The Redemption of Pontius Pilate (5 page)

By now all the bandits were dead or captured, with no further loss to Tiberius' party than the five men who fell in the initial assault. Tiberius gestured Pilate to follow him as he surveyed the four captives. One of them had a legion tattoo on his forearm—none other than the fabled Thirteenth, one of Julius Caesar's old legions! Tiberius glared at him fiercely.

“I sincerely hope, thief, that you had that tattoo done in an attempt to masquerade as a legionary, for I would hate to think that any soldier of Rome would be so foolish as to attack a general's escort, no matter how long ago his service was!” snapped the general.

The man's eyes bugged out as he recognized his interrogator. “Legate Tiberius!” he said. “I was with you and Agrippa in Armenia! By Jupiter, sir, I had no idea this was a general's escort! My mates and I were hoping for a pay wagon—times has been hard since I was drummed out of the legion!”

The heir to the Empire narrowed his eyes. “They are about to get a lot harder, fool!” he said softly. “Legionaries! Cut me some beams, and quickly! I want all four of these men crucified within the hour!”

The captives howled in protest—three of them did, anyway; the fourth one had taken a hard blow to the skull and was knocked senseless, although Pilate imagined he would wake soon enough when the nails drove through his wrists. The lictors kept them bound and guarded while the soldiers procured the necessary wood to do the grim deed. As for Pilate and Tiberius, they paused there by the road and ordered their cook to prepare lunch for the entire party. They were just tucking into the hastily prepared meal as the soldiers began nailing up the offending bandits. Pilate found their screams made his meal that much more enjoyable, and when he looked over at Tiberius, seated across from him on the back of the supply wagon, he saw that the dour old general was actually smiling. Not only that, the clouds were parting, and the sun was starting to shine again. Things were definitely looking up!

That was their only real adventure on the road homeward. The journey across the Alps took three days, and the weather held nicely, although the high passes were bitter cold. But the mild winter south of the mountains gave way to a glorious spring as they neared the city of Romulus, and the local inns got more and more comfortable and luxurious as they got nearer to home.

Tiberius owned a pleasant, if small, villa just north of the city; the party stopped there for the night just before their arrival. They sent the lictors ahead to inform the Senate of their arrival, and Pilate had the chance for a long and luxurious soak, followed by a massage and scraping of his tired skin. Clad in a crisp white toga, with a goblet of excellent Samnian wine at his elbow, he felt like a true Roman gentleman again. Tiberius joined him a short while later, likewise cleaned off, freshly shaven, and clad in a fine toga. Pilate rose to greet him, and then they reclined on the couch together as a servant brought in a tray of sweet fruits and fresh baked bread.

“Tomorrow you will enter Rome and discuss the date of my triumph with the Senate,” Tiberius said. “I also want you to take a letter to the Emperor for me, and receive any messages he may wish to send. Once you have reported back to me, you may tend to your own affairs for a few days. But do not leave the city—I want you to march with me in my triumphal parade!”

Pilate nodded. By longstanding tradition, Tiberius could not cross the
pomerium
, the city's sacred boundary, until after he celebrated his many victories in Germania. Crossing that line beforehand would require him to lay down his
imperium
, the authority by which he governed his legions, and disqualify him from having a triumph. So, like many a victorious Roman before him, he would wait outside the city walls for the day the Senate had appointed, receiving visits from his clients and taking care of his affairs through proxies.

Pilate wondered if Tiberius' wife, Julia, would attend the parade. Probably not, he thought. Her dislike of her husband and his distaste for her was well known to all. At one point her infidelities had become so flagrant that Tiberius had fled to Greece in embarrassment and loathing, and had to be coaxed back to Rome by the Emperor himself. So Pilate did not even bother asking if there was any message for her. He and his patron dined together in comfort and elegance, and after some light conversation they retired for the evening.

The next morning Pilate dressed himself in his full Legate's uniform, but left off his military decorations—he would wear them publicly for the first time in Tiberius' triumphal parade. He took the letters from Tiberius to the Senate and to the Emperor and headed toward Rome. The white walls and teaming markets rose up before him like a mystical kingdom in a story of old, and he had to pause and drink in the view. What better lot was there in the world than to be a Roman in this age? The civil wars of the past were done, and the peace Augustus had so carefully forged through a combination of war and diplomacy had created a time of unprecedented prosperity.

