Pilate's Wife

by Antoinette May

  Puzzled, I followed his glance to an alcove where Mother held court, the center of a small circle of friends.

  “She is still very beautiful,” he said.

  “Beautiful on the inside too,” I added, “but you have to know her to discover that.”

  He nodded to a passing slave, took two wineglasses and handed one to me. “You have her beauty and something more…a touch of mystery. No one knows what you are really thinking. You have that and…” He leaned forward, whispering again, “…perhaps some mischief. I think sometimes you like to raise Hades just for the fun of it.”

  “Perhaps,” I conceded. Studying him over the goblet’s rim, I reflected on how well the spell was working.

  Behind him, I saw Germanicus approaching. He carried a lyre under his arm. How annoying! I didn’t want anyone to interrupt us.

  “I dismissed the jugglers,” Germanicus explained. “The heavy one dropped his torch twice. Besides, the noise they make—all the shouting. I would like you to sing, Claudia—the way you used to in Gaul. It has been a long time since I’ve heard your lovely voice, too long.”

  I nodded toward Druscilla and Julia. “You mean the three of us?” My thoughts shifted longingly to Marcella. Trained by the same tutor, we four had sung often at family parties, even occasionally at military gatherings.

  “Your voice was the sweetest. Never mind the others.” Perhaps sensing my reluctance, he added the imperative. “Sing for me.”

  I studied the kindly, surprisingly unassuming man I had known all my life, aware that his natural charm overlay a quiet authority. Why now did he look so tired? Lately, it seemed, Germanicus was always rubbing his forehead; his walk, too, seemed slower. Was something wrong?

  The hum of conversation ceased as all eyes focused on me. I felt slightly ill. In recent years I had rarely sung outside my home and never alone. I didn’t want to now, but Germanicus was handing me the lyre. “Sing!”

  How could I refuse?

  Strumming a few chords tentatively, I breathed a prayer to Isis and began. First a mild military parody that had always amused Germanicus. Then, my confidence growing, a street ballad burlesquing the fable of Leda and her swan lover. Pilate moved closer, smiling. Pulling my eyes from his, I saw expressions of polite boredom change to surprise. I enjoyed the moment until another face came into focus. Druscilla watched with angry intensity.

  Druscilla loves Pilate. That knowledge would once have plunged me into despair. What man wouldn’t aspire to marry the great-granddaughter of the Divine Augustus? But now, with the spell working so well, I merely pitied her the hopeless longing I myself had felt only days before.

  GERMANICUS’S WAN FACE VISITED MY MORNING MEDITATIONS WITH increasing frequency. What is troubling him? I asked. Almost immediately another face—sallow, pockmarked—appeared before my mind’s eye. Governor Piso. I scarcely needed the sight for that. The man had been a thorn in Uncle’s side from the beginning. Tiberius had appointed him governor while we were still in Egypt. By the time our party arrived in Antioch, Piso and his wife were already settled into the palace. Germanicus let it pass. So like him to be generous, but now we saw daily reminders of how the governor mistook kindness for weakness. Piso’s army was contrary to everything Germanicus stood for. Bullies promoted, good officers with honest records demoted and replaced by scoundrels…There was more, I felt it. Something terrible was going to happen. Perhaps it had already begun.

  I wanted to talk to Tata about it, but between his political duties and my new social ones, I rarely saw him. Finally the sudden cancellation of a banquet at Germanicus’s villa gave our family an evening at home. My parents’ animated conversation stopped abruptly as I entered the triclinium. Mother’s dark eyes sparkled. Tata looked concerned. Each watched me with an anticipation I was at a loss to understand.

  Determined not to be diverted, I sat down on the couch opposite them and asked point-blank: “Is Germanicus ill?”

  “Why ever would you say that?” Mother exclaimed. “He has always been healthy as a horse. The banquet was postponed because of a fire in their kitchen.”

  “You are sure? He seems thinner.”

  “He is concerned about Piso.” Tata’s eyes were thoughtful. “City guilds and farmers are appealing to him. They say the governor’s men force them to pay for protection.”

