The Redemption of Pontius Pilate

by Lewis Ben Smith

  Pilate decided to fight bluntness with bluntness. “Without confessing to the truth of any of your allegations, Lady Agrippina, let me assure you of one thing,” he said. “I do know Tiberius well. I have served under him for many years, and I have had occasion to perform some errands for him—some much less pleasant than this enjoyable dinner meeting! I can say this as truth before all the gods of Rome: Tiberius Caesar neither desired nor ordered the death of Germanicus. May the Furies take me if I am lying!”

  She looked deep in his eyes and nodded. “I believe you are telling the truth,” she said. “Or, at the very least, what you believe to be the truth. So tell me then—why do you come to my dinner table this evening?”

  Pilate took a bite of fish from his plate, ate a bit of bread to go with it, then sipped his wine and spoke. “Since the death of Drusus, the succession of the next Emperor has become a matter of some concern,” he said.

  She arched an eyebrow. “I figured that Sejanus and Livilla Julia had that all wrapped up,” she replied.

  “The Emperor has no desire to see either of the twins inherit his power,” said Pilate. “Frankly, he does not even believe them to be Drusus’ children!”

  “He is not as blind as I thought, then,” said Agrippina. “So who does the Emperor propose to elevate when he is no more?”

  “That is why I am here,” said Pilate. “The Emperor is very fond of your young son Gaius, and proposes to legally adopt him and begin grooming him for the succession.”

  “Gaius!” she said. “Ecastor! He must hate Rome more than I thought!”

  “That is an odd thing to say about your own son,” Pilate remarked.

  “My son is an odd creature,” she replied. “Not without virtue, but with a great many vices. It may be that he can overcome his flaws, with careful training. He can be very charming and gracious when he puts his mind to it. But there is—I do not know what to call it. There is darkness in him, Lucius Pontius, which, if allowed to take control, could turn him into a monster. Either of my other sons might be better qualified to be Caesar someday.”

  “Tiberius does not choose them,” said Pilate. “He thinks they hate him. He is fond of little Gaius, and Gaius Little Boots seems to return his affection. It may simply be that Gaius is the youngest. The Emperor is fond of children, you know.”

  She nodded thoughtfully. “He is indeed,” she said. “That may be his only redeeming virtue.”

  Pilate frowned. “You are too hard on the man, Agrippina!” he said. “He is a sad old soul, it is true, but he is not a monster. There is courage and honor in him as well as anger and bitterness.”

  She sighed deeply. “I think, Pontius Pilate, that I know things about him that you do not—and you may well know other things about him that I do not. Be that as it may, this is not an easy decision. I assume that the Emperor will be waiting to hear my answer from your lips?”

  Pilate nodded. “He is most anxious about the matter, to tell the truth,” he said.

  “Then tell him this,” she said, looking him in the eye. “I do not give my permission for him to adopt my son—nor do I withhold it. I would speak with him in person about it before I make a final decision. And, since my son is now nearly eleven years old, I also feel as if I should discuss the matter with him as well.”

  “I imagine that your answer will not displease him,” Pilate said. “He is tired, Agrippina—tired of bitterness and suspicion and disappointment. I truly believe that he wants to do right by you and your children.”

  She gave her low and bitter laugh again. “Doing right, as you put it, has not been a Julio-Claudian tradition of late,” she said. “Perhaps that may change. Come, let us finish our dinner.” She looked at the burly slave who had escorted Pilate to her dinner table. “Theseus!” she snapped. “Bring us some music!”

  The huge Greek bowed and left the chamber. “Do you always discuss things so freely in front of your slaves?” asked Pilate. “Slaves’ gossip is the source of much mischief in Rome.”

  “That is not a problem with him,” said Agrippina. “He was my husband’s loyal servant, and the Germans captured him during the last campaign my dear Germanicus waged against them. They tortured him for two days, trying to get him to disclose the location of the Roman camp, and he would not talk—so they cut his tongue out! My husband rescued him when he attacked the German camp a few days later. He freed Theseus for his loyalty and sacrifice, but Theseus chose to remain with us of his own free will. He manages the household slaves quite well, and is married to my chief maid, Dorothea.”

