The Redemption of Pontius Pilate (30 page)

Annas shrugged. “Everyone is for sale at some price, Prefect,” he said. “Your price may not be in gold, but that does not mean you do not have one.”

Pilate was offended, but kept his tone cool and diplomatic. “It seems to me, Annas, that we both want the same thing. Peace, order, and prosperity—those are the things that make a province easy to govern and religion easy to maintain. I think we can work together to make those things happen here in Judea without money changing hands between us.”

“I hope it will be so,” said Annas. “But remember one thing, Prefect—the Temple is the most powerful force in Judea. It commands the loyalty of the people, and we priests are the Temple. We are the custodians of the laws of God, and the people will do what we say. We have the ear of Caesar and of the Senate, so if you cross us, you will regret it!”

“I have known Tiberius Caesar for nearly thirty years, your holiness,” said Pilate contemptuously. “Judea is nothing to him—just a festering, impoverished province that has historically been more trouble than it is worth! If I were you, I would not try his patience! Not if you value your precious temple as much as you seem to!”

The old priest harrumphed at that and departed. Pilate regretted ending the interview on such a negative note, but the old man's smugness infuriated him. He was not sure which he found the most objectionable—Annas' scarcely concealed hostility, or Herod's unctuous overestimation of his own worth. At any rate, Pilate's attitude was soured enough that he decided to leave Jerusalem and make a quick trip back to Caesarea. The festival was nearly over anyway. Leaving Longinus in charge of the legionaries in Jerusalem, Pilate rode with a small escort and reached Caesarea late in the evening. He had supper with his wife and spent the evening catching up on his correspondence. There was another letter from Sullemius, which he enjoyed reading, even though the news was mostly negative.

Esteemed Prefect
, it began.

Things are on a melancholy path here in Rome. Sejanus continues to govern on behalf of Tiberius, but his rule has become less corrupt and more malevolent of late. Treason trials have started up again! Any man may be accused, and once accused, he is fair game for anyone in the city—even a slave!—to kill. His property is taken over by the State, with a percentage of its worth going to the person who killed him or turned him in. Wealthy senators are disappearing left and right—some have been killed, and some are fleeing to avoid the wrath of Tiberius' grasping regent. Sejanus is putting the confiscated properties up for public auction, but not before he helps himself to the finest villas and richest lands. He is also not even bothering to hide his affair with Livilla anymore. The old-timers are saying that Rome has not been so gripped with fear since the days of Sulla's proscriptions a hundred years ago.

Tiberius sits on Capri with his adopted brat and grows more gloomy and paranoid every day. They say he has Caligula taste all of his food for him now, so great is his fear of poison. His temper is increasingly irascible too; he even struck one of the children who danced for him not long ago. I doubt he will ever return to Rome.

I know that your family has had enough grief to deal with in the last year, Pilate, but I thought you would prefer to hear this news from a friend. Your father-in-law, Gaius Proculus Porcius, is dead. Two of his closest friends were tried for treason and all their lands confiscated several weeks ago; this news, along with the death of Porcia Minor, was too much for him. He climbed into a hot bath and opened a vein. He had been dead for several hours before the servants found him. I am sorry, Pilate. He was a good man, a rarity among politicians. I hope this finds you and your wife doing well. You have had enough ill fortune for one year. Take care of yourself, old friend.

Your client, Quintus Sullemia

Pilate bowed his head in sorrow for a moment. Proculus had been his friend long before he had become his father-in-law; he was a hard-working and conscientious Senator and a credit to his class. After a lifetime of labor and service, he deserved better than to slit his wrists open in despair because of a corrupt, venal sycophant! He thought for just a moment about how different things in Rome might have been had he not fallen from Tiberius' favor and been banished to Judea. Surely he could have compassed Sejanus' downfall by now—or, failing that, at least curbed his horrible excesses! But there was no use recriminating. What was done was done. With a heavy heart, Pilate went to bear the grim news to his wife.

