Pilate's Wife

by Antoinette May

  Upstairs, Agrippina, assisted by five of Antioch’s most noble matrons, officiated. I had little acquaintance with any of them, but knew that each had been chosen with an eye to Fortuna—all well married, no widows. As Agrippina approached with the ceremonial spear, my scalp tingled. Lowering my head, I stood still while the cold blade slowly parted my hair, dividing it into six plaits to dispel the evil spirits. Then each of the women took a turn at applying a subtle tinge of makeup to my face.

  At last the filmy cloud of white was slipped over my head and tied at the waist with the knot of Hercules. According to custom, only Pilate could untie it. I had thought a lot about that, both dreading and longing for the moment. Would he be pleased or disappointed by what he saw?

  Now I forgot that I had ever been nervous. Everything and everyone was revolving around me, bathing me in love and reassurance. Even Druscilla seemed happy. As Agrippina had anticipated, my cousin’s fancy had already been captured by a Parthian prince. She gave me a gentle pat and stood back as Julia adjusted my crown of marjoram, securing the scarlet wedding veil.

  “You look like a bride is supposed to look—absolutely beautiful,” Agrippina said, hugging me.

  The lyre players were at the door; it was time for the procession to begin. I knew so well what to expect, the roles we were to play. I was relieved to see a slave handing Druscilla and Julia white thorn torches. Diana must be propitiated. Everyone knew the goddess opposed marriage, preferring women to remain virgins. Slowly I followed my two attendants down the stairs to the great hall where guests sat facing Pilate, his father, and Tata. Every head turned.

  Tata allowed himself a proud smile before solemnly pouring a few drops of wine onto the household altar. Lares, the ancient guardian spirit of our family, must have his portion first. As if in a dream, I listened to my father invoke Hymen Hymenaeus, god of weddings, and watched as he filled glass after glass with wine. Incense wafting up from the altar made me dizzy. When all had been served, Tata signaled the augur to bring in the lamb. The flutes and harps went silent. My heart quickened as the creature’s throat was slit with a silver knife and its belly deftly opened. My breath caught as the augur examined the entrails. Would it be the bad luck of a heart distended with disease? Or the good luck of a liver folded at the bottom like a pocket? “Many happy years to you both!” he cried, nodding approvingly at the healthy pink liver. Instantly the music of flutes, harps, and lyres welled up around us.

  Shivering slightly, I turned to Pilate. Smiling, he threw back my diaphanous veil. We joined hands and I heard my voice, soft but clearly audible intoning the ancient vow, “While you are Gaius, I am Gaia.” The eternal couple. He took my right hand in his. We were truly married.

  After we had shared a small piece of cake, the wedding tablets were brought for our signatures. Our guests applauded, then rushed forward to embrace us. Pilate and I led them into the triclinium for the feast, where we reclined together on a dining couch for the first time. I wanted those moments to last forever.

  So soon Mother’s hand rested lightly on my shoulder. It was time to withdraw. I looked back at Tata. I belonged to Pilate and his family now. Standing with Mother in the deserted atrium, I began to sob. “I don’t know why I’m crying…this is what I wanted…”

  “Of course it’s what you want,” Mother assured me, dabbing at her own eyes. She blew her nose daintily. “It is time to go, darling, your husband has come to claim you.”

  Pilate was there, pulling me from Mother’s arms. It was an ancient ritual that I had always considered foolish, but now there was no need to feign reluctance. If Pilate noticed, he gave no indication. Grabbing me firmly, he hurried us from the house. Following close behind were Tata, Germanicus, and a number of their officers. All shouted for Pilate to stop and made a show of brandishing their swords. Outside, a groom waited with a chariot. Pilate leaped on and swept me up beside him.

  The wedding procession was forming. Some followed in chariots, others on horseback, more than one hundred on foot, all laughing and singing. My thumping heart calmed somewhat as I looked with wonder at the cityscape around us. It was as though I saw it for the first time. Antioch is a brilliant city at any hour, but then, late at night, the glow of moon and torchlight rivaled the sun. Nowhere else in the world could one ride for two miles beneath a marble portico, and this wonderful, amazing place was the city of my wedding procession.