  Pilate digested this bit of information and mentally filed it away while enjoying the remainder of the dinner—an excellent serving of Tiber River bass, eels, and snails served with copious amounts of garlic and butter, and small loaves of delectable bread, with plates full of fresh grapes and cheeses alongside. He chatted with Agrippina about her children and their personalities the whole time. Nero, the eldest son, was eighteen and currently serving under Pilate’s successor in Further Spain as a contraburnalis, or junior lieutenant. Drusus, who was a year younger than Nero, was about to don his toga and legally become a man. He, too, was planning on serving as a junior officer under the new governor of Syria. The three girls, Agrippina Minor, Julia Drusilla, and Julia Livia, were all in their early teens and living at home. Caligula, about to turn twelve, was the liveliest and most mischievous of the lot, according to his mother. She told Pilate several stories about the young Gaius that made him sound both endearing and a little bit fearsome.

  Finally, when the last morsel was consumed and their wine glasses emptied, Pilate returned home and thought long and hard about all that he had heard and seen from the wife of Germanicus. It took him several hours to wind down enough to go to sleep, and when he finally dozed off after midnight, he dreamed of seeing the twelve-year-old Caligula on the Imperial throne, laughing as he stared at the body of a withered and frail Tiberius. It was not a comforting dream.

  The next morning he made his way to the Emperor’s home and found Tiberius waiting for him. Sejanus was nowhere to be seen.

  “I sent him on an errand to Capri,” said Tiberius. “Now, come, let us go riding together. I have not been on horseback in a month or more, and some country air will do me good!”

  Pilate was a bit surprised—Tiberius was normally not one who enjoyed exercise for its own sake—but he said nothing until they were beyond the city walls and trotting across open farmland. Once they were cantering across a fertile hay meadow, he turned to the Emperor with a quizzical look. Tiberius made a wry face and spoke.

  “I no longer trust my servants—at least, not the ones here in Rome. Sejanus knows far more of my business than I am comfortable with. On Capri, I do not worry as much—Mencius runs a tight ship and those slaves have been with me for many years. Here in Rome, I do not even know everyone that scurries around my villa. Now, tell me, what was your impression of Agrippina?”

  Pilate gave a wry grin. “If she had been born a man she might have made a most impressive emperor!” he answered.

  Tiberius laughed. “You may be quite right there. If she were a man, I doubt my head would still be attached to my neck! But she is not a man—so I do not fear her becoming Emperor anytime soon. Seriously, how did she respond?”

  “She is a remarkably perceptive woman, Caesar. Despite all our precautions, she has deduced that I am the one who silenced Piso,” said Pilate.

  “Edepol!” swore Tiberius. “How did she—hell, never mind. So she is convinced I had Germanicus killed?”

  “Not really,” said Pilate. “For one thing, without admitting that she was correct, I swore to her before the gods that you neither desired nor ordered the death of Germanicus.”

  “That is true,” said Tiberius, “and well said on your part. But did she believe you?”

  “I think she did,” replied Pilate. “Or at least, as she put it, she believes that I believe it to be true.”

  “So will she allow me to adopt young Gaius as my
heir?” asked the Emperor.

  “She did not grant her permission, nor did she refuse it,” Pilate answered. “She wishes to discuss the matter in person.”

  Tiberius nodded sagely. “You have done your work well, old friend. She has refused all invitations to see me for nearly a year now. If she is now willing to talk, I believe progress can be made. For your services, and your loyalty, I thank you.”

  Pilate nodded. “She did express some reservations about your choice of young Gaius from among her children, however,” he said.

  “Really?” said the Emperor. “No doubt she would prefer I choose Nero or Drusus instead, since they are both well-nigh men already, with their own tastes and desires fully formed. And of course those tastes include a distinct distaste for me, the old tyrant who may have murdered their father! I have seen the way they look at me when I have appeared in public with them—a mingling of fear and loathing that neither of them can hide. Do you think I would be safe for a moment if I named either of them my heir?”

