The Redemption of Pontius Pilate (15 page)

Pilate grimaced. “Are you sure I am the right man for this job?” he asked.

Tiberius looked at him, not unkindly. “You are the man I trust to do it,” he said. “I do not envy you, however. Agrippina is a difficult woman! But not every assignment can be as enjoyable as dueling a pirate king, or forcing a provincial governor to fall on his sword!”

Pilate nodded. “I think I would rather deal with a dozen of Calpurnius Piso than one irate Agrippina!” he said.

“You are a wise man,” said Tiberius. “Now, tell me of your encounter with the Celts!”

Pilate launched into a quick account of the attack on the north Spanish coast, and Tiberius demanded more details. All told, it was two hours later before Pilate finally left, his borrowed horse trotting him down the Palatine Hill toward his home in the Aventine. Procula Porcia had already gone to bed and was sound asleep when he slid between the sheets beside her. Pilate sighed, kissed her neck, and went to sleep. This evening had definitely turned out nothing like he envisioned it!

The next day he sent one of his servants with a message to Agrippina, requesting permission to call upon her at her earliest convenience. She sent a reply back by her servant, telling him that she was at his disposal during the evening meal. Pilate explained briefly to his wife why he would be absent, and spent the day attending to his many clients, all of whom wanted something—a favor, a bit of legislation, another month to pay rent, sponsorship for their son who was taking the first steps on the
cursus honorum
. It was the price of
arctoritas
, Pilate knew—having a wide circle of influence, in Rome, meant that you would never lack for people who wanted something from you. But every favor granted was a favor owed; by being gracious and accommodating to those who were beneath him, Pilate ensured that they would be useful to him in the future.

After his clients finished, Pilate had a bite of bread and olive oil with a piece of grilled fish for his luncheon, and then walked up the hill to the Forum. The Senate was not in session today, but the popular assemblies had met and were listening to the senior Tribune of the Plebs hold forth on a proposed agrarian law. Tribunes of the Plebs had been promulgating agrarian laws since Tiberius Gracchus over a hundred years before; all of them promised Rome's poor and downtrodden a chance to own land of their own, somewhere outside the city—and most of them never delivered. Yet the people still cheered, and tribunes still got elected, by promising land to the landless. Pilate wondered if that would ever change.

He returned home late that afternoon and enjoyed a cup of watered wine with his wife. Porcia Minor was off at her tutor's home, learning to read Greek poetry, and Procula enjoyed the chance to simply visit with her husband for a while, discussing all the latest gossip of Rome and what had happened in the neighborhood during their long absence. About an hour before Pilate had to leave on his errand, his daughter came bursting in, full of life and energy.

“Hello,
tata
!” she exclaimed. “See, you and mama got to spend an afternoon together, and you didn't even have to send me away to the market!”

He smiled. “We were having a very pleasant conversation until a small cyclone tore into our living quarters!”

She batted her tiny eyelashes at him. “I am sure I have no idea who you are referring to,” she said.

“So how were today's lessons?” he asked.

“Boring!” she exclaimed. “I think that Odysseus was not particularly bright, personally.”

“Do you now?” Pilate said, her thought processes always interesting to him. “How so?”

“Why would he insist on hearing the song of the sirens if he did not intend to go to them?” she asked. “Wouldn't it fill all the remainder of his days with a longing for something he could never have?”

Pilate raised an eyebrow. So mature, yet so naïve at the same time! “Well, my dear,” he said, “it is wanting that which we cannot have that drives us to excel! If we did not seek to rise above ourselves and become something more, then no man would ever excel at anything. It is the longing for that we can never possess that makes us become more than we thought we could!”

“Unless it is longing for a siren,” she said. “Then it just makes you drown.”

Pilate was still chuckling over that one an hour later when he pulled on his toga and headed out to see Agrippina. Her home on the Palatine was not far from Tiberius' dwelling, and he was met at the door by a huge, muscular slave who conducted him to the dining room without a word. Agrippina entered the room from the interior passageway opposite just as Pilate came in from the entry corridor. She was still a handsome woman, although the strain and grief of the last five years had added deep lines to her face.