She bore it stoically, although he could see the pain in her eyes. That night he held her in his arms for a solid hour before she finally drifted off to sleep, and although she did not sob once, he could feel the hot tears dripping onto his chest. He wondered how much more grief the gods would put his family through. But then he reflected on his own overweening pride, and realized that he had been guilty of hubris. How much, he wondered, of his family's suffering had he caused? It was not a comfortable line of thought, and when he faded off to sleep he did not rest well.

It was a fish merchant, Pilate later found out, who caused his first serious conflict with the Jewish people. The merchant had been delivering food to the Fortress Antonia in Jerusalem when he saw the legion's standards displayed above the courtyard. The man was not particularly religious, but he mentioned it to one of the Galileans who had come to sacrifice at the Temple. The Galilean was unwilling to cross the threshold of the fortress in order to get a direct look, but he climbed a tree so that he could get a quick peek over the wall. What he saw sent him scrambling to the Temple district, and within an hour there was a furious, shouting mob of Jews congregated outside the barracks.

Longinus discovered their grievance quickly enough, and some of the Jews from the Galilean hill country recognized him as one who respected their religion. He explained that he could not remove the standards on his own authority, but told them to take their complaint to the governor in Caesarea. It was a measure of their outrage that several thousand of them set out at once to make the forty-mile march. Longinus sent a courier on a fast horse to warn Pilate of their approach.

So it was that after one night back in Caesarea, Pilate was woken early the next morning by a dust-covered, breathless legionary who downed half a bucket of water from the well while Pilate read Longinus' letter. It was short and to the point:

Prefect Pilate:

Remember that I warned you bringing the Emperor's image into Jerusalem was a disastrous idea! All it took was one half-Jewish merchant catching a glimpse of it, and the whole city was up in arms. The mob was big enough that if I had tried to subdue them, most of my men would have been killed and the effort might well have failed. I told the leaders of the crowd that I lacked the authority to remove the images, and that they must take their complaint directly to you. Several thousand of them set out immediately; I imagine the forty-mile walk through the desert regions west of Jerusalem will make about half of them turn back. Hopefully, when they get there, they will be exhausted, thirsty, and easier for you to deal with than they would have been for me. You probably do not want to hear my advice, but I offer it because I believe it is best for Rome, this province, and you—remove the standards from Jerusalem at once! Otherwise, there will be bloodshed.

Cassius Longinus

Pilate cursed the Jews and their foolish superstitions as he read the letter. As much as it annoyed him to admit it, Longinus was probably right—he would have done better to leave the standards at Caesarea. But now the battle lines were drawn. The eagles and profiles of Tiberius were now more than just military symbols—they stood for Pilate's personal credibility as governor. To give in—to admit defeat and remove them—would deal a blow to the prestige and respect he had worked hard to build since coming to Judea. On the other hand, to leave them in Jerusalem would mean a continual inflammation of the already volatile population. What should he do?

He set his scouts out to watch for the arrival of the mob, and placed the two cohorts on alert, ordering them to don full combat uniform with weapons at the ready. They arrived at dawn the second day after he got the letter from Longinus, about two and a half thousand or so, looking tired and bedraggled but determined nonetheless. He was surprised to see the priest Caiaphas in the lead.

Forewarned, Pilate was ready for them. The gates of the fortress at Caesarea were closed, and archers were posted on the wall at either side. A small platform had been extended from the top of the wall above the gate, so that Pilate could stand in full view of the mob. He had donned his formal toga, the purple trim indicating his rank as a consular and prefect. He stepped out onto the platform, ramrod straight, right foot slightly in front of the other, his rod of office tucked neatly into the crook of his elbow, with six lictors standing like statues on either side of him. He waited till the crowd was 100 yards from the gate to reveal himself, and as they came to the looming, silent walls and silent barred gate, the crowd's eyes were drawn upward to Pilate.

“People of Judea, why do you come here in such numbers? What is your intent?” Pilate asked in a clear, firm voice.