  It wasn’t all magic and moonlight. Having attended other weddings, I was prepared for the bawdy epithets that were an inevitable part of the procession. Many well-wishers were carrying statues of Priapus, the lusty god of fertility. Some just carried replicas of Priapus’s enormous penis. It was embarrassing, yet how else could friends ward off the evil spirits who might be jealous of our good fortune? I stole a look at Pilate. He was smiling broadly.

  Then, at last, we reached the villa that he had recently purchased. Reining in his chariot, Pilate jumped down and helped me to dismount. By now the others were catching up. The songs and jokes had gotten worse. People—mostly the men—were waving huge leather penises at us. I felt my cheeks flame.

  The heavy door of the villa was thrown open by the steward. Quickly, Pilate swept me into his arms and carried me over the threshold, slamming the door behind us with his heel. There was a loud pounding. I could hear Tata’s voice angrily demanding entrance, still playing the role of the irate father.

  So quickly it faded.

  CHAPTER 11

  Two Trials

  At first we merely reclined together, sipping wine and talking quietly of the ceremony and our guests. Then gently he untied each of my plaits until the unruly curls tumbled down my shoulders. I forced myself to meet his eyes and was surprised by their intensity. The Pilate I had known was cool, in control, his manner toward me lightly teasing. This man was altogether different. I shivered when he undid the knot of Hercules.

  Pilate gently put his hands on my face, brushed his fingers through my hair, tipping my head up as his lips came toward me—my nose, my forehead, my cheeks—gentle kisses. Then my mouth, my mouth that now wanted his. I slid my arms around Pilate, pulling myself toward him, eagerly returning his kisses.

  It was several minutes before he released me, but when he did, it seemed too soon. Opening my eyes I saw him looking at me with faint surprise, though whether at himself or me, I did not know. He slipped the strap of my tunica down and kissed my shoulder, my neck. When he reached my breasts, a rush of warmth flowed through me. I breathed into his hair, kissed his ears, and sought his mouth again.

  Pilate caressed my skin as his warm hands slowly undressed me. Though he asked nothing of me, I clung to him as he gently pushed inside, whispering, “Claudia, Claudia.” How strong and sweet and vulnerable he sounded whispering my name. I clung to him, intent on what I had feared most, the pain a small price to pay for being this close to the man I loved so much.

  “Well?” Pilate asked at last, gently turning my face to his.

  “I fear I did it all wrong,” I whispered. What if the woman wasn’t supposed to move?

  “No, my dear. You did it all right. Very right, surprisingly right. And, if you did not feel everything there is to feel this time, I shall remedy that.”

  LATER, ALONE, I TURNED A SMALL HAND MIRROR THIS WAY AND THAT, studying my reflection. The worldliness I had anticipated was nowhere to be seen. I looked the same as always, not one whit more mature. But inside, well…I smiled, setting the mirror down. Inside was a different story. I recalled the disgust I had expressed to Marcella. How naive I’d been! Small wonder she had called me childish. If only Marcella were in Antioch. There was so much I longed to ask and tell. I wished, too, that I could show her my new home. I was so proud of it.

  A few weeks before our marriage Pilate had purchased a house for us on the Daphne road. Lush, green, and lined with elegant villas, the road followed the course of the Orantes River. The earth there, fed by underground springs, was rich and the gardens reputed to be the most beautiful in the w
orld. Each year the residents held a competition to judge whose grounds were the most pleasing.

  Our own villa, though smaller than some, was a jewel. I had fallen in love with it at first sight; but my home, like my husband, posed a challenge. I determined to be the perfect matron, worthy of both. Just as Pilate was expected to devote himself to his career, I was supposed to focus my attention entirely on his well-being.

