road at an angle. To continue east, to reach Jerusalem, the column had to cross this divide.

With daylight, the column had begun to move again, none the worse for wear after the earth tremors. Two men had been injured when the guard tower came down. Until they recovered, they would ride in a cart. All other personnel were fit and well, including Miriam and Gemara—as
Varro had been quick to ascertain during the night.

Now, just ten minutes march from the camp site, the column was stationary, as Varro and his officers and officials studied the gap which the tremors had opened up in their path, at a point where the road had been carved from the side of a slope, with an almost sheer drop, a hundred feet or more, to the valley below. Small crevices had also opened in the roadway, but the largest posed the problem. The fissure was five feet wide at its narrowest, ten at its broadest. A man and a galloping horse might hurdle the gap, but pack animals and baggage carts were a different matter.

“Bridge the gap,” Varro ordered.

Timber carried on the carts for temporary camp gates and towers was quickly recycled, and within an hour a narrow bridge spanned the gap in the road. The infantry crossed with ease. Some pack mules were nervous, and they unsettled their companions, so the mules were left to last, to be taken across singly. The carts were dragged over the bridge, unhitched from their mules and manhandled by teams of legionaries while Varro and his mounted companions watched from the western side of the gap.

As the first of the mules were being led across, blindfolded, there was a sudden cry of alarm from behind the questor. Varro turned, to see muleteers and slaves rushing to the edge of the road and looking over the precipice, down into the ravine below.

“The slave girl, and the child,” someone called. “They have gone over the side!”

With pounding heart, Varro rapidly dismounted and pushed through the throng at the edge of the road.

“I am leading up their mule, my lord,” a white-faced Syrian mule driver hurried to explain. “Before I can stop it, the stupid animal goes and put its foot in one of the holes in the road. It topples over. I hear its leg crack. It goes over the side, and it takes the two females with it. Just like that! There was nothing I could do to prevent it, my lord! It was not my fault. I swear to Baal…!”

Dreading what he would discover, Varro looked over the side of the precipice. Then he saw Miriam and Gemara. They had landed on a ledge some fifteen feet down the slope. The mule they had been sharing had not been so lucky. It had bounced from the ledge and fallen all the way to the bottom of the hundred foot drop. Its shattered body lay on the rocks below.

“Are you hurt?” Varro called down to the pair on the ledge. As he spoke, Martius appeared beside him.

Miriam had picked herself up and dusted down her simple white belted gown. Her headpiece and veil had gone the way of the mule. Her silky black hair cascading over her shoulders swayed as she shook her head in answer. Again Varro was taken by her beauty. Pulling Gemara to her, she looked dazedly up at the faces peering over the edge of the roadway at the pair.

“Any bones broken?” Martius called, echoing Varro’s concern.

Again Miriam shook her head.

“Neither of them appear to be injured,” said Varro, “just shaken.”

“Leave them there,” came a voice from behind Varro.

The questor recognized the voice, and swung to see Antiochus sitting on his horse among a group of riders behind the anxious crowd. “What did you say?” Varro called.

“Tell them to ask their God to save them,” said Antiochus.

This brought a cackle of laughter from Venerius, mounted close by.

“Get down!” Gallo ordered, striving to rein in his anger. “You too, Venerius! Get down, the pair of you. You can help retrieve the females.”

Venerius’ smile disappeared, and he quickly dismounted, but Antiochus did not move, just remained in his saddle, glaring at Varro. The questor glared back.

“I would not put
my
life in the hands of either Antiochus or Venerius,” Martius growled. “I will go down after the females.”

“Very well,” Varro conceded.

The tribune called for Centurion Gallo and gave orders for a length of strong rope to be brought from the baggage train. When the rope arrived, Martius tied it around the two front horns of the saddle on Gallo’s horse. He tied the other end around his waist. With Gallo in charge of the horse, the tribune went over the side of the precipice. As the centurion carefully eased the horse back a step at a time, reassuring it with pats and a soft voice, Martius was lowered to the ledge. There, he removed the rope from his waist and tied it around Gemara. Then, with Varro telling Gallo when to start easing his horse forward and when to stop, the child was hauled back up the road.

