Pilate's Wife

by Antoinette May

  Germanicus sent letter after letter, each a plea for time: “Give us one more year to complete Germania’s subjugation.”

  Tiberius was adamant. “Your triumph will be held on the Ides of August.”

  Germanicus, Tata, the officers, and most of the men were despondent. The women made no effort to conceal their delight. Rome was all that anyone could think or talk about. I’d left the city as an infant and was full of questions that no one had time to answer.

  Soon we were on the road, a cavalcade of chariots, wagons, carts, and horses. By day there appeared no end to the line of marching legionnaires. At night the light from many campfires created a field of stars. Once, just before dawn, Tata and I climbed a hill to survey the landscape together. Looking down at the flickering lights illuminating the darkness, I felt transported to Mount Olympus. Surely this was earth as only the gods saw it.

  Cultivated lands and small towns, laid out in the Roman manner with a public bath, a forum, gymnasium, and theater, gave way to angry, ruptured earth as our ascent through harsh, mountainous country began. Even in late July, long fingers of snow streaked the towering peaks. Often enveloped in the thick mist of clouds, we could only inch our way along the rim of savage gorges. Once a cart skidded on an ice patch and careened off the narrow road, dragging its braying, terrified mules into the abyss. The cries of the plummeting passengers, German prisoners, echoed for hours in my ears.

  That night we made camp beside a temple to Jove. “How can you bear it here?” I asked the priest who stood at the entrance. “This is the end of the world.”

  “But near our god,” he replied solemnly. “Listen, you can hear his thunderbolts.” A jagged flash rent the sky as the earth trembled. I hastily slipped a coin into his coffer and hurried inside. Kneeling before the altar, I heard the clink of many coins and never doubted that everyone in our party gave something. I prayed that Jove was watching, keeping track of our pious prayers and homage.

  As we began our careful descent from the Alps I noticed changes, subtle at first but soon pronounced. The ice and snow were finally gone. Shades of red and amber carpeted the valley below. The sun was bolder, shadows sharper. Marcella and I exchanged glances, sensing laughter and gaiety in the golden light. Mother flung her arms about us. “Yes, darlings. This is Italy. We are almost home!”

  ROME WAS A CHALLENGE, A PROVOCATION, DARING EVERYTHING, promising more. Narrow streets reeked with a smell all their own, a heady mix of perfume and garlic, spices, sweat, and incense. They teemed with ballad singers and beggars, scribes and storytellers. I saw vendors everywhere, heard them cry their wares in singsong. Porters, bearing staggering loads on their backs, swore profusely at whoever impeded their progress. Almost all traffic was on foot, for chariots were rarely allowed inside the city gates. Those who could afford it were carried in curtained litters with slaves running ahead to clear the way.

  Even at twelve I saw these people, arrogant with power, as a different breed. How could they be otherwise? Stinking, dirty, brawling, brilliant Rome was—as Mother had said—the center of the world, and any man or woman less for living outside it. Now I understood her dissatisfaction with Gaul—with any place else—for I, too, was hopelessly besotted.

  Tears of pride stung my eyes, for we entered this glorious capital as heroes, its haughty residents paying tribute to us. It was my uncle, my beloved father, and all the men who had served under them who were being honored. Beginning some twenty miles from the city, Romans lined the roads, often five deep, cheering and flinging flowers. I felt as though the entire population had come to greet us. A gigantic arch erected near the Temple of Saturn proclaimed the glory of Germanicus. The throngs went wild as our triumphal procession passed beneath it.

  Germanicus and Father had planned our entry well. First came runners bearing laurel branches, a reminder of many victories. Floats followed, more than a hundred, heaped with spoils from German temples, some piled high with enemy shields and weapons. Others carried flamboyant tableaux of battles or depicted the spirit of Rome subduing German river gods. One bore a captured princess and her child, collars about their necks. Behind them an endless train of manacled prisoners plodded.

  My family rode in a lavish chariot flanked by outriders. Father’s parade armor glittered in the sun. Mother eyed him proudly. Her personal triumph was that neither Marcella nor I wore Agrippina’s cast-offs. This was my first grown-up gown. The sleeveless tunica, a chiton of pale lavender, fell in silken folds from shoulder to ankles. A silver ribbon drew the bodice of a violet stola together just under my breasts; I held my breath as much as possible to make them appear larger. Still a child then, despite my new dignity, I shared the triumph with Hecate, holding the kitten up from time to time so that she too might enjoy the spectacle.

