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?
VIII
QUEEN BERENICE’S BARGAIN
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.
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?
VIII
QUEEN BERENICE’S BARGAIN
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.
Similar Books