  Surprisingly, the requirement that had worried me most was the easiest to fulfill. I was an eager pupil, Pilate a delighted teacher. Quickly, we discovered the joy of coaxing, teasing games rewarded by kisses, of a private language and silly jokes. Sometimes we took a small barge out on the river that adjoined our property. The gardens that reached down to the banks were thick with blossoms and flowering shrubs. Lilies spread over the water and tangled masses of sea grass, like green hair, floated on the current beside us. We spent hours twined in each other’s arms or lying stretched out on deck cushions, soaking in the warmth. Pilate often lay naked, his body turning a rich, dark brown, while I stayed under the scarlet awning. He had admired my skin, comparing it to pale amber; I would take no chances. Often I would sing to him, each note an intimate caress, but there were other days when we never got out of bed.

  Two weeks after the wedding the morning came when Pilate rose early, announcing that he would meet with clients.

  “Must you? So soon?” I sighed.

  “I would like you to accompany me.”

  When I looked up in surprise, he explained. “I want to present you to them. You may leave afterward, our business would hold little interest for you.”

  I felt my face flush with pleasure. The patron/client relationship excluded women. My husband’s desire that I be there, however briefly, was a great compliment.

  From Rome’s earliest beginnings ambitious men had sought out patrons better educated or more powerful than they for advice and influence, becoming, in return, retainers providing services for their protectors. Just as Pilate had sought out Germanicus to be his patron, he himself had many clients looking to him for favors.

  I had grown up with the system, taking it for granted, but an hour or so later, standing beside Pilate in our atrium, watching the twenty or so men who attended him, I saw it all in a new light. I could almost smell the soap, feel the barber’s blade. How fine they looked in their best. The tall and the short, the young and the not so young stood before us, their eagerness palpable. I watched the eyes focused on Pilate, admiring, deferent eyes. Each man so earnest, so…I felt a tiny shiver. The man at the far end. Thickset, not much taller than I, with a wide, protruding jaw and narrow blue eyes. He caught my glance, flashed a disarming grin. Clearly, the patron/client alliance emphasized deference, even obsequiousness on the part of many toward a few. That precarious balance could change overnight. Still, for that moment it was delicious to be introduced as Pilate’s wife, the lady of the villa.

  “WHAT DO YOU THINK OF MY CLIENTS?” PILATE ASKED THAT EVENING at dinner.

  Snuggled beside him on the dining couch, I reflected on how fortunate I was. My heart surged with pride as I raised my head to look at him. “They like you.”

  “They like what I can do for them,” he corrected me.

  “That surely, but I think more.”

  “Hardly,” he said, reaching for the wineglass his slave had filled.

  “No,” I insisted. “They believe in your future and hope to benefit from it, of course; but there is more to it than that.”

  Pilate studied me curiously over his glass. “What are you talking about?”

  I paused a moment searching for the right words. “They want more than a nod on their behalf to a magistrate, a moneylender, or an officer. They don’t just want something from you, they want to be you. They think that if they are around you enough, some of you—your vitality, your purpose, maybe even your youth—will rub off on them.”

  Pilate shook his head, regarding me almost warily. “That’s a strange thing to say. How could you possibly have known what they were thinking?”

  I hesitated again, sensing his discomfort. “It is more what they were feeling. This morning I knew a little of that.”

  Pilate set his glass down on the table. Eyes still on me, he asked, “Did you like them all?”

  I considered, savoring the wine on my tongue, the seeming importance of my words to him. “They were all well turned out, trying to make something of themselves,” I said at last. “Most know where they are going. They don’t expect you to do it all for them. I like them…except for one. Plutonius. I should watch him.”

  “Why?” That guarded look again as his eyes met mine.

  “I don’t know.” I felt suddenly reluctant. What was it about Plutonius? I recalled the broad smile…His flinty eyes had not smiled. “There is something…the others were open enough. You know what they are about. Plutonius…is cloudy. Has he been your client long?”

  “No, not long at all. I wondered today what caused him to leave Governor Piso and come to me.”

  PILATE’S FATHER’S WEDDING GIFT WAS THE LAST TO ARRIVE. MY BREATH caught as I unpacked the first plate. It was gold. There were twelve, each exquisitely inscribed with a different astrological sign.

  “Let’s put these to use right away,” Pilate suggested. “Is it not time we had a party?”

