The meal was simple but tasteful and not filling; Roman fare tended to be heavier on fish and poultry, but lighter on beef and pork, than the Spanish dishes the family had grown accustomed to. A hot loaf of fresh-baked bread finished off the meal, with olive oil and garlic for dipping. When they were done, Pilate sent the two slaves off with his young daughter and instructions to give himself and Procula an hour or two to themselves. Once they were gone, his wife slid into his arms and looked up at him. “Why is it so hard for us to find time to be a couple?” she said.
“I believe the correct answer to that is: We have a daughter!” he answered, and bent to find her lips.
“I’m terribly sorry, Master,” came the voice of his steward, Aristion, from the door, “but you have a guest who requests audience.”
“Tell him to come back tomorrow!” snapped Pilate in irritation.
“He comes with a message from the Emperor,” said the steward.
Pilate groaned and looked at his wife. “I am sorry, my dear,” he said.
She gave him a brief pouting look, then a quick hug. “Go, then, deal with your precious business,” she said. “I know that the Emperor cannot be refused!” She muttered something under her breath as she whisked off to their bedchamber. Pilate thought it sounded like “Tiberius interruptus!” He chuckled as he stepped into his study.
A stern man a bit older than Pilate in a Praetorian’s uniform was waiting for him, and saluted him as he entered. “Greetings, Proconsul!” he said. “I bear express greetings from Emperor Tiberius Caesar, who requests that you join him for supper at his home on the Palatine.”
“Tiberius is in Rome?” Pilate said. “I had not heard. Of course I am at his disposal for the evening. Tell him I shall be on my way momentarily.”
“I brought a spare horse,” said the soldier. “I am instructed to wait for you and escort you to his presence.”
Pilate nodded. “I see,” he said. “And who might you be?”
The Praetorian bowed. “I am Quintus Sutorius Macro, Tribune of the Praetorian Guard, second in command to Legate Lucius Sejanus,” he said with a clear sense of his own importance.
“Very well, Macro, have a cup of wine while I get dressed,” he said. “We shall ride for the Palatine momentarily.”
“I thank you, sir, and I apologize for the intrusion,” Macro replied.
Pilate donned his formal dinner toga and a mantle to keep it clean as they rode through the streets of Rome. By now the crowd was clearing, and they went clopping on toward the Palatine at a good clip.
“So can you tell me what the Emperor wants with me on my first night back in Rome?” he asked Macro.
The tribune looked at him and replied, “He did not say specifically, but between you and me, it probably involves a rather sensitive errand. I have often heard him lament your absence over the last three years. He seems to think you quite dependable.”
Pilate nodded. “I thought Sejanus more dependable for the Emperor’s purposes than I would be,” he said.
“He usually is,” said Macro. “But—well, I should say no more. Sejanus is my superior officer and my friend. I will say this much—the Emperor needs all the dependable clients he can get! Rome is not only a sewer; it is a dangerous sewer these days.”
Pilate mulled that over as they dismounted outside the Emperor’s rarely used house in Rome. He wondered if Tiberius’ mother, the aging but redoubtable Livia Drusilla, would be present. She was ancient by Roman reckoning, eighty-two years of age, and still full of spite and mischief. Tiberius had never gotten along with her, and she was one of the main reasons that he avoided Rome for months at a time. Pilate had seen her on occasion and had one brief conversation with her in his whole life; frankly, he understood Tiberius’ ambivalence about her. In a world ruled by men, she was a truly formidable woman.
The Emperor’s household steward escorted him to the dining room, where Tiberius stood talking to Sejanus. Pilate had a moment to study the ruler of the world before he was noticed, and took full advantage of it. He was shocked and somewhat saddened by what he saw. Tiberius had aged, and not well. He had always been rail-thin and sour of expression, but his close-cropped hair had now whitened and thinned. His once sharply erect posture was stooped slightly, and his hands were beginning to show the tell-tale signs of arthritis. Pilate remembered the brave, experienced general he had served under twenty years before, and felt suddenly, unhappily old. But then, he wondered, how must Tiberius feel?