Soon he found himself riding toward the Forum, with the dome of the Senate building coming into sight. A few in the crowd recognized him, and as he mounted the steps toward the Curia Julia where the Senate met, a familiar face came down to greet him.

“Proculus!” he exclaimed. “How good to see you!”

“And you likewise, Lucius Pontius!” said the older man. He and Pilate's father had been longtime friends, and he had helped Pilate conduct his campaign for praetor before Pilate left for Germania.

“How is my family?” Pilate said. “I have not had a letter in several months.”

“Your father is not well,” said his old comrade. “He has lost weight, and his color is off. I suspect that he may have the Crab's Disease, to tell you the truth. It will do him good to see you again. Your brother Cornelius is in Sicily and your two younger brothers are serving with the army in Africa. Your sister Pontia has married a wealthy Senator twice her age, and is expecting her first child.”

Pilate nodded. “And Cornelia?” he asked.

The old man looked at him sadly. “She was married to my son last year,” he said. “Such a delightful girl! But she died last month after delivering a son. My household, and your father's, are still in mourning for her.”

Pilate hung his head for a moment. Little Cornelia, gone so soon! She had been only seventeen when he left two years before, still ecstatic over her betrothal to Marcus Proculus. She had been the prettiest of Pilate's siblings, and his favorite. He swallowed hard, and looked up again. The old man was regarding him sadly.

“That is a difficult blow,” Pilate said. “But I must mourn her later. My business right now is with the Senate, and then with the Emperor.”

“A word to the wise, young Lucius,” said Proculus. “I would reverse the order of those visits if I were you. Augustus is not the man he once was. At one time, your seeing the Senators first would have been considered perfectly proper and in accordance with the
mos maorum
. But age has not been kind to Augustus, and he is greedy for news of his kin. But after you have discharged your official business, perhaps you could dine with me and my family?”

“It will have to be tomorrow,” Pilate said. “Tiberius wants me to return with news before the day is done.”

Proculus nodded. “I assumed as much. I shall look for you tomorrow evening. But do try to see your father soon! He has been most concerned about you.”

Pilate nodded and turned his steps from the Forum toward the Palatine, where Augustus' simple home was located. He remembered his last visit to the man, two years before, and found that he was not nearly as nervous. Two years had passed, by the calendar, but he felt at least a decade older than he had that day. No wonder, he thought. He had been an ambitious and rather callow youth of twenty-six when he had galloped away to join Tiberius at Tolosa. Now he was a legion commander and a decorated hero of Rome, with one major battle and numerous skirmishes under his belt. He did not forget the awesome power of Augustus, but he felt that he could at least hold his head up in the man's presence now.

There was a long line of clients waiting, but Pilate's uniform and the source of his message ushered him to the head of the line immediately. A servant showed him into Augustus' small receiving chamber, and he was shocked at his first sight of the Emperor of Rome. The man had physically shrunk since Pilate last saw him. Caesar had never been a big man, but he had always been well-proportioned and broad-shouldered, and carried himself so rigidly upright that he appeared to be larger than he actually was.

But that was no longer true. Augustus' hair was now snow-white and visibly thinning, the lines on his face deeper, and his eyes a bit more unfocused than they had been. The razor-sharp mind that had forged a failing Republic into a functional Empire seemed to be slowing down visibly, like an exhausted horse near the end of its race. He sat on his curule chair, his hands in his lap, staring downward, appearing to be almost asleep.

But then the old man looked up and saw Pilate, and the vision of decrepitude vanished like a dream. The shoulders squared, the eyes focused, the head snapped upright, and the old Caesar was back, with all of his majesty and humility. “Lucius Pontius Pilate!” he exclaimed. “Back from the wars, I see, and looking a good bit more seasoned than when I saw you last. My son says you acquitted yourself very well against the Cheruscii and their allies, but I have not had a letter from him in many weeks. Do you bring me news?”

Pilate saluted and stepped forward. “Yes, Caesar,” he said. “Tiberius has returned to Rome, and waits outside the
pomerium
until after his triumph. He asked me to bring this missive to you.” He handed the letter to the Emperor.

