The Redemption of Pontius Pilate

by Lewis Ben Smith

  Pilate nodded. “Apparently, he favored sending them on whaling expeditions to the local brothels,” he said. “Now, send those patrols out. And send word to every cohort and century that is not stationed here in Caesarea that I will be touring the province soon, and expect to find good order and discipline in every unit I inspect! And they can be assured—if good order and discipline are not in evidence when I arrive, they will be when I leave!” Ambrosius saluted and laughed as he walked back toward the barracks.

  Pilate began walking around the perimeters of the governor’s palace, taking the time to talk briefly with the legionaries stationed at the various watch points, and then left the facility and walked through the town. Caesarea, named after Caesar Augustus by his client king Herod the Great fifty years before, was a bustling seaport and trade center. Camels laden with merchandise entered the three gates at all hours of day and night, some bound for the large marketplace, but most for the docks where ships anchored daily to load up on the wines, spices, and perfumes produced locally, as well as fresh produce and meat for the crews. Like most seaports, it was a noisy, smelly, busy place. Sailors who had been recently paid staggered down the streets, looking for cheap wine and women, while those still seeking to earn their wages carried heavy crates and sacks from vendors to ships and vice versa. Caesarea was a tiny microcosm of the trade network that was the source of Rome’s vast wealth.

  At all three gates, patrolling among the docks, and standing guard at the marketplace were Pilate’s soldiers. They regarded him with interest, snapping to attention as he approached and watching his back as he departed. He made a point to compliment them on their uniforms and their sharp appearance, and told them he looked forward to training with them again soon. Their attitude seemed to be a healthy dose of fear, respect, and perhaps just the beginnings of some real affection. He wished that there was an enemy he could lead these men against! One solid campaign against a foreign foe would make them his forever. But Judea, though grumbling and rebellions, was largely a province at peace—or at least, a province without organized hostility.

  But there was hostility there all the same. And as Pilate toured the city, it was obvious to see whence it came: the Jewish citizens of the region. They glared at him when he passed, and again and again he caught the same word—goyim—whispered among them. Although every one of them that he spoke to addressed him with the appropriate respect and courtesy, it was obvious that he—or, truth be told, Rome itself—was an unwelcome guest in the land of the Chosen People. That hostility was utterly irrelevant, as far as Pilate was concerned. The Jews had proven to be stubborn and inflexible subjects for every people who had ever conquered them. Let them hate Rome, he thought, as long as they feared her in even greater measure.

  As he passed by the docks, he saw his predecessor preparing to board ship for Rome. Valerius Gratus was trying to climb onto the gangplank, sweating in the morning heat, as his slaves carried his luggage aboard. But his progress was impeded by the rotund prostitute Fatimah, who clung to his arm and begged him to take her to Rome. The former governor shook his head repeatedly, which set her off wailing all the more loudly.

  “It just isn’t done!” snapped the angry Gratus.

  “Oh please, my precious Prefect!” she begged. “No one else here will treat me as well as you do, and I promise to be so very discreet! Don’t leave me in this awful place!”

  “You did fine for yourself before I arrived, and I am sure you shall continue to prosper after I am gone,” Gratus said, and managed to twist his arm out of her grasp. “I have a wife and a Senate seat back in Rome, and you shall never see me here again. For your time and your . . . efforts, I thank you. But they are no longer necessary. Now take this and go!”

  He tossed a small bag of coins her way and nearly ran up the gangplank to escape her. Her wails turned to curses and imprecations, but neither was heartfelt enough to keep her from grabbing the coin purse and stuffing it into her ample bosom. Then, mustering something approaching dignity, she made her way past the snickering sailors and tradesmen and headed toward the nearest tavern.

  Despicable, Pilate thought. No wonder these people hate Rome, if the likes of Valerius Gratus have been sent here as her official face!

  When he arrived back at the governor’s residence, he was greeted by his newest centurion. Brutus Appius still bore a huge bruise on his chin from the impact of Pilate’s elbow, but he strode up and saluted the Prefect with all the enthusiasm of a first-year conterburnalis.

