The Redemption of Pontius Pilate (8 page)

The next few years were busy ones for Lucius Pontius Pilate. He served three terms as Tribune of the Plebs, each lasting a year, and not consecutive with each other. At one time it had been positively forbidden for a tribune to seek re-election, and more than one would-be demagogue had been torn apart by angry mobs for trying to do so. The rules were less strict now, but it was still considered unlucky and a bit improper for a tribune to succeed himself in office. Pilate also finally got to serve a full term as Urban Praetor, and sat with every session of the Roman Senate. He became a respected member of the legislature, with a reputation for efficiency and intelligence.

His marriage to Procula Porcia was everything a Roman aristocrat's family life was supposed to be: affectionate, respectful, and happy. Unlike most Roman husbands, Pilate rarely sought the affections of other women. While adultery by men was not forbidden, or even particularly frowned upon, by Roman law or religion, he was not a slave to his sex drive, and his wife was a satisfactory partner to him. Only during the latter stages of her pregnancies did he occasionally stray, and he never formed lasting relationships with his paramours. Porcia's pregnancies proved the only regret he had about his marriage to her—she seemed incapable of bringing a son to term. They had one healthy daughter, and another who died as an infant. After that, Porcia became pregnant twice more, but miscarried both times. They both agreed that if she did not bear a son by the time she was thirty, they would adopt a child from another family. Adoptions were very common in Rome, and completely binding in every way. Many an impoverished family of ancient blood and impeccable lineage could not afford to raise more than one son, so they adopted their younger boys out to those who were wealthier and less fertile.

The other relationship that continued to be successful in Pilate's life was his ongoing political relationship with the Emperor. It became obvious early on that Tiberius was never going to enjoy the love of the Roman people as Augustus and Julius Caesar had. His glum and morose nature forbade familiarity, and his disdain for flattery stymied those who sought his favor. His relationship with the Senate was awkward, to say the least—rather than regard them as a tame body of legislative consultants, as Augustus had, he seemed to want them to actually govern, at least at first. But their confusion about his wishes and uncertainty as to their political independence rendered them ineffectual, so Tiberius gradually took up the reins of power his adopted father had wielded, but he never held them as easily or as competently as Augustus had. As time went by, it was more and more evident that the new Emperor of Rome simply did not like Romans very much at all—or the city itself, for that matter. Tiberius had moved into the house of Augustus at first, but the presence of his mother, Livia, drove him to distraction, so he retired to his villa outside the city. When she continued to visit him there once every week or so, he took to going on long rides around the countryside, staying in the homes of various senators and notables. Eventually he discovered the Villa Jovis, a magnificent summer palace that Augustus had built on the Isle of Capri, and took to spending several months of the year there. Pilate came to see him occasionally there on business, and he noted that Tiberius never seemed happier than when he was on the lightly populated island, enjoying the company of a few select servants and close associates.

“Look at this place!” he said one evening as he guided Pilate through a lovely atrium, open to the Mediterranean breeze on the north end. Tiberius was leaning against a column, surveying the sea. The moon was setting, turning the water into quicksilver flames. “This is the only place I find peace anymore, Lucius Pontius. I dread every time I have to leave here and return to Rome, and yet my duties keep me going back to that horrible city. There are times I wish I could stock up a boat full of food, water, and a few musicians and servants, and sail west until I could find the place that the sun goes when it leaves our skies in the evening.”

Pilate stood beside him, thoughtfully. “I suppose, Sire, that you would eventually find another land somewhere out there beyond Spain. Of course, it would be filled with people, and noise, and politics, and all the other things you left here to escape.”

Tiberius glared at him. “That is a terrible way to speak of another man's dream!” he said in mock anger.

“Well, sir, you did always ask me to give a candid opinion,” said Pilate. “And right now, my candid opinion is that the Senate is getting restive at your absence. Some are even whispering that Germanicus might have been a better successor to your father after all!”