Caiaphas stepped forward and spoke. “Governor, you have disdained our faith and defiled our holy city by bringing graven images within its walls. We ask most humbly that you remove the standards and embossed shields from the Fortress of Antonia, lest our God be stirred to wrath by such open contempt for His laws!”

Pilate listened as the mob muttered their agreement with the priest. He waited until their comments died down and attention was focused back on him, and then spoke out.

“No disrespect was intended to your God or your temple,” he said. “Out of respect for your traditions, I kept the standards furled and the shields covered as we proceeded through your territory. Only when we were inside the fortress did I allow them to be displayed, in a place where only Romans would see them. The Fortress of Antonia is owned by the Senate and People of Rome, as part of the treaty we signed with Herod the Great. That piece of property is, for all practical purposes, a small plot of Roman soil, not a part of Jerusalem or Judea. What Rome chooses to display for her citizens to worship is none of your business!”

The crowd howled in protest. A few threw stones or dirt clods at the locked gate. Finally Caiaphas stepped forward and spoke again.

“It is true that the fortress is an outpost of Rome,” he said. “But even if it is a small parcel of Roman soil, it is still within the walls of our sacred city. None of your noble predecessors ever displayed such contempt for our laws, Pontius Pilate! All we ask is that you honor the precedent set by previous governors and keep your graven images here in Caesarea. Do not profane the city where David and Solomon ruled, where our sacred Temple stands! Do not affront the God of Israel in the place where his seat on earth resides!”

The mob began crying out “Great is the God of Israel!” in a constant chant, and Pilate stood, still as a stone, listening as their voices swelled around him. Gradually the crowd fell silent, and he spoke again.

“People of Jerusalem,” he said, and drew himself up to his full height. “GO HOME! The standards of my legion are placed where only my legion can see them. They are not meant to be an affront to you or to your God. I have respected your traditions by placing them where your eyes will never light upon them unless you trespass on Roman soil. You have no grievance. Depart!” With that he spun on his heel and returned to his quarters, even as the crowd took up their chant again. They kept it up for hours. He ordered his sentries to watch them and look for any threat or outbreak of violence, but the crowd of Jews remained camped outside the gate all day and into the evening.

Pilate was fuming. They were challenging his authority, and the authority of Rome. It was intolerable! He issued an order through his soldiers that no merchant was to sell food or deliver any water to the mob. Let them starve outside the gates!

The business of the city and its garrison continued more or less as usual that day, but everyone was aware of the drama unfolding outside the locked gate. The Jewish inhabitants of the city muttered among themselves and cast dark glances at the soldiers as they marched by on their daily rounds. A few defied Pilate's order and ran food out to the crowd as the day wore on, but Pilate ordered the sentries not to let them back into the city. His blood was up and he was frankly hoping for an outbreak of violence so that he could have the whole lot of them put to death. He had just begun to get his legion whipped into shape, and now this? His patience with the Jews was gone.

That night, as darkness fell, they took up their chant again. They had apparently found a well or cistern somewhere—or perhaps it was just the relief of the cooler night air on their parched throats—but the defiant cry: “Great is the God of Israel!” carried through the walls of the fortress and even into Pilate's bedchamber. Not even Porcia's attentions could drive the noise from his head, and long after they fell silent it echoed in his dreams.

The mob was still there the next morning, so Pilate donned his toga and stepped out once more. Caiaphas the priest cried up to Pilate: “We will remain here, Prefect, until the graven images are removed from our city! Do not think a night or two under the stars will change our minds. Our ancestors wandered the desert for forty years in order to reach this Holy Land!”

Pilate scowled. “People of Jerusalem, once more I ask of you: GO HOME! My patience is limited, and your provocations grow tiresome. No harm has been done to any of you. The standards stay where they are. If you are still here tomorrow, I will not ask you to leave. I will make you leave, or stain the sand with your blood. Now go!”

As the day progressed, it became more apparent that they were not going to leave. They stood outside the gates, periodically taking up their chant again. At sunset Pilate met with his centurions and told them his plan.