The Redemption of Pontius Pilate (29 page)

The next morning, he called the entire cohort out to the courtyard and addressed them. “Well, boys, you know that it is almost time to march to Jerusalem for winter quarters, and to keep an eye on the Jews during their various festivals,” he said. “But I want us to march into Jerusalem looking like Rome's finest, not like the rejects of the other legions! If your gear is worn out or damaged, report to the quartermaster to receive replacement gear today! Each legionary must sign for whatever equipment he receives, and if any new equipment is damaged or comes up missing, its full price will be deducted from your pay.”

The men looked at one another, nodding happily. Longinus had informed Pilate that Valerius Gratus had charged the men full price for damaged or lost gear, and then charged them again for replacements—which were usually worn-out discards that were no improvement on what they had lost. That was one reason there were so many unreported missing uniform pieces when Pilate arrived.

Pilate then nodded to his lictors, who unfurled the new standards and brought them forward. “We will march in under these new standards which I also ordered from Rome. The face of our Emperor will smile on us as we continue to clean up and improve this wretched province!”

The men cheered at the sight of the new standards, and Pilate called on the centurions to disperse the men to their day's work. He thought no more about the changes he had made until Cassius Longinus reported in for duty a few days later. The
Primus Pilus
was discussing the upcoming move to Jerusalem when he spotted the standards and froze in mid-sentence.

“Great gods, you are not taking those with us to Jerusalem, are you?” he asked Pilate.

“Of course,” answered the Prefect. “Along with the new uniforms and gear, I thought that the new standards would help the men look and feel more like true representatives of Rome.”

“Prefect, you cannot carry those into Jerusalem! The whole province will rise up in revolt!” gasped Longinus.

“What on earth do you mean, Cassius?” asked Pilate. “They are no different from the standards every other legion marches under!”

“In every province but this!” said Longinus. “The Jews have a horror of what they call ‘graven images'—any carving or representation of any person or living creature. Look at their architecture and coins. There are geometric designs aplenty, and inscriptions, but no faces, or animals. Such things are absolutely forbidden to them. And to carry such images into their holy city—they will view it as a direct affront!”

Pilate scowled. He understood the diplomatic aspects of his job, but this was too much! Roman legions marching without their standards? Ridiculous! He answered Longinus angrily: “They can prepare to be affronted then! I paid for these out of my own salary to try and restore a little pride to a legion that has been neglected and badly managed for years. I have already shown them to the men, and to put them away now and restore the tattered old standards that do not even have Caesar's image on them would be an insult to the pride of these legionaries and to the Senate and People of Rome!”

Longinus sighed deeply. “Sir,” he said, “you asked me to be your liaison with the locals, and to give you my candid opinions on your decisions. I mean no disrespect, but this is a mistake that will inflame the people against Rome, and against you.”

Pilate thought for a moment. Surely the man was exaggerating. Finally, he thought of a compromise.

“The fortress in Jerusalem where the troops are posted is closed to locals, and enclosed with high walls, is it not?” he asked.

Longinus nodded. “It's not formally closed, but no religious Jew will set foot across the threshold of a Gentile's house, so it might as well be,” he said. “The castle of Antonia is securely walled and hidden from the city's view.”

“Then we will carry the standards furled and covered,” said Pilate, “entering the city at night and not erecting them until we are inside the walls of our own compound. The men will have the new standards before them every time they muster in the morning, and the Jews will be none the wiser.”

Longinus shook his head. “It might work,” he said, “but I doubt it. Many Jews who are not as particular about the Law and customs still enter the fortress, and all they have to do is complain to the priests and your game is up.”

Pilate shrugged. “We'll never know unless we try!” he said.

Two weeks later, the legion set out for its winter quarters in Jerusalem. Two hundred men were left in Caesarea to maintain the Roman presence there and keep law and order in the city and its environs, but fifteen hundred men set out with Pilate toward the holy city of the Jews. The Feast of Booths was coming up soon, followed by the Day of Atonement and then the wintertime Feast of Lights. Come springtime the Jews would celebrate their holiest day, Passover, at which time the population of Jerusalem would be increased almost fourfold above its normal levels, as Jews from all across the Roman world converged on the city to commemorate the Exodus from Egypt some fourteen hundred years before. After Passover, the concentration of troops in the city would be dispersed for the summer, leaving only the standing garrison of 500 men inside the capital. As for Pilate, even during the winter he would divide his time between Caesarea and Jerusalem, riding back and forth with an armed escort to take care of business, first in one place, and then in the next.

The legion was smartly turned out as Pilate mounted his horse and rode down their ranks. The new standards gleamed in the sun, as did the uniforms of the two decorated legionaries who bore them. Pilate addressed the men in formal terms, as befit a Prefect of Rome.

“Legionaries!” he shouted. “It is time to make our annual journey into the capital city of the Jews, where we will display the might of Rome and keep the peace during their festival season. I would remind each of you that you are a representative of Rome in their eyes. How you treat them is how Rome treats them, and how they perceive you, they perceive Rome. This province is ours by right of treaty and by right of conquest, but our stay here can be made easier or more difficult by how we conduct ourselves. I would urge every man among you to show restraint and respect where it is warranted—but should it become necessary to remind the Jews who their masters are, to act with strength, honor, and the proper amount of force. We are here to prevent fights, not to start them—but if someone else starts a fight, we are also here to finish it—and make sure they have no appetite for another!”

The men were regarding him with a respect that made his breast swell with pride. He had been here for just a few months, but these troops were his now. It was a good feeling, one that he had missed since leaving Spain. As long as one led troops bravely and treated them with the right mixture of respect and paternal regard, Roman soldiers were as loyal a clientele as any politician could ask for. But keeping that loyalty meant showing enough respect for the men to explain what you wanted them to do and why—a secret of command that Gaius Marius had passed down to the Caesars, and Pilate had learned from Tiberius.

