Pilate's Wife

by Antoinette May

  As I studied the third, Jupiter annihilating lovely Semele with his thunderbolts, Tiberius silently entered the room. As his eyes swept over me, my heart thumped so loudly I was certain he heard it. Somewhere below us was the dungeon where Drusus had slowly starved to death, at last gnawing his own hands in desperation. Lately there had been rumors of the emperor’s depravity, stories of women violated, wives of officers who had fallen from grace. Praying silently to Isis, I forced myself to meet his gaze.

  The changes in Tiberius’s appearance were shocking. Ten years alone could not account for the haggard face, the dull, bloodshot eyes. The large, bull-chested body was thick and bloated.

  “So the little seer has grown into a beauty,” he said at last. “I would not have known you but for your eyes. Do they still foresee the future? You did well for me at our last meeting.”

  “The circus was not our last meeting. There was another,” I reminded him. “The ceremony marking my sister’s induction into the Vestal order. It is because of her that I have come.”

  “Ah, yes, the lapsed virgin. You hope to plead her cause.”

  “Don’t you feel that under these special circumstances—”

  Tiberius raised a bushy brow. “Special circumstances?”

  “She was not meant to be a Vestal.”

  “It would appear not,” he said, lowering himself onto a couch.

  “I mean”—I sat down opposite him—“entering the order was a mistake in the first place. She was overage.”

  “And, I hear, underqualified.”

  “Marcella was forced against her will to become a Vestal.”

  “Since when does a woman’s will matter? A father decides what is best for his daughter.”

  “My father did not decide. Your mother did.”

  Surprise blotched Tiberius’s face as he stared at me. Then quickly, so quickly I wondered if I had imagined it, his masklike expression returned. My words hung in silence.

  It seemed an eternity before the emperor spoke. “You must love your sister dearly.”

  “Why else would I have come?”

  “Then I am sorry for you.”

  “You have a choice,” I reminded him. “Some other punishment—exile, perhaps, anything but death.”

  “She knew her fate. The penalty was ordained hundreds of years ago, at the birth of Rome itself.”

  “As emperor, you can change it.”

  “As emperor, perhaps; as Pontifex Maximus, never. Even if I wanted to save your sister, which I don’t particularly, I could not. To ignore her violation, to show any sign of leniency, would undermine the foundation of the empire.”

  “Surely there is something—”

  “There is nothing.” He rose from the couch where he had been reclining and walked slowly toward me. Placing his hand beneath my chin, Tiberius tilted my head upward. Again I forced myself to meet his eyes. Another agonizing eternity. Finally he spoke, “Livia was wrong about you, wrong from the beginning. You are in no sense a mouse.” Tiberius reflected briefly. “Very well…I will grant you a boon. Your sister will die, as decreed, but you may see her tonight and ride at her side tomorrow.”

  This was my last chance, I had to try. “Such a small lapse really, it’s not as though she allowed the sacred flame to die. Must it be so cruel a death? Why not something quick? A sudden blow perhaps…” I hesitated, heart pounding. “You might permit her to take her own life.”

  “My dear, my dear”—he sighed wearily—“you know the penalty as well as I. Take comfort that it is a quiet death, a bloodless one. Quintus Atticus met his end by flogging.”

  Picking up a small scroll from his cluttered desk, Tiberius scratched a quick note that would be my pass, then handed it to me, his manner almost courtly. Was he mocking me? I could not tell, did not care.

  My bearers took me directly to the Atrium Vestae, where an attendant led me to Marcella. Her room, though small, was comfortably furnished and brightly lit. There was a bouquet of violets on the small desk where she sat writing.

  Marcella looked up in surprise at my entrance, knocking over the chair as she rushed to embrace me.

  “I tried, I tried.” My voice trembled. “Tiberius was implacable, nothing I said made any difference.”

  Marcella’s eyes widened. “You went to Tiberius? Blessed Vesta! What were you thinking? You know what he’s capable of. You know how he hates anyone even remotely connected with Germanicus and Agrippina. Only Fortuna herself saved you when Father and Mother died. If you had been living in Rome—”

  “Pilate has said all that many times. It made no difference. Anything was worth a try and Tiberius did at least agree to let me see you. I expected to find you in prison.”

