The Redemption of Pontius Pilate (32 page)

Sure enough, not far from the two burned-out villages, they were attacked a second time, by some two thousand Skenite warriors. Forewarned, Pilate had sent word ahead to the nearest Jewish settlements that a battle was in the offing, and the Jews, who hated the Skenites even more than they hated Rome, quickly assembled a militia force at least as big as Pilate's. Just as his soldiers fully engaged the enemy, the Jewish vigilantes attacked them in the rear, and the Skenites' counterattack was wiped out in less than an hour. Twelve hundred lay dead, and perhaps half that many were taken captive before the remainder fled back into the desert. Pilate left half of the captives to the tender mercies of their Jewish enemies, and also returned the captive girls he had rescued to their people, who thanked him profusely. The rest of the captives were shackled beside the other prisoners and led back to Caesarea, where Pilate was greeted by Jews and Romans alike as a conquering hero. As he returned the waves of the crowd outside the city gates, he felt better than he had since arriving in Judea. The grief, rage, and depression of the last year were lifted from his shoulders as if by magic.

But as he scanned the faces that greeted him, he grew alarmed. Porcia was not standing on the wall outside their quarters, nor was she anywhere among the Roman citizens that cheered him from just inside the gate. He spurred his horse into the courtyard and dismounted, ignoring the cheers and flowers that were being thrown at him. Had it been nine months already? He added the weeks up inside his head and realized that she had been due two weeks ago. Jupiter! What if she had lost the child? What if—?

Suddenly Longinus stood beside him, smiling and clapping him on the shoulder. “Welcome back, Prefect! Your son is anxious to meet you!” he said with a smile.

Pilate sagged with relief. “My son?” he asked. “What about—”

“She's fine,” said the Primus Pilus Centurion. “The midwife said the delivery was difficult, and she bled a great deal. But her strength has been returning steadily, and she eats ravenously—as does your son. Adonai
has been gracious to you.”

Pilate almost wept with relief. “Adonai
,
Lucina, Vagitanus, or Persephone herself!” he laughed. “At this point, I will make offerings to them all! This is the best news I could have had, Cassius! See the slaves to the market and the men properly billeted in the barracks. I want to see my child!” He took the steps upstairs two at a time.

Porcia was sitting up in her bed, attended by a maidservant. A plump, healthy baby boy with a jet-black thatch of hair was nursing at her breast. She looked up at him and smiled with a genuine joy that he had not seen on her face in a year or more. He embraced her gently and kissed her forehead—while her face was radiating happiness and satisfaction, he could tell from her pallor and the lines under her eyes that the delivery had not been an easy one.

“Are you well, wife?” he asked when he could speak.

“I will be,” she said. “He did not come into the world easily! But I was determined to bring him here, and to watch him grow up. I am getting stronger every day, but I did not feel able to stand long enough to watch your entrance. The scouts brought word of your victories to us yester eve. Well done, husband! Even old Tiberius will have nothing to complain of when he hears how you punished the Skenites.”

Pilate nodded. He enjoyed hearing the pride in his wife's voice, but now was not the time for war or politics. He took his son in his arms and lifted him high. The boy squalled in lusty protest at having his meal interrupted, but Pilate swaddled him in a soft linen sheet and he quieted down. Then the proconsul took his infant son and walked out the door, onto the rampart overlooking the courtyard. His men were there, laughing and boasting of their feats in battle to anyone who would listen, while the legionaries who had not been assigned to the mission looked on in envy. He watched them in pride for a few moments, but then Brutus Appius saw him standing there and nudged his companions. Soon the men were all looking at their commander and the white-clad bundle in his arms, whispering and pointing. Pilate let the sheet fall aside and lifted the tiny child high above his head, raising his voice so they could all hear.

“LEGIONARIES!” he cried. “I present to you my son, Decimus Pontius Pilate! As
paterfamilias
of the house Pontii, I proclaim him to be my legitimate issue, my son and my heir, who shall carry our family name into the next generation. I call on all the gods of Rome to witness that this is my son!”

