The Redemption of Pontius Pilate

by Lewis Ben Smith

  Pilate rolled his eyes at Longinus’ gullibility where religion was concerned. How could any Roman of the Romans embrace such a bizarre set of beliefs? But then he asked the question that he had sent the man to discover John’s answer for. “What did he say when he saw your uniforms? What does he say about Rome?”

  Longinus answered: “He did not even blink when he saw me and my legionaries standing at the edge of the crowd; just kept right on preaching. The boys and I were pretty taken in by his message. Legionary Cornelius even called out at one point: ‘Sir, what about us? How can we be considered righteous?’ The Baptizer looked right back at him and said: ‘Don’t make false accusations against God’s people, or anyone else! Don’t extort money, and be content with your wages!’ The crowd looked at us strangely, I can tell you!”

  Pilate seemed surprised. “Anything else?” he said.

  Longinus nodded. “There were two or three publicani among the crowd. One of them cried out ‘What about us?’ and John looked at him and said: ‘Collect no more tribute than your orders require!’ That surprised me, because if there is one group that the Jews hate even more than the Legions, it’s the tax farmers.”

  Pilate nodded. “That is the truth,” he said. “It certainly sounds as if this Baptizer is no threat to Rome. What does the Temple make of him?”

  “They sent a delegation to interrogate him,” said Longinus. “They asked him if he was the Messiah—and he said no. They asked him if he was Elijah, come again as the prophets foretold—he said no. They asked him if he was the great prophet foretold by Moses—he said no.”

  “Sounds like they don’t know what to make of him either,” commented Pilate.

  “They were getting frustrated,” said Longinus, “so one of them finally said, ‘Please give us some sort of answer to return to those who sent us! If you are not the Messiah, and not Elijah, and not the great prophet foretold by Moses, then just who are you? Why are you here?’” He paused a moment, replaying the scene in his mind. “His answer was pretty interesting. He told them: ‘I am the voice of one crying in the wilderness: Make the roads straight for the coming of the Lord! For I tell you, there is One coming after me whose sandals I am not worthy to untie! I baptize you with water, but He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit of God, and with fire!’ I can tell you the crowd got really quiet at that point. Men were looking at each other, and watching the crowd, expecting this Chosen One to pop out from behind a bush at any moment.”

  “Interesting,” said Pilate. “I think this man bears some watching.”

  “I agree, sir. In fact,” said Longinus, “I left my chief servant—a Greek named Stychius—to stay over the next few weeks and listen to the Baptizer’s message. He was eager to do it—in fact, he had already gone down to the river and asked to be baptized along with many others.”

  “Really?” said Pilate. “Did you join him in Jordan’s muddy waters?”

  Longinus looked a bit sheepish. “Well, sir, it was beastly hot, and if he is a genuine prophet of God, I figured a bit of damp hair would not hurt anything!”

  Pilate laughed. “You might as well go ahead and circumcise yourself,” he said. “You’re a Jew at heart already!”

  A few days later, Stychius came into Caesarea, breathless with fatigue after a very swift journey from the wilderness around Jordan. Longinus heard his story, and then brought him before Pilate immediately. The Prefect was busy hearing cases from local Roman citizens, as he did on the first day of every week, but he hustled them out quickly after listening to Longinus’ whispered message.

  Once the audience room was clear, Stychius came in, his face less flushed after a long drink from the well and a cup of watered wine. He was a slim, deeply tanned Greek of about forty years. Like many young men from his impoverished country, he had sold himself into slavery at a young age, knowing that he could build a better future for himself as a slave in Rome than he could as a free man in the ruins of Athens. Longinus’ father, who had squandered most of the family’s fortune on drink and women, had purchased the teenager as a gift for his only son when he joined the Legions. Longinus had told Pilate that Stychius was the only gift his father had ever given him. The slave was completely devoted to his master, and the two of them had saved each other’s lives on numerous occasions. So Pilate regarded the man with a respect he might not have accorded another slave.

