The Redemption of Pontius Pilate (6 page)

“Remarkable!” said Pilate.

“I was never so glad to see anything as I was to see her lying there with two fang marks on her breast,” Caesar continued. “What my father saw in her I will never know, but I saw a great threat to Rome, and to me. I lived in fear of her dark witchcraft the whole time I was in Egypt!”

“Whatever happened to the son she had by Caesar?” asked Pilate, and then snapped his mouth shut in horror. Whatever had possessed him to ask such a tasteless question?

But Augustus did not seem offended. “Many people have wanted to know the answer to that question, lad, but you are one of the very few who has had the audacity to actually ask me!” he said with a chuckle. “The truth is, I do not know. I don't even know for sure that he was Caesar's child, although his Greek tutors assured me that he was, and that he looked so much like Caesar as to be his twin! He slipped out of Alexandria in the confusion of the war, and was never seen again. I like to think that perhaps he made off to the desert and is living somewhere in peace, perhaps as a shepherd—or maybe as the prince of a nomadic tribe. Certainly, wherever he is, I wish him well. If Caesar was indeed his father, that would make us brothers, and I could never harm a brother.” His voice trailed off, and Pilate had the distinct feeling he had just been lied to.

Moments later they arrived at Tiberius' villa, and he walked beside the Emperor up the stairs. Tiberius was dictating a letter to a scribe, but rose in surprise when he saw them enter.

“Father!” he said. “You should not have come out here!'

“Well, my boy, is not an old man allowed to come and see his son and heir after an absence of two years?” the Emperor asked.

“Of course,” said Tiberius somewhat stiffly. “I was merely concerned for your health—”

“Nonsense!” snorted Augustus. “I know I am seventy-three years old, but I am not going to break in half just because I get on a horse. Everyone around me has turned into a gaggle of clucking old hens here lately!”

Tiberius actually smiled. “That is one thing I have never been accused of before!” he said. “So how are you, my father?”

Augustus said, “I am tired, my son. I have carried the weight of this Empire on my back for nearly forty-five years now, and I am ready to pass it on soon, I think. Your man Pilate was kind enough to escort me here when I asked him. He seems a decent fellow, if you ask me.”

“Lucius Pontius has been quite useful to me,” said Tiberius. “And I have kept him from his family far too long. Pilate, why don't you leave me with my father so you can go visit yours? I will summon you when I need you.”

Pilate bowed. “Thank you, General,” he said. With that he left the two most powerful men in the world to their own devices, and spurred his horse toward Rome and his family.

The next few weeks passed quickly for Pilate, as he reconnected with his family and coordinated the preparations for Tiberius' triumphal parade. Only two of the legions that had fought under Tiberius in Germania were in Italy—the rest remained on the frontier under Germanicus. But they would march in the parade, following behind the ancient triumphator's chariot and their mounted officers. Pilate would ride in the first rank of those officers, directly behind Tiberius himself. Behind the legionaries would come the captives—not just the five thousand that had been captured in the battle Pilate took part in, but another ten thousand from Tiberius' first few years in Germania, including two kings and four tribal chieftains. The more valuable captives would be held in Rome as hostages; the ringleaders would be strangled in the Temple of Mars following the parade, and the common soldiers and civilians sold as slaves. Behind the unhappy captives would come wagon after wagon of captured treasure, idols, and weapons of war. Triumphs were the highlight of the season for the masses of everyday Roman citizens; men who had never been near a battlefield could feel, for a moment, that they had taken part in Rome's victories.

Pilate was enjoying the time in Rome, seeing his family again. His father was clearly not long for this world, but was determined to see his son riding in Tiberius' parade, so Pilate rented a box window in a friend's house overlooking the parade route, where the sick man could sit in comfort. Pilate also was enjoying spending time with the family of Gaius Proculus Porcius—most especially with his eighteen-year-old daughter, Procula Porcia. She was a classic Roman beauty with hair as dark as night and lips as red as strawberries in the high summer, but she was also highly intelligent and politically astute. She had several suitors at the moment, but was committed to no one, and Pilate was planning to ask for her hand once the triumph was over and done.

