The Redemption of Pontius Pilate (2 page)

Tiberius was much older than Pilate, and already an experienced soldier and a capable general. The sixteen-year-old Pilate looked up to him enormously at first, and the Emperor's heir apparent was impressed with the young officer's diligence. With Tiberius' support, Pilate had won his first elected office, being chosen as Tribune of the Soldiers for his legion. This made him the equivalent of a judge advocate, listening to the grievances from the rank and file, judging disciplinary hearings, and representing the legionaries in the officers' councils. It was a good start to a Roman political career, but what Pilate needed was a successful military campaign to burnish his record. Rome loved a war hero, and he aspired to become one.

The problem was that Tiberius was almost done campaigning. The Emperor's adopted son had spent several years pacifying Germany during the first part of Pilate's service with him, but he had appointed Pilate as his quartermaster in Rome—so Pilate's companions racked up honors and decorations while he stayed in the city, filling out requisitions and arguing with the censors. As the Emperor Augustus grew older and feebler, Tiberius returned to Rome, where he was being prepared for the succession. The political sinks of Rome were no place for a young officer on the rise to earn a military reputation, and after ten years as Tiberius' junior legate, Pilate was almost ready to request a transfer to leave the army permanently.

Then came the Varus disaster. Three legions, led by Publius Quinctilius Varus, had been ambushed and destroyed by an alliance of German tribes along the Elbe River in Germania. Most of the legionaries were slaughtered and captured, and all three of their golden eagle standards were taken by the enemy. Only a handful managed to escape, and the defeat was made all the worse by the fact that the enemy had been led by a German who was raised and educated in Rome. Arminius of the Cheruscii had posed as a loyal client prince, eager to please Rome at any cost, while secretly building an alliance of tribes to drive Rome out of Germania once and for all. Varus, a Roman of impeccable lineage with a reputation for cruelty, had fallen into Arminius' trap, and paid with his life and the lives of nearly 20,000 legionaries and auxiliaries. Augustus went half mad with grief when he heard the news, pounding his head against a wall and crying out: “Quinctilius Varus, give me back my legions!”

Now Tiberius was tasked with avenging Rome's defeat. For Pilate, the timing was less than perfect—he had just spent a small fortune to get himself elected as one of Rome's urban praetors, an important step on the
cursus honorum
. Now he would have to get permission from the Emperor himself to leave Rome during his tenure in office. But the chance for distinction on the battlefield was not something to be missed, so the twenty-six-year-old Roman was ushered into the presence of the man who was already a living legend—Gaius Julius Caesar Octavian Augustus, once simply known as Octavian. For over forty years this unflappable man had ruled the world's largest empire with dignity and simplicity, inspiring Rome's bards to proclaim him as the genius of the age.

Pilate's heart was in his throat as he approached the curule chair from which Caesar addressed the Senate. Augustus shunned the rich trappings of Oriental monarchs—he lived in a small, humble home on the Palatine Hill and dressed as any patrician senator might. But there was no mistaking the aura of power that radiated from him. This trim, white-haired man in the pure white toga with purple borders had single-handedly ended the Roman Republic and turned it into an Empire, becoming a monarch in all but name. Caesar was known for being a rational and humane ruler, but he could also be ruthless toward those who angered him.

Pilate stood before the Emperor and placed his fist over his heart in a soldier's salute. Augustus finished perusing the scroll in his lap and looked up. Pilate had seen him in public on many occasions, and had heard him address the Senate, but this was his first time to be close to the Emperor. His first impression was how tired the man looked. Caesar was past seventy years of age, and he was wearing those years heavily after the Varus disaster. The piercing blue eyes regarded Pilate with a look of mild amusement. The weight of the Empire seemed to ease for a moment, and Caesar gave him a warm smile.

“Pontius Pilate—so you are the young legate my son says he cannot do without!” he said. “I hope that you are as indispensable as he claims, since good urban praetors are very hard to come by.”

