The Redemption of Pontius Pilate (16 page)

Pilate gave a wry grin. “If she had been born a man she might have made a most impressive emperor!” he answered.

Tiberius laughed. “You may be quite right there. If she were a man, I doubt my head would still be attached to my neck! But she is not a man—so I do not fear her becoming Emperor anytime soon. Seriously, how did she respond?”

“She is a remarkably perceptive woman, Caesar. Despite all our precautions, she has deduced that I am the one who silenced Piso,” said Pilate.

“Edepol!”
swore Tiberius. “How did she—hell, never mind. So she is convinced I had Germanicus killed?”

“Not really,” said Pilate. “For one thing, without admitting that she was correct, I swore to her before the gods that you neither desired nor ordered the death of Germanicus.”

“That is true,” said Tiberius, “and well said on your part. But did she believe you?”

“I think she did,” replied Pilate. “Or at least, as she put it, she believes that I believe it to be true.”

“So will she allow me to adopt young Gaius as my heir?” asked the Emperor.

“She did not grant her permission, nor did she refuse it,” Pilate answered. “She wishes to discuss the matter in person.”

Tiberius nodded sagely. “You have done your work well, old friend. She has refused all invitations to see me for nearly a year now. If she is now willing to talk, I believe progress can be made. For your services, and your loyalty, I thank you.”

Pilate nodded. “She did express some reservations about your choice of young Gaius from among her children, however,” he said.

“Really?” said the Emperor. “No doubt she would prefer I choose Nero or Drusus instead, since they are both well-nigh men already, with their own tastes and desires fully formed. And of course those tastes include a distinct distaste for me, the old tyrant who may have murdered their father! I have seen the way they look at me when I have appeared in public with them—a mingling of fear and loathing that neither of them can hide. Do you think I would be safe for a moment if I named either of them my heir?”

“I seriously doubt either of them would dare to—” Pilate began.

“Oh, I don't doubt it for a minute!” said Tiberius bitterly. “And even if they dared not try to take my life, do you think for a minute that I could shape either one of them into the Emperor that I want them to be? Gaius is young and still teachable. If I take him in now, I can mold him and shape him—teach him the principles of governing an Empire, so that it does not all fall apart as soon as I am gone!”

“I think,” said Pilate, “that the Empire you and your father created has grown and stabilized to the point that it is greater than any one man. Of course it is better when the Emperor's office is held by someone who has been trained and groomed for it—but unless I miss my mark, I believe that Rome will endure far beyond the time of your successor—or his successor.”

Tiberius nodded. “You may be right, old friend, but I want Rome to do more than endure. I want Rome to thrive, even if I do not care much for her people. I cannot stand Romans, truth be told, but I do love the idea of Rome! The thought that our single city grew into a Republic and went on from there to rule the world is unique in history. I want Rome to be a light for generations to come, an eternal city that will set the standards of civilization and decency in a world of squalor! My father spent a good part of his life training and shaping me for the duty of governing this mighty engine that he created. I have tried to train and groom two different successors now, and both of them are dead! Gaius is my last chance to leave Rome in capable and well-prepared hands—I am running out of time, Lucius! I am sixty-six years old. Most of the companions of my youth are long dead.”

“Your mother still lives, Caesar,” said Pilate.

“That old witch will never die!” snapped Tiberius. “Her continued existence is no comfort to me. She cannot govern the Empire—even if she once thought to do so. I need an heir, and Gaius Caligula is my choice. I need to make Agrippina see that, and I thank you for giving me that chance. Now, I have a small gift that I wish to give you—a reward for your continued faithful service. I own a small villa near Ariminum—a gift from some noxious seeker of favors. I give it to you to do with as you like. Let it be your retreat from Rome, or rent it out—sell it, for that matter, if you ever need the coin. Your services to me have been invaluable over the years.”

Pilate bowed as best he could from horseback. “You are too generous, Caesar!” he said. “I serve you because in serving you I serve Rome, whom I, too, love—although I am fonder of the Romans themselves than you are, I think!”

Tiberius gave his grim laugh. “It would not take much fondness for that mob to surpass mine!” he said. “Now let us turn back toward the city—my servants will be wondering at my absence.”