  “Good morning, sir!” he said after Pilate returned the salute. “Cassius Longinus has arrived from Capernaum and is waiting to see you.”

  “Excellent!” said Pilate. “I have been looking forward to meeting him.”

  He mounted the steps to the office which adjoined his private chambers. There he found a clean-cut, neatly dressed Roman officer in his mid-thirties who snapped to attention and saluted with admirable respect.

  “Primus Pilus Centurion Gaius Cassius Longinus, reporting for duty, sir!” he said.

  Pilate surveyed him for several seconds before speaking, taking the measure of the man, as he was sure that Longinus was taking his. After he had thoroughly inspected the centurion, he spoke.

  “So tell me, Gaius Cassius, how is it that the Primus Pilus centurion of the Judean Legion absents himself from his post in Caesarea to take up residence in some tiny, pathetic village nearly fifty miles away?” he asked sharply.

  The centurion returned his gaze with complete frankness, and then spoke. “The men tell me that you are a real soldier, Prefect, and that you also seem to be a man of honor, so I will extend you the courtesy of presuming they speak the truth. I stayed here as long as I could stand it. The grasping, incompetent nature of your predecessor was matched only by his corrosive effect on proper discipline. He tolerated an inappropriate degree of contempt and familiarity from the men, and made an open display of his slovenly and disgusting predilections. I tried to keep order and discipline for the first year, and he threatened to break me in rank if I persisted—said that I was ‘making him look bad’ in front of the men. I told him that it would be impossible for me to make him look any worse in their eyes than he himself did—but I also agreed to leave the fortress. I have tried to keep the men posted in the villages from being infected by the corruption that he unleashed among the legion, but I am only one man. If it is your intent to remind these men that they are soldiers of Rome, and force them to act like it, then I am your man to the death!”

  Pilate nodded slowly. “It seems to me, then, that you have acted with as much honor and discipline as any man could, serving under Valerius Gratus. But what is this I hear about your going native? Do you really ascribe to the Jews’ religion? Do you have a Jewish family?”

  Longinus looked testy. “I am a Roman of the Romans, sir!” he said. “It is true that I am a man of the Third Class, but my folks have served in the military since the Punic Wars! My great-granddad won the Civic Crown under Gaius Marius himself. I have marched under the standard for nearly twenty years and never disobeyed an order. But as far as my religion goes, yes sir! I do accept that the God of the Jews makes more sense than any of our bewildering array of Roman deities. I have not gone the full limit of conversion—I can’t quite work up the nerve to be circumcised—but I am what the Jews call a ‘God-fearer,’ and proud of it! I also am married to a local girl, Abigail by name. She is raising my two sons, Cassius David and Gaius Moses.”

  “So where do your loyalties lie?” asked Pilate. “With Rome, or with Adonai, or whatever it is he is called?”

  Longinus looked at him for a moment before speaking. “My first duty will always be to Rome, sir. And if there ever comes a time when my duties to my God and my country conflict so badly I cannot reconcile them, I shall lay my gladius at your feet and resign my office.”

  Pilate nodded and extended his hand. “Spoken like a man of honor!” he said. “I shall need you, Longinus, if I am to successfully govern these people I know so l
ittle of. Still, I should like to have you nearer at hand than Capernaum. Can you relocate your family?”

  “I have built them a comfortable home near that of my wife’s mother. If you can allow me leave to see them periodically, I see no need to trouble them with a move at this time,” said Longinus.

  “As you wish,” said Pilate. “But I may keep you too busy to see them for months at a time!”

  “Were my wife Roman, she would be accustomed to my absences being measured in years, not months,” said Longinus. “My Abigail is a good girl, and will do fine while I am gone. Now, sir, what do you require of me first?”

  “I intend to inspect every cohort and century that is posted in every village in the province over the next month or so,” said Pilate. “I want to see their condition for myself, and I want them to see what kind of commander I intend to be. I will also use this inspection tour to introduce myself to the local political and religious leadership. They need to see what a true Roman looks like! You can accompany me on this tour and be my liaison to the local Jewish communities.”