  “Why? Where would I go? There is no escape.”

  “I know that now.”

  “The other Vestals have been kind.” Marcella gestured at the flowers. “They will miss me, I think. I was just writing you a letter. You would have received it tomorrow after—”

  For the first time her voice wavered. “Quintus—I thought to write him too.”

  Sadly, I shook my head.

  “Oh!” Marcella gasped, her face suddenly white. “Poor darling, he was so strong, so alive.”

  “You also, Marcella. You are more full of life’s joy than anyone I know.”

  “But I was not living, not until I met Quintus. I made the best of things here, acted silly sometimes, played with the little girls, tried to make it all easier for them than it was for me. I showed some of the older ones a few things too, brightened their lives a bit.” The impish smile I knew so well appeared for an instant. “But that wasn’t living—not for me, not the way I was meant to live. We are not in this world to live safely. We are here to fall in love and break our hearts.”

  “And lose our lives?”

  “If need be.”

  I looked at Marcella wonderingly. “You aren’t sorry, are you?”

  “I’m sorry we got caught. It would have happened sooner or later. I would have preferred later.”

  In just a few brief moments a Vestal, red-eyed from weeping, came to tell us that it was time for me to leave.

  THE NEXT DAY I SAT BESIDE MARCELLA, WHO LAY ON A BIER AS ONE already dead. I held her hand as the funeral procession wove its way through Rome. A grim-faced Pilate rode beside our wagon on horseback as an escort. Agrippina, with her daughters, followed directly behind in a chariot. Fortunately Caligula and Livia were wintering in Capri, sparing us the further ordeal of their presence.

  I expected jeers and cries of derision but the crowd was curiously silent, overwhelmed perhaps by the enormity of what was happening. Most stood solemn-faced as the procession slowly made its way to the Campus Scleratus, the Evil Fields, near the Colline Gate. Though glad our parents were spared this final horror, I knew they would have been as proud as I.

  Spectators marveled at Marcella’s courage as she lay quietly on the bier, face waxen, eyes clear and dry. The icy cold hand in mine remained steady. When at last we reached our destination there were no rites, no solemnities, not even a funeral dirge.

  The oxen that had pulled our wagon stood stolidly as Marcella was lifted from the bier. She walked unaided, slowly but with great dignity, to a sunken tomb that had been freshly dug beside the gate. There was no opportunity for a final embrace, only a last look over her shoulder at me and beyond to streets wet now with early morning dew. The sun had just risen. It would be a clear day. Marcella’s hand touched a large geranium bush growing against the stone wall. For an instant her fingers caressed the velvety softness of a leaf. Sick at heart, I watched Marcella turn and begin her descent into the tiny cavern. Inside, I had been told, was an oil lamp, a little food, and a small couch.

  The entrance was quickly sealed, and the earth above moved to cover the vault, then tamped down. Soon there would be no trace whatsoever of the grave. The message was clear: a Vestal’s life, the embodiment of the sacred flame, was snuffed out when she ceased to personify the goddess, then
covered over with earth as one would extinguish smoldering coals on a hearth. It was as if she never existed.

  I turned away, my arm drawn protectively across my belly. In the midst of all this horror I knew suddenly that I carried a child, a girl. I will remember you always, Marcella, I promised silently, and my baby will bear your name.

  CHAPTER 22

  My Second Mother

  Black as night, black as death. It is death. I am buried alive…Screams, my screams. My fists beat against clammy sepulcher walls. “Let me out!” No one comes. No one will ever come. Hideous shrieks echo in darkness. Then silence. Silence of the grave…

  Someone laughs. A giddy girl waves at me. It is Marcella, so pretty in her blue gown. Caligula pulls at her sleeve. Marcella long ago…in the palace, so exciting…a grown-up banquet.

  “You’re alive!” I gasp.

  “More alive than you, Claudia.” She pirouettes, arms like swan’s wings ready to fly. “Go home! Go home! Go home!” That mischievous laugh again.

  “I can’t go home. I’m in your tomb.”

  “No tomb can keep you—or me. Open your eyes. Your life is waiting. Enjoy it. Enjoy it for me.”

  She is gone.