  “I seriously doubt either of them would dare to—” Pilate began.

  “Oh, I don’t doubt it for a minute!” said Tiberius bitterly. “And even if they dared not try to take my life, do you think for a minute that I could shape either one of them into the Emperor that I want them to be? Gaius is young and still teachable. If I take him in now, I can mold him and shape him—teach him the principles of governing an Empire, so that it does not all fall apart as soon as I am gone!”

  “I think,” said Pilate, “that the Empire you and your father created has grown and stabilized to the point that it is greater than any one man. Of course it is better when the Emperor’s office is held by someone who has been trained and groomed for it—but unless I miss my mark, I believe that Rome will endure far beyond the time of your successor—or his successor.”

  Tiberius nodded. “You may be right, old friend, but I want Rome to do more than endure. I want Rome to thrive, even if I do not care much for her people. I cannot stand Romans, truth be told, but I do love the idea of Rome! The thought that our single city grew into a Republic and went on from there to rule the world is unique in history. I want Rome to be a light for generations to come, an eternal city that will set the standards of civilization and decency in a world of squalor! My father spent a good part of his life training and shaping me for the duty of governing this mighty engine that he created. I have tried to train and groom two different successors now, and both of them are dead! Gaius is my last chance to leave Rome in capable and well-prepared hands—I am running out of time, Lucius! I am sixty-six years old. Most of the companions of my youth are long dead.”

  “Your mother still lives, Caesar,” said Pilate.

  “That old witch will never die!” snapped Tiberius. “Her continued existence is no comfort to me. She cannot govern the Empire—even if she once thought to do so. I need an heir, and Gaius Caligula is my choice. I need to make Agrippina see that, and I thank you for giving me that chance. Now, I have a small gift that I wish to give you—a reward for your continued faithful service. I own a small villa near Ariminum—a gift from some noxious seeker of favors. I give it to you to do with as you like. Let it be your retreat from Rome, or rent it out—sell it, for that matter, if you ever need the coin. Your services to me have been invaluable over the years.”

  Pilate bowed as best he could from horseback. “You are too generous, Caesar!” he said. “I serve you because in serving you I serve Rome, whom I, too, love—although I am fonder of the Romans themselves than you are, I think!”

  Tiberius gave his grim laugh. “It would not take much fondness for that mob to surpass mine!” he said. “Now let us turn back toward the city—my servants will be wondering at my absence.”

  They turned back toward the massive gates of Rome, and before they cantered onto the roadway, Tiberius turned and faced Pilate again. “How old is your daughter now, Lucius Pontius?” he asked.

  “She is ten, Caesar,” he answered.

  “Is she spoken for yet?” asked the Emperor.

  “No,” said Pilate. “Porcia and I are just beginning to discuss arranging a marriage for her, but our long absence from Rome has not given us much opportunity to seek an appropriate match.”

  “What kind of girl is she?” asked Tiberius. “And more importantly, what kind of woman do you think she will become?”

  Pilate reined his horse to a stop and looked at his master closely. Tiberius was focused intently on him, and he understood that this was no idle inquiry. Choosing his words carefully, he said: “She is highly intelligent, mischievous, and quite precocious for her age. She will never be a dowdy Roman matron, but I do think that she could be a clever and cunning political ally for the right husband.”

  Tiberius nodded. “Is she kind?” he asked.

  An odd question, thought Pilate. “Yes, sir,” he finally said. “She can be mischievous, as I said, but her mischief is directed more at making people laugh at the absurdity of a situation than it is at making them laugh over someone else’s pain or humiliation. She loves her pets, and is always kind to the servants.”

  Tiberius nodded thoughtfully. “Gaius shares one attribute with us both,” he finally said. “He can be quite cruel on occasion. That is not necessarily a bad trait for one who must govern a hard and cruel world, but left untempered, it could turn him into a tyrant. I think a kind and clever bride might do much to mitigate his less savory tendencies, don’t you?”

  Pilate swallowed hard. His Porcia, wife of the next Caesar? It was an honor he had never dared dream of! But could she be happy with someone like young Gaius? And should that even be a consideration? It was something to be thought over very carefully. Finally he spoke.

