The Inquest (25 page)

“You are all Matthias ben Naum?” Varro asked.

All three nodded, but none spoke.

“You all practice as apothecaries, and you are from Jerusalem?”

Again the prisoners nodded in affirmation.

“Obviously, Varro,” said Bassus beside him, “two of these men are liars. Or the Jews have a shortage of names and should think about inventing some new ones!”

This brought a hearty laugh from many of the diners.

“Either that, or all Jewish apothecaries are named Matthias ben Naum,” said Marcus Marti us, tearing at a pigs trotter, with juice running down his chin.

There was another gale of laughter around the table.

All three prisoners were looking extremely uncomfortable. Each had come forward independent of the other, in separate camps, and it had only been when they had been led into the general’s tent that they had learned that were not the only claimant to the name of Matthias ben Naum.

“That man is too immature to be the one I am looking for,” said Varro, indicating the youngest prisoner, who stood to the left of his two companions. “My man had to be alive and practicing in Jerusalem forty-one years ago. This man was not even born then. For that matter, the man on right would have only been a babe in arms at that time.”

“How old are you, Ben Naum on the right?” Bassus demanded.

“Er, sixty years of age, I think, my lord,” the man answered.

“Liar!” Bassus snarled. “You would not be a day beyond forty-five.”

“I look young for my age, my lord,” the man countered.

“Liar!” Bassus said again. He looked over to the camp prefect of the 10th Legion, who stood by the door. “Have these two imposters crucified at dawn.”

“No!” the middle-aged man cried as the soldiers of the escort went to haul him away. “I am truly Matthias ben Naum. These other two are the imposters! I swear it!”

“Wait!” Varro called. “He may be older than he looks, as he says.”

“Then take the young one away,” Bassus instructed. The youngest of the prisoners was hauled from the tent. Hanging his head in defeat, he went without a word. This left the two older men standing before the officers.

“How do you propose to test this pair, Varro?” Bassus asked.

Varro looked over to Diocles at the second dining ‘U.’ “Physician,” he called, “how would you sort the wheat from the chaff here? What question would you ask these men to determine
their qualifications as an apothecary?”

Diocles, who had Callidus beside him to ensure that nothing stronger than water passed his lips all night, thought for a moment, then fixed his eyes on the middle-aged prisoner. “Younger Jew, answer me this,” he began, projecting his voice as if he were a lawyer posing a question in court. “I am conducting a surgical operation to repair an injury caused by a blow to the head. I have made an incision, to separate the flesh from the bone where it is united to the
pericranium
membrane and to the bone.” The prisoner stared at him, blank faced. “I intend to fill the whole wound with what we physicians call a tent, to expand it, causing as little pain as possible.” Diocles was enjoying being the focus of the attention of everyone in the pavilion. “Along with this tent I will apply a cataplasm. I come to you and ask you to prepare it. Of what would your cataplasm consist?”

The middle-aged prisoner did not reply. His eyes flashed around the faces in the tent, as if half expecting someone to offer their help, or their pity.

“Well?” General Bassus demanded. “You say you are Matthias ben Naum the apothecary. Answer the physician.”

“It is difficult, my lord,” the prisoner stalled. “I need to think on it.”

“Liar!” Bassus scoffed. He looked at the older prisoner, who had yet to utter’a word. “You, old man. How would you answer the physician’s question?”

“I would make a cake of fine flour, pounded in vinegar,” the older prisoner immediately replied.

One of Bassus’ freedmen at the second table laughed at this.

“An alternative to pounding?” Diocles asked the prisoner.

The question wiped the smile from the face of the amused freedman.

“As an alternative preparation, I would boil the cake of flour and vinegar, to render it as glutinous as possible,” came the old man’s reply.

“Very good,” said Diocles.

“Remind me not to suffer a head wound,” Marcus Martius remarked. “I’ll not have you physicians playing at bakers and cooks with my skull as the oven.”

“The older man is an apothecary, in your judgment, physician?” said Bassus.

“The old man appears to have had some training, general,” Diocles replied.

“Very well. Take the other one to join the first imposter on a cross.”

“I would do the same!” the younger prisoner cried. “I would boil the flour and vinegar, as he said!”