  Faint sounds far away. Rachel? Agrippina…is that you? My eyelids are heavy. Too heavy to open. Another voice, stronger…Pilate? No, he would not come here. Still the voices. Why won’t they let me be?

  “Welcome back!” It was Agrippina above me. Her hands gently smoothed the covers. “We have missed you.”

  Rachel, too, was at my side. “It has been days since you said a word.”

  I struggled to sit up. “I knew somehow that you were there, but I was so tired…Too tired to speak, to know what was real or unreal…Pilate…I felt him too…He was kind.”

  “Kind indeed!” Agrippina exclaimed. “The tragedies that have plagued our family—and now this dreadful scandal! Another man would have divorced you.”

  “If that is his choice, I can always go to the Temple of Isis.” Even as I spoke the words, I knew I didn’t mean them.

  As though my thoughts had conjured him, Pilate appeared in the doorway, immaculate in white, the narrow knight’s stripe adorning the right shoulder of his tunic, his thick brown hair cut and combed in the short military style that became him well.

  In an instant he had crossed the room, was leaning over my couch, his arms supporting me. Eagerly his eyes searched my face. “You’ve come back to us.”

  I saw the light cloak resting about his shoulders. “Yes, I have come back. Must you leave…now?”

  “I can’t stay. Something—something urgent has come up. Sejanus is waiting, but I won’t leave you again,” he promised.

  He looked ill at ease, I mused drowsily. Strange for Pilate. I smiled, already feeling better. Where had I been? What had happened to me? Marcella’s execution…so frightful…I must not think of it…But Marcella’s message…A dream, so real. Your life is waiting. Marcella never could stand long faces.

  “I will look forward to your return,” I told Pilate, kissing him lightly.

  I AWAKENED TO THE SCENT OF ROSES. THE PALEST PINK, THE RICHEST peach—blossoms everywhere. Beside me, a cut-glass flagon of wine and another of water rested on a low ivory table with two golden cups and a silver plate of honey cakes. How perfect these past days had been.

  I turned my head. Pilate was sitting beside me, his lips curved in a smile. Had he been watching me nap? I ran my fingers across his shoulders, feeling the skin, the bone, the smooth, warm muscle.

  “You decide,” he was saying. “We can go to Sejanus’s banquet or dine here at home together.”

  I looked up, amazed at such a suggestion from the husband who preferred to go out every night, with or without me. “We have already accepted,” I reminded him.

  Pilate shrugged. “I can send a slave with our regrets.”

  I studied him from beneath my lashes. Lucius Aelius Sejanus, commander of the Praetorian Guard, was second only to Tiberius. To even consider forfeiting his invitation…Pilate was being kind. He must know how much I dreaded returning to society. I longed to take the opportunity offered me, but knew better. “We have dallied here much of the day,” I said, stretching languorously. “It is time we were up and about.” His relieved smile was my reward.

  “Go now,” I said, gently pushing at his chest. “I must get ready.”

  Pilate allowed himself to be banished. Within seconds Rachel arrived to draw my bath. As I splashed idly, she slipped from the room, returning moments later carrying a filmy confection of lavender and violet. “Isn’t it time you wore this?” My breath caught at the sight of the gown. It was designed for a Saturnalia party that Pilate and I were to have given. A party that had been canceled.

  “Why not?” Resolutely, I rose from the bath and allowed her to dry me. Move on, move on. Life is to be lived. It was as though Marcella stood at my side as Rachel slipped the violet underdress over my head. It was overlaid with lavender drapery sheer enough to allow the deeper shade to show through. To this Rachel added a third, even filmier layer of the palest mauve. Deftly, she twisted my heavy hair, securing it with gold clips, then knotting and coiling it so that only a few ringlets were allowed to escape.

  “You remind me more of the lady Selene every day,” Rachel said, dusting my hair with gold, which she had carefully extracted from a large glass vial.

  “Not so! Mother was beautiful.”

  “She had a womanly glow about her and now you have it too.”

  “If that be true, it is because I know at last that Pilate loves me. I am sure he does. During the day he sees only clients. The evenings he spends with me. There can’t be anyone else. He has changed. Surely you have noticed.”

  Rachel knelt to slip my feet into court sandals, stitched and edged in purple. Her face was hidden as she laced the golden ribbons to just above my ankles.