Pilate allowed himself to relax just a bit. “I have served under your son's command for several years, sir, and we work well together. I have arranged for my fellow praetors to cover the duties of my district. The timing is somewhat regrettable, but an opportunity to campaign under a general like Tiberius is not to be missed!”

“And, of course, serving under a man who will one day be Emperor of Rome is not a bad path to advancement for an ambitious young pleb like yourself, is it?” asked Caesar, his gaze narrowing.

Pilate's nervousness instantly returned, but he knew better than to attempt a falsehood to this man who had survived Rome's treacherous political currents for over fifty years. “Of course, sir. The surest path for any Roman to advance himself is through service in a victorious army under a great general. I was born too late to serve under you or your father, the
Divus Julius
; but from what I have seen Tiberius inherited the family's military skills. My duties to him have kept me in Rome for several years now, but I would like to actually serve against the enemy at some point, and such a moment may not come again!”

Caesar Augustus nodded. “Spoken like a Roman!” he said. “I prefer a little honest ambition to false humility any day. I release you from your duties as urban praetor to serve as a legate under the command of my son, Tiberius. However, to compensate the city of Rome for the loss of your services, you will donate two hundred denarii to each of your fellow praetors, and donate an additional two hundred to the Temple of Mars for your safe return and good fortunes in battle. Thus your colleagues will be reimbursed for covering your responsibilities while you are with the army, and the god of war placated. Make sure that the amount is deposited before you cross the
pomerium
to join the army. That will be all.”

Pilate swore to himself as he left the Forum. The Emperor was not letting him off cheap! There were twelve praetors in all, six of them assigned to Rome itself, and six scattered throughout the provinces. Twelve hundred denarii was not a fortune, but it was a considerable sum nevertheless, especially for a young officer who could not call upon his family's wealth. His father had been blessed with five children, two daughters who required a dowry to marry, and three sons to climb the
cursus honorum
. Simply put, the family did not have enough money to finance Pilate's German excursion, and he did not have the funds on hand himself after the expensive election he had just gone through.

But Rome's moneylenders were a thriving part of the economy, and Pilate knew that legates headed into the field of conflict were considered a good investment. He was senior enough in rank that the odds favored his safe return, and foreign campaigns invariably meant foreign plunder—treasures from enemy temples, proceeds from the sale of captives brought back as slaves, and money earned by selling the military equipment of fallen enemy soldiers. Soldiering was a profitable business for Rome's officers, and the moneylenders knew it.

Before nightfall Pilate had sufficient funds borrowed, and the next morning he called on his fellow praetors and handed them the letters of credit from his bank—wealthy Romans had long since ceased carrying coin of any significant amount in the city itself. However, he did withdraw two hundred newly minted silver coins after that to take to the Temple of Mars. Offering a letter of credit to a god was considered very poor taste! As he entered the temple, he saw that the fires of the altar were lit once more, signifying that Rome was at war. It was a point of great pride to Augustus that he had extinguished those fires more often, and for longer, than any ruler in Rome's history. It was the Emperor's preference for diplomacy over war that made opportunities for advancement, like Pilate was about to enjoy, so rare. As the young officer donned his scarlet legate's cape and mounted his horse, he thanked Fortuna, the goddess of luck, that he had made such a good impression on Tiberius. With any luck, this German campaign would mark the beginning of his rise to power. Who knew where that path would take him, or how far? These thoughts made good companions as he steered his course northward.

Pilate joined the army at Tolosa, where Tiberius was mustering his forces. They would have to cross four separate provinces to get to the German frontier. The barbarian tribes of the deep forests had launched a series of raids on Roman colonies after the defeat of Varus, leaving burnt-out farmsteads and charred corpses in their wake. Tiberius was advancing with four full legions under his command, three veteran and one newly recruited—all told, over twenty-four thousand infantry, cavalry, and auxiliaries. It was a force small enough to move with great speed if need be, but formidable enough to deal with a very large enemy host. The two great military men of the previous generation, Gaius Marius and Julius Caesar, had taught Rome that her legions need not be huge to be victorious. A well-commanded, mobile, smaller force was more than capable of fending off vastly superior numbers. What really counted was not so much the quality of the army as the quality of the commander, as Varus had demonstrated. Fortunately for them all, Tiberius was no Varus!

