Behold the Man

by Bodie Thoene

  The steward announced Pilate and Claudia and led them to their seats at Tiberius Caesar’s table. In a gown of gold and cream, Claudia’s beauty rivaled that of any woman at the feast. She let a lock of her thick red hair tumble over her bare shoulder. Full lips were fixed in a smile that did not betray the secret of bruises and body aches inflicted by Pilate.

  Heads turned as she passed.

  A few moments later the glory of Caesar’s banqueting room blurred as Claudia raised her eyes and saw Marcus at the opposite side of the room from her. Music, the clatter of dishes, and the chatter of voices became dull.

  Eight years had come and gone since they pledged their love and laid their plans of escape. Her mind flicked back over the scene, tenderly treasuring the memories of a time when she had truly been loved.

  They met beneath the oak tree beside the vineyard of his Ponti benefactor . . .

  Marcus promised her, “There is a stone house in southern Gaul. The land, much like this. We will plant vineyards and raise a crop of children. Rome will drink wine from our vineyards but shall not remember us, Claudia.”

  “When? When shall we go?” she had asked eagerly.

  “Tomorrow night at midnight. Leave through the palace kitchen. Dress as a scullery maid. I will come in a cart, and no one will notice you are gone until they come to wake you in the morning.”

  A day of breathless anticipation and joy was followed by disaster. Marcus had confided their plans in his best friend, Pontius Pilate, son of the vineyard owner.

  Arrested at the palace gates, Marcus was thrown in prison. His release was negotiated by the elder Ponti on condition Marcus either join the army or be exiled from Rome forever. Claudia was married off to Pilate as a reward for his service to Tiberius.

  And so Claudia’s hope for happiness ended. She became a political commodity to be joined to Pilate, the son of a rich merchant, who was promised a military rank far out of reach of Marcus Longinus.

  Claudia mused at how much had changed since then. The honor now belonged to Marcus. Pilate, though a member of Caesar’s extended family, was a disgrace . . . and in disgrace.

  Would Marcus have achieved greatness if he had succeeded in running away with Claudia? She sipped her wine and looked at her reflection in the silver cup. Perhaps if she and Marcus had succeeded, it would have been wine from their vineyards being poured tonight. And in that happy little stone house, how many children would they have had around their table?

  She had called out Marcus’s name in the moment of Philo’s birth.

  How she longed for the boy to meet Marcus. But how could such a thing be arranged?

  Tonight she prayed only that Marcus would look at her, truly see her. She desired him to know that her heart had never left him. Never. Not in her loveless marriage. Not in Marcus’s banishment.

  However, Marcus did not permit his gaze to linger on her more than an instant. Perhaps he sensed, as she did, that the seating arrangement had been some cruel joke of Caesar to torment them. Or perhaps it was a trap set by Sejanus to lure Marcus to his death through an accusation of adultery with Claudia.

  Eight years of heartache must now be governed by self-preservation. Claudia supposed that if all the moments of wanting him had been counted, they would almost equal the sum of her waking hours.

  Soon Marcus would be posted to a faraway land. He would become only a distant dream again. But on this night, Claudia’s old longing was real . . . and dangerous.

  Chapter 8

  It was only after Carta poured the wine that Marcus noticed who was seated on the other side of the open space of the triclinium, directly across from him—Pilate and Claudia. His eyes had met Claudia’s, but they both swiftly looked away.

  Unfortunately, in doing so, his gaze collided with Pilate’s. The hatred glimpsed during the triumph procession still smoldered, now like a banked fire instead of a blaze. With seeming good humor and manifest respect, Pilate lifted a cup toward his thin, tightly pressed lips, received Marcus’s acknowledgment, then drained the goblet without ever taking his stare from the centurion’s face.

  Either by some trick of the vaulting or because Pilate wanted Marcus to overhear, he had no difficulty catching the sneering observation offered to Claudia. “Our friend wears his honor like an unbroken colt under saddle for the first time. He looks ready to bolt and flee at any moment.”