Tiberius was growing increasingly glum as the day approached. Pilate did not pry into his general's personal business, but he could see that relations among the Imperial family were strained. Augustus seemed genuinely fond of Tiberius, but at the same time frustrated by him. The Empress Livia doted on her son, who alternately seemed to adore her or despise her, according to his mood. As for Tiberius' wife, Julia, she remained away from Rome, disgraced after her father's sentence of banishment for her serial infidelity to her husband.

Pilate's star still seemed to be rising, however. Tiberius called him to the villa almost daily to plan the triumph, and also to discuss the future of Rome.

“It is no easy thing, being the heir of Augustus,” he commented one afternoon, a week before the parade. “My father has cultivated an atmosphere of worship around himself which has drawn an enormous number of sycophants and fools to his side. During his prime, he could easily sort the fools from the useful clients, but age has clouded his judgment, and all too often he heeds the voice of flattery these days. I want to clear Rome of the useless sycophants and replace them with competent administrators!”

“What about those who are shameless sycophants and competent administrators?” asked Pilate.

Tiberius let out his barking laugh. “You mean those like you?” he asked. “You have a long way to go before you sink to the level of those I am speaking of! You have yet to write a single poem comparing me to Jove, Adonis, Mars, or any other god I can think of, and you are not trying to talk me into marrying any of your kin!”

Pilate nodded. “So I am either a very incompetent sycophant, or else I am a man who knows the limits of his usefulness,” he said.

Tiberius shook his head. “I have a feeling, Lucius Pontius, that you have not begun to reach the limits of your usefulness to me! But more importantly, I think that you shall prove to be of great use to Rome. In the end, that is the standard by which I will judge you, and all my other clients. My father is handing down to me the greatest Empire the world has ever known. I intend to preserve it, to improve it, and to hand it down better than I found it! If you can help me do that, then you will rise high indeed!”

Those words were still ringing in Pilate's ears when he donned his uniform and decorations the morning of the Triumph. It was the first time he had actually worn the Civic Crown since he won it in Germania. With the golden torc on his arm and his medals riding over his gleaming breastplate, he donned his crimson cape and mounted his horse feeling like Julius Caesar himself.

Tiberius waited in the ancient chariot that had carried every triumphator for the last four centuries, and the legions formed up neatly behind their centurions as all prepared to enter Rome through the ancient triumphal arch. The general's face was painted a deep red, and a golden crown of leaves was held over his head by a slave. For this day, the triumphator became the living incarnation of Mars, the Roman god of war, and all Rome congregated in the streets to pay homage to him.

Tiberius looked at Pilate and the other legates and spoke softly, moving his lips as little as possible to avoid causing the thick make-up to crack and flake off. “Enjoy this, my friends, because this is the one event that many Romans of great rank and prestige never get to take part in!” he said. “This chariot carried Scipio Africanus, Gaius Marius, and Julius Caesar. Today it is my turn to ride in it, but someday it may be yours. For now, enjoy the day!”

He turned and took his position, standing straight upright in the chariot, one hand on the rail, the other raised to salute the crowd. The slave held the crown of golden leaves above his head, and then leaned forward to whisper the ancient warning in his ear: “
Recordare, tu quoque sunt mortalia!
” Remember, you, too, are mortal!

The procession wound through the ancient streets of the city one district at a time before ending at the Forum. In the Suburba, thousands of people from every corner of the Empire stood in the streets, cheering themselves hoarse as the parade wound by. The legionaries smiled, waved, and winked at the pretty girls, while the officers rode straight and proud, glancing left and right, but making no gestures of greeting, as befitted their rank. The crowds were not so restrained—they howled, whistled, cheered, and gestured at the soldiers. The captive kings and princes were jeered and hissed at, but their escort of seasoned troops protected them from any violence. The rank-and-file captives had it worse—they were pelted with fruit and mud, and occasionally jostled or shoved. But that was all; everyone knew that these unfortunates would be showing up in the slave markets soon, and deliberately damaging them would be harming another person's property.