Pilate was appointed second-in-command of the newly recruited Sixteenth Legion, under the leadership of Flavius Sixtus, a hoary old veteran who had marched with Tiberius and Agrippa in their famous campaign to Armenia thirty years before, when Tiberius had been younger than Pilate was now. The veteran soldier regarded the young Pilate with a keenly appraising eye. “Tiberius has taken a liking to you, young legate,” he said, “and he and I go way back. If he says you're able to do the job, then I'm inclined to respect his judgment.”

“Thank you, sir!” said Pilate. “I hope that I will not disappoint either of you.”

The march through the three Gallic provinces proved uneventful. It was fall, the crops were being harvested, and the harvest had been good enough that the army did not lack for food. By the time they reached the land of the Belgae, though, they were entering the zone where the raiders from Germania had done the worst damage, and food became scarcer. The veterans tightened their belts and scrimped on their rations, and the new recruits did their best to emulate them, albeit with more grumbling.

“
Legatus!
” called one of the legionaries as Pilate rode by. “When are we going to see some of those blond German Amazons the old-timers keep telling us about? Not to mention the famous German bread and mead?”

“Idiot!” snapped his centurion. “You won't see a German lass until you feel her dagger slip between your ribs!”

Pilate nodded his approval at the centurion's riposte, but then addressed the soldier anyway. “This province cannot feed us as well as the Gauls to the south, because the accursed Germans stole all their food, their livestock, and their women! So if you want bread, and mead, and meat, and women, you are going to have to beat the Germans to get them, son!”

“Bring them on, then!” shouted the soldiers. “We're getting hungry!” Laughter ran through the ranks, and Pilate allowed himself a tight-lipped smile before he rode on. They were good boys, he thought, and had the potential to become good soldiers. He wished he had the effortless ability to inspire love in his troops, as the great soldiers of previous wars had. A simple jest with the ranks taxed his social skills to their limit, but he knew from experience that such exchanges were worth the effort. Soldiers would die to please a general who treated them with respect and affection.

Flavius Sixtus was such a general, and Pilate knew it. He studied the old veteran carefully as the army proceeded northward, determined to learn all he could from this man who had served Rome for over forty years. He noticed that Sixtus rarely rode for long when the army was on the march. He would ride to the rear of the legion and dismount, sending his horse back up to the vanguard with a servant, and then proceed to march alongside the soldiers, working his way up the legion, taking a moment or two to visit with every century, and calling every centurion by name. It might take him half the day, but when he was done, every member of the legion would be able to say that their general had marched alongside them and bantered with them. So, after a day or two, Pilate dismounted and made the walk with him, carefully learning the names of the legion's fifty centurions in the process.

The real wonder of the Roman army, reflected Pilate, was its ability to turn a rural meadow into a fully fortified camp in a matter of a couple of hours. Supply wagons hauled the portable timbers and joists, and when Tiberius spotted the site he wanted them to camp for the night, the legionaries went to work with a vengeance. Palisades were erected, trenches were dug, and tents pitched in perfect order. Guard towers were assembled, and watches posted for the night. In the morning, the same process was followed in reverse—the tents were packed away, the guard towers disassembled and their parts neatly stacked on wagons, along with the palisade walls, and in a matter of an hour and a half, 24,000 men were ready to resume the march.

If the generals intended to occupy the same location for more than a night or two, the portable fortifications would be reinforced with timber felled locally, and the walls doubled in height. The site would be chosen based on the availability of water—usually the camp would straddle a spring or stream—and in a matter of a week, the army's camp would be transformed into a miniature city, with streets and gates and tents that came to resemble small houses more and more as the soldiers added wood floors and walls. Of course, such long-term camps usually meant the army was going into winter quarters, and would be in the area for an extended stay. No chance of that until they had come to grips with the enemy, Pilate thought.