The Redemption of Pontius Pilate

by Lewis Ben Smith

  The next morning Pilate did not don his toga. Instead, he pulled on his helmet and cuirass and girded on his gladius. He wanted there to be no doubt about his intentions. The three centuries, and their officers, were waiting for him in the courtyard. He went over their orders one more time, and then sent them out. They exited the fortress by the north gate and marched in perfect formation to the mob of Jews. One century took its position in front of them, backs to the barred city gate. The other two flanked them on the north and south sides. Drawn up in battle array, blades glittering in hand, they stood stock-still as Pilate stepped out onto the platform.

  He looked at the crowd. They were a sorry lot—fatigue and dehydration written into every line of their faces. All that was needed was that last push, he thought, and they would break.

  “People of Jerusalem!” he said. “Twice I have told you to go home, and twice you have refused. Now I do not ask—I demand. My soldiers are prepared to kill every last one of you if you do not comply. I have told you repeatedly that our standards were not placed in the fortress to offend your god or your traditions. Your lives went on as they always had before you knew they were there. Return to those lives now, or see them spilled out on the sand before you. Legionaries—ADVANCE!”

  Blades lowered, the Roman soldiers stepped toward the crowd. Every eye went to Caiaphas the priest. What would he do? Pilate had already told the soldiers that, if it came to bloodshed, the priest must be the first to die. He locked eyes with Caiaphas as a burly legionary stepped directly in front of the priest.

  It was the moment of truth. Caiaphas looked at the naked steel, just a yard before him, and looked up at Pilate again. Then he slowly sank to his knees and bared his neck to the blade. Seconds later, the man next to him did the same. One by one, twenty-five hundred Jews fell to their knees and offered their bodies to Roman steel. Pilate’s jaw dropped. This was the one outcome he had never expected!

  His mind raced. The brute within him wanted to tell his men to strike—to cut down every man, woman, and child in the crowd. But he knew that such an action would blacken his name, and the name of Rome, for eternity. Not only that, it would probably spark a rebellion that would end Rome’s rule over Judea. He had no choice.

  “Sheathe your weapons!” he ordered. Caiaphas lifted his head and looked at the Roman prefect, his eyes dancing with victory. Pilate was furious, but he knew he was beaten. “Out of respect for your laws and traditions, I will return the standards to Caesarea. Do not try my patience again!”

  The hateful cry resumed, and followed him as he stormed back into the fort.

  “Great is the God of Israel! Great is the God of Israel! GREAT IS THE GOD OF ISRAEL!!!”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Pilate kept a low profile for the next couple of months. He had been humiliated—a sensation he had not felt in a long, long time—and he did not want to give those who had beaten him a chance to gloat. He drilled his soldiers till they were exhausted, tended his correspondence and official duties, and avoided casual contact with everyone that he could. It was an unhappy existence, and it made him an unhappy man. To counter the depression that gripped him, he took to drinking more than he ever had before. However, he discovered that over-indulgence in alcohol made it much harder to control the savage creature that lurked within him—when he was in his cups, his natural instinct for cruelty tended to come to the fore, as a couple of his soldiers learned to their intense regret!

  The only bright spot during that dreadful Judean autumn was the news that Porcia had conceived. Pilate’s gloom was lifted for a few days, and he even threw a banquet for his officers and all Roman citizens visiting Caesarea. But, a week after the party, a letter from Tiberius arrived. It was short and to the point:

  Gaius Julius Tiberius Caesar, Princeps and Imperator, to Prefect Lucius Pontius Pilate, Proconsul of Judea; greetings!

  My sources tell me, dear Pilate, that you have done an admirable job in whipping the Judean legion into shape and have led a successful campaign against the Zealots who have been plaguing the land. This, of course, is the kind of performance that I have come to expect from you in the past. What I had not expected, and what is most vexing to me, is your blatant disregard for the religious beliefs of the Jews I sent you to govern. I need not remind you that Judea is a most troubled province, prone to rebellion at the slightest provocation. Please endeavor to be more diplomatic in your future dealings with the Jews. NO GRAVEN IMAGES are to be displayed in Jerusalem at any time, under any circumstances.