A cheer rose up from the soldiers and civilians lining the edge of the road. Varro realized that all other work had ceased while everyone watched the rescue operation, and he now ordered Crispus to supervise the resumption of movement across the bridge. Then he sent the rope back down to the ledge, where Martius and Miriam stood side by side. Miriam was brought up next, and finally Martius was hauled up. Varro then called on Diocles to examine the females for injuries. The doctor dismounted and briefly examined Miriam and Gemara, pronouncing them uninjured but for grazes and bruises, for which his assistants ran to fetch ointments on the questor’s instructions.

After ordering the non-combatants to take their turns crossing the bridge, Varro looked to the waiting horsemen. “I told you before, Antiochus,” he called. “Get down!”

Antiochus did not reply. He folded his arms. Tired of taking orders from Julius Varro, and having worked to establish cordial relations with the junior tribune Venerius, nephew of the all powerful Mucianus, as Callidus had warned his master, Antiochus had been preparing for this confrontation.

“Get down now!” Varro ordered. “Give up your horse to the women.”

“Have you taken leave of your senses?” Antiochus retorted. “Put them on another mule, or a spare cavalry horse. General Collega and Licinius Mucianus…”

“Neither General Collega nor Licinius Mucianus commands here,” Varro resolutely came back. “I do! Give up your horse, Antiochus.”

“You are talking about a slave. Have you forgotten that I am a magistrate?”

“Get down,
magistrate
, and give up your animal.”

Antiochus continued to ignore his order.

“I will not tell you again!” Varro barked.

“I will write in the most censorious terms to General Collega, to Licinius…”

“Get down!” boomed a deep, dark voice, the voice of Columbus, Antiochus’ massive Numidian guardian. His role had been to be unobtrusive but alert, and now, sitting on a large horse behind the Jewish magistrate, he edged closer. “You heard the questor. Get down now, or I will knock you down!”

Antiochus looked at the former gladiator, and realized that he meant every word. Fuming, the Jew slowly swung one leg over the horn of his saddle, then slipped to the ground. Columbus also dismounted, and took the reins of Antiochus’ steed.

Varro turned to Miriam. “The horse is yours,” he said.

“I don’t want his horse,” she replied.

Varro did not care what she wanted. “Columbus, put her up, and the child.”

Columbus wrapped one gigantic arm around the girl. As he lifted her off her feet, Pedius the lictor, who had been caring for Gemara since her rescue, stepped up and helped the Numidian place Miriam in the saddle. Between them, the pair then lifted up little Gemara and set her on the back of the horse behind Miriam.

“Now what am I supposed to ride?” Antiochus whined.

“For your insubordination, you should walk.”

“Walk! Me?”

“Callidus, bring a mule for the Jewish magistrate.” The questor strode to his horse, and the waiting Hostilis boosted him up into the saddle. “Now, all of you,” Varro called, “attend to the business at hand. Too much time has already been wasted.”

Emmaus Roman Province or Judea. April, A.D. 71

The flaccid Greek, an apprehensive, balding man, entered the tent and stood at the open end of the table in front of the questor and three of his officers. Aged in his sixties, he was pudgy and pale. There was a prominent and disfiguring brown mole the size of a sesterce coin on his right cheek. The Varro expedition had camped an Emmaus, which Titus had established as a colony for soldiers of the 15th Apollinaris Legion, veterans of the Jewish Revolt who had gone into retirement following the siege of Jerusalem.

“You are not a former soldier,” Varro said, looking the man up and down. The questor had stood before an assembly of 15th Legion veterans that morning and called on any man who had information about the death of Jesus of Nazareth forty-one years before to seek him out. This pasty-faced specimen did not have the look of a former legionary.

“No, my lord,” said the man apologetically. “My name is Aristarchus. I am a freedman. By profession, a scribe.” The Greek spoke rapidly, in short, nervous bursts. As he did, his eyes roved over the lounging officers, and then moved to the two secretaries waiting at a table with moist wax and glittering stylus at the ready.