  I thanked Isis for my favorite wedding gift. My parents had given us Rachel.

  Germanicus and Agrippina would head the guest list. I knew Pilate was impressed by my connection to Rome’s ruling family. He would be pleased by their presence and I less nervous with my family there. If only, I thought wistfully, this first party could be left a foursome. So much would ride on it. People would expect a hostess like Mother or even Agrippina. Our social and perhaps political future could ride on the dinner. What if I failed Pilate? The challenge was formidable. I was glad there were only twelve plates; Pilate might have insisted on a banquet.

  Later, scratching my head absently with a stylus, I pondered the menu with Mother. “Pilate has given you a generous household allowance,” she reminded me. “He will expect something ambitious.”

  “I know. That’s why I am worried.” I gestured to a slave who was crossing the room with an armload of flowers. “Bring us two glasses of Falerian.”

  “Yes, Domina,” she replied, impatience apparent in her face.

  “Who is that?” Mother asked, nodding in the departing slave’s direction.

  “Psyche. Pilate brought her home the other day with two new garden slaves. He was so pleased—she used to cook for the former governor. Very full of herself, you would think I was the slave. At least she likes our kitchen. I saw her admiring the new brick oven.”

  Psyche returned after a time with two goblets. She placed them on the serpentine table before us and started to leave.

  Mother took a sip and then set the glass down. “This will not do! It will not do at all. Psyche! Come back here.”

  Psyche retraced her steps and bowed before Mother. “Is something wrong, Domina?”

  “Something is very wrong. Not only has this wine not been cut properly with water but it is not even Falerian.”

  “Oh, oh…Forgive me, Domina. I am very sorry.”

  “I should think so. My daughter expects better and will receive it. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Domina.”

  “Now bring us what she requested and serve it correctly.”

  “I think she is used to an older domina,” I explained once Psyche was out of earshot.

  “Claudia, you are her domina. Remember that always.”

  “Yes, Mother.” I picked up my tablet and began to take notes. “Last night Psyche fixed raisin-stuffed flamingo. It was good. And what about Germanicus’s favorite—suckling pig with plum sauce?”

  “Perfect,” Mother agreed, “but you’ll need something more…”

  “The other night I cooked a dish for Pilate myself. He acted amused, treated me like a little girl playing house. I know he was dubious,
but it turned out wonderfully. I surprised him.”

  “I am sure you did. What did you fix?”

  “Numidian chicken. Remember the asafetida we found in the market? I added a little of that. It was quite tangy.”

  Mother looked impressed. “Why not give the recipe to Psyche,” she suggested. “This time, the slave will do the honors.”

  For three days Rachel and I auditioned entertainers: jugglers, actors, singers, dancers and musicians. I would have preferred a poet, but settled on a Thracian dance troop. The women guests would be impressed by their superb skill, the men by the scanty costumes.

  Again and again, I reviewed the placement of the guest couches. Naturally, Germanicus and Agrippina would be at our right. From there it grew more complicated. I had originally omitted Piso and Plancina from the list. Pilate noticed immediately. “Are you out of your mind!”

  “Just this once…for our first party?”

  “Our first party is the most important. Piso is Tiberius’s man. You know that! We can’t afford to offend him.”

  I wheedled, I sulked. Pilate’s jaw set. The couch to our left would be occupied by Piso and Plancina. High-ranking officers and their wives, my parents among them, would sit on either side with two of Pilate’s most promising clients and their wives at the lowest couches, those farthest from us.

  Up early the day of the party, I was in and out of the kitchen, watching carefully as each dish was prepared. The Numidian chicken was to be a surprise. I watched approvingly as a chastened Psyche deftly ground the asafetida root and then combined it with powdered nuts and dates, which had arrived that morning by caravan from Alexandria. Inside the brick oven, tender young chickens poached slowly in white wine. Savoring the tantalizing aroma, I dipped a finger into the sauce, and nodded approvingly, confidant that my dinner would be a minor sensation. Psyche was a born cook and loved it—no doubt about that. I was glad she liked our oven; she would be spending a lot of time before it.