The Inquest

by Stephen Dando-Collins

  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 hers
elf 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.

  Varro made a mental note: this chamberlain must wield more than elementary influence with the queen. It never paid to underestimate a servant or their covert power, he reminded himself, no matter how servile or unobtrusive they may be. “I was hoping to find a resident of your fair city who might have been in Jerusalem at the time,” he said.”

  “Four decades ago?” she commented with a flicker of a frown. “It would seem much too long ago for witnesses to have survived, questor. Has anyone come forward?”

  “Not as yet, Your Majesty. But it is early days yet.”

  “I wish you well on your mission, questor, but I very much doubt that you will learn anything of value on this journey of yours. You are bound for Jerusalem?”

  He nodded, holding out his cup for the beauty to pour wine and water in equal measure. “In time, Your Majesty.”

  “There is nothing there, questor,” said Berenice, sounding just a little scornful. “Not any longer. The city has gone. The Temple has gone. The people are dead, or in chains, or fled.”

  “I can only seek the truth, wherever it lies, Your Majesty.”

  “The truth?” She raised her eyebrows. “Whose truth do we believe, questor? You must believe what you choose to believe, and must do what your conscience dictates.” She took a sip of wine. “I believe that your patron is Gnaeus Licinius Mucianus.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty. I came out to Syria as questor to Licinius Mucianus.”

  “You will be returning to Rome soon?”

  “In the new year.”

  “On the arrival of Cesennius Petus?”

  He nodded. “Yes, Your Majesty.” She was remarkably well informed. It occurred to him that perhaps she was in regular communication with Titus, that Titus was keeping her appraised of the decisions and appointments made by his father and himself.

  “That will be in the spring or summer?” she asked.

  “Most probably the summer, Your Majesty.”

  “Petus is bringing the 6th Gallica Legion back to its station in Syria, is he not?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty. The 6th is not expected to be ready to commence its march to the East before next spring.”

  “After which you sail for Rome? You will be glad to be going home, questor.”

  In front of them, bowls of fruit were being replaced by platters of fresh water fish from lakes to the south.

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” Varro agreed. “It has been a long and eventful posting.”

  “You have family back at Rome? Responsibilities? Family clients?”

  “As you say, I will resume my late father’s responsibilities to family clients.”

  “You will be in a far better position to assist those clients now. Before, you were a mere Roman knight with an ex consul for a patron. Now, Marcus Terentius Varro, you are the client of Caesar’s most trusted, most powerful deputy.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty, indeed.”

  “You must enjoy an excellent relationship with your patron.”

  “An excellent relationship, yes. Some find Licinius Mucianus a difficult man…”

  “I can testify to that,” she said, washing her hands.

  “Ah. Personally, I have always had the most cordial relations with him.”

  “That is because you are a man, Varro, and young, and presentable.”

  Varro had heard rumors that Mucianus dis liked women, and that Mucianus’ sexual inclinations were toward men and boys, but he had never seen any evidence of that for himself in all the years he had known his patron. He had even heard it said that Mucianus and Titus were supposed to have had sexual relations, but he had never believed it, and he doubted that Berenice would either. “I can only speak as I find, Your Majesty, and I have found Licinius Mucianus a most generous and agreeable patron.”

  “I am glad of it.” She began to eat a delicate slice of Coracin fish with her fingers. “Questor, I am contemplating going to Rome, to join my lord Titus,” she announced.

  So, he thought, the queen was either pining for Titus so much that she planned to follow him to Rome like a discarded pet, or she had prearranged with the emperor’s son to make the journey and reunite with him at the capital. One way or another, it was an interesting proposition. Under Roman law, Berenice, a foreigner, could never marry a Roman. Titus could never make her his wife. At best, Berenice could only be his mistress; unless Titus chose to ignore Roman law. This had all the connotations of the disastrous liaison between Egyptian queen Cleopatra and her Roman lover Marcus Antonius. Varro realized he must step very carefully with Berenice, must watch what he said and what he did not say. Diplomacy of the highest order was called for here. “You would be made most welcome at Rome, I am sure, Your Majesty,” he said, “as your royal dignity demands.”

  “One would expect so,” she said. “Do you all think that I should follow
my lord Titus to Rome, my lords?”

  The question took her guests by surprise. The three of them looked at her, uncertain as to how they should answer. It occurred to Varro that perhaps Berenice had not discussed the matter with Titus after all.

  “Tribune Martius?” the queen persisted. “Do you think that it would be wise of me to follow Titus to Rome? How would the Roman people view me, if I were to do so?”

  “Well, I, er.. that is, Your Majesty…,” Martius floundered, looking to Varro.

  Berenice turned to Martius’ neighbor. “Prefect Crispus? What is your opinion? Would the Senate resent my presence, do you think, if I were to take up residence at Rome…?” Again her eyes flashed to Bostar; this time, they conveyed a look of censure. “As some are telling me,” she added, for Bostar’s benefit.

  Crispus paled. “Actually, Your Majesty, as a mere prefect, I could not venture an opinion on the attitude of the conscript fathers of the Roman Senate,” he responded.

  Impatient with the lack of response, the queen returned her attention to Varro. “Questor, should I go to Rome? I was thinking that perhaps I might take a ship to Italy in the summer. That way, there would be a seemly gap between my lord Titus’ arrival and my own. Should I sail to Brindusium, or land at Micenum and then continue from there to Rome? Or should I go all the way to Ostia, and then take a barge up the Tiber, as many noble Romans do? Then again, I could perhaps take a house at Brindusium and send a message to my love that I had arrived, and await his call to Rome.” She leaned toward him, an expectant look in her eyes. “What do you think, questor?”

  Varro hesitated. He told himself that if the emperor’s son had not arranged for Berenice to follow him, he must have his reasons. A major personal embarrassment for Titus and an equally major diplomatic incident for Rome must be avoided. It now occurred to the questor how to respond. “Your Majesty, I think that Caesar would welcome a visit to Rome by you and your brother the king, at a suitable time.”

  “My brother the king? Ah, but of course.” Obviously, she had been thinking of making the voyage alone. The inclusion of Agrippa would be tiresome for her, but, seen as an official royal visit by king and queen, it would be less likely to upset the establishment at Rome. Such an official visit would also require an invitation to be first issued by the Palatium, a time-consuming process. “Yes, of course,” she said again, absently now. Her disappointment was obvious. “At a suitable time, as you say.”