“So in the interest of keeping the peace, and not starting trouble with our Jewish subjects, we will furl our standards as we pass through their territory, and as we pass through their holy city. Even though these standards are ours by right to display as we march, nevertheless we shall show respect to these locals by not displaying images they find offensive. We shall unfurl them when we are inside the castle of Antonia, our little plot of Roman soil inside Jerusalem, where no Jew will see them. So shall we demonstrate Rome's tolerance and forbearance for the religious customs of our subject peoples! Now let us march—and conduct yourselves well!”

So they set out southward, moving steadily toward Joppa over the course of the day. The road connecting the two cities was smooth and well-maintained, and there was a light breeze rolling in from the sea. Although it was thirty-two miles from Caesarea, the men reached the city walls well before dark. Pilate directed them to a large plain just east of the city, where a small brook flowed toward the sea. There they pitched a light camp and bedded down for the night after the cooks produced a generous supper of lamb stew, salted fish, and local fruits and almonds. Pilate sipped a large goblet of watered wine and reflected on the next day's march. It was over forty miles from Joppa to Jerusalem, and the road was steeper than the previous day's route had been. But his men were in good spirits and excellent physical condition, and he figured with one good rest stop in the middle of the day, they should reach the walls of the city between the ninth hour and midnight—well after dark, in other words. It would be child's play to bring the furled and shrouded standards into the Fortress of Antonia without anyone noticing. Pleased with himself for coming up with a plan that preserved Rome's pride while honoring local custom, Pilate retired to his tent and fell asleep instantly.

The first few days in Jerusalem were unremarkable enough. The city was thronged with Jews from all over the Roman world, come together to celebrate their Feast of Booths. They camped in small tents or huts all over the city and outside its walls, sang strange wailing tunes that they called Psalms, and threw festive dinners for one another. Above all, they sacrificed—goats, bulls, and rams were burned by the hundreds in their Temple every day in tribute to their invisible God. For the most part, they were well-behaved—Pilate kept his patrols out on the streets every day, and other than the routine apprehension of cutpurses and the occasional drunken brawl, there were no incidents.

On the third day there, he received a courtesy visit from Herod Antipas. Antipas was about fifty or so by this time, although it was hard to be sure of his age beneath his rich, black beard and long curly hair. Like most Eastern potentates, he set great store by appearances. And, like most Eastern potentates Pilate had dealt with in the past, he was also a condescending, arrogant blowhard. At least, he told Pilate, he had no objection to the Prefect patrolling his tetrarchy to put down the Zealots. Herod acknowledged that he had no luck in that department.

“The locals have no respect for my soldiers,” he said. “The Samaritans are commendably loyal, but the Jews have always hated them.”

Herod seemed to think himself absolutely indispensable to Rome's control of Judea, and did not mind saying so. In fact, he said so at every opportunity.

“My father united and pacified this province at a great cost of blood and treasure,” Herod droned. “He was mad by the end of his rule, of course—the people hated him and he knew it! On his deathbed he gave an order to arrest the elders and rabbis in every village of Judea and put them to death as soon as word of his own demise was made known—that way, he thought, there would be genuine grief at his passing!” Herod took a drink of wine from his solid gold goblet, rings flashing on his hand as he did so. “I went along with everything he said at the end, knowing that he could have me put to death for the slightest misstep! He had one of his most loyal servants flogged to death the day before he died, and made me hold him upright so that he could watch. I was quite relieved when he breathed his last, I can tell you! My first act as his heir was to countermand the executions he had ordered. I began my rule by saving lives, hoping the people would get the idea that I was not my father.”

“Were you successful?” asked Pilate.

“Yes and no,” said Herod. “The people do not think of me as a monster, as they did my father, but frankly they don't fear me as much as they did him. My Idumean blood tells against me! They say that no true King of the Jews will ever be accepted by God unless he is of the line of David—a line that has long since fallen into obscurity. The scattered descendants of the kings of Israel live as humble peasants all across the region of Galilee, and are as devoid of political ambition as can be. So I rule as a client king, obedient to Rome, and keep the peace here as best I can.”

“Until the Messiah comes?” asked Pilate.

“You've been talking to the common folk!” said Herod. “They still hold to the belief that a great deliverer of David's line will come someday. Every so often a pretender will spring up and claim a great following, but they all come to nothing sooner or later, accomplishing nothing but a disturbance of the peace. I remember near the end of my father's life, some astrologers came to his court with a claim that the “King of the Jews” had been born in some tiny village or other. My father listened patiently to their discussion, sent them on their way, and had them followed to the little village where this alleged king had been born. As soon as those magi returned to their homeland, he sent his soldiers into the village and they slaughtered every male infant there. I am not as bloodthirsty as my father was, but I have little patience for rabble-rousers who would plunge my kingdom into war!”

“Neither does Rome, King Herod!” said Pilate, and raised his glass. “To peace!” he said.

The King of the Jews departed not long after, and Pilate breathed a sigh of relief. The man was quite insufferable. But he was a charmer compared to old Annas, the former High Priest, who dropped by not long after.

This audience was different, because Annas would not lower himself to cross the threshold of Pilate's palace. Instead, the governor seated himself in the
bema
seat overlooking a paved courtyard that opened onto the street, and the High Priest stood on the edge of the street some twenty feet away, two servants holding a canopy over his balding head to keep the sun off of him.

“My son-in-law says that you refused the stipend we generously offered you upon your arrival,” rasped the old man. His bushy eyebrows and glittering black eyes gave him an expression of perpetual irritation.

“I am an employee of Caesar, not of the Temple,” Pilate said. “While I intended no offense, I did not want to give the impression that I was for sale, to you or anyone else.”