“Take him away!” Bassus ordered.

Protesting loudly and struggling with his guards, the second man was dragged out.

Varro looked at the last remaining prisoner. “You are Matthias ben Naum, apothecary of Jerusalem?” he asked.

“I am,” the man replied.

The questor was feeling elated. Everything was pointing toward Aristarchus having spoken the truth. For all that, he knew he had to proceed calmly and methodically with his next questions. “Were you present in Jerusalem forty-one years ago?” hr, yes.

“You sound unsure.”

“It was many years ago, my lord. I sometimes left Jerusalem, to visit relatives.”

“The time that Jesus of Nazareth was executed. Do you know of whom I speak?”

“I have heard the name.”

Varro knew that if this genuinely was the apothecary that Aristarchus had referred to, and if
he had participated in a conspiracy involving the death of the Nazarene, he was unlikely to implicate himself, let alone confess. If the questor was to gain the answers he needed, he had to proceed with some cunning. “How old are you?” he asked.

“This is my seventy-second year of life. But my mind is still sharp, my lord.”

“I’m glad of it. Until made a prisoner, were you practicing as an apothecary still?” I was.

“What drug would you administer as a general painkiller?”

“Myrrh, as a rule,” the old man replied.

“Myrrh is overrated,” Bassus growled. “It has only minimal affect.”

Varro suspected that the general was speaking from experience. “Apothecary, how would you disguise the taste of a soporific drug?” the questor asked

“Why would you do that?” the old man asked suspiciously.

“Answer the question, if you please.”

“Vinegar,” the old man replied with a weary sigh. “Vinegar has many medicinal uses and is regularly administered. It would disguise the taste of another preparation.”

Varro looked over to Pythagoras at the second dining table.

The secretary could read his mind. “Lucius writes of vinegar, questor,” he said across the tent. “Marcus writes of vinegar, and of myrrh mixed with wine. Matthias writes of vinegar, and of vinegar mixed with gall.”

General Bassus looked perplexed. “This makes some sort of sense to you, Varro?”

“It does, yes,” Varro replied. “Apothecary, I want a patient to be so relaxed that to an observer he is to all intents and purposes dead. What drug would you administer?”

The old Jew again looked guarded. “There are several which might be applied.”

“Give me an example.”

“Well, deadly nightshade for one. I cannot be certain about the result. I would caution that the dose would need to be exact, in proportion to the size and weight of the patient, and to their constitution. Too large a dose, and the recipient would die.”

Varro was feeling confident that he had found his man. The trick now was to link the apothecary with the death of the Nazarene. “Let us return to the year that Jesus of Nazareth died. It was in the reign of Tiberius, the consulship of Sejanus and Longinus.”

The apothecary nodded warily. “I remember the year.”

“There was a legion garrison quartered in the Antonia Fortress at that time. Which legion were those soldiers from?”

“The 12th Legion, if I remember correctly.”

“Correct.” The next question was a key one. “Be sure how you answer this. What was the name of the senior centurion of the Jerusalem garrison at that time?”

The old man swallowed hard, conscious of the fact that all the eyes in the room were on him, conscious of the fact that Varro waited on his answer with intense interest. “I, I am not sure,” he replied, with obvious unease. “I cannot remember.”

“Who was the Chief Priest of the Jews at that time?”

“It would have been Joseph Caiaphas.”

“Good. Before him?”

“Simon ben Camithus, I think.”

“After Caiaphas?”

“Er, Jonathan ben Anunus.”

“Well then, the Roman centurion in charge wielded more power in Jerusalem than the High Priest. Surely, you remember his name?”

“Antonius.” The apothecary almost vomited out the name. “Centurion Antonius was in charge at that time.”

Varro suppressed a wave of disappointment. “It was not Antonius. Think again.”

“It was so many years ago,” the old man said in his defense. “I cannot remember.”

“If you can remember of the name of the High Priests, you can remember the name of the senior centurion. This particular senior centurion was stationed at Jerusalem for at least three years, and probably much longer. Think again.”

“It may have been Ventidius. Was it Centurion Ventidius?”