  Germanicus rode last in the largest and most elaborate float. He was splendid in a golden cuirass embossed with the likeness of Hercules vanquishing a lion, his crimson cloak bright as blood in the morning light. Agrippina stood at his side, her long tawny hair rippling in the sun.

  Beside them were the children, Drusus, Nero, Caligula, Druscilla, Julia, and the toddler, Agripilla.

  “I’ll wager there hasn’t been such cheering since Augustus returned from defeating Antonius at Actium,” Tata exclaimed, his face flushed with pride in his commander.

  My heart thumped with excitement as I turned to wave at Druscilla and the others. Just at that moment a man ran up alongside their chariot and climbed on. I watched curiously as he held a gold crown over Germanicus’s head. The man’s lips moved continuously, but with all the noise it was impossible to catch his words.

  “Who is he?” I asked Tata. “What’s he’s saying?”

  “A palace slave sent by Tiberius. It is a custom.”

  “But one rarely practiced,” Mother observed. “He is advising Germanicus to look back.”

  “Look back! Why should he look back?” Marcella wanted to know. “I never look back.”

  “It is a reminder,” Mother explained. “Sometimes the future creeps up from behind, catching us unaware. The slave warns Germanicus not to be too arrogant or too confident of the future. No mortal knows his fate. One day he may be triumphant, the next day disgraced or even dead.”

  I WILL NEVER FORGET MY FIRST VISIT TO THE CIRCUS MAXIMUS. THE events set in motion that day changed my life, but at the time I thought only of how awfully big the arena was.

  Following the triumph, my family was invited to share the imperial box with Germanicus’s uncle and adopted father, Emperor Tiberius, and Agrippina’s step-grandmother, Dowager Empress Livia. We’d approached the arena together through the imperial tunnel leading from the palace. Once we were inside, the immensity of it all made me dizzy. Everywhere I looked I saw faces, thousands of faces. People on all sides of me, tier after tier of them, stomping, yelling, jostling one another.

  Trumpets heralded our arrival and, for an instant, the stadium stilled, voices dimmed. Then the crowd roared like some huge, untamed animal. Thunderous cheers welcomed Tiberius and Livia as they entered the box, but they were nothing compared to the greeting received by Germanicus and Agrippina. The cry “Ave! Ave! Ave!” rose from every tier in the amphitheater. Germanicus smiled, a boyish grin of surprise and pleasure, raising his arm in acknowledgment. The shouts grew louder, came faster. Agrippina, beside him, her eyes shining, lifted both arms like an actress accepting applause.

  The tremendous roar subsided as the last of the imperial party took its place. Pomanders and bags of sweet-smelling herbs were passed about in an attempt to block the stench of some two hundred and fifty thousand Romans crammed into the stands above us. The highest seats were occupied by the poorest of the poor—I could scarcely see that far—but those immediately above us were reserved for war casualties. Catching sight of one of the men I’d nursed in Cologne, I smiled and waved just as another trumpet fanfare announced the arrival of the Vestal Virgins. The crowd cheered again, briefly, as the white-clad figures stepped into their elaborate
box.

  Another wave of dizziness swept over me as I looked out at the vast sea of faces. Power and restlessness hung like sweat in the air. No one gladiator had yet clawed his way into the glare of popularity since Vitellius had been slain a few weeks earlier. I could feel the crowd’s impatience, the tension beneath an undercurrent of laughter and conversation. Trumpets sounded again, announcing a parade of combatants and performers. “Oh, look!” Marcella cried, pointing to the charioteers who entered, rank after rank, four chariots to a rank. Behind them the gladiators. How could they smile so confidently? Today’s combat had been designated a sine missione. The life of each would depend on killing his comrades before the sun set.

