The Redemption of Pontius Pilate (47 page)

“Jesus of Nazareth,” Longinus said simply. “First and foremost, the fact that our Roman legal system could send a completely innocent man to the cross. That was hard enough for me witness. But now”—he bowed his head and actually sobbed—“sir, he was no ordinary man. He was not even an extraordinary man. We have killed the Son of God!”

Pilate's temper snapped. “You think I don't know it?” he snarled. “I see his blood on my hands every night! You may have driven the nails, but you were following orders, Centurion! Your obedience to me, to the Senate and People of Rome, wipes the stain from you. Nothing can expiate my guilt in this matter. I don't know about this ‘Son of God' business, really—I don't know what this Jesus was! But he was no ordinary man, as you say. There was something supernatural about him, and I sent him to his death. I've never believed in the immortality of the soul, Longinus. That's something the Greeks cooked up to alleviate their fear of dying. But if any part of us lives on after we die, I am hopelessly damned!”

Silence fell in the room. For the first time, Pilate had articulated the fear that paralyzed him, that haunted his dreams. The murder of a god was a crime of cosmic proportions, and every time this Jesus appeared yet again, he was reminded of his own guilt.

“It is not hopeless, sir,” said Longinus. “He can forgive you—just as he forgave me.”

“What are you talking about?” Pilate demanded. “Do you mean that nonsense he was spouting as he hung on the cross?”

“No, sir,” replied the centurion. “I have seen him since then. He appeared to me ten days ago.”

Pilate sunk into his chair. “You, too, Longinus?” he finally said. “I refused to believe these tales at first, but they would not die. Just like this Jesus would not die! Tell me, sir, how can a man whom we thoroughly killed be up and walking around?”

Longinus smiled—a wonderful smile full of deep joy and abiding confidence. “Because he is more than a man, sir. He is exactly what his disciples called him—the Son of God. He still bears the scars in his hands and feet—the scars I put there. I was like you, sir. Nightmares every night, guilt overwhelming me. I finally decided to fall on my sword and end it like a good Roman. I sent Stychius and Abigail away, along with the children. They didn't want to leave me—Stychius knew what I intended, I'm sure. I was drunk and surly, and had to chase them out of the house. I drained another flagon of wine, then braced the sword against my bed and prepared to skewer myself through the chest.”

“Isn't suicide against your religion?” asked Pilate.

“What does that matter when you are already in hell?” asked Longinus. “But what happened next showed me the way out. The room suddenly filled with light, and a sweet scent like nothing I have ever smelt before. A strong hand grasped my shoulder and spun me around, and there he was, looking me straight in the eye.”

Pilate shook his head. “Impossible!” he snapped.

“The Jews say all things are possible with God,” the centurion replied. “Jesus looked at me, and said, ‘You did not take my life from me, Cassius Longinus. I laid it down, and I took it up again.' I fell on my knees and wept like a child, sir. He lifted me up and asked if I would like to atone for all I had done, and I said there was nothing I would like more. He looked at me with those eyes that are as deep as the oceans, and simply said: ‘Be my disciple.' So now I am going to meet with one of his apostles, a man named John, and ask to join their new faith—they call it The Way.”

“Longinus, you were drunk and had a hallucination!” Pilate said. “You wanted a way out from your guilt, so your mind manufactured one!”

The senior centurion laid his gear on Pilate's desk. “You know that is not true, sir. I am not the only one who has seen him—you told me that yourself. You are angry because of your own sense of guilt. He can forgive you too, sir. All you have to do is ask!”

“I DON'T WANT TO BE FORGIVEN!!” roared Pilate. “Forgiveness is for weaklings, and no one has ever been able to call me weak! If guilt is my lot, I will live with it.” Then the anger leeched out of him as quickly as it had come. He sat down and buried his face in his hands. “You are a good man, Longinus, and you have served Rome—and me—very well. I regret your leaving, but will not try to stop you.” Standing up, Pilate walked around the desk and put his hands on Longinus' shoulder. “You are the only true friend I have made here, you know. I will miss your wise counsel.”

