The next morning Pilate, the burns on his face already less painful, donned his formal toga and traveled with Porcia to the Amphitheater where the funeral games would be held. It was a longstanding Roman tradition to commemorate the fallen of the upper classes with funeral games sponsored by the family, for the amusement of the masses, after the funeral ceremony had been held. Pilate had returned to Rome a day too late for the actual funeral, but would make his first public appearance since his “illness” at the Games of Germanicus.
In earlier days, before the Republic had fallen, gladiatorial matches were contests of skill and showmanship featuring dazzling swordsmanship and weapons handling, but were rarely fatal to the gladiators themselves. If someone had to die, condemned prisoners would be herded into the arenas and armed, providing the crowd with the blood they howled for while rarely damaging the skilled and valuable gladiators themselves, who were highly prized by their masters.
In recent years, however, the gladiators were often expected to go after each other in death matches. The owners might protest the loss of such valuable property, but there was never a shortage of slaves with military experience, and the crowds loved seeing two skilled and deadly warriors face each other upon the sands.
Tiberius was already there, waiting to escort his guests into the luxurious platform from which the imperial family would watch the games. Pilate and Porcia carefully mounted the steps, and Pilate took his wife’s hand and walked very slowly, remembering that he was supposed to be recovering from a serious illness. Sejanus stood behind the Emperor, formally decked out in his black and gold finery as the Prefect of the Praetorians. He greeted Pilate with a cool nod and a quick wink, and Pilate returned the gesture with gravity and civility.
Moments later Agrippina, the wife of Germanicus, arrived with her children in tow. There were six of them, three boys and three girls, ranging in age from ten years old to a babe in arms. The older children were solemn and still obviously grieving the loss of their father, while the younger ones were enjoying the occasion, oblivious to its meaning.
Tiberius introduced Pilate to Agrippina, and he nodded his head in polite acknowledgment of this legendary Roman matron. Still quite lovely at thirty, she was taller than average, with raven-black hair, a high bustline, and a proud Roman nose. But her eyes were a bright and sparkling blue, betraying her close blood ties to the Emperor Augustus. She obviously did not care much for Tiberius, but was taking great pains to be civil.
“Lucius Pontius Pilate,” she said. “I do not believe we have met before.”
“No, madam,” he said, “but I had the privilege to serve with your husband briefly in Germania. He was a good man and a fine soldier, and Rome is all the poorer for losing him.”
“No doubt you say true, Pontius Pilate,” she said, “but Rome’s loss pales beside my own. Germanicus was the owner of my heart, and now my spirit is dust and ashes without him. Only my love of the children he gave me keeps me in this world.” Her face paled slightly, and Pilate saw that here was a Roman matron who had truly loved her husband. Such matches were uncommon, since most marriages among the upper class were arranged affairs, done for purposes of establishing political alliances and bringing rival families together.
She regarded Pilate’s face with some interest. “They tell me you are recovering from the spotted pox,” she said.
He nodded. “Yes,” he replied, “It kept me bedridden for nearly a full month! I have never been so miserable.”
“Strange,” she said. “My children have all had the malady, but their sores did not resemble the ones I see on you.”
Pilate felt the Emperor’s eyes flick toward him and his heart sank. He kept his expression carefully neutral. “My physician says that the disease frequently takes very different form with adults than with the young,” he said. “Many times it is actually far worse, and slower to heal. He told me I was fortunate that my case was a relatively mild one. I replied that if my case was mild, I prayed the gods might never send me a severe dose!”
She nodded. “Well, once you have had it, they say it can never recur, so I imagine the gods will grant your wish. Thank you for coming to honor the memory of my husband, Pontius Pilate,” she said, and moved on. Once she was out of range, he let out a faint sigh of relief.
“I think your face looks rather funny!” said a small voice. Pilate looked down at the smallest centurion he had ever seen. About six years old, blond-haired, and with the striking blue eyes of the Julio-Claudians, he was obviously the son of Germanicus. He was dressed in a complete replica of a military uniform, right down to the finely tooled leather boots, the smallest ones Pilate had ever seen.