Caesar broke the seal and unrolled it, reading through its contents quickly and nodding here and there. When he finished, he gave a snort. “Just like the boy!” he said. “Two terse pages of official business, and not a word to me or his mother about how he is actually doing! I assume you rode with him on the homeward journey, Legate. Tell me, how fares my son?”

Pilate thought for a moment. “Tiberius is a hard man to read, Caesar. He is a rather morose person, at least in my experience of him. Brave, yes, and thoroughly competent at all he undertakes to do. But he does not allow any of us junior officers to be—well, to be his friends. All things considered, though, he seems to be feeling well enough.”

Caesar nodded. “A man in power must choose his friends very carefully, young Pilate,” he said. “I taught Tiberius that when he was very young, and he learned the lesson well. Too well, in fact. I have been careful in my friends, but I have still had them—a few, at least. None as close as my dear Marcus Agrippa, now gone from us for far too long! But a man must have a few choice individuals with whom he can occasionally set aside ceremony and simply enjoy life with. That is a lesson I fear that my Tiberius has not yet learned. Well, I suppose you must go and deliver his letters to the Senate now, eh?”

“Yes, sir, I must. May I bear any reply to Tiberius from you?” he asked.

“No,” said the Emperor. “But you may bear me to him, when your business with the Senate is done. It has been too long since I sat on a horse and got outside these infernal walls! Come back for me in three hours. Perhaps I shall be done with all these pestilential hangers-on by then.” Pilate bowed and turned to go, when the Emperor spoke again. “By the way, young man, you know that protocol really should have taken you to the Senate first, before you came to see me.”

Pilate paused. Old and frail or not, the man did not miss a trick!

“I suppose that is true, my Emperor,” he said. “But Tiberius is their political superior. He is your son.”

The old man laughed, and the weight of the years seemed to fall from his shoulders. “By Jove, I like you, young fellow! Come back soon, and escort me to my son!” he said.

Pilate delivered Tiberius' message to the Senate and spoke with a number of the men there, discussing the details of the triumphal march and taking several letters from various senators to deliver. Then he was asked to give a personal account of the events in Germania over the last two years, and answered some pointed questions from a couple of curious politicians. After two hours, he extricated himself from the crowd and returned to the Palatine Hill. The line of clients outside the door was gone, and two saddled horses waited out front. Something struck him as odd about one of them, but it took him a minute to realize what it was. The horse had three toes on each foot instead of a normal hoof!

“Do you like Toes?” a familiar voice said.

Pilate turned and saluted the Emperor as Augustus came down the steps, wearing a crimson and purple mantle over a gorgeously trimmed bronze breastplate.

“I had heard that the Divus Julius rode a three-toed horse into battle, but I did not know there were any of them left in Rome!” Pilate replied.

“Caesar's Toes was this horse's grandsire,” said Augustus. “It is a difficult trait to breed—perhaps one out of every five colts from a three-toed horse will inherit it. But they are the most sure-footed and courageous mounts in the world. I don't know where old Sulla found the first one, but he gave it as a gift to my divine father when he set out for his first provincial governor's seat, in Spain. This old fellow is probably going to be the last of the bloodline—he has sired dozens of colts, but none of the ones with toes instead of hooves lived to adulthood.”

The two men mounted and rode down the streets toward the north gate of the city, flanked by six guards from the Emperor's own household. Pilate was astonished to see how quickly the bustling street cleared as they advanced. They reached the gate in a matter of ten minutes, when the same ride would have taken Pilate nearly an hour had he been alone.

The Emperor was in a loquacious mood, and the afternoon's conversation was one Pilate would never forget. Every temple, every hill or clump of woods, seemed to hold some significance for the old Emperor, and he told Pilate stories of his adoptive father, Gaius Julius Caesar, and his archrival for the succession, Marcus Antonius. He explained how it was his firm belief that Cleopatra, last of the Ptolemy Queens of Egypt, was in fact a dark sorceress who cast a spell on Rome's greatest soldier. “He was a man's man, was Antony, and a Roman of the highest ancestry!” said the Emperor. “And yet she unmanned him and turned him into a simpering Eastern potentate! He wore eye make-up and worshipped snakes and baboons, and according to the palace servants, she made him crawl on all fours like a beast while she rode on his back drinking wine from a golden goblet!”