The Redemption of Pontius Pilate (13 page)

He decided to return by ship with his family, if the season permitted—there was about a month's worth of favorable weather left when he received notice from the Senate, so the travel arrangements would depend on how quickly Lintus Antoninus arrived in Gades. Pilate knew Antoninus on a social basis; the man was a brusque, humorless Roman functionary who was adequate at many things and exemplary at none; dividing his time between the Senate and the army in a slow and unimaginative hike up the
cursus honorum.
But he was punctual; Pilate had to give him that. He showed up exactly two weeks after the letter from the Senate informed Pilate of his impending arrival.

Pilate took the time to show him around and introduce him to the local civic and tribal leaders. “The pirates and the Celts are pretty well subdued for the moment,” he said as they reviewed the local legion together. “We killed several hundred of them and burned their ships last year, and the Britons in particular had to limp their way back up the coast and find a way back to their infernal island. But they are a persistent bunch, and there is much gold still being mined in the northern parts of the province. That will always draw them like moths. My lads here are good soldiers, most with several years to go yet on their enlistments. They are always ready for a good scrap, and their centurions are seasoned veterans.”

Antoninus slowly nodded; efficient he might be, but conversation was not his long suit. “It seems to me, Lucius Pontius,” he said, “that you have left this province thriving and in good order. I shall try not to do anything to upset the situation, and I thank you for your services, as I am sure that the Senate will likewise do.”

Pilate nodded. He was nearing forty and had already completed a career that many a Roman would envy. He found himself wondering if he had not peaked already; if he would become one of the Senate's elder statesmen, always deferred to in debate but overlooked when real opportunities sprang up. He hoped that was not the case—he enjoyed action, and command, and executive power, and wanted to taste more of them in his future. Perhaps a good old-fashioned Roman war of conquest? Unlikely, he thought, as long as the miserly Tiberius was running the Empire. But Tiberius was well past sixty now, and the gloomy old cuss could not live forever. Perhaps the
Pax Romana
would not outlast him for long.

There was one other thing he wondered, as he and his family boarded the ship for Ostia. How would he feed the ravening beast that lurked within him once he returned to the respectability of life in Rome? It had not been that hard in Spain—battling the Celts and crucifying captured pirates had given him ample opportunity to sate the monster that lurked in his bosom. It had been one thing for a junior praetor to go incognito into the fleshpots of the Suburba and pummel strangers into unconsciousness, he thought. But how could a respected consular and former governor get away with such un-Senatorial behavior? The thought vexed him as the ship weighed anchor and got underway. But then his daughter, Porcia Minor, came running up, nearly ten years of age now and bubbling over with questions. As he took her by the hand and showed her how the mast and sails were connected by intricate rigging, and how the rudder steered the ship, he almost forgot about his strange taste for human suffering and pain. Almost.

Rome might be the Eternal City, thought Pilate as he looked at the sprawling metropolis that covered seven hills, but it could just as easily be named the Noisy City—or the Noisome City, he thought with a small smile at his pun. A mile away from the gates, the sounds of the people of Rome about their daily business carried clearly to him—as did the smell of the huge city: a combined odor of dung and urine, sweat and cooking food, the smell of cloth and oxen and fish and fountains and sheep and a million other things. To Pilate, it was the smell of home.

He looked back at the litter and wagons carrying his family and his household goods. They were bound for the family home on the Aventine, but he must go to the Senate and hand in the official report on his province before he, too, could return home. He reined his horse in and brought it up beside the litter chair where his wife and daughter rode. Porcias Major and Minor drew back the curtains and looked at him together; their faces were so similar he smiled involuntarily.

“I must go and take care of business before I join you at our home,” he said. “The house has been opened and aired, and there are slaves waiting to move our property back into place. I shall join you as soon as I may.”

His wife smiled back at him. “It is good to be home,” she said, “but it will be better to have you at home again! Tarry not too long, husband, and I shall make your homecoming a memorable one!”

Their daughter rolled her eyes. “You two are insufferable,” she said. “
Tata
, I wish you would take me to the Forum with you!”

