The Redemption of Pontius Pilate (4 page)

That was the end of the fighting for the season. The Germans withdrew into their forest and contented themselves with small raids and acts of arson, and the Romans withdrew their line of settlement back west of the Danube and fortified their strongholds all up and down the frontier.

It was a couple of nights after the battle that Pilate made an uncomfortable discovery about himself, triggered by a common accident. His Greek servant Sosthenes was an inoffensive, mild-mannered slave given to occasional clumsiness. Pilate had just finished an oil bath and had changed into a comfortable tunic to spend the evening writing letters to his family when Sosthenes stumbled and spilled a cup of wine all over the fine linen garment.

“You dolt!” snapped Pilate. “This tunic is ruined!”

“I'm terribly sorry, master!” stammered the Greek, but his apology did no good. Pilate balled up his fists and struck him hard in the face. The slave wailed and tried to cover himself—no Roman slave would dare lift a hand to his master, for fear of crucifixion—but Pilate waded into him, punching and kicking with a fury he did not know he had. Half an hour later, he threw himself on his bed exhausted, and the weeping slave crawled from the tent, leaving several teeth on the floor.

The next day, Pilate did not know what to think. His educated, urbane half was horrified at the savagery of his own temper, and by the damage he just had inflicted on a loyal and well-mannered servant. But another part of his mind—a baser part, a slavering beast coiled around his psyche like a serpent—relished the memory of each blow landed, and each drop of blood shed. To his horror, Pilate had discovered that since his initiation in battle, he
liked
being cruel—and that discovery shook him to his core.

There in the bitter cold German winter, the two halves of Pontius Pilate emerged together for the first time—the brave, competent, and intelligent soldier who had learned to inspire loyalty and respect from his men; and the angry, vengeful, and petty martinet who delighted in harming those powerless to defend themselves. As Pilate pondered the events of the evening, he wondered which side of his character would be the one he was remembered for. Only time would tell, he supposed.

The next year in Germania was uneventful. Tiberius pulled back all the remaining Roman colonies and farms to the east side of the Danube, consolidating Rome's position within a more defensible border. Germanicus did more and more of the actual soldiering, leading his men on punitive raids against the Cheruscii and seeking clues as to the location of Varus' lost eagles. As for Pilate, after winning honors on the battlefield, he now found his legion mainly involved in helping Roman colonists relocate, and finally building a permanent fort on the banks of the Danube where they would be able to protect several large communities that were less than an hour's ride away. Garrison life was boring, for the most part, he found. But he kept the men whipped into shape with stern discipline, for one never knew when the Cheruscii or their allies might come calling.

Pilate was listening to the report from a patrol across the river when Tiberius came riding into his camp late that fall, with a dozen lictors preceding him and two squads of soldiers riding behind. The rail-thin, dour general dismounted and entered the tent, brusquely returning Pilate's salute.

“By all means, Legate, finish your business!” he said, so Pilate nodded to the centurion to continue.

“Well, sir, things seemed pretty quiet for most of our patrol, but we found evidence of a pretty large camp about three miles east. Too big for one of the small raiding parties we've been getting through lately—more like a full cavalry reconnaissance. They appeared to be headed southward as far as we could trace their trail,” the patrol leader finished.

Pilate nodded. “Thank you, centurion,” he said. “You and your men have earned some rest. Report back for duty tomorrow morning. Dismissed!”

The soldiers saluted and left the room, and Pilate turned toward Tiberius. “To what do I owe the honor, sir?” he asked.

Tiberius did not answer. He was looking around Pilate's tent, studying the map of the frontier that was spread out on the table, and Pilate's Spartan sleeping chamber. Finally he turned and spoke. “So, how do you like garrison duty, Legate Pilate?” he asked.

“Not as much fun as actually fighting the enemy, but it is a necessity,” said Pilate. “So I try to keep the men sharp and keep my eyes open for mischief from the other side of the river.”