Longinus embraced him. “I am still your friend,” he said, “and always will be. But a soldier I can be no more. May God bless you, Lucius Pontius Pilate. You are a bigger man than the demons that beset you. I pray you find peace.”

So Pilate lost his best officer and closest friend. He promoted Titus Ambrosius to
Primus Pilus
of the Judean Legion, but even though the big veteran was completely competent, he and Pilate had never become friends the way Pilate and Longinus had. The nightmares continued, though—almost without change. Every night he relived that horrid, humiliating trial, and every night he was unable to wash the blood of Jesus from his hands. He tried drinking himself into a stupor before going to bed, but the dreams kept coming—and he always found himself stone cold sober when he woke. His weight began to drop, but food held no interest for him. Porcia was deeply concerned, but could do nothing to help him.

Fifty-three days after the crucifixion, he was sitting in his office, trying to focus his brain on the pile of petitions and requests before him—his clients and supplicants were too frightened of his mood swings to appear before him in person—when a cheerful voice boomed across the room in greeting.

“
Ave,
Lucius Pontius Pilate!”

Pilate raised his head and glared at the cheerful young man who grinned at him from the door of the prefect's office. “Who in Jupiter's name are you?” he snarled.

Undaunted, the youth, clad in a junior officer's uniform, crossed the room and sat down across from Pilate. “I am
Quaestor
Marcus Balbus Phillipus, your new junior legate! Tiberius Caesar sends his greetings!”

Pilate shook his head. Seven years in this thankless job without a single officer from Rome to assist him, and now they send him a junior legate? It made no sense. But what did, these days? He stood and poured his guest a glass of wine.

“Welcome to the armpit of the Empire, Marcus Balbus Phillipus,” he said. “So what disgrace did you commit to earn this punishment?”

“Punishment?” the young man asked. “No punishment at all, Prefect Pilate! The Emperor's friend Sergius Paulus asked me to come here in person in order to investigate the remarkable tale of the carpenter who returned from the dead.”

Pilate's attention snapped around to the
Quaestor.
“You know about that?” he asked.

“Paulus allowed me to read your report to Tiberius,” he said, “so that I would know what it was I was sent to investigate. The Emperor is fascinated and curious about the whole thing. Here, I was told to give you this.” He tossed a scroll from his satchel to Pilate. It was sealed with Tiberius' familiar signet. “I'll step out and let you read it in private,” he said before leaving.

Pilate broke the seal and opened the letter. Tiberius' handwriting seemed to grow shakier with each missive he sent, but he still wrote every message himself, refusing to use an
amanuensis
for even routine correspondence.

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

I read your lengthy and fascinating report on the events of Passover week in Jerusalem with great interest. As you know, I am a deeply religious man—I believe in the gods of Rome, but I am not so foolish as to think that our gods are the only gods that exist. The God of the Jews is far older than our deities, and although his laws make little sense to us dwelling on the Tiber, they were laid down hundreds of years before Romulus laid the foundation stones of Rome.

This Jesus of Nazareth seems to be linked to the God of the Jews somehow, although the nature of that link is unclear to me. But the events you describe are fraught with all kinds of remarkable portents that need to be investigated. I asked Sergius Paulus, who serves as one of my confidential agents in matters I do not wish for Macro or Gaius Caligula to know about, to send a trustworthy person to gather information and report back to us about what you described. Please understand, dear Pilate, that this is not because I doubt your word! But in matters this important, more than one set of eyes is needed to verify the truth. Frankly, I have also been remiss in not sending you some help any sooner. Judea is a difficult province to govern, as you above all Romans should know, but due to the unfortunate circumstances I sent you to govern it without a single legate, tribune, or even a conterburnalis to help you! Marcus Phillipus is an able and intelligent young man of good family; he should be of great assistance to you once his investigation is concluded. You may consider him absolutely trustworthy; he has no reason to love Macro or Caligula.

As far as your request to return to Rome, it grieves me to say no, but I must. For the time being, your return is neither safe nor politic. But when I do recall you, it may well be that I need you to come home quickly and quietly. Hold yourself in readiness for that day. Send my greetings to your family.

