The Redemption of Pontius Pilate

by Lewis Ben Smith

  Indeed they were. Accustomed to ambush and stealth, the Zealots were not very good at pitched battles. Dozens of them had been cut down in the initial charge, and the others were wavering. One by one, they dropped their weapons and began to run for their lives. Pilate’s auxiliaries launched arrows and pila after them, and several went down shrieking. For just a moment, at the crest of the hill, he caught a glimpse of a scarred neck topped by a swarthy face twisted with rage, before its stocky owner mounted his horse and took off at a gallop, with several others riding in his wake.

  “That’s Bar Abbas!” Pilate snapped. “After him, men! Mount up and bring him back to me alive!”

  About thirty auxiliaries, led by Quirinius, leaped on their horses and took off after the fleeing Zealot leaders, while the remainder, still on foot, focused on killing those who still resisted. Now that the heat of the battle had passed, any who threw down their weapons, or were too badly wounded to fight, were taken into custody and bound hand and foot. The cavalrymen herded them into the clearing about halfway up the slope where Pilate still sat on a boulder, covering his wounded leg with a shield. It still hurt, but he would not let himself show pain in front of his own men, much less before these captured enemies.

  He took a long drink from his water skin and wiped the sweat from his eyes with the sleeve of his tunic. Finally the senior cavalryman present, a Gaul named Silas Hirtius, approached with a scrap of parchment.

  “Here is the tally of our losses and the enemy’s casualties, pending the return of Centurion Quirinius, Prefect,” he said.

  Pilate glanced at the crudely lettered list. Sixteen auxiliaries and twelve horses killed, another twenty wounded—with six not expected to live long. Over fifty Zealots were dead, with men still dragging bodies up from the brush. Eleven of the enemy had been taken alive, eight of them unwounded or only lightly wounded. It had been a bloody affair, and he disliked taking that many losses—but considering that they had been ambushed, things could have gone far worse.

  “Let’s head back down to the spring and make camp for the night,” he said. “Chain these dogs up and make sure they get neither food nor water this evening. Those two are likely too far gone to be anything but a burden, so go ahead and finish them off now. Set the men to gathering wood so that we can burn our dead—and stack the enemy’s bodies up on top of the hill. Let their bleached bones be a warning to their companions!”

  The cavalryman nodded, and before he walked off to carry out his orders, Pilate said: “After the prisoners are out of my sight and the men are set to work, come back here and bring our physician with you!”

  Not long after that—at least, it didn’t feel very long, although the shadows were lengthening by the time Hirtius returned—the Greek doctor, Aristarchus, was able to examine Pilate’s injured knee.

  “It’s a bad wound, Governor, and no mistake,” he said after poking and prodding the already swollen joint and gently wiggling the arrow—which nearly caused Pilate to pass out with pain. “This thing has to come out, but pulling it will only aggravate the injury. The best way to deal with it is to push it all the way through, cut off the barbed point, and then pull the shaft out. I have some milk of poppy in my kit, and it will numb the pain a bit—but you cannot ride or walk until it begins to heal.”

  “A commander must be able to ride!” Pilate snapped.

  The Greek looked at him patiently. “Sir, with all due respect, if you do not allow this injury to heal properly, you could very well lose your leg—or your life. In time, perhaps, you can ride again. But you must allow me to treat you now.”

  Pilate nodded, and several strong arms lifted him gently and carried him back toward the spring. A command tent had already been erected, and a cot was waiting for him. He drank a long swig of water and chased it down with some wine. His vision was clearing a bit, and he could see that the entire lower half of his leg was soaked with blood, some drying and some still wet. The shaft of the arrow pointed up at an angle, but its head was buried several inches deep into his knee joint. The slightest movements made him want to scream.

  “Drink this, sir,” said the Greek, and held a small bronze ladle to his lips. Pilate drank, and immediately he felt a deep sense of relief as his senses were blunted. He lay back against the rough cushions, and Aristarchus nodded. Three large cavalrymen, probably the same ones who had carried him into the tent, came in. “I am going to have to push the arrow all the way through your knee,” said the physician. “If it were not so deep, I could use an arrow extractor, but it is so far through that letting it push out the back of your knee is the easiest course. You may lose consciousness from the pain, but you need to bite down on this so that you do not injure your tongue.” He handed Pilate a short stick, about the diameter of his thumb, wrapped in leather. “Make all the noise you wish, but try not to move your leg. These men will immobilize you as much as they can. Remember, the more you thrash, the longer this will take and the more it will hurt.”