Pilate looked at her face—already assuming the shape and lines of womanhood—and smiled. “You know it is not proper for grown women to frequent the Forum, much less children!” he said. “Now be a good girl and perhaps mother and I will let you go to the market when I get home. You need some new dresses, as quickly as you are outgrowing your clothes these days.”

She gave him a pouty look. “You just want me out of the house!” she said. “Know that it will cost you!”

He laughed and spurred his horse toward the city gate. His daughter was a precocious thing, already on the brink of her teen years. He supposed that he should begin casting about to find her a husband; Roman girls did not generally marry until they were seventeen or eighteen, but the matches were usually arranged well in advance of that. Traditionally, it was purely the decision of the father, as
paterfamilias,
to choose who the groom would be, but most Roman fathers generally made that decision after at least consulting the daughter's wishes. While the father could make his daughter marry anyone of any age, it made for a better marriage and a more trouble-free life at home to make sure that the girl at least did not despise her chosen groom.

The thoughts of his daughter grown and married, as well as the soreness of the long ride, made Pilate feel his years more than usual. Roman men typically lived into their sixties, provided they dodged the many maladies of childhood and the rigors of military service. Practically speaking, Pilate knew his life was two-thirds done—yet he did not feel like an old man most of the time. He wondered what the next few years would hold for him, and if he would rise any further in the Emperor's service than he already had. Consul was as high a rank as many noble and wealthy Romans ever reached, but there was something in him that hungered for more—to make sure that, like the former lions of Rome, his name would be forever remembered for posterity. But what could he do that he had not already done? About the only option left was to lead an entire army against an enemy of Rome and its people, but Tiberius' foreign policy had just about put an end to the wars that had raged along Rome's frontiers for centuries. The Parthian Empire was at peace with Rome, and had been for a generation. The Gauls were long since conquered, as were the Celtiberians of Spain. No one cared about the damp and foggy island of Britannia, although the Divus Julius had landed and briefly established a Roman presence there eighty years ago. The border with Germania, now marked at the Rhine River, was relatively peaceful, with Rome showing no desire to expand further north, and the tribes of Germania not raiding to the south as they once did. Pilate, it seemed, had no handholds above him that would allow him to climb further. It was a depressing thought.

He sent his horse to the public stables and walked across the Forum to the Curia Julia, where the Senate met. Gaius Pollio, that year's senior consul, was addressing the Conscript Fathers of the Senate as he entered.

“While peace and prosperity have indeed been good for Rome's public treasury and for the People themselves,” he said, “they present those of Rome's governing classes, patrician and pleb alike, with a unique set of problems. Fewer military commands against enemy forces, less plunder from wars of conquest, and fewer able-bodied slaves on the market. It makes it more difficult for us to distinguish ourselves and rise among our peers, and therefore it increases the temptation to engage in corruption and graft in order to raise the money necessary for the annual elections,” he continued—mirroring some of the things Pilate had been thinking earlier.

“We must not give in to these temptations!” he said. “Corruption poisons politics, and the Conscript Fathers of Rome must be above such common vices!”

Pilate took his seat next to his father-in-law, Gaius Porcius, who smiled in pleasure and greeted him in a whisper. The old man was more wrinkled, and his hair whiter and thinner, but there was still a crackle in his voice as he greeted his daughter's husband. “Good to see you back, lad!” he said. “I trust the journey was not too troublesome.”

“Sailing conditions were excellent, and the family enjoyed the voyage immensely,” said Pilate.

“Good!” said Gaius Proculus. “Sorry you had to get back in time for one of Pollio's tiresome sermons. He might as well preach the virtues of chastity in a brothel!”

“Surely my honored father-in-law is not suggesting the Conscript Fathers of Rome would engage in illegal profiteering!” said Pilate in mock dismay.

“No more than the Emperor would drink too much, or engage in wanton acts of cruelty!” whispered Gaius.

Pollio droned on for another half hour. Half the Senate was either reading scrolls, snoring, or talking among themselves. Pilate recognized that the current Consul was a boring pedant, but still, he found himself reflecting on the old tales, from the days when the Senate actually meant something. He doubted any of the Senators snored when Gaius Marius or Marcus Cicero were consuls! At the end of his harangue, the Senior Consul finally recognized Pilate.