“They are, are they?” asked the Emperor, suddenly dead serious. “The issue of Germanicus is quite troubling to me, Pilate. He is a brilliant general and a beloved figure by the people, but he is also my adopted son and a loyal family member. He inherited the natural charisma that is the Julian trait—one I did not inherit and have never been able to cultivate. I give the Empire peace, and prosperity, and sound legislation, and they call me a sour old man. He slays enemies on the battlefield, and he is the darling of Rome! If I were a more vindictive man, young Germanicus might not live to become old Germanicus!” he snapped.

He walked across the polished marble floor to the far wall. A huge staircase swept upward to the next floor of the villa, but a small door opened in the wall under it. From the outside it looked like a storage closet, but inside was a lacquered teakwood desk with an inkwell and papyrus, and a small curule chair for the Emperor to sit on. Pilate leaned on the doorjamb, looking in as the Emperor seated himself—the room had no other seat, and was so small as to be somewhat cramped with two men inside it at once.

“Give me a few moments to write,” said Tiberius, “and I will have two letters for you to take back to Rome. One is for the
Princeps Senatus
, to let him know I will be returning to the city soon. The other will be some new orders for Germanicus—which may or may not be to his liking.”

“This is a tiny chamber,” said Pilate. “Why not use your library upstairs?”

“I like this little room,” said Tiberius. “When I sit down here, I know I am the only one present. It is small, and plain, and lets me focus on what I am doing. Now begone! I will send Mencius for you when I am done. He will serve you some food while you wait.”

As Pilate ate the excellent fish and warm bread the steward brought him, he reflected upon his rise in the world. With any luck, he would soon be ready to run for Consul of Rome, the office he had long dreamed of holding. His friendship with the prickly old Tiberius had indeed been a political asset! The Emperor rarely asked Pilate for any political favor, only to be kept informed of the mood of the Senate, and any developments that might merit Tiberius' concern. He often wished the Emperor were a happier man, but he also knew that men could not change their personality, even when they wanted to.

His own secret life was ample proof of that. Upon his return to Rome five years before, he had buried the savage love of cruelty he had discovered in himself during his stint in Germania. But it could not be forever repressed; he found himself growing angrier and more sullen the longer he went without hurting someone. Yet he did not want to hurt those he cared about, nor those who could possibly do him some favor or benefit later on. So he took to disappearing into the sinks of the Suburba, Rome's poorest and most densely populated district, every few months. He would wear the clothes of a commoner, slip a sturdy dagger into his belt, and find some seedy tavern where fights broke out with regularity. After a night or two, he would pick a fight with someone and usually beat them senseless. He was in splendid physical condition, and his combat experience made him a deadly opponent. On the rare occasion that he misjudged his foe, he could always resort to the dagger. However, there was a risk in that. While bar fights were a common occurrence, killing someone outright was a sure way to draw the attention of local magistrates. It simply would not do for a close associate of the Emperor to be arrested for killing someone in a drunken brawl. So Pilate contented himself with pummeling whatever unfortunate he chose for his latest venting session, and usually tossed a gold coin or two at the tavern's owner to pay for any damage. His wife might occasionally cluck over his bruised face and cut up knuckles, but she was too discreet to question him when it was obvious he did not want to talk about it. There were times when he wondered what created this dark and violent streak in him, but over time he came to regard it as a sort of wild beast one might keep as a pet—safe enough if fed, but dangerous if allowed to grow too hungry.

After he finished the meal Mencius had brought him, he walked through the Emperor's library. There were hundreds of scrolls there, but one shelf was full of codices—an innovation in recent writing, where the pages were cut short and bound together with cords at the back, so that they could be readily perused without taking up the space that a scroll did when unrolled. Pilate despised the things—an innovation of the lazy that should never catch on!

On the opposite wall was a weapon rack, holding several swords and spears. The blade at the top caught his attention at once. The richly styled Corinthian leather scabbard had a small silver plate woven into it with a clear inscription in Latin: “
Ad Romae mundissimo filius, gerunt cum honore – Aurelia Cotta Caesar.”
“To Rome's Finest Son, wield it with honor – Aurelia Cotta Caesar.”