  “You do me too much honor, Tiberius,” he said, meaning every word. “I am not sure how to respond. Both of them are still children, and it might be good to observe them together and see how compatible they are—you and I both know that a good marriage can be a wonderful and stabilizing factor in a man’s life, but a bad one can be a horrible curse and a burden!”

  Tiberius looked very solemn. “I am sure I have no idea what you are talking about, Pontius Pilate,” he said, keeping a straight face for a moment, and then breaking out into his barking laugh again. “I need to spend more time with you; I can see that—I have not laughed this much in a fortnight! Now let us each return home, and think on the future of our families!”

  They trotted together back to the gates of Rome, and Pilate took his leave of the Emperor at the gate of Tiberius’ home, and then turned his horse toward the stables at the Aventine. His mind was racing. Father-in-law of Rome’s future Emperor? He wondered what his own father would have thought of that! More importantly, he thought as he turned his mount over to the grooms, what would his wife think?

  The next year or so was a busy time for Pilate, and generated much gossip in the Roman Forum. First there was the public reconciliation of Tiberius and Agrippina—it did not last long, but for a few months, she once more attended imperial banquets, and her children were welcomed at court once more. Then Pilate stood as consul for a second time, losing narrowly to a pair of rich patricians who were able to out-bribe the Tribal assemblies. The provinces were growing increasingly restive, and Pilate knew that before long he would be sent off to govern once more. He was hoping to be appointed governor of Egypt—still Rome’s richest province, and one of the most prestigious Proconsular appointments.

  The adoption of Gaius Caligula was not formally announced yet, but he did spend more and more time with his adoptive grandfather Tiberius, even after relations between Tiberius and Agrippina began to sour again. The betrothal between Porcia Minor and Caligula was not yet announced, either, but the two children were allowed to spend some time together and seemed to get on well enough. Caligula was growing into a gangly youth, all knees, elbows, and pimples, but with a mop of curly light brown hair and piercing blue eyes that promised a rather handsome man in the making. He was awkward socially as well�
�one moment laughing and fawning on his elders, the next moment screaming in a furious temper tantrum over some slight, then laughing as if none of it had ever happened.

  Pilate and his wife were somewhat divided about the betrothal of their only surviving child to the Emperor’s adoptive heir—Pilate, as he got to know the boy better and see the two of them together, was more prepared to see the match go through. Procula Porcia Major, however, never trusted Gaius.

  “There is something bent in that lad, Lucius!” she exclaimed on more than one occasion.

  “You are just being overly protective of your child, my dear,” Pilate would reply soothingly. “Young Gaius has had a difficult life, caught between a formidable mother and a doting grandfather who happens to be the Emperor of Rome. He has some rough edges, but I do think that he will make a decent young man in the end—with our daughter’s help.”

  She sighed deeply. “I hope you are right, husband!” she finally said.

  He wasn’t.

  CHAPTER NINE

  By the spring of the twelfth year of Tiberius’ rule over Rome, Pontius Pilate felt secure in his ascension to the peak of Roman society. He was a distinguished consular of the Senate of Rome, a confidant of the reclusive and somber Emperor who had very few friends, and the prospective father-in-law of the next Emperor. He and his wife were happily married, and their twelve-year-old daughter was becoming a beautiful young woman. However, all of that was to change in the course of a single day.

  Tiberius was spending the spring on Capri, enjoying the Mediterranean sun’s warmth after a particularly bitter winter. Young Caligula was with the Emperor, while his mother and siblings remained in Rome. Agrippina was out of the Emperor’s good graces once more, mainly because of her desire to marry again, which Tiberius found unacceptable. Her adult sons were both ascending the cursus honorum into the ranks of Roman nobility, as befit those of Imperial lineage, but both of them were foolishly vocal in their criticisms of Tiberius. Pilate had taken a moment to speak to each of them in private, but their scorn for him and the Emperor was such that he simply walked away. If they were determined to blight their futures by defying the ruler of the civilized world, then let them do so, he thought.