  Claudia’s reply was not audible, but it must have stung her husband, for Pilate slammed the cup savagely onto the table and retorted loudly, “Would you have preferred me dead?”

  Claudia applied a cautioning hand to Pilate’s arm and whispered a word in his ear, and Pilate subsided. They were joined at their table by an elderly senator. Pilate forcibly cut off any further retort and clamped his jaw shut.

  Another patrician and his wife reclined next to Marcus.

  Tiberius Caesar swept into the room with a fanfare of trumpets and all present hastily stood. Praetorian Prefect Sejanus was on his left and Severus on his right. A bevy of slaves scurried after Caesar and one thrust a cup into his outstretched hand.

  “An evening of honor,” Caesar announced in his habitually hoarse roar. “We honor the return of our much-loved General Severus, and we name him Hero of the North. Once again Rome is safe from the Cherusci barbarians. We drink to Severus!”

  “To Severus!” the room echoed.

  Across the room Pilate’s eyes darted toward the general and then to Marcus before he drowned his bitter stare in the wine. He muttered something into his cup, quickly shushed by Claudia.

  Pilate seemed envious not only of Marcus but of Severus as well. The centurion was confused. He and Pilate had been boys together, and their rivalry was understandable on many levels. But to envy and resent a Roman general made no sense to the common soldier. Did Pilate’s insane ambition rise to an absurd height? Did he think he could be Caesar’s successor?

  Tiberius spoke again: “And honor to another hero of the hour—a true Roman, though not born of Rome, and once again a true servant of the Empire. Centurion Marcus Longinus: Honor and long life.”

  “Honor and long life!” replied the political power of Rome.

  Pilate had waved his cup under his nose but neither echoed the sentiment nor drank.

  The emperor continued, “Longinus, they tell me you are uncomfortable wearing your crown in public.”

  “A helmet suits a soldier better, sire. The crown of Rome’s honor is for you to wear,” Marcus responded, having been warned in advance to have a comment prepared.

  The wavering light of the torches in the wall sconces made the black panther on the mural behind Caesar writhe as if alive and stalking the guests.

  “Don’t be so modest,” Caesar scolded.

  Supper proceeded through fourteen courses. Despite the rumors about Caesar’s extravagance, the dishes were all recognizable—meats, heavily spiced, in thick sauces. The guest on Marcus’s right whispered, “Caesar economizes on state occasions. He saves the truly lavish displays for dining with his close friends.”

  There was more music and a display of acrobatics by a troupe of Nubian gymnasts. A magician was succeeded by a snake-charmer. This act was followed by an animal trainer with a pack of dancing monkeys costumed as recognizable Roman senators. The man beside Marcus laughed a trifle uncomfortably, the centurion thought.

  Severus was encouraged to describe the battle. He did so, giving Marcus much of the credit and thereby giving Pilate additional incentive to hate the centurion.

  Supper concluded, Caesar rose again and addressed the crowd. “Rome’s honor is indeed mine to share with whomever I choose. And tonight I have additional honors to bestow.”
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br />   The crowd waited expectantly.

  A crooked smile turned up one corner of the emperor’s mouth. “Such as, on my son-in-law.”

  A flush burst across Pilate’s face. He never could hold his wine. Marcus prayed, for Claudia’s sake, that tonight Pilate could hold his tongue.

  “For Pontius Pilate,” Caesar continued. “A fellow who thinks of himself . . . I mean to say, thinks for himself.”

  Pilate squirmed. Color leapt across the space between them, imprinting scarlet on Claudia’s cheeks as well.

  “Tribune Pilate, you are present tonight so I can honor you as well as General Severus and Centurion Longinus. Now that you have proven . . .” Caesar’s next words were uttered singly and distinctly. Each hung in the air like the beat of a wave on a rocky shore. “What . . . metal . . . you . . . are . . . made . . . of.”