  Pilate nodded and took the wooden stick in his mouth. One large Gallic cavalryman held his shoulders down firmly, while the other two held his legs still. The physician carefully put both his hands on the arrow and studied its angle for a moment, then suddenly and sharply pushed with one hand while striking the butt of the arrow with the other. There was a ripping sensation, and white-hot pain shot from Pilate’s wound to every nerve ending in his body. He arched his back and bit down so hard he felt the stick break in his mouth—or was it his teeth? He could not tell. Pain was his world, the dark, laughing god of his universe, a sea into which he had plunged, determined to find the bottom.

  He barely heard Aristarchus as the Greek looked at the arrowhead protruding from the back of his leg. “No doubt this was the best course,” the little man said. “This is a double barbed point and would have done more damage coming out than going in.” He brought over a pair of iron shears and there was a loud snap as he cut the point off the arrow. “This should be nothing compared to what you have already felt,” he said, and with a brisk tug pulled the shaft out of Pilate’s insulted joint. Despite his words, Pilate felt as if his leg were being torn off by a crocodile. He reached the bottom of the sea of agony, and lost consciousness.

  When he came to, he saw sunlight rippling across canvas over his head. There was a sensation of motion, but he was lying on a linen blanket. His leg was swathed in a huge bandage. He raised himself slightly, and a warning tremor of pain shot up from his knee, so he lowered himself again with a groan.

  “You’re awake!” said Aristarchus. “Good!”

  “Where am I, and how long was I out?” asked Pilate.

  “Only a day and a half,” said the Greek. “Your wound bled extensively—the arrow must have nicked a blood vessel—and I had to alternate a tourniquet with spiderweb bandages to keep you from bleeding to death. The men commandeered this merchant’s wagon from Jericho, and I rigged up this hammock to spare you the bumps and jostles of the road. We are on our way back to Caesarea with the prisoners, and our wounded.”

  Pilate nodded. “How are the men?” he asked.

  “Three of the wounded have died, and one I do not expect to last the day. The rest will recover, but two of them will never swing a blade again,” the Greek said matter-of-factly.

  “Has Quirinius reported in?” he asked.

  “Not yet,” said the doctor. “But Silas Hirtius has sent word to him that we are returning to Caesarea. Everything is in hand at the moment, Prefect. The best thing you can do is sleep and let your body heal itself. Sip a bit of this, and I will change your bandage and wash your wound.”

  Pilate tasted the familiar flavor of milk of poppy, and then watched with some detached interest as the bandage was deftly unwound from his injured joint. The wound was ghastly—swollen and red and leaking blood and pus. But there was no blackness, and no angry red streaks running up his leg. He had seen enough battlefield injuries to know that he was very fortunate to have avoided infection thus far. With gentle hands, the Greek b
egan washing the wound with vinegar and warm water. There was some pain, but the opium blocked it sufficiently that Pilate dozed back off before Aristarchus was done.

  Sometime the next day Quirinius and his men caught up with the slow-moving caravan. Pilate was more alert, and listened with interest as the centurion reported the result of the chase. “There were about a dozen or more of them, sir, that mounted up and took off with Bar Abbas leading them,” he said. “They led us on a merry chase all the way from the Jericho Road to Mount Ebal. We were closing in and I could tell their horses were about to drop. Suddenly all but one of them dismounted, and turned to face us. They were heavily armed, and we had to stop and give combat. Turns out that they were all of Bar Abbas’ top lieutenants, and they had agreed together to sacrifice themselves in order to let him get away. Two of my boys took off after him while we attacked the rest. They fought like lions, I will give them that. We only took three of them alive, but the battle lasted an hour and cost me four men killed and six wounded. Once they were dead or subdued, we went after Bar Abbas and found the bodies of the two men who had chased him down. But he took all three horses then and disappeared towards Salim and Aenon. We lost his trail in the wilderness there, and decided to bring his officers back with us so you could question them.”

