The Redemption of Pontius Pilate (10 page)

Pilate turned. “Yes, Prefect?”

“In taking care of this small matter, rest assured that you shall have my own gratitude as well as that of the Emperor,” he said.

Pilate nodded. “Like you,” he said, “I am the Emperor's man. What I do, I do for him. But in the process, if it pleases you as well, I am glad to make your life easier.”

Sejanus nodded. “And so you shall. I was . . . shall we say, a bit overzealous this time in interpreting the Emperor's wishes. He is most unhappy with me. Erasing the consequences of this error in judgment will hopefully restore me to his favor.”

Pilate slipped out the back door and through the vineyards to his horse. He spurred his mount south and east until he joined one of the roads entering Rome from the east side and rode home. When he got to the house, he went to the study to find Porcia reading a scroll of the Greek poetry she loved.

“Good morning, dear,” she said. “You were out early. Is anything amiss?”

“I am afraid so,” said Pilate. “I am quite ill. In fact, I shall be ill for the next week or so—too ill to receive guests, and too irritable to tolerate the sight of our servants. You shall bring me my meals in our bedchamber, and forbid all visitors. After a week, you shall convey me by covered litter to your family's estate in Samnia. Do you understand?”

She looked at Pilate standing before her, the picture of health, and slowly nodded. “You have to be somewhere else, but give the impression you are still here,” she said. “It may be difficult to sustain that illusion for too long, you know. Would it not be better to simply say that you have gone on a short trip—to somewhere other than the place you are actually going?”

Pilate thought a moment. “The fact of my absence would in itself be noted. I think an illness is more likely—something contagious, which will keep well-intentioned visitors away.”

She nodded. “Do you ride into danger?” she asked.

Pilate shook his head. “Unlikely,” he replied. “It is just a matter that cries out for . . . discretion.”

“More of the Emperor's business, I suppose,” she said sadly. “He has been generous in his favors, but I worry that one of these missions for him is going to go awry someday.”

“That may come to pass,” said Pilate. “I just hope this is not the occasion! I shall return as speedily as I may, but it could be a while.”

With that he went to his quarters and donned a hooded mantle and his riding gear. Then he went to his bank and withdrew a substantial sum to book passage on the fastest conveyance he could find. Antioch was far off, and he did not know how far toward Rome his quarry had come. By noon he had left the city gates and was galloping eastward toward the busy port of Asculum.

He chartered a fast bireme to take him eastward as quickly as sail and oar could make the journey. Fortunately, for Pilate's sake, the same strong northwest wind that kept Piso from sailing toward Italy pushed the bireme eastward quickly. Pilate had ordered his captain to put in at every major port along the way, to make sure he and Piso did not pass each other in opposite directions. To avoid drawing attention to himself, Pilate let the Captain, Sullemius, make inquiries for him, and at Rhodes they finally had a bit of luck.

“I just found an Egyptian vessel that put in yesterday,” he said to Pilate after returning to the ship. “Had a rough voyage, against the wind all the way, and had to put in at Paphos to make repairs to the mast and sails. One of the passengers was a courier come from there with an express message to the Emperor from Calpurnius Piso, who is holed up in Paphos waiting for the winds to change!”

“Excellent!” said Pilate. “I don't suppose there is any chance we could get a look at the message, is there?”

The scar-faced captain grinned. “Just so happened the courier boasted that the message was so important he kept it on his person at all times, so prying eyes could not get a peek at it! Well, after a few drinks, he set out to return to his ship, and the poor fellow was set upon by cut-purses. I was too late to save him, but I did manage to retrieve this from his pouch.”

He handed Pilate a sealed papyrus scroll, with a bit of crimson stain on one corner. Pilate took it from him with a wry look. “Cut-purses indeed!” he snorted. “You are a talented man, Quintus Sullemius. You waste your abilities as captain of a small ship like this.”

“Perhaps you could find other employment for me in the future?” the captain asked with a grin.

“I can probably find a use for a sharp blade and a quick mind,” said Pilate. “Provided they are not accompanied by a wagging tongue!”

The seagoing scoundrel looked at Pilate askance. “By the gods, sir, you wound my feelings!” he said. “I am merely a humble sea captain, transporting a roving scholar to Cyprus to consult the histories of the House of Ptolemy that are stored there.”