  The first part of the show was given over to animal-baiting. Never having seen an elephant, I was thrilled by their size, power, and cunning. Surely that lordly trumpeting could be heard beyond the city gates. My excitement dissolved as I watched trainers pierce the beasts with fire darts until, driven mad by pain and anger, they turned on one another, goring and stamping. The butchery was like nothing I had seen anywhere or could ever have imagined. The dust was impossible to block even in our place of honor and the smell…Blood, entrails, excrement steamed in the August heat. I held my ears, hoping to block the angry bellows, the agonized squeals. I couldn’t; they were deafening. At last one animal remained, standing alone amid the carnage. A herd of possibly fifty elephants had been massacred. While enormous oxcarts carried off the slain beasts, the victorious elephant knelt before the imperial box as he had been trained to do.

  The slaughter of jungle cats was to me even more terrible. I had to bite my lips to keep from crying out as torch-bearing beaters forced the creatures into the arena. Scorched by flames, goaded by sharp swords, the exotic felines snarled furiously, swiping at one another with their fearful claws. Despite their agility and defiant courage, in the end it was hopeless. The black panthers reminded me of Hecate. I couldn’t bear it and turned away to wipe away the tears that streamed from my eyes. I am a soldier’s daughter, I must be strong, I reminded myself and turned back.

  FROM TIME TO TIME I STOLE GLANCES AT TIBERIUS, SPRAWLED BACK IN his seat under a purple canopy. The emperor’s body was well formed, his shoulders particularly impressive. I thought his features attractive. What would it be like to know one’s face was recognized on coins and monuments throughout the world? Yet, despite the power and privilege that clung to Tiberius, I saw sadness. He’s never been happy. His life is a tragedy. Why I should know this, I couldn’t imagine any more than I could fathom why one so powerful should not have everything he desired.

  Tiberius looked up, our eyes locking as he coolly returned my gaze. I felt as though I had glimpsed him naked and been caught staring. Blushing to the roots of my hair, I looked away only to catch a glimpse of Caligula’s hands, following the folds of my sister’s chiton. Startled, I wondered why Marcella didn’t box his ears.

  A fanfare of trumpets announced the gladiators. Fleetingly regal, they marched forward to stand before the imperial box. Eyes on Tiberius, they spoke as one: “We who are about to die, salute you.” Father and Germanicus exchanged glances. “One rarely hears that,” Tata said. “It’s to be a fight to the finish,” Uncle reminded him. The emperor nodded indifferently, sunlight flashing from his ringed fingers as he idly drummed the arms of his chair. The gladiators broke into pairs and positioned themselves to fight.

  Wax tablets were passed from hand to hand as spectators scribbled the names of their favorites and the sums they staked. Everyone was taking part—not only the common people but also senators and knights, even Vestal Virgins.

  “Did you know we have a prophet among us?” Germanicus asked Tiberius. “When we hold our regimental games, Claudia invariably picks winners.”

  “Indeed! That little mouse?” The empress looked up from her tablet. Until now she had managed to ignore my entire family. Why does she dislike us so? Livia’s green eyes were disdainful. “Isn’t this your first circus?”

  “I venture she will know a winner when she sees one,” Germanicus assured her.

  “And who will win this time, Madam Oracle?” Tiberius leaned forward, a spark of interest lighting a face that had remained impassive throughout the preliminary events

  “I—I—can’t do it that way,” I struggled to explain. “I don’t know something because I want to.”

  “Then how do you know it?” Tiberius persisted.

  “Sometimes I dream the winners or else they just jump into my head.”

  The empress laughed contemptuously as she tapped her son lightly with an ivory fan.

  Tiberius ignored her. “Then look them over and see who ‘jumps,’” he challenged me, gesturing toward the gladiators standing below.

  Half sick with self-consciousness, I closed my eyes in prayer to Diana: May the earth open this instant and swallow me.

  “Claudia’s choices are often fortunate, but we don’t encourage the child’s fantasies,” Mother hastily explained.

  “Some of us do,” Germanicus chuckled. “The boys and I have done quite well with them.”

  Caligula baited me as I sat, sick with anxiety. “I knew all the time that you were making it up.”

  “I don’t make it up!”

  “I’m sure you don’t.” The emperor, his hands surprisingly gentle, reached out, pulling me from my seat into an empty space he created next to himself. “Why don’t you just take a good long look at those men down there? If you see a winner, tell us.”

