The Redemption of Pontius Pilate (56 page)

“I'm not blind, or deaf, you know,” he said. “You and mama talk about her all the time when you think I am asleep or out of earshot. I know that she was named after mama, and that she died in a way that hurt you both very badly. Was it the Emperor that killed her?”

Pilate sat down on a flat rock and pulled his son up on his lap. He watched the horses for a few moments before he finally spoke.

“He did not kill her body,” he finally told his son. “Oh, he abused her cruelly, and hurt her physically, but in a way, I think it might have been kinder if he had killed her outright.”

“Why did he do it?” asked Decimus.

“Your sister was engaged to marry Gaius Caesar,” said Pilate. “The old Emperor Tiberius and I were good friends, and he had proposed the marriage alliance some time before. She was twelve, and Gaius Caligula was fourteen, when we went to see the Emperor on Capri. The lad acted very kind towards her back then, and she was flattered by his attention, and had fallen quite in love with him. I had been suspicious of him earlier—I knew he had a cruel streak in him—but I thought that your sister's innocent love had conquered it. Your mother and I let them go off together, with some other children.” He paused a moment. How could he tell someone so innocent of such a barbaric act without destroying that innocence? But Decimus obviously wanted to know, and Pilate did not know when he would have another opportunity to tell him.

“Do you know of the act that men and women do together to make children?” he asked his son.

“The thing that you and mama do when you think I am asleep?” he said. “I don't know how it works, but I know what it is.”

Pilate smiled at the precocious answer, and vowed to himself never to believe his son was really asleep again without checking. “My son, the desire for that act is the strongest urge that God placed within man. You will understand that soon enough. That desire drives some men mad with passion, but in others, it becomes warped and twisted somehow. That which God made to be an expression of love instead becomes a desire to humiliate and hurt. Gaius Caligula was—and is—one who can derive no pleasure from anything unless it hurts someone else. He raped your sister—that is the term for when the act is forced, rather than given willingly. Not only did he rape her—he beat her in the process, breaking her arm and battering her face. When I saw her, I went mad with rage and tried to kill Caligula. One of the Emperor's guards knocked me unconscious, or I would have killed him.”

Decimus nodded, his face strained from the mental effort of absorbing such cruelty. “I understand why you did what you did now,” he said. “But what I don't understand is how did my sister die?”

A single tear coursed down Pilate's cheek. Decimus reached up and touched it as if it were something precious. Finally his father spoke again.

“Being so savagely assaulted by one whom she had fallen in love with broke something in her,” he said. “Her spirit never recovered. The Emperor was both angry at me for nearly killing his heir, and fearful for what would happen to me when Caligula grew older. He sent us to Judea in order to punish me, and to protect us at the same time, I think. But Porcia Minor was convinced that I was being punished because she had failed me in some way. I could not dissuade her, and I could not heal what he had destroyed inside her. One night on the voyage to Judea she threw herself overboard. Your mother and I—” His voice broke for a moment, and then he continued. “We never even got a chance to tell her goodbye, or to burn her body, according to Roman custom.”

Decimus stood and looked his father in the eye. His small face had matured a decade in the course of a single conversation, but after that glance, he embraced his father like a man. His voice was hoarse with emotion as he spoke.

“You did nothing wrong, then,” he said.

“Not as the world of men sees such things, no,” said Pilate. “I am still trying to sort out what God would think of such violence—even if it was done to avenge a hideous wrong.”

“Why does God allow us to be punished for something you did that was not wrong in itself?” asked Decimus.

“It is the way of the world,” said Pilate. “The innocent suffer and the weak are abused by the strong. It is a reminder that this world we live in is utterly lost. Even Jesus did no wrong to any man, and yet I sent him to the cross. Perhaps my present suffering is a form of atonement for that wrong.”

“I do not know,” said the boy. “But I think I want to go find mama now.”

Pilate watched his son leave with a mixture of sorrow and pride. He had such maturity for such tender years! As he finished tethering the horses, he saw John standing in the edge of the trees. He nodded at him, and the Apostle stepped out and sat on the rock Pilate and his son had just vacated.