Pilate tossed him a small purse of gold coins. “Then come to me in Rome, and I will find work for you that you will enjoy—and profit from. Now, begone with you, rascal, and get this ship underway for Paphos immediately!”

As soon as he had the tiny cabin to himself, Pilate opened the scroll and quickly perused its contents. Piso was in trouble and he knew it, apparently. He wrote:

To His Excellency Tiberius Caesar,

I am mortified to find that I have offended in my actions. By all the gods, I thought that an order from Sejanus was as good as an order from you! The poison should have acted much more swiftly—I had no idea that the arrogant whelp Germanicus would live long enough to name me a suspect in his demise! But does his death still not serve your purpose? Your rival and would-be successor is gone, and you may now rule Rome uncontested for years to come! I recognize that the Senate and People are unhappy and may require that someone pay the price for this crime, but I warn you—if I stand trial before the Senate, I WILL let them know who gave me the order to dispatch Germanicus. If you do not want the odious task of explaining to the Conscript Fathers how your offhand remark somehow got translated into a death warrant for a member of the Imperial family, you had best find a way for me to avoid public trial. I am a talented and wealthy man. I do not mind in the least disappearing into the east, or the south—wherever Caesar tells me to go. I am still loyal to you, Emperor Tiberius—but not so loyal as to die a traitor's death to atone for your actions and words!

Rome's humble servant,

Gnaeus Calpurnius Piso

Pilate shook his head. He knew Piso only by reputation, but that reputation was confirmed by the contents of the letter. Related by blood to the last wife of the Divus Julius, the Calpurni all had a reputation as rather stupid, venal social climbers determined to cash in on their family connection to the Julio-Claudians. But the breathtaking arrogance of Piso's letter was truly shocking. Did he really think that the Emperor of Rome would let himself be blackmailed by a jumped-up mushroom from a minor noble family? As the ship's crew made preparation to set sail for Paphos, Pilate decided that performing this particular task for the Emperor might be somewhat enjoyable.

The northwest wind continued to push the ship swiftly through the waters of the Mediterranean, and they covered the 300 miles from Rhodes to Paphos in just over two days. Pilate sent Sullemius to find out where Piso was staying. The Governor, it turned out, had hired out a small vacant villa just outside of town while he waited for the winds to change—and, probably, to hear a reply from his frantic missive to Rome. Fortunately for Pilate, Piso had only his wife and one loyal slave with him, so confronting him would be relatively easy. There were also four Roman legionaries outside the estate, making sure that Piso did not make a run for it, but Pilate knew the habits of legionaries well enough to avoid them. After all, they were there to keep someone from getting out, not from getting in.

After dark, Pilate pulled on his hooded mantle, strapped on his gladius and a dagger, and hired a mount from a local stable. He rode quickly to the remote villa and tied his horse up at an inn a mile down the road, booking a room for the night. He had to spend an extra denarius to get the chamber to himself, but it had a window that faced away from the road, so it was money well spent. He ate a quick bite and pretended to go to bed, then slipped out the window just before midnight. The four legionaries were living in a large tent pitched in front of the villa. Two of them were sleeping, while the other two slowly patrolled the grounds. Pilate waited for them to both pass out of his field of vision, and stealthily ran toward the building, ducking behind a column just as one of the sentries rounded the corner coming toward him. Swathed in his dark mantle, he carefully spied out the rooms of the villa. Fortuna was smiling on him—Piso's wife, Munatia Plancina, was gone from the villa for the evening. The servant, an elderly butler, was snoring in a deep sleep in the servants' quarters, with a jug of wine at his elbow. Pilate smiled. It was time for some fun!

He slid into Calpurnius Piso's bedroom, silent as a shadow, and drew the dagger from his belt. Then, in one smooth motion, he clapped his hand across the portly governor's mouth and put the blade against his throat. The eyes started awake and stared about the room in terror. Piso tried to scream, but Pilate's hand reduced his cries to a muffled squeal.

“SILENCE, fool!” he hissed in Piso's ear. “Listen to me very closely. You are a dead man. The only thing remaining to be seen is whether you die like a Roman, quickly and cleanly, or squealing like a wench being raped by a legionary! Do you understand me?”