  “She won’t see anything. What does Claudia know anyway?” Caligula, diverted from Marcella, beat his booted foot against the seat.

  “That’s enough, Caligula!” Germanicus snapped. “If you can’t be polite to Claudia, remove yourself and sit with the rabble.”

  Tata patted my shoulder reassuringly. “We all know it’s just a game you like to play. Why not try it now?”

  “It’s not a game, it’s a lie,” Caligula insisted, ignoring his father’s admonition.

  I glared at him. Angrily pushing back the curls loose over my forehead, I turned to the men assembled on the field, studying each face carefully. The pressure was terrible. I tried breathing deeply. Pictures come to me involuntarily, but at that moment, looking at the men waiting for the starting signal, I saw nothing. Desperate, I closed my eyes. Then…yes, one face appeared. An unusual face, high cheekbones, blond, very blond. I thought him handsome as Apollo. More important, he was smiling triumphantly. I opened my eyes, eagerly scanning the gladiators below. Helmets covered their hair, but I recognized the striking face, the fair skin. “It’s that man,” I said, pointing. “Third from the end. He’ll be the winner.”

  “Not likely,” Livia scoffed. “Look how young he is. Hardly more than twenty. A thrust or two and it will be over.”

  “Are you sure, Claudia?” Father asked. “Ariston is the favorite, the one on the end.”

  My eyes followed his pointing finger. Ariston looked formidable. He was slightly taller than my choice and much broader through the shoulders. Now, as I studied the gladiators, I realized that the man I’d chosen was more slender than any. Though a large man, tall and broad-shouldered, he looked almost frail beside the massive veterans of many combats. All I could do was shrug. “He’s the one I saw.”

  “You’re just showing off,” Caligula accused me.

  “Do you have any pocket change, boy?” Tiberius asked him.

  “Sir, I’m fourteen.”

  “Very well, then. I’ll wager one hundred sesterces against whatever you have that Claudia’s choice wins.”

  “Tiberius, you’re not only a poor judge of gladiators but a spendthrift,” Livia chided him.

  “If you’re so certain, suppose we have a little wager of our own?” Germanicus suggested.

  “Taken,” the empress responded. “What about two hundred sesterces against my fifty?”

  “Agreed.” Germanicus nodded.

  Mother and Father looked at each other in consternation. Even Agrippina was subdue
d. Marcella leaned over and squeezed my hand. “I hope you are right. That gladiator is just too handsome to lose.”

  “Marcella!” Mother reproved, but everyone laughed and some of the tension eased.

  What followed has become legend. It began routinely. The men were evenly matched—retiarri brandishing nets and tridents and secutori countering with swords and shields. Each man moved slowly, warily, as he sought to gain an advantage over his opponent. The pair would fight until one man was killed, the winner then going on to challenge another until only two remained—one final dance of death.

  As the struggle began, Tiberius sent a slave for information about my choice. The young secutor’s name was Holtan, we were told. He was a Dacian captive only recently brought to Rome. Nothing was known of him. It was unlikely that he had ever attended a ludi.

  Holtan’s unfamiliarity with the arena was apparent from the beginning. “He won’t last a round,” Livia scoffed. I feared the empress was right. Without gladiatorial school training, what chance did he have? After a few tentative swings, the young gladiator, who’d taken his eyes off his opponent for an instant to look up at the stands, was knocked to the ground. The other man moved in for the kill. Tiberius shook his head in disgust and turned to order wine. In that instant Holtan was back on his feet, sword in hand. He swung this way and that, confusing his adversary, then moved in for the kill, blade slashing cleanly into his opponent’s chest. From then on the man was Hercules himself.

  An excited buzz ran through the stands, echoing around us: “Who is that man?” Tiberius patted my shoulder approvingly. The orchestra played, a frenetic accompaniment to the drama below. Horns and trumpets blared wildly. A woman hunched over the water organ, face changing from pink to purple as she furiously pumped the bellows. Attendants dressed as Charon rushed here and there striking the fallen gladiators on the head with hammers. Pluto, king of the underworld, had claimed them for his own. Body after body was dragged away through the Porta Libitinensis while the slaughter continued. At first I hid my eyes from the brutal melee, but soon the exhilaration of the howling mob infected me with its madness.