  There was a collective intake of breath at the threat hanging over Pilate’s head, as if the entire audience sensed the panther about to spring. The emperor had once been a soldier—a good one, plainspoken and forthright. Since those days he had learned the ways of politics well. The assembled group, some showing signs of dread, awaited whatever doom followed this statement.

  But an instant later Tiberius recovered his good humor. With a smile from the small mouth that competed for attention with his prominent nose, the emperor said, “We tested your military metal in the cold north, but in the east there is a hot land, requiring a different sort of alloy . . . a political metal. Two governors have failed in their duty to me. I hereby appoint you to the office of Prefect of Judea. We shall see how you distinguish yourself in governing the Jews.”

  The exaggerated color drained from Pilate’s face. He became nearly as pale as the tile clouds surrounding the mosaic face of Augustus Caesar set into the ceiling.

  Marcus saw Claudia bite her lip and give the smallest shake of her head.

  Judea, where better men than Pontius Pilate had already tried to govern and failed. One had been too harsh, another too lax. Both men had succumbed to pressure in the form of Jewish letters of complaint addressed to Tiberius on two distinct themes.

  The way this man acts, he is no friend of Caesar. His measures cause riots and interfere with the collection of taxes.

  He is failing to control bandits, which interferes with the collection of taxes.

  It was rightly said that Jews were a stiff-necked people, impossible to govern. Even though they were left alone to worship their invisible, unnamable deity, there seemed no pleasing them.

  Marcus did not envy Pilate his task, but there was no refusing an Imperial offer. It was a command.

  Tiberius rumbled, “Have you nothing to say to this proclamation about the hot east? Are you . . . lukewarm . . . to this final honor?”

  Most of the audience chuckled appreciatively at the humor contained in the word lukewarm. But there were some, including Marcus, who focused instead on the word final. To those who knew the tension between Caesar and his son-in-law, the threat was perfectly clear. This appointment was Pilate’s last chance to make good.

  Evidently recollecting that the emperor and all the guests were staring at him, Pilate stammered, “I-I am overwhelmed, sire. Overwhelmed with . . . gratitude.”

  “So, son-in-law,” Tiberius resumed, running the flat of his hand over short, straight hair combed forward, “friend to Caesar that you are, there will be no difficulty taking up this post at once, eh? You have much to do, and your ship sails in thirty days. You must be ready.”

  Pilate gazed longingly at Claudia as if beseeching her to do something, to intercede with her father on his behalf. Claudia simply looked away.

  “Ah, yes,” Tiberius said, clearly noticing Pilate’s mute appeal to his wife. “You’re concerned about leaving your wife and son . . . separating again so soon after your return from the north. Very well, they shall go with you.”

  As if suddenly irritated with the political games and self-conscious revelry, Tiberius declared, “Enough! Severus, you and Sejanus, come with me.”

  Everyone jumped to their feet to salute the emperor’s abrupt departure.

  Just as Marcus was congratulating himself on escaping unscathed to the barracks, back to life as a simple soldier, Tiberius turned again to the room. “Centurion, holder of the corona obsidionalis, come with us. This concerns you as well.”

  The room into which Emperor Tiberius led Marcus and Severus was an audience chamber. It was the place where Caesar conferred with visiting foreign dignitaries, or delivered his orders to his highest military commanders. Stern-faced Praetorian guards occupied each of the corners.

  The aroma of incense replaced the smells of the banquet. To Marcus it resembled more the inner sanctum of a temple than a government office. Everything Caesar did was deliberate, so this impression had to be also.

  At one end of the apartment was a dais, flanked by two marble statues—the image of the god Jupiter as the patron of Rome and a bust of Augustus. Caesar’s adoptive father, Augustus, was now also divine. It reinforced Tiberius’s authority to be the son of a god.

  The general and Marcus marched in unison, their feet echoing on the cold marble floor. The centurion used the time to look around him. The room was decorated with wall paintings. The largest depicted the river god Tiberinus, from whom the emperor took his name. The message of association was none too subtle. The god was painted as having the emperor’s own craggy features.