Pilate read the note twice, and gave a low whistle. Why on earth would the ruler of the world concern himself with such a matter? Jesus' refusal to stay dead was an enigma, but was Tiberius truly thinking that the Nazarene was some sort of god? Of course, his reports from Sullemius said that Tiberius had become more and more superstitious as well as more paranoid in his old age. Perhaps he was mad enough to add a Galilean carpenter to the Roman pantheon? Pilate stifled a chuckle as he imagined the Senate's reaction to that!

He called Phillipus back into his office and looked him over again. “So tell me, Balbus,” he said, “a little bit more about yourself.”

“Not a lot to tell,” the young man said. “My family is linked with the Emperor's for many generations, and when I was about fourteen I was sent to Capri at the request of Tiberius. He said that young Gaius Caesar—he truly hates to be called ‘Caligula' these days!—needed the company of young men from his own social class, rather than the children from the rural tribes around Neapolis. This was perhaps a year after your last”—he winked at Pilate—“encounter with Gaius. His bones had knit and his face was mended, but his temper was foul! My job was to help him train with blade and shield, to prepare him for his military duties. I'd been training on the Campus Martius since I was ten, and was reckoned to be handy with a gladius. Oh, how he hated it! The brat could not stand that anyone was better than him at anything, but he was too lazy and sloppy to ever be any good with a blade. Every time I disarmed him or whacked him over the head with my
rudis
for dropping his guard, there was murder in his eyes. But Tiberius made a point of attending all the training sessions, leaning on his cane and watching us practice, so my young companion had to disguise his true feelings and laugh, congratulating me on a good move. He was biding his time and waiting, but I figured his revenge would come in the form of a brawl or practical joke of some sort. I didn't really know Caligula very well at that point.” He paused and took a sip of wine; his face grew grim.

“After several months of training with the
rudii
, we graduated to metal blades and real shields. Little by little, despite himself, Caligula was getting better at fighting, and it was more rarely that I disarmed him or got through his guard. So those murderous looks became fewer and further between, and I began to think that maybe the little monster had forgiven me for being a better warrior than he will ever be. Then one day Tiberius was in bed with a cough during our normal training session. It was cold and damp, and we were not going at it that hard—just the standard circling, parrying, and blocking that soldiers do every day. He seemed unusually cheerful that day, but it made him careless. I must have gotten past his guard a half dozen times, but all I did was tap him with the flat of the blade to show him his mistakes. But he would not correct himself, and I got a little tired of it. So the next time he let his guard down, I made sure that I scratched his arm with the blade. That's all it was, I swear! Just a little scratch. He got that nasty expression, and I turned to walk away. Suddenly I felt a sharp pain and looked down to see the tip of Caligula's gladius sticking out of my chest, just below my right shoulder. The
mentula
ran me through—for trying to make him a better swordsman!”

He pulled his tunic off his shoulder, and Pilate saw the angry red scar just below his collarbone. Marcus turned around and showed him the corresponding scar on his back.

“What happened after that?” Pilate asked him.

“I slowly turned around, and there was Gaius Little Boots, grinning at me with the most cheerful expression imaginable,” Phillipus continued. “All I remember thinking was that I could not let myself fall backward, because it would drive even more of the blade into me. So I watched that evil grin as I slowly fell forward onto my face.”

“Jupiter!” said Pilate. “An inch or two lower and that thrust would have killed you.”

“If several servants had not come running up, I'm sure he would have finished me off,” said Marcus. “As it was, Tiberius' physician dressed my wound and I was bundled back to my parents with a generous gift of gold to purchase my silence. Like you, I live in fear of the day that maggot becomes Emperor.”

Pilate nodded. “So how did all of that bring you here?”

“Like you once did, my patron, Sergius Paulus, runs confidential errands for Tiberius, and helps him hear what is happening in Rome,” explained Phillipus. “Your testimony about the trial of this Jesus character has the Emperor aflame with curiosity. He thinks it may be a significant omen of some sort, this man who refuses to stay dead. So he sent me to gather information and report back to him, after which he wants me to stay and help you govern the province.”