  Piso again. The lean, hungry-looking governor and his wife, Plancina, a proud, vain woman with a boundless taste for luxury. I recalled her in Rome, never far from Livia. The conversation shifted as Hebe and Festus entered, poured wine, passed plates of stuffed grape leaves and dates.

  “Why hasn’t Germanicus complained to Tiberius?” I wanted to know when we were alone again.

  Tata shrugged. “He has. The emperor claims to be surprised that Germanicus would be swayed by malicious rumors. By no means is Piso to be removed from office.”

  I hesitated. Hebe and Festus were back with a platter of wild boar, a gift from Drusus, who had speared it himself. It took a while to carve and serve. Then, at last, they bowed and left—for a while anyway. Now a chance to say what I’d been thinking. “The business with Piso is threatening to us all, but I feel there is something more—something evil—hanging over Germanicus.”

  We sat quietly for a moment or two. Despite the warm spring evening, a chill raised little bumps on my bare arms. Then Mother shook her head impatiently, “Why are we so gloomy when your father has wonderful, exciting news for you?”

  I moved over to the edge of their couch. “What is it, Tata?” My heart raced. Suddenly I knew the answer.

  He was silent for what seemed a very long time, all the while watching me thoughtfully. “Pilate came to me this morning,” he said at last. “He has asked to marry you.”

  My hand moved to the sistrum at my throat. Pilate was mine. “Oh, Tata, it has happened,” I gasped, flinging my arms around him.

  Tata disengaged my arms, but held both my hands in his. “He knows your dowry is small, but says he would marry you if you had none at all.” Tata’s eyes were puzzled as he studied me. “It must be your Claudian lineage. A patrician connection could be useful to an ambitious young knight…”

  “Of course it could,” Mother agreed. “Besides, our little girl has blossomed into a true beauty. Really, my dear”—she turned to me, smiling—“you grow lovelier every day, almost, it seems, before our very eyes. I’m not surprised at all by Pilate’s proposal—not anymore. I saw him at the games yesterday. Even when the lion was at the throat of the gladiator he looked only at you. The man is positively enchanted.”

  I glanced down, embarrassed. Of course Pilate was enchanted, that was the whole idea. For the first time, I felt a tiny twinge of guilt, then quickly dismissed it, assuring myself that I would be the perfect wife for Pilate. I would find every way to please him. He would be the happiest man in the world. Once again I sent a silent prayer of thanksgiving to Isis, who had delivered to me the man of my dreams.

  THE NEXT TIME I ATTENDED THE CHARIOT RACES IT WAS WITH PILATE. We sat with Germanicus and Agrippina in the Sponsor’s Box, for it was Germanicus who had subsidized the event. Beside them were my parents and Pilate’s adoptive father.

  The elder Pilate was a portly man. Beneath the peacock blue of his silk tunic, I saw rolls of flesh that quivered as he moved. Still, I noted, he moved quickly and his eyes were sharp. Here was a man who missed nothing. Though he was cordial and complimentary, I knew his true opinions were guarded. From time to time, his eyes rested on Druscilla, who sat nearby. I felt certain he questioned his son’s choice. Had they quarreled about me? I moved toward him, casting about for something to say, something that would both flatter and reassure him. “Pilate tells me that you have raised champions,” I ventured. “You must be a fine judge of horses…I know so little. Which team would you suggest I bet on?”

  He smiled, leaned closer, whispered in my ear. “Go with the blue team.”

  Just then Plancina, sitting below, turned and looked up—scrutinizing me. She
seemed to be taking in every detail of my attire. Then with a sweeping, contemptuous glance, the governor’s wife looked over at Druscilla. My hand strayed to the amethyst brooch Pilate had given me that afternoon. I knew it was exquisite and matched my pretty lilac gown perfectly; still, the older woman’s disdain frightened me. What if the rich, established families didn’t accept me? Pilate was ambitious…What if I were to fail him?

  I stared at Plancina, focusing all my attention upon the buxom matron, willing her to turn again. Slowly, her head began to move until she faced me once more. This time Plancina’s round pie-face wore a puzzled expression. I watched her intently, all the while smiling sweetly as I raised one hand casually and parted two fingers in a horn shape.