“You are a resident of Emmaus, Aristarchus?” Varro asked.

“I am, my lord, having only recently settled here. I serve the veterans. I write their wills and their letters, and certify their bills of sale. Previously, I was at Caesarea.”

“You have information for me?”

“I do, my lord. I heard that you sought information. In relation to a Jew. A Jesus of Nazareth. About his execution, during the tenure of Pontius Pilatus.”

“You are looking for a reward, fellow?” Marcus Martius asked suspiciously.

Aristarchus shrugged. “A hardworking tradesman would never say no to a little coin in hand, my lord. However, if the questor were to make it known, among the veterans of the 15th, that Aristarchus the scribe had been of service to him…The questor’s endorsement would be of inestimable value.”

“You shall have your endorsement, and cash in hand besides, if your information proves of value,” Varro assured him. He sounded impatient; the questor could not imagine what information a Greek scribe might have that would be helpful to his investigation. “What is your connection with Jesus of Nazareth, if any?”

“Forty-one years ago, I was a slave. In the service of Pontius Pilatus when he was Prefect of Judea.” The questor and his associates were suddenly all ears. “At the time of the execution of this Jesus of Nazareth, I was with Prefect Pilatus at Jerusalem.”

Martius looked at Varro, smiling. “We have to be lucky occasionally, do we not?”

Varro immediately recognized the man’s potential value. “In what capacity were you with Pilatus at Jerusalem at that time?” he asked.

“As an under secretary, my lord. Pilatus brought me out from Rome with him. Diamedes was his chief secretary. However, at the time that Pilatus went up to Jerusalem for the Passover Festival during which this Jesus fellow was executed, Diamedes was ill at Caesarea. I served as the prefect’s secretary during that particular visit to Jerusalem.”

“The secretary Diamedes was ill?” Varro mused. He remembered that Philippus had claimed to have also been prevented by illness from going up to Jerusalem for the Passover in question.
“Was there much sickness in Caesarea at that time?”

“Quite a wave of sickness, my lord. People died. Such an epidemic in the low-lying areas is not uncommon following the winter. It was much healthier in the hills.”

“Tell me about that visit to Jerusalem at the time of the Passover Festival.”

Aristarchus said that he had gone to Jerusalem that year in a party which comprised the prefect, his wife, his household, and several cohorts of the 12th Legion. Pilatus always took reinforcements up to Jerusalem for the Passover. Many Jewish pilgrims went to the city for the festival each year, as many as a million in some years, he estimated. Some, he said, came from as far away as Parthia.

“What do you know of the circumstances surrounding the execution of Jesus of Nazareth?” Varro asked, as he noted the two secretaries dutifully recording proceedings.

“I was present, in the Judgment Hall at Jerusalem, my lord, when Pilatus heard charges against four Jews accused of sedition, in the days leading up to the Passover Festival.” Without prompting, Aristarchus then explained that the Roman Judgment Hall at Jerusalem was at that time located in the Antonia Fortress, beside the Jewish Temple. This hall was called ‘the Pavement’ by the Jews. They had their own Judgment Hall within the Temple complex itself, where they judged matters relating to religious law.

“You said that four rebels were brought before Pilatus?”

“I did, my lord.” The scribe testified that all four had been charged with sedition. All were Jews from Galilee. Roman cavalry had captured them under arms in Galilee, and they were brought to Jerusalem for trial before the Roman prefect. On the Thursday, they were found guilty and condemned to be executed next day.

“What of the fourth prisoner?”

Early on the Friday morning, Aristarchus explained, the fourth man had been brought before Pilatus. He was a Jew like the others, but he was no ordinary outlaw. He had been charged by the High Priest with blasphemy. This prisoner was said to be a holy man from Nazareth, the man known subsequently as Jesus of Nazareth. “He was charged under the name of Joshua bar Josephus,” he said, looking over at Pythagoras. “Joshua bar Josephus,” he repeated for the secretary’s benefit.

“Joshua bar Josephus,” Pythagoras repeated. “I have it.”