“You heard?” asked Pilate.

John nodded. “I did not mean to eavesdrop, but you had just started speaking as I approached, and I did not want to disturb your time with your son by interrupting.”

Pilate nodded. “Saves me the trouble of having to tell it twice, I suppose,” he said.

John sat there for a long time. Finally he stood and placed a hand on Pilate's shoulder. “I am an Apostle of Jesus the Christ,” he said. “I have sworn my life to spreading His Gospel of peace.” He paused, and his grip tightened for a moment. “But if Gaius Caligula stood before me right now, I would have a hard time staying my hand.”

Two weeks later they rode to Ephesus at the first light of dawn. There had been no sign of pursuit, although there were rumors that Caligula's hated Praetorians had been seen throughout the province. Pilate found a seedy inn near the south gate and rented two adjoining rooms for the two families, and then left John in charge while he went to take care of business. He was decked out in his Jewish garb—stooping over a staff, stroking his long beard with his free hand, and pulling his hood up over his head. As he strode through the streets of the capital of Rome's Syrian province, he saw a few legionaries ambling through the streets on patrol. They took no notice of him. The city's banks were near the governor's palace, and that was a high-traffic area that Pilate was loath to enter. Too many people in this part of the world knew his face, and he would not be able to wear his Jewish costume when he went to retrieve the money of a Greek businessman named Lentulus.

Near the business district was a public latrine. Pilate ducked inside and found it deserted. Quickly he doffed the long cloak and headdress of an orthodox Jew; in its place he pulled on a simple, blue mantle over the solid white tunic he had been wearing beneath his Jewish robes. He ran a comb through his hair and put a drop of sweet-smelling balsam oil in his beard. Last of all, he donned a simple, gold-colored headband with a small sapphire mounted in front. He had gone from being a wandering Jewish peasant to a sleek-looking Greek merchant in a matter of moments.

He wandered into the banking firm of Lucullus and Caepio, one of the oldest and best-established banking firms in the Empire. A pudgy clerk greeted him with an unctuous smile.

“Good day, sir, how may we be of service?” he asked.

Pilate produced a letter of credit from within his bag. “My name is Lentulus Aristophanes,” he said. “I have over twenty talents on deposit with your firm. I need to withdraw one gold talent and two silver ones.”

The clerk nodded, and waddled back to a shelf where hundreds of scrolls were filed in alphabetical order. He picked his way through them and found the proper one after a few moments. He compared the signature on the record with the one in Pilate's letter and gave a nod.

“Give me just a moment,” he said. “Such a large sum will take a short time to count out.”

Pilate waited, studying the frescoes on the wall, and listened to the chatter of customers around him. Two Jewish merchants were talking at the next table over as they waited for the bankers to bring them their withdrawal.

“So what happened to the old governor?” said one.

“I tell you, Daniel, no one knows!” said the other. “He just disappeared without a trace from Caesarea one day, and then there were rumors flying all over that the old Emperor had called him on the carpet for corruption, cruelty, and incompetence. Not long after that his family disappeared, and then, the next thing you know, Tiberius is dead, and Praetorians from Rome are scouring the province looking for Pontius Pilate!”

“That is a bizarre tale, Joseph!” his companion said. “So what is the new governor like?”

“Marullus? Ha! He is lazy, corrupt, and incompetent!” replied Joseph. “Pilate, for all his faults, had crushed the Zealots once and for all. I have the feeling that they will enjoy a real rebirth under this new fellow. So far all he has done is try to curry favor with the priests and squeeze the merchants for all the bribes and tax money he can get.”

“You really think Pilate was any better?” Daniel said in disbelief.

“I tell you, old friend, Pontius Pilate was a hard man with a mean streak a mile wide,” said Joseph, “but he was competent. He was a reminder of why the Romans rule the world—he was ruthless, cruel, and tough as old boot leather. But there wasn't a hint of corruption about him, and those legionaries under his command were never allowed to forget that they were soldiers of Rome!”