As if hearing his thoughts, the Emperor turned and faced him. “Lucius Pontius Pilate!” he said. “It is good to see you again!” He smiled, and for a moment Pilate caught a glimpse of the man he might have been, had not the weight of family and Empire crushed his spirit.
He bowed deeply. “Caesar,” he said. “It is good to see you too, sir.”
Tiberius scowled. “Pilate, we have known each other far too long to stand on formalities! You may always simply call me Tiberius when we are alone. So how was your time in Spain?”
Pilate began to explain his duties as governor and the state of the province, but the old Emperor scoffed aloud. “I can read official reports any time I like!” he snapped. “Tell me about your campaign against the pirates! How many of them were there? Did they put up much resistance?”
Pilate smiled. “There were about six hundred of them, plus four hundred of their women and children,” he said. “They had found a sheltered cove with a steep canyon, far from any town, and made it their headquarters. One of my patrols happened to see their ship emerging from the mouth of the harbor, or we might never have found them—the place was very hard to spot from sea or land, unless you were looking for it. The legionary in charge of the patrol rode straight for Gades and reported to me what they had seen, and I assembled a single legion and made a beeline for the site. I ordered two triremes to follow us up the coast, and they blocked the exit of the cove even as we descended upon the pirate village. When they realized there was no escape, they put up a terrific resistance! They knew the fate that awaited them, and were determined to go down fighting. My boys were starving for a good scrap, and made short work of them. I fought and disarmed the pirate king myself, and then we nailed him and all the surviving men up right there on the beach, and burned their ships. The women and children went to the slave markets, and all the loot that could be identified was returned to its proper owners, while the rest was kept on deposit to be returned to the Treasury here in Rome.”
“Splendid!” said Tiberius, rubbing his gnarled hands together. “So what sort of fellow was the pirate king?”
“A big man,” said Pilate, remembering the deadliest opponent he had ever crossed swords with. “He was armed with a Syrian-style scimitar and a dagger, and wielded them both at once. He called himself Brandir, I think. Something like that, a barbarian name if you ever heard one. He already had killed two of my legionaries when I singled him out, and I told the boys he was mine. I almost regretted that decision—he was half a head taller than me and very strong!”
“You could have gotten yourself killed,” said Tiberius. “That was a foolish risk.”
Pilate shrugged. “My blood was up, and I wanted to take him down myself,” he said. “I’ll admit, it took every bit of skill and training I had, but fortunately I had been practicing with the men for a year, waiting for the day we would find the pirates’ stronghold!”
“How did you prevail?” said Tiberius.
“I pretended I was wearing out,” said Pilate. “I began to swing with half strength, and panting heavily, and letting myself look a little bit afraid. He got overconfident and extended himself too far, and I got inside his swing and hamstrung him. He dropped his dagger to grab at his calf, and I brought my blade down on his wrist, hard—nearly severed his hand, but he dropped his blade and the men jumped him. You should have heard him cursing me as they nailed him up!”
Tiberius cackled. “I always said you had more guts than anyone I ever soldiered with,” he said. “Those k
inds of battles are easy, Pilate—you know who your enemy is, and you know he wants to destroy you! All you have to do is kill him first. The battles I am fighting now—pah!” He spat upon the marble floor. “They surround me day and night, some of them leeches and some of them serpents. I don’t know who wants to poison me and who wants to simply drain off little bits of me until there is nothing left. And my family is the worst of the bunch!”
“Families are a blessing and a curse, Tiberius,” he said.
“Mine has been a curse throughout,” said the Emperor. “My mother wants to rule Rome, my daughters-in-law want their children to rule Rome, and Sejanus wants to rule me! It is enough to drive a man to distraction—or, in my case, to drink. I don’t even distract easily anymore!”
Tiberius walked over to the couch and reclined in front of the table. He held out his hand, and a slave quickly poured him some wine. “Leave the flagon on the table,” said the Emperor, “and dismiss yourself—and the others—for the evening. I would have a private time with my old friend Pilate.” He gestured, and Pilate joined him on the couch, pouring himself a cup of wine and then watering it. He had no desire to get drunk this evening.