  The High Priest is Rome’s partner in governing the province, and is instrumental in keeping the peace. Please treat his wishes with greater respect in the future. I do not expect to have to communicate with you again on this subject. It pains me to take this tone with an old friend. Do not pain me again.

  Pilate cursed Tiberius in three different languages as he rolled the scroll up and slid it into a small compartment of his desk. After all he had suffered at the Emperor’s hands, the thought that Tiberius would take the side of the Jews against Pilate was infuriating. But there was nothing he could do—at this point, speaking in his own defense would merely exacerbate the matter. Pilate was bored—colossally, incredibly bored. After years of being at the epicenter of Roman politics, engaging in that drive to excel in all things that lay at the core of every Roman nobleman’s being, finding himself exiled to this lonely backwater was the worst punishment he could imagine. He looked long and hard at the full wineskin sitting on the table nearby. It was not yet noon. Part of him longed to drain that bottle and then three more, but Pilate knew the fate that awaited him if he gave in to that temptation too often. He had seen too many good men destroyed by their fondness for the bottle. He got up, walked to the window, and hurled the wineskin out into the courtyard, where it burst apart on the flagstones. Two legionaries looked up, startled at the sudden noise.

  Pilate forced himself to smile. “As you were, men,” he said. Then he returned to his table and wrote a short letter to Tiberius, ignoring the contretemps over the standards and instead informing him of the state of the province, and of his wife’s condition. Then he wrote a longer letter to Sullemius, pouring out more of his frustrations to the client who had become the closest friend he had.

  Lucius Pontius Pilate, Proconsul of Judea, to Quintus Sullemia, loyal client, pirate, and scoundrel –

  I don’t suppose you feel a hankering for travel, do you? My existence in this blighted province is driving me mad with boredom! But, upon reflection, I suppose that I need you to continue being my eyes and ears in Rome too much to have you come here for such a frivolous purpose as keeping me sane! Thank you for letting me know about events in Rome; keep your eye on Sejanus for me—it is a shame I am not there to try and rein him in. It seems that his power has utterly gone to his head. I wonder, though, how much of this reign of terror is his own doing, and how much of it is that of Tiberius himself? Caesar has always been resentful of the Senate, and it seems as if his current campaign is designed to stifle opposition within that body as much as anything.

  I suppose you have heard that I am now in even worse graces with the Emperor than I was before my exile to this latrine of a province. The Jewish priests got all up in arms over my legion carrying an eagle standard and shields with Tiberius’ image on them into Jerusalem, their “holy city.” They threw up such a protest that I eventually had to remove the standards and shields. But, not content with that victory, someone—probably a sly priest named Caiaphas who is angling to replace his father-in-law as High Priest—reported my offense to the old man on Capri, who sent me a very curt letter urging me to be more sensitive to local concerns. So now my return to Rome seems more like a dream than ever.

  On to more positive matters! Months after the death of our dear Porcia Minor, my wife has conceived again. Please take the enclosed gold and go to the Campus Martus, and have the priestesses offer prayers to Lucina and Vagitanus, and all the other gods and goddesses who protect expectant women, that she may b
e safely delivered of a son and heir, or at the least of a healthy daughter. The death of our only child has weighed very heavily on her, and I would see her smile again.

  In the meantime, may Fortuna favor you in all you do, as she seems to have forgotten about me. Keep your daggers sharp, your eyes open, and your patron informed!

  Autumn gave way to winter—at least according to the calendar; Judea’s climate altered little with the seasons. Pilate kept himself busy, ordering the troops about and occasionally leading a punitive raid after the bands of Zealots who occasionally attacked caravans and travelers. The Zealots, however, had become more cautious, and he was unable to duplicate the success of his initial encounter with them. When he did apprehend some of them, it was usually two or three at a time instead of an entire band.

