The Redemption of Pontius Pilate (9 page)

“This is a bad business,” he said a few nights later as he and Pilate shared a cup of wine at his villa just outside the city. “I cannot believe that Piso would have been so stupid, and yet at the same time, his every act screams of guilt! The people are angry—there is graffiti all over the city showing me standing over Germanicus' body with a cup of poison in my hand! No matter what I do, I am sure to be blamed for this by the people. They have never loved me, and now many of them hate me. How I long to be away from this dreadful city forever!”

“It does no good to long for what we cannot have,” said Pilate. “We must figure out how to put the mobs to rest before their grief gives way to rage.”

“Any suggestions?” said Tiberius.

“The more you show your respect for Germanicus and grieve before the people, the more likely they are to believe you,” said Pilate. “I think some kind gesture to the family of Germanicus would be well received.”

“That will not be difficult,” said Tiberius. “I have always been fond of his wife Agrippina, and their son Gaius is but a tot. I believe Agrippina is expecting another child at the moment. I feel for the baby, coming into the world without a father. Children are the only things that seem to bring me pleasure anymore, Pilate. Their laughter is the only music that I love. Sometimes on Capri I hire the local boys and girls to come out to the Villa Jovis and dance and sing for me.” His voice grew wistful and sad, and Pilate felt guilty for steering the conversation back to its course.

“I think that appearing publicly and mourning with them would help improve your image with the people immediately,” he said. “Are any of Germanicus' family in Rome right now?”

“Well, there is Claudius, the fool,” said Tiberius.

Pilate knew Germanicus' reclusive brother by sight only, but had heard whispers that he was either simple, or somehow afflicted. “Is he truly a simpleton?” he asked the Emperor.

“No,” said Tiberius. “He actually has a first-rate mind, if you can understand him. But he has a serious speech impediment that makes every conversation with him an ordeal. Most of the family tries to avoid him, and leave him to his scrolls and inkwells. He fancies himself a historian of some sort. Last I heard, he was writing a chronicle of the Etruscans.”

“I shall go and fetch him,” said Pilate, “and tomorrow the two of you will ride into the city together and offer sacrifices to the memory of Germanicus.”

Tiberius scowled. “Why do I work so hard to win the affections of a people I despise?” he asked no one in particular.

“Because you are their Emperor,” said Pilate, “and if they do not love you, you cannot rule them!”

Tiberius drained his wine glass and called for another. “I dislike you sometimes, Lucius Pontius,” he said. “You have a most annoying habit of being right all too often!”

Pilate rode rapidly into the city and made his way to the Palatine Hill, where Claudius lived in a small house next to that of Livia, the widow of Augustus. He had to bang on the door for some time before a scruffy-looking Greek steward answered.

“What do you want?” he asked Pilate insolently. “The household is trying to sleep!”

“At the moment, I want to cut that sniveling tongue from your mouth and feed it to the dogs!” Pilate snapped. “But my wishes are irrelevant—as long as you obey me, and quickly. Now fetch your master!”

The servant paled and scurried back into the apartments. Moments later, a rather plump young man appeared. His eyes were red and his face puffy, and it was obvious he had been weeping a great deal.

“Claudius Caesar?” said Pilate.

“Y-yes s-sir,” the young man said. “You are P-p-pilate, correct?”

“I am,” said Pilate. “The Emperor has need of you. Do you have a horse you can follow me on?”

The dumpy young fellow straightened his tunic and squared his shoulders. “Yes, I shall have Demetrius saddle him up. M-may I offer you some w-wine?”

“Water it, please,” said Pilate. “I have no wish to get drunk this evening.”

A shy maidservant appeared out of the corner bearing a goblet, and Pilate took a sip.

“What d-does my uncle r-require of me?” said Claudius.

“He wants to offer his comfort and support in your time of grief,” said Pilate.

Claudius choked back a small sob, and then his expression soured. “And allay the s-s-suspicions that he is a m-murderer of his kin, no doubt!” he snarled.

Pilate raised an eyebrow. Stammerer he might be, but this young man was no fool. He wondered if Claudius, too, suspected the Emperor. “Surely you do not believe the idle gossip of the marketplace, do you?” he asked.