  Plancina gasped at the hex sign, her painted cheeks like full moons against a face grown pale. My smile deepened as I raised my other hand to arrange a small curl loosened from its fillet. Suddenly I was aware of Pilate sitting next to me. Isis! What if he had seen me? I turned slowly. He was engrossed in conversation with Tata. What a relief. Pilate would not have been amused. What had I been thinking of? Plancina was the governor’s wife.

  The trumpets sounded. Germanicus rose to address the throng. “It is my great pleasure to announce the betrothal of Claudia Procula, daughter of my closest friend and aide-de-camp General Marcus Procula, to Centurion Pontius Pilate, commander of the First Cohort. This race is dedicated to them. May it be a grand beginning.”

  A roar of applause greeted the announcement. I trembled with happy excitement. What difference did Pilate’s father or Plancina make? We were a golden couple. What could ever change that? Turning to acknowledge the cheers, I saw Druscilla watching and looked away.

  As the betting tablets were being passed, Pilate’s father watched me expectantly. I wanted to flatter him. He had given me advice. Should I trust it? I could not rid my mind of the thought that the race was somehow symbolic of my future with Pilate. Where was the sight now when I wanted it? Forcing a smile, I took the tablet and stylus. “It’s the blue team for me.”

  The trumpets sounded again. All eyes moved to the field. I clutched Pilate’s hand as we watched the four teams approach. The chariots were splendidly draped in their brilliant colors—red, white, blue, and green. Curried and preened to perfection, the horses pranced for us. The crowd roared with anticipation as drivers whipped and hailed their two-horse teams to charge the starting line. Wheels spun and bounced, dust flew. The red team, a splendid pair of matched blacks, burst into the lead leaving the green and white teams neck and neck. A dull roar hung over the crowd as the blue team driven by Diocles, the favorite, drifted to the rear. My heart sank.

  For the first three laps I watched tensely as the blur of movement remained unchanged. Reins whipped, ribbons flew as the white team nosed to the inside and made its move. The red driver, perhaps sensing the challenge, looked over his left shoulder. I gasped as his ebony stallions swerved wide to the outside. The stadium vibrated as all around us people chanted and cheered, urging their favorites forward. Perhaps, perhaps there was a chance for the blue team.

  By the fifth lap, the red, white, and green teams were three abreast, with Diocles pulling his steeds up behind the red chariot in the middle. I was on my feet cheering him on. Turning into the sixth lap the red team wavered. Diocles’s tunic was a blue blur as he reined his horses into the outside lane to avoid the slowing chariot. The green and white chariots charged into the turn, seeking their opportunity for leadership. Both demanding the center lane, they crashed into each other. The white chariot bounced into the air and capsized in the path of the blue pair. Diocles pulled his horses to the inside, the flailing legs of the downed pair kicking at his chariot as he inched by. The red team driver was not so skillful. His pair thundered into the fallen chariot, causing him to be thrown.

  I could hardly stand the excitement as the two remaining teams prepared for the final assault to the finish. “Blue! Blue! Blue!” I shrieked. Diocles, feet planted squarely on the floorboard, leaned over the chariot, urging his horses forward. The green team charioteer, diverted by spectators’ cries, turned his galloping horses too far in the direction of the stands. Driving straight and fast, Diocles passed the green driver, who recklessly pursued him, whipping his chestnut pair frantically. I jumped and screamed for joy and then, in an instant, everything changed. The green driver, in a last effort to overtake Diocles, cut too sharply across the track. His horses stumbled and fell. Legs, tangled in spinning wheels, snapped. The driver slipped off the chariot. It collapsed on him in a heap of twisted wreckage. His body lay still.

  I remained quiet despite the pandemonium. Danger was what racing was all about. Still, this time, for my betrothal race, I wished it had been different.

  I turned to Pilate. “One person is certainly dead, maybe two. Why did it have to be this way?”

  “A good driver has to be ruthless,” he reminded me. “It’s about winning. Everything is always about winning. You should know that.”

  Germanicus patted my shoulder. “Your race, my girl. It is you who must present the driver with his award.” He handed me the victory palm branch brought forward by a slave. I looked up at Pilate and saw his eyes, usually so cool, light with sudden pride. I felt the protective pressure of his hand at my elbow as we descended the stairs and walked onto the track. All the while I knew that thousands of eyes were following us.