The general nodded. “You have done all I could ask of any legion commander since the unfortunate loss of Flavius Sixtus,” he said. “You have earned the respect of your men, and been a true lion in combat. But this post is enough to rot any man's brain! I have been asked to return to Rome—my father is feeling his years and wants his successor close by. Germanicus will take over the war on this front, and I have no doubt he will make the Cheruscii rue the day they betrayed Varus!”

Pilate kept his thoughts to himself. Germanicus was indeed a fierce and brave soldier, but he was also very close in blood to the Emperor—in fact, rumors said that Augustus had actually preferred him for the succession, but the old Empress Livia had persuaded him to name Tiberius instead. No wonder Tiberius was willing to leave him in this gods-forsaken frontier on the back side of nowhere!

“I am going to need some reliable men at my back when I return to Rome,” said Tiberius. “Men who know how to command, and who also know something of Roman politics. Your election to
Praetor Urbanus
was a neat bit of work, from what I have heard. Your Civic Crown guarantees your life membership to the Senate, but do you aspire to higher office?”

Pilate swallowed hard. Tiberius could be a ruthless enemy, but he would also make a splendid ally. In all likelihood, he would be Emperor within a year or two. The highest offices of the Republic—tribune, consul, and censor—did not wield the power they had before Rome's civil wars had brought the old government crashing down and given birth to the office of Emperor. Still, those offices carried a great deal of honor and
arctoritas
, that indefinable Roman term for a man's sum total of influence and social status. Tiberius could indeed lift him high up on the
cursus honorum
—but he could also cast him down just as fast if he did not perform well. Finally he spoke.

“I would like to be consul someday,” he said. “There has not been a consul from the
Pilatti
in three generations, and my father has always hoped that I would bring that honor back to the family.”

Tiberius nodded. “It is a worthy ambition and an important office as well. You might well do it honor! But for now, I have another post in mind for you—one that will serve your ambitions and my purposes equally well. I would like you to run for Tribune of the Plebs.”

Pilate gasped. Tribune of the Plebs! That was the one office from the era of the Republic that still retained some of its political clout. The Tribunes represented the People of Rome, and they had the power to veto any action by the consuls or the Senate. Theoretically, they could veto the Emperor as well, but as the Emperor kept at least three Tribunes as his personal clients, that option had never been put into effect—since the ten Tribunes could also veto each other. So Tiberius was getting a jump on his responsibilities as Emperor by making sure that he had a loyal Tribune in his pocket! Very clever, thought Pilate. Augustus had trained his heir apparent very well.

“I think that is a job that I would enjoy, and perform quite well,” he said. “But the Tribune's elections are enormously expensive!” Indeed they were. The People of Rome did vote for the ten Tribunes every year, but their votes could always be bought. It was a rare Tribune who won his election on popularity alone.

Tiberius laughed—a rather short sharp barking sound. “Fear not, Lucius Pontius!” he said. “If you are going to be my man, of course I will help you secure your election. Probably for more than one year, in fact. I do not know yet exactly what I will need from you, but all I ask is that, when the time comes, you propose the legislation I request, or impose your veto when I need it.”

Pilate squared his shoulders and faced the heir to the Imperial throne. “But what if your request violates my conscience, and my principles as a Roman?” he asked.

“Then you will have to act as your conscience dictates,” said Tiberius. “However, if you cease to be useful to me, then I will cease to support your advancement.”

Pilate nodded. “I would expect nothing less,” he said.

“Good!” said Tiberius. “And I do not expect that you will have anything to worry about. I am no Lucius Cornelius Sulla! I anticipate no purges and proscriptions, only sound legislation and a few needed reforms. My honored father has taken the creaky old machinery of the Republic and made it fly again. My job will be to make sure that what he has done is not undone after he departs from us. With your help, I plan to achieve that. I leave for Rome in three days. Decimus Tullius will succeed you in command of the legion; please introduce him to the men and show him the ropes over the next couple of days, and be at my camp at dawn three days hence!”