They turned back toward the massive gates of Rome, and before they cantered onto the roadway, Tiberius turned and faced Pilate again. “How old is your daughter now, Lucius Pontius?” he asked.

“She is ten, Caesar,” he answered.

“Is she spoken for yet?” asked the Emperor.

“No,” said Pilate. “Porcia and I are just beginning to discuss arranging a marriage for her, but our long absence from Rome has not given us much opportunity to seek an appropriate match.”

“What kind of girl is she?” asked Tiberius. “And more importantly, what kind of woman do you think she will become?”

Pilate reined his horse to a stop and looked at his master closely. Tiberius was focused intently on him, and he understood that this was no idle inquiry. Choosing his words carefully, he said: “She is highly intelligent, mischievous, and quite precocious for her age. She will never be a dowdy Roman matron, but I do think that she could be a clever and cunning political ally for the right husband.”

Tiberius nodded. “Is she kind?” he asked.

An odd question, thought Pilate. “Yes, sir,” he finally said. “She can be mischievous, as I said, but her mischief is directed more at making people laugh at the absurdity of a situation than it is at making them laugh over someone else's pain or humiliation. She loves her pets, and is always kind to the servants.”

Tiberius nodded thoughtfully. “Gaius shares one attribute with us both,” he finally said. “He can be quite cruel on occasion. That is not necessarily a bad trait for one who must govern a hard and cruel world, but left untempered, it could turn him into a tyrant. I think a kind and clever bride might do much to mitigate his less savory tendencies, don't you?”

Pilate swallowed hard. His Porcia, wife of the next Caesar? It was an honor he had never dared dream of! But could she be happy with someone like young Gaius? And should that even be a consideration? It was something to be thought over very carefully. Finally he spoke.

“You do me too much honor, Tiberius,” he said, meaning every word. “I am not sure how to respond. Both of them are still children, and it might be good to observe them together and see how compatible they are—you and I both know that a good marriage can be a wonderful and stabilizing factor in a man's life, but a bad one can be a horrible curse and a burden!”

Tiberius looked very solemn. “I am sure I have no idea what you are talking about, Pontius Pilate,” he said, keeping a straight face for a moment, and then breaking out into his barking laugh again. “I need to spend more time with you; I can see that—I have not laughed this much in a fortnight! Now let us each return home, and think on the future of our families!”

They trotted together back to the gates of Rome, and Pilate took his leave of the Emperor at the gate of Tiberius' home, and then turned his horse toward the stables at the Aventine. His mind was racing. Father-in-law of Rome's future Emperor? He wondered what his own father would have thought of that! More importantly, he thought as he turned his mount over to the grooms, what would his wife think?

The next year or so was a busy time for Pilate, and generated much gossip in the Roman Forum. First there was the public reconciliation of Tiberius and Agrippina—it did not last long, but for a few months, she once more attended imperial banquets, and her children were welcomed at court once more. Then Pilate stood as consul for a second time, losing narrowly to a pair of rich patricians who were able to out-bribe the Tribal assemblies. The provinces were growing increasingly restive, and Pilate knew that before long he would be sent off to govern once more. He was hoping to be appointed governor of Egypt—still Rome's richest province, and one of the most prestigious Proconsular appointments.

The adoption of Gaius Caligula was not formally announced yet, but he did spend more and more time with his adoptive grandfather Tiberius, even after relations between Tiberius and Agrippina began to sour again. The betrothal between Porcia Minor and Caligula was not yet announced, either, but the two children were allowed to spend some time together and seemed to get on well enough. Caligula was growing into a gangly youth, all knees, elbows, and pimples, but with a mop of curly light brown hair and piercing blue eyes that promised a rather handsome man in the making. He was awkward socially as well—one moment laughing and fawning on his elders, the next moment screaming in a furious temper tantrum over some slight, then laughing as if none of it had ever happened.

Pilate and his wife were somewhat divided about the betrothal of their only surviving child to the Emperor's adoptive heir—Pilate, as he got to know the boy better and see the two of them together, was more prepared to see the match go through. Procula Porcia Major, however, never trusted Gaius.