  “My centurion tells me you have some news of interest,” he said.

  “Yes, Your Excellency, I do!” said the Greek. “I stayed behind after my master and his men returned to Caesarea last week, in order to hear more of what the Baptizer was preaching. For a while there it was more of the same message that he was proclaiming when we arrived—the day of the Lord is at hand, repent and be baptized, that sort of thing. It sounds repetitive when I describe it, but let me tell you, when you are standing there, it is something else entirely. There is so much fire and conviction in his words! But then, two days after master Longinus and his men departed, something altogether different happened. It started like any other day—a large crowd was gathering, and John was warning them of the wrath to come if they did not cease their sinful ways—but suddenly he fell dead silent. He was staring intently at the back of the crowd, at one man who was standing there among the people, listening. The people began to part, forming a corridor to where this very ordinary-looking Jew was standing, his eyes and John’s eyes locked on each other. For what seemed like an hour the two of them stood there, although I suppose it was only a minute or two. No one dared say a word!”

  Pilate nodded, intrigued. “So what happened next?” he said.

  Stychius continued his tale. “John spoke first,” he said. “He raised one knobby, massive finger and pointed directly at the man, and cried aloud: ‘Behold the Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world!’ When he said that, this young Jew began walking towards him, never saying a word until he arrived at the bank of the river. Their eyes were locked on each other, and John’s voice trembled when he spoke next: ‘This is the one of whom I spoke, who is mightier than I, for He existed before me!’ The crowd gasped out loud, and began murmuring to one another, so I lost what was said next. The young Jew said something to the Baptizer, I’m not sure what it was, but John shook his head. The crowd grew quiet, and I heard the newcomer’s voice for the first time. It was a voice unlike any other I have ever heard, deep and rich and sad, but at the same time shot through with some sort of irresistible joyfulness. It was the most compelling voice I have ever heard in my life!” He fell silent, his eyes far away.

  Pilate interrupted his reverie. “So what did this compelling voice say?” he asked sardonically.

  “Sorry!” said Stychius. “He said, ‘Permit it this once, that we may fulfill what is righteous.’ I didn’t know what he meant when he said it, but then it became clear. John walked out into the Jordan, and this stranger followed him. John laid his hands over the stranger’s head and bowed his own head in prayer for a moment, then dipped him in the Jordan and raised him up again—he baptized him the same as he had done countless others in the previous days. But when he brought the young man up out of the water, that’s when it suddenly became very, very different!”

  “How so?” asked Pilate.

  “It was a cloudy morning, but at the moment that he brought the young man up out of the water, the clouds split and a single, blinding ray of sunshine blazed down on the stranger. Everyone gasped at that moment, because he seemed to shine with a light beyond just the reflection of the sun’s glory in that moment. And just then, a white dove flitted down out of nowhere and landed on his shoulder.”

  “A bizarre coincidence, surely!” said Pilate.

  “Maybe so, maybe not—but I can tell you I fell to my knees, and so did nearly everyone there!” said Stychius. “And while we were kneeling, the heavens thundered with a deep booming sound, unlike anything I have ever heard before. It made the ground shake, sir! And not just that—there were words in that thunder, although I could n
ot understand them.”

  Pilate stopped him. “Wait a minute!” he said. “Are you telling me that the sky actually spoke?”

  Stychius nodded slowly. “Yes, sir. I know it sounds improbable, but I was there and that was what I heard.”

  Pilate shook his head. Like most educated Romans, he tended to take all religions, even the many gods of Rome, with a grain of salt—but at the same time, he was also deeply superstitious. Signs and portents were real, as any true Roman could attest. But surely some anonymous Jew should not attract the attention of the gods in such a manner!

  “So what happened after that?” he finally asked.

  “When the sky thundered out like that, most of us hid our heads or closed our eyes,” said Stychius. “When I dared look up again, he was gone—the stranger, that is. John was still standing there in the river, the crowd was still gathered, and the clouds were slowly parting. But there was no sign of the young Jew—although I thought I saw someone disappearing into the wilderness on the other side of the river. It was just a glimpse, so I do not know if it was him or someone else, or just a wild beast retreating into the scrub. But that was the end of it. The crowds began to drift apart, and John the Baptizer was deep in conversation with some of his disciples.”