“It is with joy I see that our esteemed proconsul, recently Governor of Further Spain, has returned from his province. Lucius Pontius Pilate, would you care to enlighten us about the state of affairs in Iberia?” he asked.

“The province is peaceful and prosperous; the pirate threat is subdued for the moment, and the Celts received a proper lesson on why NOT to invade Roman provinces. I have the official report on budgetary matters to be handed over to the censors, as well as my expense accounts as governor,” he said.

“Excellent!” said Pollio. “If there is no further business, then, I believe I shall call on the
Princeps Senatus
to dismiss us.”

The elderly Senator who held the title stood and gave a short invocation to Jupiter Optimus Maximus, the chief god and protector of Rome, and then dismissed the assembly. Several Senators, either clients or friends of Pilate, stopped by to welcome him on his return to Rome. When he had spoken to them all, he turned and found his father-in-law still waiting.

“Would you care to join me for a quick bite?” he asked.

“I am famished from my journey, but I do not need to fill up,” said Pilate. “Porcia is planning a celebratory dinner, I believe. Still, a bit of bread and a cup of wine would be most pleasant.”

They walked toward a small shop not far from the Forum and Proculus purchased each of them a hot fresh loaf and a cup of wine. Pilate filled his father-in-law in on the details of the family's time in Spain, and the doings of his wife and daughter, for several minutes. When the old man's curiosity seemed sated, Pilate turned the conversation toward events in Rome.

“So how is Tiberius faring these days?” he asked.

Proculus scowled. “Angrier and gloomier all the time,” he said. “I understand the gods give each of us a unique disposition and personality, and that our life experiences shape our person. But I cannot help but think that a man who rules the entire world could find something to take joy in occasionally! Right now he is still grieving the death of Drusus, but even more so, he has had it up to his
podex
with Agrippina! She has never forgiven him for the death of Germanicus, and is now saying that Drusus' death was actually the gods' way of settling the score for her! Her friends urge her to silence, but she never quiets down for long. She has never taken another husband, or another lover, and lives vicariously through her children. I do not know how much longer Tiberius will take it.”

Pilate nodded. “What of Sejanus?” he asked.

Proculus raised an eyebrow. “He has become very powerful, since our Emperor spends less and less time in Rome of late,” he said. “But that being said, he is riding for a fall. He is carrying on with Drusus' widow, Livilla, even more openly now that her husband is dead. Rumor has it he plans to ask the Emperor for permission to marry her! That would make him the stepfather of Drusus' children, who may well be in line for the Imperial purple someday—if in fact they are Drusus' children, which many doubt.”

“It sounds as if Tiberius has reason for his gloomy character,” said Pilate. “What a tangled mess his family is!”

Proculus lowered his voice. “I will tell you the truth, son-in-law,” he said. “We were very fortunate to have Augustus as Emperor for so long. He may have done a foul deed or two early on, in order to secure himself in power, but for most all of his life he was a clement and honest ruler and Rome thrived under him. Rome has prospered under Tiberius, but he is becoming increasingly vindictive as he ages. One of the younger Senators made a rather impertinent speech last year, ridiculing Tiberius and Drusus, right after Drusus died. Not too long thereafter, as he was leaving the Forum, he was set upon by bandits—at least, they said it was bandits—and murdered in an alley not a half a
stadia
from here. Not only did they cut his throat, they stripped him naked and cut his tongue out!”

Pilate thought for a moment. Could the Tiberius that he knew so well, and had fought under in Germania, have committed such a deed? Then he recalled how he and Tiberius had eaten lunch together as the bandits were crucified only a few feet away, and the gusto with which the normally abstemious Caesar had tucked into his meal. It took one to know one, he supposed. Tiberius was quite capable of ordering the tongue of someone who displeased him cut out, he thought, just as Pilate was perfectly capable of obeying such an order. He gave a mental shrug. It was a cruel world, and it took cruel men to rule it.