“There is something bent in that lad, Lucius!” she exclaimed on more than one occasion.

“You are just being overly protective of your child, my dear,” Pilate would reply soothingly. “Young Gaius has had a difficult life, caught between a formidable mother and a doting grandfather who happens to be the Emperor of Rome. He has some rough edges, but I do think that he will make a decent young man in the end—with our daughter's help.”

She sighed deeply. “I hope you are right, husband!” she finally said.

He wasn't.

By the spring of the twelfth year of Tiberius' rule over Rome, Pontius Pilate felt secure in his ascension to the peak of Roman society. He was a distinguished consular of the Senate of Rome, a confidant of the reclusive and somber Emperor who had very few friends, and the prospective father-in-law of the next Emperor. He and his wife were happily married, and their twelve-year-old daughter was becoming a beautiful young woman. However, all of that was to change in the course of a single day.

Tiberius was spending the spring on Capri, enjoying the Mediterranean sun's warmth after a particularly bitter winter. Young Caligula was with the Emperor, while his mother and siblings remained in Rome. Agrippina was out of the Emperor's good graces once more, mainly because of her desire to marry again, which Tiberius found unacceptable. Her adult sons were both ascending the
cursus honorum
into the ranks of Roman nobility, as befit those of Imperial lineage, but both of them were foolishly vocal in their criticisms of Tiberius. Pilate had taken a moment to speak to each of them in private, but their scorn for him and the Emperor was such that he simply walked away. If they were determined to blight their futures by defying the ruler of the civilized world, then let them do so, he thought.

One afternoon he was returning from a session of the Senate in the Forum when he was intercepted by a courier—a uniformed member of the Praetorian Guard, no less! The letter the man bore was from Tiberius himself. Pilate took it to the atrium of his home and sat down at a bench by the fountain to read it.

Julius Tiberius Caesar Augustus, Princeps et Imperator Romagna, to Lucius Pontius Pilate, Former Consul and Tribune, Greetings!

I hope that the spring finds you and your bride doing well together. I welcome the return of the sun's warmth—these arthritic old joints feel the bite of winter a bit more every year. I wonder sometimes how many more winters I will live to face, but my strength still holds up well for a man approaching seventy, so I fear I shall not be released from my earthly responsibilities anytime soon. I enjoy my time here on Capri more and more each year, and dread my return to Rome so much that I am giving serious consideration to not coming back to the city at all this year—and maybe never again!

I am going to ask you and Sejanus to be my eyes and ears in Rome for the coming season, and to help me to govern the Empire in absentia. There is much about this arrangement that will bear discussion in person—my little writing nook is designed to be uncomfortable, so as to keep my correspondence brief, and there are many details to be worked out between us that I do not want to commit to papyrus.

What that means, thought Pilate, is that he wants to tell me things that Sejanus cannot overhear. Tiberius had told him a year before that he suspected the chief Praetorian of reading all his outgoing letters. Sejanus was riding for a fall, thought Pilate. He continued reading.

Young Gaius is here with me, and he is longing to see your Porcia again. I believe that we have made a good match there! I would like for you and your family to come and visit me on Capri at your earliest convenience. It is a pleasant time of year to travel, and the island is beautiful. Come join us and stay awhile, and perhaps you can, once more, be of some service to your Emperor—and therefore to Rome. I anxiously await your arrival. May Fortuna smile upon you, old friend!

Pilate put the letter down with a smile. Helping the Emperor to govern the Empire! That was yet another step up the ladder of respectability for the son of a minor diplomat and soldier who had never even served as Tribune of the Plebs! He began mentally calculating the cost and time of the journey, and then called for his wife.

Porcia was not as thrilled about the journey as he was, but she was not as displeased as she pretended to be, either. Although she still did not like young Gaius, he had been enough of a gentleman around their daughter that she had come to accept the future union with a sense of hopeful resignation. The phrase
que sera, sera
would not be coined for another fifteen hundred years, but it summed up her feelings aptly nonetheless. She ordered the servants to begin packing up the family's effects for a summer on Capri.