In another lifetime, Pilate might have felt a surge of pride at this praise coming from his enemies. But now he was just anxious for his banker to return with the money he needed to finance his flight to parts unknown. Fortunately, the clerk returned moments later with three heavy bags of coin. He opened each, so that Pilate could see the contents, and then weighed them on the scales to show that he had indeed produced the required amount.

“Can I have someone carry this for you?” he asked. “It is a considerable amount of coin!”

Pilate shook his head. “It's not that heavy,” he said, “and I have pack mules waiting.”

It was a statement he came to regret, as the coins were a good deal heavier than he had thought they would be. Once clear of the bank, he stepped into the same latrine to don his Jewish robes for the walk across town to the Jewish quarter where the other four were waiting for him. He had just pulled off the blue mantle and was about to put his Jewish robes back on when a man walked in.

“Jupiter!” a familiar voice exclaimed. “Pontius Pilate! Is that you?”

It was Lucius Vitellius, the governor of Syria. Pilate heaved a sigh and looked up at his former superior.

“Hello, Proconsul!” he said.

“The Praetorians showed up at my palace yesterday looking for you,” he said. “I told them that I had no idea where you were, and that was the truth. Now if I see them again I am going to have to actually lie, I suppose.”

Pilate surveyed the young bureaucrat curiously. He did not know Vitellius well, but he had no idea the fellow had that much spine. Still, he was grateful.

“If you can keep my secret for another day, sir, I will be gone from this quarter of the world forever,” he said.

Vitellius lowered his voice. “Do not charter a ship here, Pilate!” he said. “The Praetorians are watching the docks very closely—apparently someone tipped them off that you might bolt here.”

Pilate frowned. The bustling docks of Ephesus had played a prominent role in his escape plans all along; not being able to visit them would be a huge inconvenience. Vitellius noticed his expression.

“Listen,” he said. “I don't know why Caligula wants you, but after watching the Praetorians crucify poor Marcus Phillipus for no good reason, I have no desire to help them apprehend you, regardless of what you may have done. This new Emperor is a monster! There is a smaller seaport about a half day's ride south of here called Miletus. A few dozen boats sail from there, mostly fishermen and low-level wine merchants. Many of them are dirt poor and would gladly take a high-paying commission. If you can charter a boat from there, you can escape Syria and find your way to someplace where no one has ever heard the name of Pontius Pilate. I would suggest you do so quickly!”

Pilate winced when he heard of the death of his young junior legate. Apparently Caligula truly never forgot or forgave any slight. He thanked the governor for his discretion and good advice, then walked as briskly as the considerable load of gold and silver would allow across town to where his family, John, and Miriam were staying.

They were ensconced in their rooms, nervously awaiting his return. He quickly related the conversation he had with Vitellius, and John's brow furrowed.

“Are you sure you can trust him?” he asked.

“It would have been very easy for him to apprehend me,” Pilate replied. “He had eight lictors waiting for him outside. I don't know him well, but he strikes me as a good, honest man. I have an idea, though, on how to proceed.”

“What would that be?” asked John.

“Let me ride down to Miletus alone,” he said. “I will conduct a reconnaissance, find a ship's captain willing to take on a charter, and pay him half in advance. Then I will return for you all and we will ride down together, board a ship, and be gone from this part of the Empire forever.”

Porcia nodded. “It is the safest way, but the danger to you frightens me. What if the Praetorians are there ahead of you?”

“There aren't that many of them, and they can't be everywhere,” said Pilate. “I think this is our best chance to get free once and for all. Let us break bread together, and I will sleep for a few hours, and then set out when it is fully dark.”

Together they went down to the tavern's common room and purchased roast chicken and fish, mixed in a broth with onions and olive oil, and a good-sized loaf of reasonably fresh bread. They ate quickly—the tavern had few customers at this hour of the day, but the supper crowd would be in soon and they wanted to be back in their rooms before more people arrived. As they finished the meal, John spoke to Decimus.