“How can I ease your burdens, old friend?” Pilate asked.
Tiberius let out a long sigh. “Would that one of my sons had lived longer than me!” he said. “Germanicus and I quarreled, but he had the makings of a true Emperor. Drusus—well, I was not blind to his faults, but he was not a bad person. He was my heir by birthright, and with Germanicus gone, it eased my heart to think my own natural son, born of the only woman I ever loved, might succeed me as Emperor. But now he is gone too. His widow is sleeping with Sejanus—they think I do not know, but I do! They want to set up Drusus’ boys as my heirs, and control the Empire through them. I do not even think they are Drusus’ children, if you want to know the truth! I will see myself neck deep in Tartarus before I let either of them wear the purple when I am gone!” He emptied his wine cup, and Pilate refilled it for him. “That brings me to Agrippina,” said Tiberius. “She hates me, and is raising her boys to hate me as well—all except little Gaius, who adores me. He is a piece of work, that child. Mean as a snake at times, but as charming as a courtier at others. He has the makings of a true Caesar!”
Pilate remembered the pint-sized centurion striding up and down the Imperial box, shouting encouragement to the gladiators, and his enthusiasm for seeing the losing contestant put to death. “Do you really think so?” he asked Tiberius.
The old man cackled again. “You don’t miss a trick, do you?” he said. “The boy has a mean streak, no doubt. But you have to be a monster to run this monstrosity called Rome! He will be the leader the people deserve someday, I think.”
“Does anyone know that he is your choice?” said Pilate.
“Not yet,” said the Emperor. “That is where you come in.”
Now for it, thought Pilate. “What would you have me do?” he asked.
“Agrippina will not speak with me anymore,” said Tiberius. “She thinks I want to have her killed.”
“Do you?” asked Pilate.
“You’d do it for me if I asked, wouldn’t you?” said the Emperor. “But no, I have no desire to be rid of her—not yet. However, I do want to adopt young Gaius. Since she refuses invitation to my home these days, I am going to ask you, as my personal representative—and someone whose loyalty I completely trust—to broach the subject with her and get her reaction. You will report back to me every word, every expression, and her posture—anything that will reveal how she feels about such a move.”
Pilate grimaced. “Are you sure I am the right man for this job?” he asked.
Tiberius looked at him, not unkindly. “You are the man I trust to do it,” he said. “I do not envy you, however. Agrippina is a difficult woman! But not every assignment can be as enjoyable as dueling a pirate king, or forcing a provincial governor to fall on his sword!”
Pilate nodded. “I think I would rather deal with a dozen of Calpurnius Piso than one irate Agrippina!” he said.
“You are a wise man,” said Tiberius. “Now, tell me of your encounter with the Celts!”
Pilate launched into a quick account of the attack on the north Spanish coast, and Tiberius demanded more details. All told, it was two hours later before Pilate finally left, his borrowed horse trotting him down the Palatine Hill toward his home in the Aventine. Procula Porcia had already gone to bed and was sound asleep when he slid between the sheets beside her. Pilate sighed, kissed her neck, and went to sleep. This evening had definitely turned out nothing like he envisioned it!
CHAPTER EIGHT
The next day he sent one of his servants with a message to Agrippina, requesting permission to call upon her at her earliest convenience. She sent a reply back by her servant, telling him that she was at his disposal during the evening meal. Pilate explained briefly to his wife why he would be absent, and spent the day attending to his many clients, all of whom wanted something—a favor, a bit of legislation, another month to pay rent, sponsorship for their son who was taking the first steps on the cursus honorum. It was the price of arctoritas, Pilate knew—having a wide circle of influence, in Rome, meant that you would never lack for people who wanted something from you. But every favor granted was a favor owed; by being gracious and accommodating to those who were beneath him, Pilate ensured that they would be useful to him in the future.
After his clients finished, Pilate had a bite of bread and olive oil with a piece of grilled fish for his luncheon, and then walked up the hill to the Forum. The Senate was not in session today, but the popular assemblies had met and were listening to the senior Tribune of the Plebs hold forth on a proposed agrarian law. Tribunes of the Plebs had been promulgating agrarian laws since Tiberius Gracchus over a hundred years before; all of them promised Rome’s poor and downtrodden a chance to own land of their own, somewhere outside the city—and most of them never delivered. Yet the people still cheered, and tribunes still got elected, by promising land to the landless. Pilate wondered if that would ever change.