Aristarchus continued. Shortly after sunrise, he said, during the first hour, the priests of the Great Sanhedrin had demanded an immediate hearing before the prefect. This was because their holy day would begin at sunset. The chief priests wanted to execute the prisoner at once. They had already found him guilty of transgressing Jewish Law by making blasphemous statements. Aristarchus later heard that the Nazarene had threatened to destroy the Jewish Temple, and then rebuild it again within three days.

“Some threat,” Martius remarked with a smile.

“Some builder,” young Venerius added.

It was also said that the prisoner claimed to be a descendant of Davidus, an ancient King of the Jews, Aristarchus went on, and that he had been sent by their God to reclaim this Davidus’ crown as King of the Jews. He said that when the chief priests brought the prisoner before Prefect Pilatus all they wanted from him was a sanction of their sentence of death by stoning.

“The prefect refused the Great Sanhedrin’s petition?” Varro asked.

Aristarchus nodded. The chief priests were sorely disappointed, he related. Pilatus would have none of their finding. He examined the priests’ witnesses himself, and these men only contradicted each other. With the consequence that Pilatus dismissed the Sanhedrin’s charges
against Jesus. The priests were not at all pleased.”

“Was another charge brought?” Varro asked. “That of bearing arms?”

Aristarchus said that had been the case, and two swords had been presented in evidence. He said that before that occurred, however, after the initial interview with the prisoner at the Judgment Hall, Pilatus sent Jesus to Herod Antipas, the Tetrarch of Galilee. Antipas was at Jerusalem for the Passover and staying at his own palace, a stone’s throw from the Antonia Fortress. This was done partly as a matter of courtesy to Antipas, and partly because of a dream of the prefect’s wife the night before.

“A dream?” Varro knew all about dreams.

Aristarchus revealed that the prefect’s wife held great store in the predictive power of dreams, and the prefect always strove to respect his wife’s wishes. Aristarchus then claimed that Pilatus had confided to him that, as he was leaving the Palace of Herod to attend the hearing at the Judgment Hall, his young wife had urged him not to condemn Jesus. Her dream had warned her against harming a holy man from Nazareth. Antipas had subsequently interviewed the Nazarene, then sent him back to Pilatus with a message to say that he found the man guilty of no crime. The chief priests had been incensed by this, and, soon after, the two swords had been produced by the Captain of the Temple Guard. Testimony was given that one of Jesus’ accomplices had struck and wounded a member of the High Priest’s arresting party. The witness was heavily bandaged. He claimed that his ear had been sliced off by the blow. The Guard captain’s testimony that the prisoner had been found in possession of the two swords had been confirmed by his officers.

“What did the Nazarene say in his defense?” Varro asked.

“Nothing. He spoke barely a word. He offered no testimony to contradict the priests, or the wounded man, or the officers of the Guard. Pilatus had no option. He had to declare the prisoner guilty of sedition. He was not altogether happy about it. I think his wife’s likely reaction weighed heavily on his mind.” But, said the scribe, the evidence had been clear, and as neither the prisoner nor anyone else could or would offer contradictory testimony, Pilatus had no choice but convict him. His wife was unhappy with him afterwards, so Aristarchus later heard. Yet the law had to be upheld. Pilatus sentenced the Nazarene to die that same day with the other condemned men. “I myself wrote the execution warrant, which I then took to the prefect, for him to affix his seal.”

Varro, surprised, clarified the man’s testimony: “You personally wrote the warrant for the execution of Jesus of Nazareth?”

“That I did, questor.” The Greek didn’t consider the fact of importance.

Varro called for Artimedes to produce the warrant found in the archives at Caesarea, and it was presented to Aristarchus. “Is that the warrant written by you?”.

“This seal, the lion’s head, this is Pilatus’ seal, my lord,” Aristarchus said at once, pointing to the yellow wax seal on the reverse bottom edge of the roll of parchment. “Let me consider the warrant itself.” After studying the document at length, he said, “This is the warrant that I wrote. My writing has matured since then. It is however without doubt my penmanship. The certification at the bottom is by Longinus. He was the centurion in charge of the execution.” He returned the warrant to Artimedes.