He knelt down so that he was eye to eye with the youngster. “And who might you be, young sir?” he asked.
“I,” said the boy, his voice swelling with pride, “am Gaius Julius Caesar Germanicus! But my father’s soldiers call me Little Boots.”
“Caligula!” said Pilate. “Well, Centurion Caligula, may I congratulate you on your uniform. It is most impeccable, as a true soldier should always keep it on formal occasions.”
“Gaius!” said Agrippina. “Come now, the games are about to begin.”
Tiberius led the necessary prayers to Mars and Bellona, and then sat down, with Agrippina and her children at his right hand, and his own son, Drusus, returned to Rome from his province of Illyricum on business, on his left—an honor sure to impress the crowd, since Drusus was now heir to the Imperial purple as the only son of Tiberius. Pilate sat in the row behind the Emperor, watching the interactions of the Imperial family with far more interest than he gave to the games.
Not that the games were unimpressive, however. Tiberius had hired some of the best gladiators from the legendary training facilities at Capua. Almost a hundred years before, Capua’s gladiators, led by the legendary Spartacus, had revolted and led thousands of slaves to slaughter their masters and challenge the armies of Rome. Nothing so terrified a slaveholding society as the prospect of a widespread slave revolt, so Rome had dispatched four legions under the command of the wealthy Senator, Marcus Linnaeus Crassus, to defeat the Spartacanii. He had done so in impressive fashion, leaving thirty thousand of them dead on the battlefield and crucifying the twenty thousand survivors. All of Rome’s slaves—over a hundred thousand of them—had been forced to walk down the Via Appia past the screaming, moaning rebels to see the price of raising a hand against one’s master. Since then, Rome had never seen another slave revolt.
Over the next hundred years, Capua had rebuilt its training facilities and its reputation as a home of the best gladiators in all of Italy—although the owner of Rome’s Ludus Magnus might argue that distinction. This day the group from Capua lived up to that reputation, wielding weapons with the utmost skill and with such raw courage that, even when one of them finally lost his match, the crowd howled for his life to be spared. The next losing contestant was not so lucky, however. He suffered a nasty gash to the ribs early in the contest that weakened his right arm, and was unable to wield his trident effectively. His opponent, from a rival ludus, slowly backed him across the arena, dodging the jabs of the trident and inflicting more minor cuts on him. The unfortunate retarius, steadily weakening, resorted to wild jabs with the trident in a vain effort to catch the sword of the secutor and tear it from his grasp. The wily blademaster refused to be drawn into a foolish thrust, however, and let his opponent slowly wear himself out. Finally the retarius lunged too far and stumbled, and the swordsman spun past him and cut his hamstring with one quick slash. The anguished opponent grasped the back of his leg with one hand, trying to hold his weapon steady with the other. It was the moment the secutor had been waiting for. He thrust his blade forward and jerked it upwards, catching the trident and tearing it out of his opponent’s hands. He tossed it away and grabbed the man by the hair, raising his blade to the Imperial box and waiting to see what the Emperor’s command was.
Little Caligula had been watching the match with great excitement,
shouting encouragement throughout. Tiberius watched him with an approving eye, enjoying the child’s excitement and enthusiasm. As the crowd grew silent, waiting for the Emperor’s decision, Tiberius looked down at his adoptive grandson.
“What do you think, young Gaius?” he asked.
“That retarius did not fight well at all, did he?” the young Caesar asked.
“Not particularly,” said the Emperor. “His wound prevented him from using his weapon very effectively.”
“Then he should not have let himself be wounded so early in the match,” said Caligula gravely. “Perhaps he might serve as a lesson to others.”
The Emperor nodded sagely and then looked at the victorious secutor. He gave the man a curt nod, and the blade descended in a blinding arc, shearing through the throat of the defeated retarius and spilling his lifeblood onto the sand. The winner of the match bowed deeply at the Imperial box, then shook his blade at the roaring crowd. Slaves came out and removed the body, then raked the sand clean for the next match. Caligula drank in every detail with a look in his eyes that Pilate knew all too well. Here was a lad, he thought, whose instinct for cruelty might someday surpass his own. He wondered how well Caligula would control that fierce appetite.