Slowly, Piso nodded his head, and Pilate released him.

“I am the governor of Syria, little man!” snapped Piso. “How dare you lay a hand on me!”

Pilate laughed softly. “Really?” he said. “It is a bit late in the game for false bravado. I come to you directly from Tiberius. You have made things very uncomfortable in Rome for our Emperor. The people blame him for the death of their beloved Germanicus.”

“As they should!” snapped Piso. “Sejanus wrote me that Tiberius wanted his adoptive son gone, and I made it happen!”

“In a way that was so obvious a child could see who was responsible!” snapped Pilate. “Not to mention the fact that Sejanus foolishly interpreted a drunken rant for a direct order. Be that as it may, there is only one way for the Emperor to salvage his reputation now. You must die, cleanly and by your own hand, leaving behind a letter acknowledging your guilt and exonerating Tiberius completely. You killed Germanicus in anger because of your dispute with him, not because you thought the Emperor would reward you!”

Piso's eyes shifted rapidly. “If I give the alarm, the sentries will come running!” he said.

“And find you a gutted corpse!” said Pilate. “Not to mention that I would then have to kill all four of them and set fire to the villa. Trust me, in this matter, you need to remember your honor as a Roman and act for the good of Rome. An uprising against Tiberius would be brutally crushed, and hundreds if not thousands killed. Your wife and children would be stripped of their citizenship and crucified, or sold into slavery to the Parthians. Do you relish the thought of your son being turned into a toy for some perverse Parthian nobleman?”

Piso gritted his teeth. “Who are you to speak to me so?” he snapped.

“I am the Emperor's man,” said Pilate. “That is all you need to know. Now, I believe you have a letter to write.”

The Governor of Syria gave a sigh of resignation. “May the guilt of your deeds hang over your head like a cloud of doom all your days, stranger!” he snapped. Then he withdrew a piece of papyrus from his wardrobe and dipped a pen into the inkwell and began writing. When he was done, he handed the finished note to Pilate.

“Excellent!” said Pilate. “Now lie down on your bed while I read it!”

He placed the point of his dagger against the man's throat and held it there while he quickly read the suicide note. It was short and quite effectively phrased.

To His Excellency Tiberius Caesar,

I regret deeply that I have wounded you and your family by ending the life of Gaius Caesar Germanicus. His acts against me as governor of Syria wounded my pride and inflamed my temper, and in a fit of anger I had him poisoned without thinking of the cost to Rome. I am deeply grieved that any would dare to think I did such a thing under your orders. Murdering your son was a selfish act, and I apologize for the grief I have inflicted on you, and on the children of Germanicus. May the ending of my life be a satisfactory atonement for my misdeeds.

Gnaeus Calpurnius Piso

Pilate removed his dagger from the man's throat. “Now all that is left is to do the deed,” he told Piso.

The governor gave him a look of pure hatred, and drew his gladius from its scabbard. “I should charge you here and now!” he snapped. “I'll wager I could hold you off until the guards came!”

Pilate laughed, a long, low, mocking laugh. “Look at yourself!” he hissed. “Life in the debaucheries of Syria has made you soft and fat! I won the Civic Crown for killing five Germans in as many minutes, every one of them ten times the man you are. Do you think I cannot cut you down in a matter of seconds, no matter how loud you yell? Then your wife goes to the cross and your children to the slave markets. Is that what you want?”

The resistance in Piso's eyes slowly drained away. “In the name of all the gods, I curse you—Pontius Pilate! When you mentioned the Civic Crown I knew immediately who you were. Tiberius' bloody-handed message boy! See how long you last once you have fallen from the tyrant's favor!”

Pilate yawned. “Oh, do get on with it!” he snapped, showing more sangfroid than he felt—the curse of a dying man was not something to be taken lightly. But he refused to give the man the satisfaction of knowing that his words had carried any weight whatsoever.

Piso went to his knees, placed the point of the gladius against his chest, and fell forward. The razor-sharp blade slipped between his ribs and drove clean through his chest. His eyes widened and his body spasmed. He opened his mouth to cry out, but Pilate's hand was there again, blocking the sound. The anguished eyes writhed in Piso's face as he twisted in Pilate's grasp.