  “Did you at least get the name of this mysterious stranger?” asked Pilate.

  “I did hear someone in the crowd say it,” replied the Greek. “They called him Jesus of Nazareth.”

  Pilate tossed the slave two golden sesterces. “Thank you for your report, Stychius. Now please leave us.”

  Stychius caught the coins neatly, tucked them in his purse, and bowed as he left. Pilate turned to Longinus, who was regarding him silently.

  “Well, First Spear Centurion, what on earth do you make of that?” he asked.

  “As an officer of Rome, or as a believer in God?” Longinus asked in turn.

  “As a Roman, first and foremost,” replied Pilate. “Although if your faith gives you any insights, feel free to share them as well.”

  “It sounds as if John believes this Jesus is the promised Messiah,” said the centurion.

  “But why call him ‘the Lamb of God’?” Pilate asked. “From all you have told me, shouldn’t the Messiah be more of a lion than a lamb?”

  “There you strike on one of the mysteries of Hebrew prophecy,” Longinus answered. “Many of the prophesies do speak of a Messiah who shall be a conquering king, but there are others—especially the prophet Isaiah, who lived about seven centuries ago—who talk of a suffering servant, who shall bear in his own body the penalty for all the sins of Israel.”

  “What superstitious twaddle!” snorted Pilate. “What you see in this religion I will never know. But . . . Jesus of Nazareth. That name seems familiar to me somehow, but I cannot place it. No matter! I want you to keep eyes and ears open, and if this Nazarene becomes a public figure, let us keep an eye on him. John the Baptizer posed no discernible threat to Rome. But who knows what someone who thinks of himself as the Messiah of the Jews might do?”

  But Jesus of Nazareth had dropped off the face of the earth after his baptism, it seemed. For the next month, no one saw or heard a sign of him, although John continued to preach that the kingdom of God was going to begin on earth any day, and huge crowds continued to go and hear him. Rumor had it that he was denouncing many of the high and mighty among the Jews for their opulent lifestyles, and that he had singled out Herod Antipas in particular for his most scathing denunciations. Herod had recently stolen his brother Philip’s wife, a formidable beauty named Herodias, and John was publicly calling her a harlot and Herod an adulterer. The King of the Jews had been called much worse in his time, and seemed to be taking it in stride, but the Jewish gossip mill said that Herodias was furious and wanted to see the so-called prophet dead.

  Finally, over a month after Jesus’ baptism, word began to come down into Judea that the Nazarene had appeared in Galilee, first turning up at his sister’s wedding, where he apparently turned seven large jars of water into wine of the finest vintage. Then he began preaching to large crowds up and down the villages that dotted the shores of Lake Gennesaret. The stories also attributed remarkable healing powers to Jesus, who, as it turned out, had lived the first thirty years of his life as a humble carpenter. But, as far as Pilate could tell, there was nothing revolutionary in the man’s teachings, and certainly no hint of violence. Besides, Galilee was technically in Herod’s bailiwick, and Pilate had no desire to deal with the King of the Jews unless it was absolutely necessary. The man revolted him.

  Another issue claimed the governor’s attention that fall. After more than a year of peace, Zealot activity was on the increase. It was autumn, and Pilate was preparing to return to Jerusalem for the annual festival season, when two auxiliaries came galloping in to Caesarea, with the body of a third draped over his horse. They reported to Brutus Appius, who was the duty officer that day. He immediately went and got Pilate.

  “Sorry to disturb you, sir, but I think you are going to want to hear this,” said the centurion. Pilate descended the steps to the courtyard, where the men were standing over the body of their comrade.

  “What has happened? Who has done this?” he asked.