By the end of the day, dozens more gladiators had faced one another on the sands, although only three more lost their lives. The matches were played out with such skill and cunning that the crowd, for the most part, cheered winner and loser alike. But the true star of the show was young Gaius. He yelled himself hoarse, prancing around the Imperial box and waving at the crowd until he finally tired out around midafternoon and crawled into his mother’s lap. When the games officially ended at sunset, the Emperor’s party left the box and its members were borne home by their respective litters. Pilate was tired but strangely energized, his face throbbing slightly, but the events of the day still shining in his mind. The Senate and People of Rome had seen the Imperial family standing together, and their Emperor paying proper honors to the memory of his slain adoptive son. Pilate wondered if it would be enough to allay their suspicions about Germanicus’ death.
For the moment, it was. Whatever doubts Agrippina might have still harbored about the Emperor’s role in her husband’s death, she kept them to herself for the time being. Tiberius remained in Rome for another month, busying himself with affairs of state, and then returned once more to Capri, where he was spending more and more time of late. He left his loyal Prefect, Sejanus, in Rome to keep his finger on the pulse of the city, to monitor the Emperor’s enemies, and to reward his friends. Sejanus excelled at both tasks, as Pilate found out that fall when he put his name before the Senate as a candidate for the office of Consul. While the elections were pretty well rigged and decided in advance by the Emperor and his allies in the Senate, they still were an exciting time for the Tribes and Assemblies of the People, who cast their votes eagerly. Pilate returned second in the polling, with the Emperor’s son Drusus as his consular colleague. Drusus, however, was still the Proconsular Governor of Illyricum, and once the elections were done, he returned to his province, leaving Pilate alone to hold the highest office in the Roman cursus honorum. It was a proud moment, he thought, restoring honor to his ancient family and holding an office no Pilatti had held for over a century. The powers of the office had declined, to be sure, since the days of Gaius Marius and Lucius Cornelius Sulla, but the title was the same, and the arctoritas it carried still impressive.
Pilate’s term as consul was uneventful, and when it was concluded, he was assigned by the Emperor as the Governor of Further Spain, a fairly quiescent province. Pilate was allowed to take his wife and daughter with him on this assignment, since Spain was not a war front. He was pleased with this prospect, since Porcia Minor was already nearly six, and he did not know how long his proconsulship would last. Pilate left Rome at the head of his legion, with his slaves instructed to bring the family by ship to Gades, where the governor’s residence was built, at the earliest fair season.
Governorships were generally reserved for consulars—Senators who had held the office of consul at least once. They were granted Proconsular imperium the minute they crossed the pomerium, the sacred boundary of Rome, and held it until their authority was revoked by the Senate or until their successor took office and they returned to Rome. Governors had ample opportunities to do quite well for themselves—they controlled tax policy, issued all permits for merchants, miners, slave traders, and bankers within their province. Those permits cost money, and by longstanding tradition, governors were allowed to set their own prices—although a governor who charged too much and generated complaints to the Senate might well find himself hauled before the extortion courts upon his return. Governors who tried to squeeze the people of the province too hard could spark revolts, which never boded well for their future employment. All that being said, however, a clever governor could still accumulate a tidy fortune without ever generating a complaint. Rome wanted efficiency and order above all, and governors who maintained those things tended to do well for themselves while doing good for the Senate and People of Rome.
Pilate’s tenure as governor of Spain ran for three years, and he enjoyed his time there. While the province was mostly pacified, he did have to lead his legions out twice—once to clean out a nest of pirates who had established themselves near Iria Flavia, and a second time to repel an invasion of Celtic warriors from the distant, legend-shrouded island of Britannia. Other than that, Pilate issued decrees, heard local cases, and generally made sure that the province stayed on an even keel. He received regular letters from his clients in Rome, and particularly from his favorite scoundrel, Quintus Sullemia, who had, upon his suggestion (and on Pilate’s payroll), taken up residence in the Suburba and was now a regular Forum frequenter, following political events quite closely.