Claudius looked at him sharply. “Do I b-believe my beloved uncle is c-capable of m-murder?” he asked. “Of c-course I do. B-but do I believe he killed my b-brother?” A spasm of anguish crossed his face as he said those words. “That would be foolish and impolitic, and my dear Uncle T-Tiberius is no fool!”

Pilate smiled. “I have served your uncle for several years,” he said. “And he is indeed no fool. Indeed, I think he loved Germanicus after his own way. But if the people do not see a very convincing show of grief, things could become very difficult for him—and for all of Rome. So you and I are going to help the Emperor convince the people of Rome that he is devastated by this tragic and untimely loss. And, when peace and order are restored, the Emperor will remember which family members stood by him in his time of need.”

Claudius nodded and began pulling on his toga. The classical Roman garment hung slackly off his rotund figure, and he looked more like a piglet wrapped in a bedsheet than a Roman aristocrat. But his reply was classically Roman: “I suppose it would not do to d-disappoint a family member then, would it?” he asked.

The next morning Claudius and the Emperor rode through the city gates and publicly sacrificed an ox to the beloved memory of Germanicus, and Tiberius gave an oration that was flawless in its eloquence, reminding some of the oldest members of the audience of the great orator Marcus Tullius Cicero. Even hardened veterans of Forum assemblies wept as he recounted the many victories and sterling character of Rome's favorite son, and reminded them that Germanicus was his own beloved son by adoption.

What happened next astonished the Emperor and Pilate both. When Tiberius was done speaking, Claudius stepped forward and gave a speech of his own. He held forth for over a half an hour on his love for his brother, and his appreciation of the outpouring of grief that the people of Rome had honored him with. Remarkably, he did not stutter a single time throughout! Tiberius remarked on it as the three of them rode back to his villa by chariot.

“By the gods, Claudius, I did not know you were capable of such eloquence!” he said.

“I c-can speak without stuttering when I h-have a ch-chance to memorize what I am going to say in a-advance, and practice it,” said the young Caesar. “That's what I was d-doing when your man P-Pilate came to get me.”

Tiberius smiled for the first time in several days. “There is more to you than meets the eye, Claudius Caesar Germanicus,” he said. “You may have a political future before you, despite what my mother says!”

The portly youth paled. “Gods!!” he said. “I hope not!”

Pilate looked at the Emperor with an amused eye. “He is definitely related to you, Sire!” he said.

Tiberius actually laughed out loud this time.

The day after their funeral offering, Tiberius sent for Pilate urgently. His message read: “Come to my villa at once! See to it no one observes your arrival!”

It was very early in the day, so Pilate saddled up his horse and rode out of Rome by a different gate than usual, traveling eastward away from the Emperor's estate, making sure that his route passed several carts and drovers on their way into Rome with livestock and wares to sell. Then, where the road passed through a dense copse of trees, he steered his mount off the road and took off cross-country, traveling quietly through fields and farms until he approached Caesar's villa from the east, a half mile from the road. He tethered his horse among the trees and then discreetly approached the villa through its vineyards, slipping in through the back door without even a servant noticing him.

He heard some commotion in a storeroom and found the chief butler there, attempting—with some apparent success—to seduce one of the kitchen maids. The man immediately abandoned his quest and bowed to Pilate as the girl scurried out, straightening her clothes.

“Praetor Pilate! Whatever may I do for you?” he said.

“Conduct me quickly to your master, and let no one know you saw me here!” snapped Pilate.

“Of course, sir,” said the butler. The Emperor's servants lived in terror of his irascible temper, and were known for their discretion. The slave conducted Pilate down a corridor and through a curtain to a small room where Tiberius reclined on a couch, devouring a breakfast of sweet rolls and fruit. With him was a man Pilate recognized immediately.

“Prefect Sejanus,” Pilate stated coolly. “An unexpected pleasure.” He then turned to the reclining figure and bowed. “
Imperator
Tiberius, it is good to see you again so soon.”

“Were you seen?” asked the Emperor, his drawn features weary and sorrowful, but with a note of anger in his voice.