Instructed by Varro to continue with his testimony, the scribe said that the condemned man had then been taken into the assembly hall of the Antonia, stripped, and bound to a whipping post. The guard maniple was paraded to witness the punishment, and in front of the soldiers he was given thirty-nine powerful strokes with wooden rods, as the law prescribed. After personally witnessing this punishment being exacted, Aristarchus had returned to the Palace of Herod. He
believed that the prisoner would then have been chained to a man of his escort in the usual manner, and, in the second hour, taken out of the city to be executed with the two other condemned men.

Varro frowned. “
Two
other condemned men? You testified that three other men had been sentenced to death. Explain.”

All three of the other men had been prepared for execution, he said. They too had received beatings with rods. They were about to be led down the sixty steps from the Antonia to the street when a pardon was delivered for one of the men. “I know this because it was I who delivered the pardon into the hands of Centurion Longinus.”

“Who was the pardoned man?”

“He was one Joshua bar Abbas, if I remember correctly, a leader of the rebel band of which the other two prisoners were members, the
Sicarii
, the Daggermen.”

When asked why this Bar Abbas had been reprieved, Aristarchus answered that it was in accordance with an arrangement that Prefect Pilatus had come to with the Sanhedrin. Late during the first hour, he said, after the Nazarene had been handed over to Centurion Longinus, Pilatus had summoned him and instructed him to write a pardon in the name of Joshua bar Abbas, which he would endorse at once. The scribe had been careful to clarify that the pardon was for Joshua bar Abbas and not Joshua bar Josephus, then penned the document. Once he had added his seal, the prefect sent Aristarchus to the garrison commander with the pardon. The prisoner Bar Abbas was released into the custody of the Sanhedrin. The other three were taken out and executed.

“Did you witness the execution?”

“I did not, my lord.”

Varro thought for a moment. “Are you aware that the Nazarene’s followers claim he rose from the dead, following his crucifixion?”

“I have heard that said since, once or twice.”

“What do you think of such a claim?”

“It is a nonsense, my lord.” There was a positive ring to the Greeks voice.

“His body was delivered to the Nazarene’s family for burial?”

“It was given over to the Jews, yes.”

“How can you be sure that he was dead?” Marcus Martius called.

Aristarchus replied that he had absolutely no doubts in that regard. He went on to explain that he had been with the prefect that same afternoon, at the bathhouse in the Palace of Herod, in the west of the city. This palace was where the prefect and those who came up from Jerusalem with him stayed when visiting the city. After lunch, Pilatus had exercised by throwing javelins from the Palace wall, after which he had bathed. Aristarchus had been taking dictation from him while he was undergoing a massage at the bathhouse when a member of the Great Sanhedrin came to him. Pilatus was on good terms with this man, a Pharisee by the name of Josephus of Arimathea, who came from a village lying twenty miles from Emmaus. Josephus of Arimathea sought the prefect’s permission to have Jesus of Nazareth’s body taken down from his cross, reminding Pilatus that the Jews could not pollute their Sabbath with the dead. Josephus had assured the prefect that this particular prisoner, Jesus, was dead, and asked for permission to take the body down and inter it without delay.

“What was Pilatus’ reaction to this?”

“He was surprised, my lord. Very surprised. As Your Lordship will be aware, it takes several days for a crucified man to die. That is the whole point of this form of punishment. To die within a matter of hours is unusual, and undesirable.”

“Were you not suspicious that perhaps the Nazarene was not dead?”

“Like the prefect, I was surprised at Josephus’ claim. Pilatus sent for Centurion Longinus, the officer in charge of the executions that day.” Aristarchus said that Longinus soon arrived at the palace, which was quite close to the execution site. At that time, he remarked, it was possible to see the three men on their crosses from a palace balcony. Prefect Pilatus had asked Longinus whether the prisoner Jesus was dead. In answer, the centurion had confirmed that the man was indeed dead. “And one does not doubt the word of a Roman centurion,” he added.