The Redemption of Pontius Pilate (11 page)

“Missed the heart, apparently,” said Pilate. “Fear not. You have skewered your lung, and you will expire in a matter of moments. They will find your letter; your wife will be treated as the tragic widow of a man whose ambitions got the better of him. Your children will grow to adulthood with a chance to redeem your family name, all because you did the honorable thing.”

Piso nodded weakly, and his eyes ceased rolling so wildly. As Pilate watched, he saw consciousness begin to fade. Unable to resist the temptation, he whispered in the dying man's ear: “That is, unless I choose to slaughter them myself!”

Piso's eyes widened in alarm, and he twisted in Pilate's grasp one more time. Then, with a final gasp of bloody froth from his lips, he died.

Pilate stood and surveyed the chamber. The spreading pool of blood covered the marks his feet had made near Piso's body, and the suicide note was neatly placed on the small writing desk. There was nothing there to indicate that the Governor of Syria had not written the note of his own free will, and then fallen on his sword in fine Roman fashion. He yawned and stretched, then silently slipped from the room. He hid behind a colonnade until the sentry passed by, and darted into the woods. Just over an hour after he had left it, he returned to his chambers in the tiny inn through the window he had left by, and slept soundly all night long.

The next day the winds changed abruptly, blowing stout and strong from the southeast. The small bireme got underway, its scholarly passenger having copied the passages he needed from the chronicles of House Ptolemy. They enjoyed a swift and uneventful voyage back to Rome, and a month after he had been summoned by the Emperor, Pilate rode to his father-in-law's country villa in Samnia. Proculus Porcius was gone way on business, but his daughter was there, sitting down to breakfast as Pilate arrived.

She greeted him with an affectionate but proper Roman kiss. “Greetings, husband,” she said. “It pleases me to see you well again.”

“I am feeling much better,” Pilate said. He returned her kiss with enthusiasm and walked her outside, away from the ears of her father's servants. “Does anyone suspect that I have been away?”

Porcia smiled. “No!” she said. “I had your young slave Democles take your place, and brought him soup twice a day. His groans from the sickroom were very convincing! I told everyone you had the spotted pox.”

Pilate beamed at her. “Very clever,” he said. “That would definitely keep visitors away! But how shall we explain the absence of sores?”

She looked at him shrewdly. “Sometimes the malady only afflicts certain parts of the body,” she said. “I told them that you were mainly broken out on your lower torso, with just a few small spots on your face. We may have to—well, do something to create those spots, though.”

Pilate winced. “I suppose you are right. Two or three pokes with a burning taper should generate pretty convincing blisters on my face, and perhaps one or two on my shoulder, where my toga leaves it bare. I shall ask double reward of Tiberius for this!”

She kissed him again. “Fear not, my dear,” she said. “I will not mar your manly beauty!” With that, they retired to their bedchamber, and did not emerge until the next day.

“By the gods, man, what happened to your face?” Tiberius asked in horror.

Pilate smiled instinctively, and then winced. His face was marked with a half dozen or so angry red blisters, with several more on his shoulder, where his toga left it bare. “We needed a convenient reason why I have not been seen in public for the last month,” he said. “A case of the spotted pox seemed as likely an excuse as any.”

The Emperor looked at him and shuddered. “How on earth did you . . .” he began.

“A lit taper, and the steady hand of my wife,” said Pilate. “She assures me they will heal with minimal scarring.”

The Emperor looked at Pilate again, and slowly broke into a rare smile. “I shudder to think what my accursed wife would do if I let her get a lit taper anywhere near my face! Now, tell me—what of your errand?”

“Piso is dead,” Pilate said. “By his own hand, leaving a note full of remorse for the death of Germanicus and the grief he caused the Imperial family.”

“Well done, sir!” Tiberius said. “I shall see you elected Consul for this!”

Pilate bowed. “It is my pleasure to serve Rome,” he said.