  In Jerusalem, the Sanhedrin voted to renew Caiaphas’ authority as High Priest for the next five years. The Sanhedrin—the Jewish equivalent of Rome’s Senate—submitted his name to Pilate for token approval, but Pilate could not come up with a reason for refusing their choice that did not appear spiteful, so he signed off on the extension of his enemy’s tenure in office, and even sent a curt letter of congratulations in an effort to seem at least somewhat more diplomatic.

  Spring came early in Judea, and brought with it most of the region’s annual rainfall. Pilate went on another inspection tour of the province, but this time no military opportunities presented themselves. Things seemed to have settled down somewhat, and while this boded well for Rome, Pilate found it depressing. He feared that he might well lose his martial edge if he were not allowed a chance to use his skills soon! So he drilled and trained with the soldiers in the courtyard and watched as his wife’s belly swelled with the new life growing inside her, and prayed to the gods of Rome that he did not entirely believe in to spare her life and that of his child. He did not even bother to attend the Jews’ greatest festival, Passover, unwilling to face the smirks and mocking glances that he was sure would come his way when he returned to Jerusalem.

  It was in the first month of summer, named for Juno, that word came in from the southern frontier. The Skenite Arabs, long enemies of the sons of Israel, had come raiding up from the desert and burned and looted two towns in southern Judea. This was a crisis that demanded a forceful response, and Pilate led three cohorts in pursuit of the nomadic raiders, leaving Longinus in command of the garrison at Caesarea. The Arab tribesmen proved to be an elusive quarry, and the king of the Skenites, Aretas, steadfastly denied any knowledge of the attackers. It took a combination of bribery and dogged pursuit through the scorching sands of the Arabian Peninsula, but Pilate finally cornered the band of about 400 at a large oasis near the Red Sea. His men were tired and thirsty, and their enemies were between them and the water they craved. The sun was an hour from setting, and the raiders had already pitched their tents and tied their horses up for the evening.

  Pilate sent his single squadron of cavalry to drive off the enemy’s horses, and then launched his legionaries at their quarry. The Arabs realized quickly that they could not outride the Romans when half their horses were already gone, and instead they charged at Pilate’s men, their curved scimitars flashing in the red sun of evening. It was the worst mistake they could have made—while they resembled whirling dervishes, the steady, disciplined formations of the Romans made their wild, flailing attacks ineffective. By the time it was fully dark, nearly 300 of them lay dead and 50 had been made captive.

  Inside their tents, Pilate’s men recovered a huge store of stolen loot and twelve terrified Jewish girls kidnapped during the raid. He made sure that the men kept their hands off the frightened girls, instead turning them on the unfortunate women who had been camp followers of the Arabs. The leader of the raiders, a hulking brute named Halijah, he ordered crucified in the midst of the burned-out camp, while the others—warriors, women, and children—were bound and tied together, destined for the slave pens in Caesarea. The treasure from the camp was divided up, with Pilate taking a quarter of it, another quarter going into the provincial treasury, and the rest being split among the men. It was not a fortune, but it was a tidy amount all the same, and he would keep another twenty percent from the sale of the slaves. All in all, he thought as they began the long march back to Judea, the province was nowhere near as rich as Spain, but it was not proving to be as impoverishing as he had feared it would.

  The soldiers were in good spirits on the return journey—they were able to take a more subdued pace, since they were not in pursuit of a quick-moving enemy this time, and the men were thinking of how to spend their share of the spoils when they got back to camp. But he still made sure that they set up a proper fortified camp each night, and kept careful watch. The Skenites were not ones to let an assault on their territory go unpunished, any more than the Romans would. As they neared the southern border of Judea, he sent out small patrols of his Jewish auxiliaries to watch for any pursuit.