With a swirl of his crimson cape, the general swept from the room, leaving Pilate to mull over his fate. Tribune of the Plebs! This was an unexpected kiss from Fortuna indeed! Pilate straightened his breastplate and strode from his tent to meet the Legate Tullius. It would not do to keep his successor waiting!

* * *

The trip back to Rome was a nightmare. The fall rains had come early, swelling streams and soaking the ground. The dirt tracks in Nearer Germania had not yet been replaced with good Roman roads, and the horses slipped and tripped for the first hundred miles or so, throwing all the riders into a foul temper. Tiberius was a glum and quiet man at the best of times, and he simply withdrew into himself under these deplorable conditions.

Pilate hated mud, and he hated being cold and wet with no hope of shelter before nightfall. His mood grew fouler and fouler as they rode on through the interminable rain. He had done his best to control the raging impulse that had led him to beat poor old Sosthenes half senseless—in fact, he had freed the slave not long after the episode, so great was his guilt over what he had done—but the misery of his current condition made him long to punch, beat, kick, and gouge at someone. He found himself wishing that one of the legionaries would commit some horrible breach of discipline so he could at least watch a good flogging! But the soldiers feared the wrath of Tiberius as much as a Vestal Virgin feared being alone with a man, so no opportunity presented itself.

They arrived at a miserable hamlet called Barasinium, in the south of Gaul, and spent an uncomfortable night in its sole inn—the beds were so crawling with vermin that the officers threw all the bedding into the fireplace and slept on the bare floor, wrapped in their capes. The next day was cold and cloudy, with a promise of rain in the air, and all of them were stiff and sore as they mounted up and set out southward. At least the Alps were in sight now, and soon they would be through the high pass and down into the warm and fertile country near Tolosa, from which they had departed two years before.

So intent were they on the last leg of this journey through Gaul that the bandits' attack caught them nearly by surprise. The arrows came whistling from the woods on their right, dropping several of Tiberius' lictors and military escorts as they marched. Then with a howl, some twenty bandits came leaping from the trees, swords at the ready. Pilate's gladius
fairly leaped into his hand as he spurred his mount toward the scruffy-looking horde.

The battle was short and sharp. The bandits had apparently mistaken the general's convoy for some sort of valuable shipment—Tiberius' personal goods only took up two wagons, downright Spartan for a general, and there was one more wagon carrying their food and supplies—and so had not realized they were attacking hardened Roman combat veterans. Pilate split two skulls with his blade before an arrow struck his horse in the flank and he was thrown. Fortunately, he landed well, not breaking anything, and was on his feet in a trice. A huge bandit wielding a Gallic spear was charging straight at him, and he ducked the thrust and drove his blade clean through the man's throat. However, he had a devil of a time yanking it back out, and another bandit was on him before he could free the blade. The man had a large dagger raised overhead, and Pilate caught his arm as he tried to bring it down. He used the man's own momentum to overextend the arm, and then delivered a smashing blow to the elbow while holding the man's wrist tightly, completely dislocating his arm. The dagger flew out of the screaming bandit's hands, and Pilate threw himself on his opponent, pinned him, and then quickly surveyed the scene. The legionaries and lictors were fully engaged with the bandits, and making short work of them. He was in no immediate danger, nor was there any threat close by that needed deterring. He had a moment to enjoy himself, so he did. Using his fists, he pummeled the bandit's face, relishing each blow as he felt the nose breaking under his fists. When the man was unconscious, Pilate finished him off with his own dagger, then stood up and dusted himself off. He found Tiberius Caesar eyeing him coolly.

“Impressive fisticuffs, Legate!” he commented.

Pilate walked over and planted a foot on the shoulder of his fallen foe, yanking his sword free of the man's throat at last. “When blades are not handy, bare hands have to do!” he replied.

Tiberius nodded, but there was an odd twinkle in his eye, a look of—understanding, perhaps? There were dark rumors about Tiberius to be sure, whispered about the camp: that he had a murderous temper when crossed, and that he was known to watch floggings with just a little bit too much enjoyment. The same kind of rumors, had Pilate but known it, that were whispered about him!