The Emperor nodded. “And serve you have,” he said. “Tomorrow I shall greet Germanicus' wife and children and conduct them to the funeral games that are being held in his honor. I should ask you and your wife to be part of the official entourage for the day. I shall remain in the city for at least another month or so, until I am sure that the public unrest is quieted. Then I shall return to Capri. The consular elections are a ways off, but I shall have Sejanus begin quietly lobbying my clients in your favor—the fool needs to be put to work, to atone for his dreadful error in judgment!”

Pilate's mind was racing. Consul of Rome! In the days of the Republic, the consuls had been chief executives, leading the Senate, conducting foreign policy, and commanding the armies in time of war. Since Augustus had ended the Republic, all the old offices were still in place, but much reduced in power and authority. But still, being consul ennobled his family for life, and guaranteed him the governance of a nice, profitable province when his yearlong tenure was up. His years of diligent service to Tiberius had finally paid off—Pilate would no longer be a minor noble from an honorable but obscure plebeian family. Instead, he would be a respected statesman and leader of the greatest nation on earth. Piso's blood was well spilled, he thought. He would have willingly bathed in the blood of a dozen such idiots in order to climb this high!

Even as he thought that, Pilate paused a moment, listening to this violent inner voice. Where had it come from? He was a cultured Roman, a sophisticated man who read Greek philosophers and spoke three languages. Like all Romans, he understood and appreciated the need for violence and armed might to sustain the power and authority of the Empire. But where had his own savage love of cruelty come from? He recalled the vile words he had whispered in the ear of the dying governor, and was repulsed—not only by the sheer vindictiveness of what he had said, but by the savage glee that had filled his heart as he said them. Yet now that part of him slept, satisfied and content. He could not find the least desire within himself to do violence to anyone at the moment—but he also knew that, at some point, that hungry beast within him would awaken again, and when it did, another person would pay with blood and ruin for this part of his nature he did not understand.

“Praetor Pilate!” The Emperor's voice snapped him back to the present. “My word, man, did you doze off with your eyes wide open? I was speaking to you!”

Pilate bowed once more. “I beg your pardon, Sire, but my face was throbbing and my mind wandered for a moment. May I trouble you to repeat yourself?”

The Emperor looked at him, gruff but sympathetic. “You have paid a high price for obeying my orders,” he said. “Sejanus will want to speak with you for a moment, and then by all means go home and rest. Put ointment on your burns—I mean, on your blisters. Make your wife tend you well! And then join us tomorrow in the Amphitheater of Taurus.”

The Prefect of the Praetorian Guard looked at Pilate's ravaged face and nodded thoughtfully. “Nice bit of work, that!” he said. “I keep my ears to the ground throughout the city, and there has not been so much as a hint that you were anywhere other than at home, in your villa, deathly ill. With Piso gone and the Emperor cleared of suspicion, the crowd will weep for Germanicus and move on. You have helped Tiberius, Lucius Pontius, but you have also helped me. I must learn to be more cautious and thoughtful in carrying out our master's wishes from now on, and I might not have gotten the opportunity for this lesson had you not taken care of the situation so well. I know what the Emperor has promised you, but I want you to accept this gift from me alone.” He handed Pilate a very heavy purse, and when he arrived home, Pilate discovered therein a talent of gold, a beautiful and ornately inscribed man's sapphire ring, and a lovely ruby and emerald necklace for Procula Porcia.

The next morning Pilate, the burns on his face already less painful, donned his formal toga and traveled with Porcia to the Amphitheater where the funeral games would be held. It was a longstanding Roman tradition to commemorate the fallen of the upper classes with funeral games sponsored by the family, for the amusement of the masses, after the funeral ceremony had been held. Pilate had returned to Rome a day too late for the actual funeral, but would make his first public appearance since his “illness” at the Games of Germanicus.

In earlier days, before the Republic had fallen, gladiatorial matches were contests of skill and showmanship featuring dazzling swordsmanship and weapons handling, but were rarely fatal to the gladiators themselves. If someone had to die, condemned prisoners would be herded into the arenas and armed, providing the crowd with the blood they howled for while rarely damaging the skilled and valuable gladiators themselves, who were highly prized by their masters.