  Diocles was young, fair, and a slave. It was his owner, a wealthy merchant backing the blue team, who would benefit from the victory. I hoped he would be generous. Looking into the charioteer’s smiling face, I thought fleetingly of the young gladiator whose win I’d predicted four years before. What was his name…Holtan? Where was he now? I wondered, recalling the handsome face, virile and vital, looking eagerly ahead to a lifetime of victories. What were the odds on that? Not good.

  I handed the victor his palm branch and turned to Pilate. Nothing mattered now but the image of myself reflected in his eyes.

  THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON AGRIPPINA DROPPED BY TO SEE ME. IN her hands was a gorgeous package wrapped in apricot gauze. “It is an engagement gift,” she explained. “Germanicus and I wanted you to have it right away.”

  Carefully I removed the wrapping. It was so lovely I wanted to save it. Inside was a carved ivory box, and inside that twin star sapphires glittered up at me. “Earrings! They are exquisite!” I exclaimed.

  Agrippina smiled. “We thought you would like them. Gray to match your beautiful eyes. They come from far away—India, I’m told.”

  I hugged her happily. Then backed off, taking her hands in mine. “I have decided on a June wedding.”

  “Marvelous! I could not be happier. The month sacred to Juno is always lucky.”

  “I am sorry about Druscilla,” I ventured. “I know so well how she feels.”

  Agrippina shook her tawny head. “I doubt that. You have always taken things far more seriously than Druscilla. I know my daughter. She fancies Pilate today, tomorrow it will be another. This is your time, don’t spoil it worrying about anyone else. Just be happy.”

  I was more than happy, I was delirious, but there were still things that worried me. Mother, absorbed in preparations, looked up from her many lists to answer housekeeping questions, but found excuses to avoid anything more intimate.

  “She won’t talk about the most important thing,” I complained to Rachel.

  Rachel looked up from mending one of my undertunics and smiled. “You mean the man and woman thing? Surely Domina knows where babies come from.”

  “Of course, I know that!” After a pause I added softly. “But what’s it like? Mother just says I should not worry, that it will be the most beautiful night of my life—as though I planned to spend it stargazing in the atrium.”

  Rachel’s teasing smile faded. “‘The most beautiful night of her life’…Not every woman is so fortunate.”

  I considered her a moment. “How do you know that?”

  Rachel’s laugh was raw. “Slaves are ra
rely virgins. My first master had four sons who took turns with me. One of them, Isis only knows which, was my child’s father.”

  “You have a child! I can’t believe you never said anything.”

  She shrugged. “What is there to say? David would be six, if he is alive.”

  “You don’t know where he is?”

  “He was weaned and then sold.” Rachel’s voice was flat.

  I put my arms around her, but she disengaged herself. “David was never mine and surely I had no love for any of his possible fathers. Let us talk of pleasant things.” She picked up her sewing. “Your mother is a happy woman who adores her husband. I am sure her wedding night was beautiful. Why should yours not be?”

  I hesitated, looking at my hands. “Pilate is so handsome, so confident. He has been everywhere, done everything. All sorts of women are drawn to him, everyone from grand ladies to field slaves. He knows so much; I know nothing.”

  “That is good,” Rachel assured me. “His experience will make things all the more pleasant for you. Your husband will guide you, be certain of it.”

  “But what…” My voice trembled. “What if I don’t please him?”

  “Isis has seen fit to help you thus far,” Rachel reminded me. “Why should she desert you now?”

  IT IS BAD LUCK FOR A BRIDE TO BE SEEN BY MEMBERS OF HER HOUSEHOLD, yet I knew exactly what was going on downstairs as though I were there. We had been over it all so many times. On the day of my wedding, Hebe whispered a prayer to Juno as she set the wedding cake of wine-steeped meal on its bed of bay leaves. The smell of roasting peacocks, pheasants, and suckling pigs wafted up the stairs. I knew the kitchen staff was hard at work. Slaves had already washed down the walls, twined garlands about pillars, and strewn green boughs over marble floors polished to gleaming. In the triclinium, Mother still fussed over the proper order of banquet couches.