  Sure enough, not far from the two burned-out villages, they were attacked a second time, by some two thousand Skenite warriors. Forewarned, Pilate had sent word ahead to the nearest Jewish settlements that a battle was in the offing, and the Jews, who hated the Skenites even more than they hated Rome, quickly assembled a militia force at least as big as Pilate’s. Just as his soldiers fully engaged the enemy, the Jewish vigilantes attacked them in the rear, and the Skenites’ counterattack was wiped out in less than an hour. Twelve hundred lay dead, and perhaps half that many were taken captive before the remainder fled back into the desert. Pilate left half of the captives to the tender mercies of their Jewish enemies, and also returned the captive girls he had rescued to their people, who thanked him profusely. The rest of the captives were shackled beside the other prisoners and led back to Caesarea, where Pilate was greeted by Jews and Romans alike as a conquering hero. As he returned the waves of the crowd outside the city gates, he felt better than he had since arriving in Judea. The grief, rage, and depression of the last year were lifted from his shoulders as if by magic.

  But as he scanned the faces that greeted him, he grew alarmed. Porcia was not standing on the wall outside their quarters, nor was she anywhere among the Roman citizens that cheered him from just inside the gate. He spurred his horse into the courtyard and dismounted, ignoring the cheers and flowers that were being thrown at him. Had it been nine months already? He added the weeks up inside his head and realized that she had been due two weeks ago. Jupiter! What if she had lost the child? What if—?

  Suddenly Longinus stood beside him, smiling and clapping him on the shoulder. “Welcome back, Prefect! Your son is anxious to meet you!” he said with a smile.

  Pilate sagged with relief. “My son?” he asked. “What about—”

  “She’s fine,” said the Primus Pilus Centurion. “The midwife said the delivery was difficult, and she bled a great deal. But her strength has been returning steadily, and she eats ravenously—as does your son. Adonai has been gracious to you.”

  Pilate almost wept with relief. “Adonai, Lucina, Vagitanus, or Persephone herself!” he laughed. “At this point, I will make offerings to them all! This is the best news I could have had, Cassius! See the slaves to the market and the men properly billeted in the barracks. I want to see my child!” He took the steps upstairs two at a time.

  Porcia was sitting up in her bed, attended by a maidservant. A plump, healthy baby boy with a jet-black thatch of hair was nursing at her breast. She looked up at him and smiled with a genuine joy that he had not seen on her face in a year or more. He embraced her gently and kissed her forehead—while her face was radiating happiness and satisfaction, he could tell from her pallor and the lines under her eyes that the delivery had not been an easy one.

  “Are you well, wife?” he asked when he could speak.

  “I will be,” she said. “He did not come into the world easily! But I was determined to bring him here, and to watch him grow up. I am getting stronger every day, but I did not feel able to stand long enough to watch your entrance
. The scouts brought word of your victories to us yester eve. Well done, husband! Even old Tiberius will have nothing to complain of when he hears how you punished the Skenites.”

  Pilate nodded. He enjoyed hearing the pride in his wife’s voice, but now was not the time for war or politics. He took his son in his arms and lifted him high. The boy squalled in lusty protest at having his meal interrupted, but Pilate swaddled him in a soft linen sheet and he quieted down. Then the proconsul took his infant son and walked out the door, onto the rampart overlooking the courtyard. His men were there, laughing and boasting of their feats in battle to anyone who would listen, while the legionaries who had not been assigned to the mission looked on in envy. He watched them in pride for a few moments, but then Brutus Appius saw him standing there and nudged his companions. Soon the men were all looking at their commander and the white-clad bundle in his arms, whispering and pointing. Pilate let the sheet fall aside and lifted the tiny child high above his head, raising his voice so they could all hear.

  “LEGIONARIES!” he cried. “I present to you my son, Decimus Pontius Pilate! As paterfamilias of the house Pontii, I proclaim him to be my legitimate issue, my son and my heir, who shall carry our family name into the next generation. I call on all the gods of Rome to witness that this is my son!”

  The men cheered themselves hoarse and little Decimus wailed in dismay. Pilate wrapped the cloth back around him and returned him to his mother. In a moment he was happily nursing again, and Procula was studying her husband’s face and form as he looked down on them. It was a face and body familiar to her, but she never tired of watching this man she loved.