  Caesar went directly to the dais, ascended it, and sat on the carved ivory curule chair, the X-shaped seat from which official pronouncements were made. Sejanus, with his tightly curled dark hair and high cheekbones, positioned himself behind Caesar’s right shoulder, though he looked more patrician than Caesar.

  Marcus stood a pace behind Severus. Fingering the corona obsidionalis uneasily, he slipped it off and held it by his side, where his sword hilt should have been.

  Caesar saw but did not approve. “Put it on,” he snapped. “Or aren’t you pleased with it, as Pilate is not pleased with the honor I gave him?”

  The centurion quickly obeyed.

  “Severus,” Tiberius continued, “don’t get too comfortable here in Rome. I am also sending you east . . . to Cappadocia. Like Germany, there are more rebels in need of lessons in proper respect for the Empire.”

  Marcus trusted his face was as unreadable as that of the general’s. Safety lay in never letting Caesar know one’s true thoughts. Even so, Marcus’s hopes rose. He knew this new assignment was caused by Caesar’s envy of Severus’s popularity. Would being sent with Severus be Marcus’s reward for saving Pilate’s life? Going to Cappadocia to fight another war was preferable to the pain of anything to do with Claudia and Pilate.

  An instant later Marcus’s prospects fell and with them his emotions.

  “So,” Tiberius announced, “one solution raises another question. Who is capable of watching over the new Judean prefect and his family?” His query was directed not at Severus nor at Sejanus but at Marcus. “Pilate must have a wise friend at his side who can learn the ways of the Jews. Strong and resourceful without being headstrong and foolish.”

  Marcus stifled a sigh, then replied in the only way possible. “I live to serve you and the Empire.”

  Peering at the image of the god Tiberinus, Caesar rubbed his chin as if consulting a mirror about the need for a shave. Musing aloud, he said, “I’m told Herod Antipas has named a city after me . . . on the shore of the Lake of Galilee.”

  “Now Lake Tiberias,” Sejanus corrected. “A beautiful place.”

  Caesar offered a negligent wave. “Herod’s trying to impress me. I’m not entirely sure if it’s an honor or an insult. They say he built t
he new city atop an old cemetery. The Jews were offended. They rioted and refuse to enter the city.”

  Leaning forward, Sejanus suggested, “There is little that does not offend the Jews. They are the most easily insulted of all peoples, while having the least reason for pride. What have they ever contributed of lasting value?” Sejanus’s prejudice against Jews was well known. His persecutions had driven most of their race out of Rome or into hiding. It was said he would prefer to exterminate them altogether.

  Studying Marcus from his deep-set eyes, Caesar asked, “You know Pilate as well as any man living. You were raised as a fosterling alongside him. You come from Britannia, a race of conquered people like the Jews. Tell me, what do you think of him as the new procurator of Judea?”

  This was the moment Marcus had been dreading ever since being dragged into this consultation. Pilate, though in disfavor, was still Caesar’s son-in-law. Neither Severus nor the crown of honor Marcus wore could protect him from falling if he put a foot wrong now.

  To gain more time to think, he equivocated. “Is it your intention to make him responsible to the governor in Syria?”

  Caesar snorted. “Of course! And the legions in Syria can put down a Jewish revolt, if it comes to that. But those legions won’t save Pilate’s neck if he’s the cause of the rioting.”

  “The Jews are . . . difficult, Caesar,” Severus said, coming to the aid of his subordinate. “They have holy men beloved by their people, while those same holy men are hated by Herod. He is not even Jewish, but Herod would like to be king of the Jews.”

  “And the Jews hate him for it,” Sejanus added. “They even hate their own priests. Hardheaded and rebellious at all times.”

  “And ungrateful,” Caesar added. “Don’t forget that. I give them freedom to worship their own god. What else do they want?”

  Silence hovered in the audience chamber. Then Tiberius Caesar, master of the world, shouted at Marcus, “Speak plainly, Centurion! One soldier to another. What do you think?”