“You are guessing,” said Varro, disappointed. If this man was Ben Naum, and if he had been involved in a conspiracy with the centurion in charge of the execution of the Nazarene, he would not have forgotten his name. Yet, he may have only been foxing. Varro tried another tack. “Does the name Josephus of Arimathea mean anything to you?”

“No. Should it?” The apothecary looked genuinely at a loss.

“Think again on the name of the centurion.”

“Truly, I cannot remember.” Now the old man was sounding desperate.

“I will give you a choice. It was either Centurion Coponius or Centurion Longinus. Which of those two? Before you answer, think on this. If you are pretending not to know, to throw me off the track it will not work. If you tell me the wrong name I will know that you are not Matthias ben Naum. Tell me the right name, and I will know that there is a good chance you are Ben Naum. Now, was it Coponius or Longinus.”

The old man hesitated, and then he said, “The name Coponius is familiar. The centurion was Coponius. I am certain now. It was Centurion Coponius.”

Varro shook his head. “Coponius was the name of a procurator of Judea,” he said, unable to hide his disappointment. “The name I was looking for was Longinus.”

“Another damned liar!” Bassus declared. “This one we shall put to the torture, to see how much he does know. Then he will join the other two on a cross.”

“No, please!” the old man dropped to his knees. “No torture, I beg of you, my lords.” His manacled hands were clasped in front of him. “I confess, I am not Matthias ben Naum. I am an apothecary, but I am not Matthias. My name is Saul ben Gamaliel.”

“Why would you lie,” Varro demanded, “and claim to be Ben Naum?

“For the reward.” Tears welled in the Jew’s eyes. “To perhaps win my freedom.”

“You must have realized that we would find you out,” said Varro.

“I was an apothecary, and I knew the real Matthias ben Naum.” Ben Gamaliel returned. “I thought I could make a success of the deception. And if I had said the centurion was Longinus, you would have believed me. If only I had chosen correctly…””

“You say you knew the real Matthias Ben Naum?” Varro’s interest renewed. “How can I be sure you are not lying again?”

“I knew him, I swear. He was staying under my roof until only a few nights ago.”

“How can that be?”

“Get up, get up, you sniveling apology for a man!” Bassus called. He motioned to the soldier at the end of the old man’s chain, who dragged Ben Gamaliel back to his feet.

“I am a native of Macherus, not of Jerusalem,” the Jew rushed to explain. “Matthias and myself were in the same guild, and when he fled Jerusalem last year he came to Macherus and I took him in. Last evening, we both tried to flee the town. He escaped with the fortunate few, I was apprehended by your soldiers.”

“You’ve only been our prisoner for a day?” said Bassus. “This is hilarious!” he hooted with
laughter. “A day! And you try to trick your way to freedom!”

“How old is Matthias ben Naum?” Varro asked.

“Close to my age. Perhaps a little older, perhaps a little younger.”

“Is he in good health?”

“When I last saw him he was in good health. He has a robust constitution.”

“Would you recognize Matthias ben Naum if your were to see him again?”

“Of course.”

Varro nodded. That answer had just saved Saul ben Gamaliel from an appointment with General Bassus’ executioners.

As the sun rose behind the hill of Macherus to introduce another sweltering day, the Roman army was on the move, proceeding down the Nabatea road toward the south. An army this size took several hours to vacate its camp site. Five thousand men of the ten cohorts of 10th Legion. Five thousand auxiliary light infantry in ten cohorts. Four wings of auxiliary cavalry and the one hundred and twenty men of the 10th Legion’s own cavalry unit, totaling two thousand troopers. Six thousand prisoners. And trundling along in the rear, fifteen hundred mules with their handlers, two hundred wagons and carts, a herd of cattle for fresh meat, a mob of sacrificial goats.

Varro and his party would tag onto the end of the main column. The questor had gone through his camp to check that his column was lined up and in readiness to march. Now he strode out the gate, to where his mounted colleagues waited. Once Hostilis had helped him up into his saddle, he sat watching the passing parade. Soon a chariot came surging down the road beside the marching column, drawn by two superb white horses with plaited manes and tails, and adorned with gold horse ornaments.

“A chariot, questor,” Callidus called.

Varro nodded to his freedman. He knew that, rather than stating the obvious, Callidus was referring to the questor’s last dream, the one involving a chariot.