It took the better part of the morning for the procession to arrive at the great Roman Forum, and once there, Tiberius stepped up onto the platform to receive the adulation of the Senate. Then he sat in the high triumphator's chair, and his legates took their positions on either side of him. One by one, the captive kings and officers came and made their obeisance, then were hustled off to the Temple of Mars. After that, the legions marched by, saluting their general as they passed, and then breaking into the usual ribald and vulgar marching songs. For once they refrained from lyrics that would have slandered Tiberius himself—whether out of respect or fear of him, or simply from the fact that Tiberius had no known vices which made for funny rhymes, only the troopers knew.

Once the sacrifices to Mars were complete, the crowds surged toward the great open market, where tables groaning with food had been set out for them. At last the officers were freed from their stations, and Tiberius retired to his home on the Palatine to wash the red from his face. Pilate stepped toward the Senate's banquet hall, realizing that he was suddenly famished.

“A most satisfactory triumph for the Emperor's heir, don't you think?” came a voice at his elbow.

“Ave, Proculus!” said Pilate. “Indeed it was. This was the first triumph I have witnessed since I was fifteen, and it was most satisfying to be marching in it instead of standing in the crowd!”

The older man nodded. “I watched it from the window with your father,” he said. “He was very gratified to see you so close to the triumphator's chariot!”

Pilate smiled. “I am glad he was well enough to see it,” he said. “I fear he does not have long left with us.”

Proculus nodded. “I will be surprised if he lives past midsummer,” he said. “There is one more thing he told me he would like to see before he crosses the Styx.”

“His eldest son's marriage?” asked Pilate.

“Exactly!” said Proculus.

“I have been meaning to speak to you about this,” Pilate said. “With your permission, I should like to propose to your daughter, Procula Porcia.”

The older man beamed. “Her mother and I have been hoping you would ask,” he said. “She has been fond of you for many years, long before you went to Germania.”

“That is gratifying to know,” said Pilate. “I did not notice her much then, except to see that she was growing into a beautiful young lady. I will speak to her tomorrow morning. For now, how about if I join the feast with my future father-in-law?”

The two Romans linked arms and walked toward the couches that had been set up inside the Forum for the members of the Senate and senior army officers. As they stepped into the chamber, the members of the Senate rose as one and applauded the newest winner of the Civic Crown. Pilate returned their salutes with a generous bow, and then reclined at the table. Being shown such respect by men who were far his senior in years and rank filled him with a deep joy. His rise in the world was truly well begun!

The next morning Pilate went calling at the home of Gaius Proculus Porcius, dressed in his finest toga and bearing a fine, jeweled necklace as a gift for his lady. He was shown to the atrium, where Procula Porcia waited for him. Her carriage and posture were flawless, as befit a Roman lady, but her eyes were demurely cast downward, as befit a maiden unbetrothed.

“Good morning, Procula Porcia,” said Pilate. “I trust you are well?”

“I am quite well, Pontius Pilate,” she said. “It has been a joy to see you back in Rome, and I was very proud to see you honored before the city yesterday.”

“I have spoken to your father, Porcia, to ask for your hand in marriage,” said Pilate. “That is, if such a union is suitable to you.”

She looked him in the eyes and smiled. “Nothing would suit me more!” she said. “Oh, Pilate, I was so hoping you would ask, and so afraid that you would not! Of course, I would marry whoever my father asked me to, but I was so afraid he would choose some fat old Senator thirty years older than me!”

“A Senator would be a fine match for your family,” said Pilate. “And he could probably keep you in better style than I will be able to. Should I withdraw my request?”

“Silly man!” she said with a giggle. “You are a Senator, only younger and better looking than the majority of them. And the only way I want to be kept is by you!”