He returned home late that afternoon and enjoyed a cup of watered wine with his wife. Porcia Minor was off at her tutor’s home, learning to read Greek poetry, and Procula enjoyed the chance to simply visit with her husband for a while, discussing all the latest gossip of Rome and what had happened in the neighborhood during their long absence. About an hour before Pilate had to leave on his errand, his daughter came bursting in, full of life and energy.
“Hello, tata!” she exclaimed. “See, you and mama got to spend an afternoon together, and you didn’t even have to send me away to the market!”
He smiled. “We were having a very pleasant conversation until a small cyclone tore into our living quarters!”
She batted her tiny eyelashes at him. “I am sure I have no idea who you are referring to,” she said.
“So how were today’s lessons?” he asked.
“Boring!” she exclaimed. “I think that Odysseus was not particularly bright, personally.”
“Do you now?” Pilate said, her thought processes always interesting to him. “How so?”
“Why would he insist on hearing the song of the sirens if he did not intend to go to them?” she asked. “Wouldn’t it fill all the remainder of his days with a longing for something he could never have?”
Pilate raised an eyebrow. So mature, yet so naïve at the same time! “Well, my dear,” he said, “it is wanting that which we cannot have that drives us to excel! If we did not seek to rise above ourselves and become something more, then no man would ever excel at anything. It is the longing for that we can never possess that makes us become more than we thought we could!”
“Unless it is longing for a siren,” she said. “Then it just makes you drown.”
Pilate was still chuckling over that one an hour later when he pulled on his toga and headed out to see Agrippina. Her home on the Palatine was not far from Tiberius’ dwelling, and he was met at the door by a h
uge, muscular slave who conducted him to the dining room without a word. Agrippina entered the room from the interior passageway opposite just as Pilate came in from the entry corridor. She was still a handsome woman, although the strain and grief of the last five years had added deep lines to her face.
Pilate gave a polite bow. “Lady Agrippina,” he said. “It is kind of you to see me on such short notice.”
“I fear I do not have much of a social life at the present,” she said. “It is good to have company—my children are dear to me, but they are a handful and I long for adult conversation sometimes. Will you join me at the table?”
They reclined at the table together, and Pilate looked around. “Where are your children this evening?” he asked.
“They are with their grandmother, Antonia Minor,” she said. “She enjoys seeing them, and I enjoy an occasional relief from their . . . exuberance. So tell me, what brings the former Consul to my door this evening?”
Pilate took a small sip of wine and began. “As you may know, I do enjoy the confidence of the Emperor,” he began.
“I know you are one of his lackeys,” she replied.
Pilate blinked at her abruptness. There was no hostility in the tone, just a dry assertion of fact. “I assure you, madam, I am no lackey,” he said.
“Lackey, client, errand boy, call it what you will,” she said. “You are the one who silenced Calpurnius Piso, are you not?”
Pilate’s eyes widened for a moment. This woman was indeed formidable! “My dear lady,” he said, affecting nonchalance, “whatever gave you such a bizarre idea?”
She laughed grimly. “The Emperor is not the only one who has spies,” she said. “I know that Calpurnius Piso poisoned my husband. I also know that he was on his way back to Rome with every intention of defending himself vigorously at trial. He sent a letter to the Emperor by special courier—but that courier was found dead in an alley at Rhodes, with all his personal effects stolen. Not long after, Piso falls on his sword at Ephesus, leaving a suicide note confessing to the murder of Germanicus, but specifying that the Emperor was not to blame in any way for it. Now, out of all Tiberius’ closest servants, you and you alone were completely out of sight during that entire time—suffering from the spotted pox, according to your family. But those sores on your face at my husband’s funeral games were not like any pox I have ever seen! Hence, I believe you had a hand in making sure Piso would never stand trial!”
The Redemption of Pontius Pilate Page 11