  Longinus nodded. “That sounds like an excellent plan. You will need to make sure that you travel with an escort, however. The Zealots have made this province a dangerous place for unguarded Roman citizens.”

  “Tell me more about these Zealots,” said Pilate. “Even the Emperor warned me about them, but I know very little about who they are.”

  For the next two hours, Pilate listened in fascination as Longinus explained the complicated and tortuous religious and political web that was the Judean province. He had heard some of the ancient history of the Jews on his way to the province from the two Jews onboard Captain Diomyrus’ ship—he knew of Moses and Abraham, David and Solomon, and the various kings and prophets that the Jews reverenced. But now for the first time he got a detailed account of the current events in Judea—of the house of Herod the Great, the cruel and paranoid monster that had ingratiated himself to both Mark Antony and Augustus, and been granted the title “King of the Jews” for his troubles. He also got a rundown on the complicated politics that surrounded the Jewish High Priesthood, and the House of Zadok that controlled that office. By the end of the interview, his head was spinning with the names of Maccabees and Hasmoneans, of Pharisees, Sadducees, Essenes, Zealots, and Samaritans, and of the complex network of religion and intermarriage that bound them all together.

  By the time Pilate called it quits, the hour for the noon meal had long passed. The governor and the centurion walked down to the marketplace together, purchasing some bread and cured meat, as well as a bowl of figs and grapes. Rather than recline at the table in Pilate’s quarters, they ate with the soldiers in the barracks. The sight of the senior centurion, whom they all knew and respected, having lunch with the Prefect on such good terms, set the men’s minds at ease and erased many of the lingering doubts they had about the new man in charge. After the meal, Pilate marched them out into the courtyard and set all those not going on watch to drilling with sword and shield again. Their movements were crisper, sharper, and more professional than the day before. Longinus was obviously pleased at the change; several times he looked over at Pilate and nodded as the men demonstrated their skills.

  After practicing with the men for an hour, Pilate left Longinus and Ambrosius in charge of finishing up the drills, and returned to his office to write a letter to Quintus Sullemia. However, he had barely begun when Brutus Appius, who was commanding the watch for the hour, reported that he had visitors from Jerusalem—priests, by their dress. He told Appius to have Longinus report to his chambers immediately, and then see the visitors up. If he was going to deal with the local leaders this soon, he wanted to have someone who understood them handy.

  Longinus joined him momentarily, but before they had time to confer, three bearded men in black robes entered his chambers. The tallest of them approached Pilate’s work desk and gave a polite bow.

  “I am Joseph Caiaphas, son of Matthias, High Priest of the Temple, son-in-law of Annas the former High Priest,” he said. “I bring our express greetings and best wishes to the new Prefect and Governor of Judea.”

  Pilate returned his bow. “It is good to meet you, and I hope you will convey my greetings back to the former High Priest Annas and let him know that I look forward to meeting him soon, in Jerusalem,” he said.

  The second priest stepped forward and deposited a heavy bag on Pilate’s desk. “On behalf of the Levites and priestly classes of Jerusalem, we present this offering and hope that the relations between the governor and the Temple can continue to be as mutually amicable and profitable as under your predecessor,” he said.

  “What is this?” asked Pilate, looking in the bag and finding it to be full of gold coins.

  “Your stipend, of course,” said Caiaphas. “As your predecessor pointed out to us on more than one occasion, the Empire does not pay its governors a sufficient salary to defray their expenses. So we supplement the governor’s income in exchange for certain . . . considerations.”

  “And what would those considerations be?” asked Pilate, his tone icy.

  “Valerius Gratus always allowed our Supreme Council, the Sanhedrin, a wide degree of latitude in local governance,” explained Caiaphas. “In turn, we would keep him apprised of what situations required Roman intervention, and which ones we felt were best handled by our own ways and means.”