Pilate gave a polite bow. “Lady Agrippina,” he said. “It is kind of you to see me on such short notice.”

“I fear I do not have much of a social life at the present,” she said. “It is good to have company—my children are dear to me, but they are a handful and I long for adult conversation sometimes. Will you join me at the table?”

They reclined at the table together, and Pilate looked around. “Where are your children this evening?” he asked.

“They are with their grandmother, Antonia Minor,” she said. “She enjoys seeing them, and I enjoy an occasional relief from their . . . exuberance. So tell me, what brings the former Consul to my door this evening?”

Pilate took a small sip of wine and began. “As you may know, I do enjoy the confidence of the Emperor,” he began.

“I know you are one of his lackeys,” she replied.

Pilate blinked at her abruptness. There was no hostility in the tone, just a dry assertion of fact. “I assure you, madam, I am no lackey,” he said.

“Lackey, client, errand boy, call it what you will,” she said. “You are the one who silenced Calpurnius Piso, are you not?”

Pilate's eyes widened for a moment. This woman was indeed formidable! “My dear lady,” he said, affecting nonchalance, “whatever gave you such a bizarre idea?”

She laughed grimly. “The Emperor is not the only one who has spies,” she said. “I know that Calpurnius Piso poisoned my husband. I also know that he was on his way back to Rome with every intention of defending himself vigorously at trial. He sent a letter to the Emperor by special courier—but that courier was found dead in an alley at Rhodes, with all his personal effects stolen. Not long after, Piso falls on his sword at Ephesus, leaving a suicide note confessing to the murder of Germanicus, but specifying that the Emperor was not to blame in any way for it. Now, out of all Tiberius' closest servants, you and you alone were completely out of sight during that entire time—suffering from the spotted pox, according to your family. But those sores on your face at my husband's funeral games were not like any pox I have ever seen! Hence, I believe you had a hand in making sure Piso would never stand trial!”

Pilate decided to fight bluntness with bluntness. “Without confessing to the truth of any of your allegations, Lady Agrippina, let me assure you of one thing,” he said. “I do know Tiberius well. I have served under him for many years, and I have had occasion to perform some errands for him—some much less pleasant than this enjoyable dinner meeting! I can say this as truth before all the gods of Rome: Tiberius Caesar neither desired nor ordered the death of Germanicus. May the Furies take me if I am lying!”

She looked deep in his eyes and nodded. “I believe you are telling the truth,” she said. “Or, at the very least, what you believe to be the truth. So tell me then—why do you come to my dinner table this evening?”

Pilate took a bite of fish from his plate, ate a bit of bread to go with it, then sipped his wine and spoke. “Since the death of Drusus, the succession of the next Emperor has become a matter of some concern,” he said.

She arched an eyebrow. “I figured that Sejanus and Livilla Julia had that all wrapped up,” she replied.

“The Emperor has no desire to see either of the twins inherit his power,” said Pilate. “Frankly, he does not even believe them to be Drusus' children!”

“He is not as blind as I thought, then,” said Agrippina. “So who does the Emperor propose to elevate when he is no more?”

“That is why I am here,” said Pilate. “The Emperor is very fond of your young son Gaius, and proposes to legally adopt him and begin grooming him for the succession.”

“Gaius!” she said. “
Ecastor!
He must hate Rome more than I thought!”

“That is an odd thing to say about your own son,” Pilate remarked.

“My son is an odd creature,” she replied. “Not without virtue, but with a great many vices. It may be that he can overcome his flaws, with careful training. He can be very charming and gracious when he puts his mind to it. But there is—I do not know what to call it. There is darkness in him, Lucius Pontius, which, if allowed to take control, could turn him into a monster. Either of my other sons might be better qualified to be Caesar someday.”

“Tiberius does not choose them,” said Pilate. “He thinks they hate him. He is fond of little Gaius, and Gaius Little Boots seems to return his affection. It may simply be that Gaius is the youngest. The Emperor is fond of children, you know.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “He is indeed,” she said. “That may be his only redeeming virtue.”

