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From there, the former King of Chalcis, Herod Agrippa II, controlled a large region with Rome’s blessing, from southern Syria down into northern Galilee. General Collega had told Varro to include King Agrippa and his sister and co-ruler Queen Berenice on the expeditions itinerary. Agrippa and Berenice were Jewish, and Agrippa had been Guardian of the Temple at Jerusalem until the Revolt broke out. Both had tried unsuccessfully to prevent the uprising in Judea, with letters, speeches and troops. Agrippa had subsequently led his troops against the rebels, in the Roman armies commanded by Vespasian and Titus, and was considered a valuable and loyal ally of Rome. Agrippa had only been an infant at the time of the death of Jesus of Nazareth, yet it was agreed by Varro and Martius that as an influential Jew he was in an excellent position to shed some light on the Nazarene sect and the death of its founder.
    “We will have to dine with Herod Agrippa of course,” said Martius. “I hope he doesn’t go in for big banquets. I’m not one for meals that last all night. Good wine I can stomach in any quantity.” He took a sip from his cup. “But these minor potentates show off with expensive receptions and interminable meals. A man is ill for days after.”
    “I suppose we should have brought along some musicians or singers, as our contribution to the entertainment on these occasions,” Varro mused, “but I really didn’t want to weigh down the expedition with supernumeraries. Can any of your men sing or play the flute or lyre, Marcus?”
    “I should hope not,” returned Martius with a chuckle. “I lead legionaries, Julius, not an orchestra.” Then a thought hit him. “You could always prevail on our Prefect of Horse to recite one or two of his poems for the king.”
    “Now that, Marcus, is an excellent idea.”
    Martius looked at Varro in mock horror. “I was joking, Julius.”
    Varro smiled. “I wasn’t. We should ask Crispus to favor us with a recitation of some of his work, so we can judge its worth.”
    “Now?” It was more a suggestion than a question.
    Varro shrugged. “Why not?”
    Martius grinned. “I shall fetch the poetic prefect.” With that, he pulled himself to his feet, set down his cup, then went out into the night.
    Outside, it was a pleasantly mild evening. A low hum of conversation lay on the air, rising up from the tents of the camp. Somewhere away to the tribune’s right there was a sudden gale of ribald laughter; Martius’ men were in good spirits. He walked past his own tent, and that of young Venerius, until he came to the tent of Quintus Crispus. As a tribune of the broad stripe, there was no door that Marcus Martius would hesitate to open, no tent he would not walk into without warning. Parting the entry curtains, he stepped inside Crispus’ tent.
    In the light of a single lamp, Quintus Crispus stood with tunic pulled up around his chest. Kneeling before him was a young man, naked from head to toe, sucking the prefect’s erect penis. The young man saw Martius first. His eyes widened, and he pulled back. “Don’t stop!” Crispus wailed. Then he saw the young man’s eyes, and turned to follow his terrified gaze. “Martius!” he exclaimed with horror. “I, I can explain.”
    “With a poem, no doubt, Crispus!” Martius snarled. He strode forward and grabbed hold of the naked young man’s right ear with his left hand. “Up, you!” he commanded, dragging him, wincing, to his feet.
    “Please, Martius, this is Fulvus, one of my Vettonian troopers,” Crispus gushed, pulling his tunic down as he spoke. “He was helping me…”
    “So I could see!” Martius sneered, continuing to hold the naked Spaniard’s ear, so that he was forced to stand with his head tilted to one side. The black-haired Fulvus was tall, slim, and aged in his twenties. His tawny skin glistened in the lamp light, and Martius guessed that Crispus had rubbed him with oil at the outset of their tryst.