  Pilate walked to the front of his desk, grabbed the heavy bag, and dropped it back into Caiaphas’ hands. He was furious, not so much at the Jews as at Gratus, who had seemingly done nothing right while he was Prefect. No wonder the province was rebellious and ungovernable! He approached Caiaphas until his face was only a few inches away from that of the priest, who paled and stepped back until Pilate managed to corner him against the wall of his office.

  “Let me make one thing perfectly clear, Caiaphas son of Matthias,” he said. “I work for the Senate and People of Rome, and for our Emperor, Tiberius Caesar. I do not work for you. I do not work for your father-in-law Annas. I do not work for your Sanhedrin, nor do I work for your Temple. I am here to see this province properly governed and pacified. My predecessor was a corrupt and incompetent fool. He took your gold and was happy to look the other way when you violated Roman law and policy. I am not him. While I have absolutely no problem using the governor’s office to enrich myself, I will do so by the time-honored means of destroying and pillaging the enemies of Rome, and selling their wives and children into slavery. I am not for sale! But if I do want your gold, at any time . . . I will find a reason to take it!”

  Caiaphas was opening and shutting his mouth in amazement, like a fish out of water—if fish had beards, Pilate thought as he finished his statement, keeping his voice icy calm the entire time, and then backing away. The astonishment on the Jewish priest’s face gave way to a harder, angrier expression.

  “My apologies, Pontius Pilate, if our well-intentioned offering gave offense,” he said. “It was not our intent to question your honesty, or to seem as if we wanted to give you orders. We merely desire an amicable relationship between Rome and Jerusalem. Peace is mutually profitable, while war and rebellion are sordid and unpleasant. If you are here to keep the peace, we will be your willing partners, with or without financial inducement.”

  “I am here to uphold Rome’s laws and traditions, and her governance of this province,” said Pilate. “Of course I intend to do so by peaceful means—unless I am given reason to invoke my Proconsular imperium. But let your people know that attacks on Roman citizens and property will NOT be tolerated any further! Those who carry them out will only bring suffering on the people of Judea that they claim to be fighting for!”

  “I cannot be held answerable for the deeds of brigands and outlaws!” snapped Caiaphas, his mask of affability completely gone now.

  “You personally?” said Pilate. “No, I will not demand an account from you. But those who shelter and protect these villains—they will feel the heel of Rome’s boot on their neck, until th
ey give up those who are preying upon Rome’s people!”

  The three priests sidled toward the door. Caiaphas spoke one more time.

  “I would beg you to reconsider your proposed policy, Prefect!” he said. “If you enact reprisals upon the poor people of Judea for the actions of a heinous few, you will only add to the ranks of the rebels and Zealots who currently trouble Rome!”

  Pilate favored him with a wolfish grin. “If I have to, I will make a desert and call it peace!” he snapped. “But I imagine very few examples will be necessary. One or two small villages destroyed, and the locals will be falling all over themselves to give us the Zealots’ heads!”

  The three Jews scurried out, and Pilate returned to his desk and took a sip of wine. He then looked at Longinus, who was staring at him with a slight grin.

  “Well, Prefect,” he drawled, “you spent a good part of this morning painting a very pretty picture of how you intend to run this province—and in the process, you managed to paint yourself as a Roman of high principles and honorable intent. I must admit, I found myself wondering if all of it was nothing but a lot of pretty words. But after that little exchange, I see that you are pretty much who you make yourself out to be. I think I will enjoy working with you!”

  Pilate scowled. “Was Gratus really so big a fool as to take bribes in front of his subordinates?” he asked.

  Longinus made a scoffing sound. “Sometimes he did,” he replied. “Other times the honorable Valerius Gratus sent his subordinates to collect his stipend—and encouraged them to charge the High Priest for their service as couriers!”

  Pilate shook his head in wonder. “How can the Rome that bred men like Augustus also breed such worms as Valerius Gratus?” he asked.

  “With great regularity, I would say,” commented Longinus. “You don’t really intend to go burning any villages down, do you? Please don’t judge all the Jews by the actions of their priests and these fanatical Zealots! Most of the people here are simple and surprisingly virtuous. They deserve better than that.”