In the spring of Pilate’s second year as governor, he received this missive from Sullemia:
To His Excellency Proconsul Pontius Pilate of Spain,
Well, things have been lively here in the city of Romulus of late. Your master, our beloved Emperor, becomes increasingly short-tempered and irascible, and those closest to him pay the price. It’s mostly Agrippina’s fault, of course—she has never forgiven Tiberius for the death of her husband, and still thinks he had a hand in it (you and I know, of course, how ridiculous such an accusation must be!). Matters between them are steadily eroding, and I look for a proper dust-up in the near future. Foolish woman! How can any female defy the will of an Emperor of Rome? I hear that she is longing to re-marry, but I doubt Tiberius will allow it.
But the juiciest gossip of the moment is not about her at all. Rather, it concerns our beloved Emperor’s natural son, the esteemed proconsul and sot Drusus Caesar. You know, I trust, what a drunken brute Drusus is, and how little love is lost between him and his spouse Livilla, even if she did bear him twins a few years back. Of course Tiberius adores his son, the only issue of his much-loved first wife Vipsania, whom he still moons over even though their divorce is twenty years in the past. Now that Germanicus is gone, all Rome knows that Drusus will one day ascend to the purple—if he lives that long!
Now why would I say such a thing, you may wonder? After all, Drusus is a relatively young man, in good health despite his choleric temperament and penchant for too much wine. The answer is simple—Drusus has made himself a very deadly enemy. I refer to none other than your friend and mine, the erstwhile commander of the Praetorians, Lucius Sejanus. He and Livilla have been carrying on a torrid affair for several years now, and Drusus knows it. Last month he openly mocked Sejanus in the Forum, and actually punched him in the face in the presence of half the Senate! Sejanus may smile and scrape and bow before his imperial master, but when Tiberius is out of the room he is as vicious as a hyena. I personally think that Drusus signed his death warrant that day—although I could be wrong. And if he is man enough to survive the wrath of Sejanus, maybe he will be a better emperor than any of us suspect.
Your family is
well—although Cornelius is up to his eyeballs in debt at the moment, trying to run for Urban Praetor in a crowded field. Do not be surprised if you get a letter requesting financial assistance in the very near future! Your sister Pontia seems to be making a career of fertility, bearing her husband yet another son two months ago. That is a total of six children for her, and four of them surviving the early years—something not many Roman matrons can boast.
I hope this finds you and yours safe and well. Please find me some interesting work in the future—I miss the sea and the feel of a pitching deck beneath my feet! But I remain your loyal client until we meet again.
Kill some pirates for me! Quintus Sullemius
Pilate read the letter with interest. It sounded as if Drusus was indeed living on borrowed time—Sejanus was not a man to cross! He wondered how Tiberius was faring. He had come to have, if not affection, a certain respect for the gloomy, aging Emperor. Tiberius cared not a fig for the affections of the mob, but he did seemingly care a great deal that the machinery of the Roman state should continue to run smoothly and efficiently under his watch. His cultivation of men like Sejanus and Pilate was all for one common purpose—to eliminate potential sources of strife and dissent. Yet, for all his detached nature, Tiberius seemed unable to see that his own son might be the source of all those things. Drusus was ill-tempered, often drunk, and notoriously short-sighted. He had inherited most of his father’s vices, but none of his redeeming virtues.
Sure enough, not long after that, Pilate received word from official channels that the Emperor’s only son Drusus had died, apparently of natural causes, after a heavy bout of drinking. Tiberius, it was said, was heartbroken at the loss of his beloved son, and was so overcome with grief he could not officiate at the funeral games. Apparently, if Drusus had been murdered, it was done with such skill and finesse that not even the suspicious old Emperor imagined that his son’s death was not an accident. Sullemius himself could not find direct proof of poisoning, although he was convinced that Livilla was responsible.
The Redemption of Pontius Pilate Page 9