In recent years, however, the gladiators were often expected to go after each other in death matches. The owners might protest the loss of such valuable property, but there was never a shortage of slaves with military experience, and the crowds loved seeing two skilled and deadly warriors face each other upon the sands.

Tiberius was already there, waiting to escort his guests into the luxurious platform from which the imperial family would watch the games. Pilate and Porcia carefully mounted the steps, and Pilate took his wife's hand and walked very slowly, remembering that he was supposed to be recovering from a serious illness. Sejanus stood behind the Emperor, formally decked out in his black and gold finery as the Prefect of the Praetorians. He greeted Pilate with a cool nod and a quick wink, and Pilate returned the gesture with gravity and civility.

Moments later Agrippina, the wife of Germanicus, arrived with her children in tow. There were six of them, three boys and three girls, ranging in age from ten years old to a babe in arms. The older children were solemn and still obviously grieving the loss of their father, while the younger ones were enjoying the occasion, oblivious to its meaning.

Tiberius introduced Pilate to Agrippina, and he nodded his head in polite acknowledgment of this legendary Roman matron. Still quite lovely at thirty, she was taller than average, with raven-black hair, a high bustline, and a proud Roman nose. But her eyes were a bright and sparkling blue, betraying her close blood ties to the Emperor Augustus. She obviously did not care much for Tiberius, but was taking great pains to be civil.

“Lucius Pontius Pilate,” she said. “I do not believe we have met before.”

“No, madam,” he said, “but I had the privilege to serve with your husband briefly in Germania. He was a good man and a fine soldier, and Rome is all the poorer for losing him.”

“No doubt you say true, Pontius Pilate,” she said, “but Rome's loss pales beside my own. Germanicus was the owner of my heart, and now my spirit is dust and ashes without him. Only my love of the children he gave me keeps me in this world.” Her face paled slightly, and Pilate saw that here was a Roman matron who had truly loved her husband. Such matches were uncommon, since most marriages among the upper class were arranged affairs, done for purposes of establishing political alliances and bringing rival families together.

She regarded Pilate's face with some interest. “They tell me you are recovering from the spotted pox,” she said.

He nodded. “Yes,” he replied, “It kept me bedridden for nearly a full month! I have never been so miserable.”

“Strange,” she said. “My children have all had the malady, but their sores did not resemble the ones I see on you.”

Pilate felt the Emperor's eyes flick toward him and his heart sank. He kept his expression carefully neutral. “My physician says that the disease frequently takes very different form with adults than with the young,” he said. “Many times it is actually far worse, and slower to heal. He told me I was fortunate that my case was a relatively mild one. I replied that if my case was mild, I prayed the gods might never send me a severe dose!”

She nodded. “Well, once you have had it, they say it can never recur, so I imagine the gods will grant your wish. Thank you for coming to honor the memory of my husband, Pontius Pilate,” she said, and moved on. Once she was out of range, he let out a faint sigh of relief.

“I think your face looks rather funny!” said a small voice. Pilate looked down at the smallest centurion he had ever seen. About six years old, blond-haired, and with the striking blue eyes of the Julio-Claudians, he was obviously the son of Germanicus. He was dressed in a complete replica of a military uniform, right down to the finely tooled leather boots, the smallest ones Pilate had ever seen.

He knelt down so that he was eye to eye with the youngster. “And who might you be, young sir?” he asked.

“I,” said the boy, his voice swelling with pride, “am Gaius Julius Caesar Germanicus! But my father's soldiers call me Little Boots.”

“Caligula!” said Pilate. “Well, Centurion Caligula, may I congratulate you on your uniform. It is most impeccable, as a true soldier should always keep it on formal occasions.”

“Gaius!” said Agrippina. “Come now, the games are about to begin.”

Tiberius led the necessary prayers to Mars and Bellona, and then sat down, with Agrippina and her children at his right hand, and his own son, Drusus, returned to Rome from his province of Illyricum on business, on his left—an honor sure to impress the crowd, since Drusus was now heir to the Imperial purple as the only son of Tiberius. Pilate sat in the row behind the Emperor, watching the interactions of the Imperial family with far more interest than he gave to the games.