  “Well, Your Excellency, we were part of the garrison stationed down at Joppa,” said the nervous young cavalryman. “Things have been pretty quiet-like down our way of late, and several of us have been hiring ourselves out as armed escorts for merchants traveling inland to Jerusalem or Samaria.”

  Pilate glared. Such activities were not technically illegal, but they were not particularly professional either. “Go on,” he said coldly.

  “I know what you’re thinkin’, sir,” said the soldier. “It’s not something we would have done when things were so bad with the Zealots before you got here. But with the attacks down, instead of sending an entire patrol to escort a caravan of merchants, it made more sense for three or four of us to go and escort them individually. We’ve been doing it for a year or more without incident—until this!”

  “Tell the Prefect what happened!” snapped Appius.

  “Three of our mates had signed on to escort a seller of perfumes from Joppa to Jerusalem, and they left town five days ago. Two days later, one of their horses wandered back into the post without a rider. We sent out a full patrol, and about ten miles up the road from Joppa we found the bodies. The merchant’s head was cut off and perched on a rock with a perfume jar in his mouth, and our three comrades were all lying dead in the middle of the road, stripped of their armor and gear. Rutilius here was the senior one among them, and I guess the sicarii must have tortured him into admitting it, because he’s the one they left their signature on.”

  “Signature?” asked Pilate.

  They rolled the body over. He had been dead for three days, and was already starting to stink, but it was not the stench, nor the ghastly wounds, that cause Pilate to scowl. Carved into the man’s chest in crude Greek letters was a name. A Jewish name—BAR ABBAS. The fanatics had found a new leader, it seemed, who was determined to provoke the Romans to wrath. Very well, thought Pilate. If wrath was what they sought, he would deliver it.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The hunt for Bar Abbas consumed most of Pilate’s time that fall and winter. The new Zealot leader was elusive and very wary; he struck infrequently, and always in the areas where Pilate was not looking for him. In fact, Pilate became increasingly certain that the man must have an informant in Caesarea who kept him posted as to where the patrols were searching. Unfortunately, there were so many travelers, traders, prostitutes, and merchants in the city that finding the culprit was almost impossible. Pilate began keeping his plans more and more secret, only trusting his centurions with their orders at the last minute, and keeping the men in the dark until they actually set out. But the bandit leader still eluded him.

  Little Decimus was growing rapidly, and continuing to terrorize the town and soldiers with his antics. Concerned for his safety, Pilate detailed t
wo legionaries to follow the boy around at all times. They immediately fell under the toddler’s spell and could be seen at all hours giving him rides on their shoulders, and sparring with him using wooden swords. Of course, at two years of age, they let him win every battle. But Pilate made sure that the child did know some limits; he had no desire to raise a spoiled monster like Gaius Caligula in his own household.

  Procula was less tired now that the boy was bigger and not quite so dependent on her, and at times she seemed almost like herself again. Only occasionally did the memory of the daughter that Caligula had destroyed erase the smile from her face, but the scars of that loss were still there for both of them. Pilate, in the private recesses of his mind, bounced back and forth between a stoic acceptance of his fate and a primal desire to bathe in Gaius Caligula’s blood. But in front of his family, he was affectionate to his wife and amused by his son and generally presented an attitude of contentment. Still, he missed Rome. As he wrote in a letter to Sullemia that spring,

  I know that the Senate will resume its meetings in a few weeks, and I miss the give and take of the debates. I miss the honors that my Civic Crown accorded me when I entered the chamber, and I miss proposing and commenting on legislation. I even miss the things I never thought I would—the interminable speeches that set us younger Senators whispering among ourselves, and the droning voice of the Princeps Senatus as he called us “Conscript Fathers.” Most of all, though—and I will say this to you because you know what I mean—I miss those special missions for the Emperor; those opportunities to clean up a messy situation or silence a dangerous voice. It’s not that I miss Tiberius himself—the old curmudgeon can go rot for all I care—but I miss being important! I miss being a player in the great game of Roman politics. I don’t know that I will ever return to that world, but I remember it and long for it with an aching heart sometimes.