“I see you found the gladius of Divus Julius,” said a familiar voice behind him.

“I did not know it was still in existence!” said Pilate, turning to face the Emperor.

“Caesar was unarmed the day he was murdered,” said Tiberius. “His armor and blade were with his other gear at his home above the Vestal Virgin's quarters. My father told me there was a tremendous row when Caesar's will was read—Marc Antony was so sure that he would be Caesar's heir that he was already trying on the cuirass that Caesar had worn during his campaigns in Gaul. Father was only about eighteen then, and slight of build. He came into the home of Gaius Julius Caesar and found Antony trying to buckle on the cuirass over that massive torso of his, and ordered him out of the house on the spot! Octavian, as he was simply known then, was a small slip of a lad, and Antony was a huge burly brute who did not like him one bit. But my father drew this sword from its scabbard and chased Antony out of the house with it. He told me that he was terrified that Antony would simply wrestle it away from him, but all he did was curse my father before running away into the night! From that day forward, my father never let Caesar's armor and sword out of his sight. He wore them on every campaign until he gave them to me twenty years ago. For all our differences, I believe that when I am no more, I shall pass them on to Germanicus. He has the military abilities of a Caesar, and I imagine that he will be my heir one day, since my natural son Drusus shows little talent for governing or leading men in battle.”

“Germanicus is a talented general, and beloved of the people,” said Pilate. “I think that, in the long term, it is best for Rome that you and he remain cordial in your official relations, despite any private difficulties.”

“In other words, as long as the Senate believes that I am going to leave my titles and honors to Germanicus anyway, they will be less likely to try and raise him up against me?” asked Tiberius.

“Quite so,” said Pilate. “That being said, I do not think that Germanicus would ever come out against you publicly. He may privately disagree with you on some accounts, but he is a loyal Roman and a loyal son.”

“I believe you are right,” said Tiberius. “This letter will recall him to Rome to stand for election as Consul next year. Perhaps if I allow some of the powers of that office to be restored, Germanicus can shoulder some of my duties and allow me more time away from the infernal city!”

But that was not to be. When Pilate returned to Rome, he found the city reeling in shock from the news that Germanicus had died in Antioch, while in the midst of a furious dispute with the Governor of Asia, Gnaeus Calpurnius Piso. From his deathbed, Germanicus had accused Piso of poisoning him. The entire city of Rome was grieving the loss of the beloved young general whom many called “The Roman Alexander.” Pilate roamed the streets and the Forum for a day, listening to the voices of all he encountered, from the eldest members of the Senate to the shopkeepers in the Suburba. That evening, he drafted a letter to the Emperor and sent it to Capri by the fastest couriers he could hire. Its contents were short and simple:

To the Emperor of Rome, Tiberius Julius Caesar Augustus:

Sire, you must return to the city immediately. Germanicus is dead, as I am sure you have already heard. From his deathbed, he accused the Governor of Syria, Calpurnius Piso, of poisoning him. The people of Rome are saying that Piso would not have dared to do such a thing except on direct orders from you. There are such rumblings as I have not heard in the city in my lifetime! It is imperative that you arrive here quickly, and in full mourning attire. Only the most extravagant show of grief will convince the people that you were not a party to this dreadful act. Piso should be arrested and tried immediately in order to completely clear your name, and make it clear who, if anyone, was the responsible party. Forgive the impertinence of this letter, but the circumstances do not allow for ceremony. If you do not return to Rome within the week, the grieving mob will become an angry mob, and things could get very ugly very fast.

Your faithful client,

Lucius Pontius Pilate

Tiberius was already halfway to Rome when the letter found him, having received word from Antioch of Germanicus' fate, and arrived in the city two days later. He was clad in a black toga, and his attitude was one of profound sorrow and regret—an expression that came naturally to his gloomy countenance. Piso, who had been ordered out of his province by Germanicus the previous year, had compounded his already compromised position by moving back to Antioch with his legions as soon as he got word that Germanicus was dead. Tiberius ordered the arrest of the governor and his wife, and their immediate transport to Rome for trial on charges of murder.