“Not by anyone outside your household,” said Pilate. “Among your servants, only by the butler and a kitchen maid.”

The Emperor turned to Sejanus, the Prefect of his Praetorian Guards. “I told you he was dependable,” he said, to which the obsequious sycophant nodded.

Pilate, like many Romans, did not like or trust Lucius Aelius Sejanus. The man had attached himself like a leech to Tiberius even before Augustus' death, and had risen alongside Tiberius. He was as ruthless as Julius Caesar and as evil as Cornelius Sulla, but had somehow managed to worm his way into Tiberius' affections years ago. Tiberius claimed to hate greedy hangers-on, but as the years went on he became increasingly blind to Sejanus' faults. This was a man, thought Pilate, who could cause great grief to Rome someday. But he was also on the Emperor's rather short list of close personal assistants, so Pilate went out of his way to treat him with respect, if not with trust.

“We have a situation,” said Tiberius. “I have figured out who is responsible for Germanicus' death.”

“Then they must be publicly tried immediately!” said Pilate.

“That will not be possible,” Sejanus said laconically.

“What do you mean?” asked Pilate.

“The man responsible is me,” said Tiberius wearily.

Pilate was stunned, but looking at Tiberius' face, he saw the truth graven in the deep worry lines around the Emperor's nose and mouth.

“How?” he asked, not sure he wanted to hear the answer.

“It was not intentional,” said the Emperor. “I doubt that anyone in Rome will believe that, but I never intended Germanicus any harm. You know, Pilate, that from time to time I indulge my fondness for wine a bit too deeply.”

“I have observed that on rare occasion, Sire,” said Pilate cautiously. The fact was that, since becoming Emperor, Tiberius had on a number of occasions gotten royally drunk. It seemed to Pilate that this morose and intensely private man could only unbend when he had drunk too much, but he kept that observation to himself.

“About a month ago I was at Capri, dealing with a series of impossible demands from the Senate and trying to mediate in the ongoing squabble between Germanicus and Piso,” said the Emperor. “I was tired and impatient, and after writing several letters that I knew would do no good, I began to drink. My only company that evening, besides my slaves and a few children brought in to dance for me, was Sejanus here. Apparently, during the course of the evening, I said something to the effect of—what was it again, Sejanus?”

“You said: ‘Will no one rid me of this impudent whelp!'” Sejanus said. “As always, I took your wishes as an order.”

Tiberius glowered at the lanky prefect. “WHICH YOU SHOULD NEVER HAVE DONE!!” he roared. “I was drunk and babbling, and not to be taken seriously!” He cuffed Sejanus across the top of the head, and the Commander of the Praetorian Guard meekly submitted to the blow.

Tiberius turned to Pilate. “So this moron wrote a letter to Calpurnius Piso, urging him to ‘do something about Germanicus' immediately. Believing the order came straight from me, Piso gave Germanicus a dish of poisoned figs, knowing my son loved the fruit dearly. Germanicus ate a dozen of them, and then felt the pangs of the poison almost right away and knew what had happened. So he accused Piso, who is on his way to Rome to stand trial. If he stands trial, I have no doubt he will name Sejanus, and everyone knows that to name Sejanus is to implicate me.”

Pilate nodded slowly. “Then he must never be allowed to stand trial,” he said.

Tiberius nodded grimly. “He is currently in custody on his way back to Rome. Someone needs to . . . persuade him . . . to fall on his sword before he gets here.”

“I could be that someone,” Pilate said. “Where is he?”

“Still in Antioch, awaiting favorable winds to sail for Rome,” said Tiberius. “The further from Italy he dies, the better.”

“And if he should leave a letter confessing his crime and begging Caesar's forgiveness for the death of a beloved son?” Pilate asked.

“So much the better,” said Caesar.

“What about his wife?” asked Pilate.

“My august mother assures me that she can arrange for Munatia Plancina's silence,” said the Emperor. “But could I trouble you to pay a discreet visit upon the honorable Proconsul Piso?”

Pilate bowed to the Emperor. “I shall be as fleet as the winds and as subtle as a fox!” he said.

As he left the Emperor's chamber, Sejanus followed him. “Lucius Pontius,” he said.