Pilate frowned. “You are too hard on the man, Agrippina!” he said. “He is a sad old soul, it is true, but he is not a monster. There is courage and honor in him as well as anger and bitterness.”

She sighed deeply. “I think, Pontius Pilate, that I know things about him that you do not—and you may well know other things about him that I do not. Be that as it may, this is not an easy decision. I assume that the Emperor will be waiting to hear my answer from your lips?”

Pilate nodded. “He is most anxious about the matter, to tell the truth,” he said.

“Then tell him this,” she said, looking him in the eye. “I do not give my permission for him to adopt my son—nor do I withhold it. I would speak with him in person about it before I make a final decision. And, since my son is now nearly eleven years old, I also feel as if I should discuss the matter with him as well.”

“I imagine that your answer will not displease him,” Pilate said. “He is tired, Agrippina—tired of bitterness and suspicion and disappointment. I truly believe that he wants to do right by you and your children.”

She gave her low and bitter laugh again. “Doing right, as you put it, has not been a Julio-Claudian tradition of late,” she said. “Perhaps that may change. Come, let us finish our dinner.” She looked at the burly slave who had escorted Pilate to her dinner table. “Theseus!” she snapped. “Bring us some music!”

The huge Greek bowed and left the chamber. “Do you always discuss things so freely in front of your slaves?” asked Pilate. “Slaves' gossip is the source of much mischief in Rome.”

“That is not a problem with him,” said Agrippina. “He was my husband's loyal servant, and the Germans captured him during the last campaign my dear Germanicus waged against them. They tortured him for two days, trying to get him to disclose the location of the Roman camp, and he would not talk—so they cut his tongue out! My husband rescued him when he attacked the German camp a few days later. He freed Theseus for his loyalty and sacrifice, but Theseus chose to remain with us of his own free will. He manages the household slaves quite well, and is married to my chief maid, Dorothea.”

Pilate digested this bit of information and mentally filed it away while enjoying the remainder of the dinner—an excellent serving of Tiber River bass, eels, and snails served with copious amounts of garlic and butter, and small loaves of delectable bread, with plates full of fresh grapes and cheeses alongside. He chatted with Agrippina about her children and their personalities the whole time. Nero, the eldest son, was eighteen and currently serving under Pilate's successor in Further Spain as a
contraburnalis,
or junior lieutenant. Drusus, who was a year younger than Nero, was about to don his toga and legally become a man. He, too, was planning on serving as a junior officer under the new governor of Syria. The three girls, Agrippina Minor, Julia Drusilla, and Julia Livia, were all in their early teens and living at home. Caligula, about to turn twelve, was the liveliest and most mischievous of the lot, according to his mother. She told Pilate several stories about the young Gaius that made him sound both endearing and a little bit fearsome.

Finally, when the last morsel was consumed and their wine glasses emptied, Pilate returned home and thought long and hard about all that he had heard and seen from the wife of Germanicus. It took him several hours to wind down enough to go to sleep, and when he finally dozed off after midnight, he dreamed of seeing the twelve-year-old Caligula on the Imperial throne, laughing as he stared at the body of a withered and frail Tiberius. It was not a comforting dream.

The next morning he made his way to the Emperor's home and found Tiberius waiting for him. Sejanus was nowhere to be seen.

“I sent him on an errand to Capri,” said Tiberius. “Now, come, let us go riding together. I have not been on horseback in a month or more, and some country air will do me good!”

Pilate was a bit surprised—Tiberius was normally not one who enjoyed exercise for its own sake—but he said nothing until they were beyond the city walls and trotting across open farmland. Once they were cantering across a fertile hay meadow, he turned to the Emperor with a quizzical look. Tiberius made a wry face and spoke.

“I no longer trust my servants—at least, not the ones here in Rome. Sejanus knows far more of my business than I am comfortable with. On Capri, I do not worry as much—Mencius runs a tight ship and those slaves have been with me for many years. Here in Rome, I do not even know everyone that scurries around my villa. Now, tell me, what was your impression of Agrippina?”