The men cheered themselves hoarse and little Decimus wailed in dismay. Pilate wrapped the cloth back around him and returned him to his mother. In a moment he was happily nursing again, and Procula was studying her husband's face and form as he looked down on them. It was a face and body familiar to her, but she never tired of watching this man she loved.

At forty-four, Pilate was just under six feet tall and very lean. His black hair was thinning somewhat, and his mouth was set in a stern expression much of the time. There was a hint of danger about him that she had never fully understood, a certain ruthlessness that she only caught glimpses of from time to time. It seemed to gleam forth most fully when he was describing a battle or a tense political victory. But when he smiled, that hint of danger receded, and there was a kindness to him that had attracted her since she was a young girl. His nose was a proper Roman beak, and his eyes a steely gray. His shoulders were broad and his arms muscular from constant practice with blade and shield, and his exposed skin a deep tan from years of exposure to the sun. In a culture that prized physical fitness and strength, Pilate would never have cause to be ashamed.

The birth of his son and his victory over the Skenites seemed to banish the cloud that had hung over him ever since his arrival in Judea, and especially since the embarrassing episode with the standards. The Jews, it seemed, would never love any Roman governor, but for a time, at least, Pilate had won their respect. A week after his return to Caesarea, he received a package from Caiaphas, the High Priest. It contained a talent of gold and a single pearl of great value. The letter accompanying it was almost friendly.

Esteemed Proconsul
, it read.

Please accept this gift, not in token of any favors granted or expected, but in simple congratulations for the birth of your heir and your notable victory over the enemies of our people. I do not expect that we shall ever be friends, but perhaps we can become, at the very least, partners in the governance of the sons of Israel during your time here. May the God of Israel bless your son with good health and long life. Matthew Caiaphas of the House of Zadok, High Priest of the Israelites.

Not long after, a similar gift came from Herod Antipas. The letter, however, was more verbose and not nearly as tactful.

Greetings, Prefect Pilate! Congratulations on the birth of your son and heir. We here in Israel are fond of large families—in fact, my father had so many sons that he was able to indulge himself in the luxury of killing half of them! But no man should go through life without leaving a son to carry on his name and family honor, and I am glad that you have finally been blessed with offspring. Given the uncertainty of life, however, I would encourage you to go at your wife again as soon as possible, because a single heir is a tenuous bridge to posterity at best! Please accept this gift as a token of my good wishes. Herod Antipas, King of Judea and Procurator of Galilee.

Pilate rolled his eyes as he read the ponderous prose to his wife. She could not bring herself to believe that Herod's father had actually killed five of his own sons, but Pilate assured her it was true.

“No wonder he wants you to have another son!” she said. “He probably thinks you need an extra in case you decide to lop this one's head off!”

“Herod's father was mad,” said Pilate. “Do you know that Augustus once said he would rather be Herod's pig than Herod's son? As a proper Jew, Herod would never kill a pig!”

They laughed together, and then opened the bag that had accompanied the letter. Herod had sent them two talents of gold, one for Pilate, and one for his son. In addition, there was a lovely gold and emerald circlet for Porcia to slip around her arm. Little Decimus was fascinated by it, and kept trying to pull it into his mouth.

“You know,” said Porcia, “as soon as we find an acceptable wet nurse for our son, I will welcome you back to our bed properly.”

Pilate smiled at his wife with great fondness. Thrilled though he was to finally have an heir to his name, he did not want to put her through the perils of childbirth again when she was in her thirties. The thought that he might lose her was terrifying to him. But he kept those thoughts to himself.

“I will be glad when the time comes,” he said, and curled up next to her to sleep.

When Decimus was nearly four months old, a letter arrived from the Emperor. Pilate had sent him a detailed report of the defeat of the Skenite invaders, and mentioned the birth of his son in a brief postscript. Although his anger had faded somewhat, the affection he once felt for Tiberius had still not returned. Nonetheless, his old patron's letter made him smile.

Gaius Julius Tiberius Caesar, Princeps and Imperator, to Prefect Lucius Pontius Pilate, Proconsul of Judea; greetings!