  I WAS STARTLED BY THE OPULENCE OF SEJANUS’S PALACE, ONLY SLIGHTLY less lavish than Tiberius’s own. Standing beside Pilate as slaves removed our wraps, I struggled to compose myself. Except for a few short rides in my curtained litter, this was the first time that I had been out of the house since my sister’s execution. How could I face the derision of many, the curiosity of all?

  Senses reeling from the thick scent of Egyptian incense and flowers, I looked about the courtyard. A wave of nausea swept over me. Surely I was not going to be ill now! Resolutely, I took Pilate’s arm. The hum of voices deepened as we moved forward past a brilliant fresco that depicted satyrs and nymphs at play. Pilate raised an eyebrow. The painting left nothing to the imagination.

  Every inch of floor was covered with intricately designed mosaic tiles, every item of furniture coated with gold leaf. The sound of voices swelled to a muted roar as we passed through a gallery filled with dazzling larger-than-life statues of gods and heroes. At the entrance to the dining chamber, Sejanus strode forward to greet us. He had thrown off his heavy toga, as comfort and custom required at banquets, and wore only a scarlet short-sleeved tunic embroidered with gold leaves that matched his sandals. Sejanus looked splendid, but I sensed that he, like my father, was at his best in helmet, cuirass, and greaves, sword at his side, warhorse champing at the bit.

  “Pilate! My most ardent supporter,” he said, clapping my husband’s shoulder. His mouth lingered on my cheek a fraction too long, barely missing my mouth. Beyond his shoulder I saw some fifty guests reclining in twos and threes on couches carved in the shape of swans and inlaid with lapis and mother-of-pearl. As we advanced into the room, I walked between the two men, chatting lightly with Sejanus while my stomach churned with nervousness. One woman gasped. Another set her mouth tightly and fixed me with a reproving glare. Others merely watched with superior smiles. Was every guest sneering at me? I lifted my chin. How dare they scoff at me, how dare they pass judgment on Marcella? I wanted to throw something at them, something that would destroy them all and forever wipe out the sight of their gaping, curious faces. Instead, as Sejanus took my elbow,
I looked up and smiled, pulling the corners of my mouth tight to keep the muscles from quivering. “What were you saying? I did not hear.”

  Sejanus grinned at me. “I said, ‘Were I to have the opportunity, I should rather have you as my dinner partner than Venus herself.’ Surely you and Pilate will join me?” He nodded toward the large couch at the head of the room. I took a deep breath and linked my arms with Sejanus and Pilate. Together we walked toward the room’s center. As I reclined between these two powerful men I felt every eye upon me. At that moment rose petals rained down from nets suspended from the gilded ceiling.

  Throngs of slaves served one course after another and drew flagons of wine from large basins of beaten gold banked by fresh mountain snow. “How have you kept it from melting?” I asked Sejanus.

  “There’s a lead-lined chamber beneath us. Apicata—my wife—designed it.”

  “Where is your wife?” I hardly dared ask. Was she absenting herself because of me?

  As though reading my mind, Sejanus smiled. “She is wintering with our children in Pompeii. You will meet her soon.”

  On the couch beside us a man poured wine down his throat so fast it dribbled over his chin. The music, at first lutes and flutes, swelled to a frenzy as tambourines and cymbals, horns and trumpets were added. Windows, closed against the late winter chill, let little air into the room. It was hot, stifling, thick with the scent of flowers and aromatic oils that lithe young boys sprinkled on our feet. I felt another wave of nausea and forced it down. Not here, not now.

  Pilate and Sejanus took turns playfully blowing the gold dust from my hair, laughing as it swirled to the floor where slaves scrambled to collect the tiny grains. I laughed too, beginning to relax. Then I caught sight of a woman watching us. She was tall and imposing, with swelling breasts and a small waist. Her hair was dark red, her skin clear and white, and her eyes a sparkling green that rivaled the emerald of her gown. Aggressively beautiful, she created an immediate impression of wild, untamable passion. I wondered at the hatred in that exquisite face, for she was surely the most spectacular creature I had ever seen. Puzzled, I returned her stare. As the evening progressed, the condemnation of the other guests had been replaced by interest in themselves. So why this intense hostility now from a woman I had never met?