Your report of the Skenite incursion and your forceful and effective response was received with gladness. I have long held that you were the most competent and loyal of all my legates, and it is good to be proven correct once more! But the news of your son's birth was a far greater joy to this lonely old man. I am a cold and impersonal being, as many have remarked, Lucius Pontius. My glum demeanor leads many to believe that I am incapable of human warmth. But the one thing that has always had the power to lift my spirits is the laughter of little children. I had once thought that you and I could share the same grandchildren, but the young serpent I adopted scotched that dream forever, and in the process cost me the friendship of one I held dear. I cannot undo what has been done, as much as I might like to, but I can thank all the gods of Rome that the laughter of children has returned to the house of the Pontii. Please accept my sincerest congratulations, dear Pilate!

I must admit that I do miss your capable eyes and ears in Rome. Sejanus continues to run amok, but his days are drawing to a close, though he knows it not. Young Caligula tries to endear himself to me, but I find myself unable to forget what he did to your daughter. If only I had another heir! At least he has forgotten for a time the hurt you gave him. He has devoted himself to the pleasures of the flesh altogether these last few months, and I think the constant indulgence is beginning to wear off some of his sharp edges. Such at least is an old man's hope.

May this letter find you and your dear Porcia safe and well. Perhaps your return to Rome can be accomplished sooner than we hoped. Keep yourself safe, and keep the Jews in line!

Pilate shook his head. In all the years of their association, this was the most candid and emotional letter Tiberius had ever written to him. What a shame, he thought, that it should come at a time when the relationship was damaged beyond repair. Still, the thought of a return to Rome was encouraging.

Of all the letters he received, though, the one that warmed his heart the most came from Quintus Sullemius. It was short, pointed, and hilarious.

Quintus Sullemius, scoundrel, pirate, spy, and corrupter of the youth of Rome, to His Excellency, Proconsul and Prefect Lucius Pontius Pilate, sovereign protector of the armpit of the Roman Empire known as Judea –

Congratulations, you old dog! Be sure to wipe the cacat from the table before you unfold this to read it. Probably an exercise in futility, since infants are a never-ending fountain of the smelly stuff, but still worth trying at least. I was glad to see that the house of my old friend is not doomed to extinction, for this generation at least. Tell the brat his Uncle Quintus will have a nice wench lined up for him when he is ready to don his toga and become a man! In the meantime, keep wiping up the messes, and try not to go all silly every time you look at your little blanket-soiler!

Pilate did not read that one to Porcia, but he laughed every time he thought about its contents for the next week. Even the men noticed the change in their commander. He was still tough as nails and drove them hard, whether in training or on patrol, but he laughed and joked more often than before, and even went out of his way to show courtesy to the Jews he encountered. Perhaps his term as prefect was going to be peaceful and uneventful after all.

It was autumn, and Pilate was preparing to return to Jerusalem for the first time since the fiasco over the standards the previous year. His three cohorts were prepared to escort him, and the shields they carried were polished to a mirror finish with no ornamentation at all. The eagle standards would remain in the barracks at Caesarea, where the shields with the Emperor's profile were also kept. There would be no fuss over “graven images” this time!

The messenger from Jerusalem arrived the day before Pilate had planned to depart, and the news was not good. Jerusalem was suffering under a plague of the bloody flux. Thousands of Jews and other residents of the city were afflicted with vomiting, diarrhea, and dehydration, and hundreds had already died. Pilgrims flocking to the city for the Feast of Booths seemed particularly vulnerable.

The armies of Rome had fought this particular malady for centuries, and while its precise cause was still a mystery, everyone knew how it was contracted: by drinking foul water, especially water that had been contaminated with sewage. That was why the Roman legions followed strict guidelines dating from the years of Scipio Africanus concerning the placement of latrines and wells within their camps, and why fouling a well was a flogging offense. Every Roman officer could cite the example of Pompey Strabo, the father of Pompey the Great. He had been negligent about proper drainage for his camp's latrines and had thus died of the flux, after hundreds of his soldiers had suffered a similar fate.