  Pilate swore. “I hate that the ring leader eluded us,” he said, “but I think we have crushed his insurrection. We will put these prisoners to interrogation when we get back to Caesarea—the officers at least. Go ahead and nail the others up outside the city gate as soon as we get there. Send word to Cassius Longinus to report for duty directly to me as soon as possible.” He shifted on his hammock and groaned as the pain shot upwards from his knee. “And tell that Greek to bring me some wine!”

  They arrived back in Caesarea two days later, and Pilate was handed off to the loving ministrations of his wife. The leg still throbbed like mad but was growing more tolerable. It was the forced sedentary lifestyle that drove Pilate half mad with frustration. For the first three days, he was unable to move from his bed at all. Longinus took over the day to day command of the legionaries, and reported in every afternoon.

  Bar Abbas’ lieutenants held out for almost two days of brutal interrogation, but Pilate’s men were very good at extracting information. Eventually they broke two of the men, although the third managed to strangle himself with his own long, shaggy locks in the dungeon cell where he was being held. Longinus summarized the confessions for Pilate late that afternoon.

  “Bar Abbas had a total of one hundred fifty men under his command,” he said. “Of that total, we have now killed or captured some one hundred forty. They had a large network of caves in the wilderness, not far from where you engaged them near the Jericho road. I have already dispatched troops to search the caves, seize all weapons and loot, and burn what they cannot transport back here. Bar Abbas had sent a few men into Galilee to scout for a new hideout; he has probably joined them. But with such a pitiful force at his command, I would say we have eliminated him as a threat for the time being.”

  Pilate nodded and carefully sat up, swinging his injured leg over the side of the bed but careful not to allow it to touch the ground. “What about the remaining two Zealot lieutenants?” he asked.

  “We crucified them this morning,” Longinus said. “They are hanging outside the gates, near where we nailed the others up—the last one of them died yesterday morning, and I ordered them all cut down because they were beginning to stink.”

  Pilate gritted his teeth. “I want you to help me stand and get dressed,” he said. “It’s been a week since I was hurt, and I want to see those barbarians on their crosses. There is a crutch in the corner—Aristarchus brought it for me yesterday, and said I could try it when I was ready.”

  With great difficulty, he donned his uniform and cloak, omitting only the boot that would have gone on his injured foot. With the help of Longinus and his sturdy cedar wood crutch, he made his way down to the courtyard. The legionaries cheered when they saw their commander on his feet again. He acknowledged their support with a wave and a nod, and stumped his way toward the city gate. His leg was throbbing already, but his face was a stoic mask. He acknowledged the greetings of Caesarea’s loyal citizens with a curt nod, and finally came to a halt in front of two fresh crosses.

  The men who hung there, heads lolling, did not notice him at first. One of them finally regarded him with a vacant stare, but the other managed to speak through a mouthful of broken teeth. “Think you’ve won, Roman pig?” he asked in a voice thick with blood and exhaustion. “Bar Abbas lives, and as long as he lives, loyal sons of Israel will rally to his cause! You will never subdue our homeland!”

  Pilate looked at him with scorn. “When I am where you are, and you stand before my cross, you can gloat, you simpleton!” he snapped. “Your beloved master bandit will hang on a cross next to you soon enough. He is hiding like a cornered rat in a barn full of cats. Your insurrection is over.” He turned and started to limp away.

  “Too bad it’s left you a cripple,” shouted the man on the cross. “A crippled leg for a crippled soul!”

  A thin haze of red covered Pilate’s vision, and the beast within him, which had been in a pain-numbed sleep, woke up and howled for blood. He kept his voice very calm as he walked up to the legionary who was standing his post at the city gate. “Bring me a bow, please,” he said.

  Longinus looked at him with concern. “What are you going to do?” he asked. “And are you sure you can do it?”

  “Shut up and hold me upright!” snapped Pilate. Moments later the bow was in his hand, and Longinus propped him up as he took careful aim and skewered the mocking bandit’s knee with an arrow. The man’s cursing imprecations disappeared in a howl of pain.

  “That was for my knee,” said Pilate. He drew a second arrow from the quiver, sighted the bow again, and sent a second arrow through the man’s other knee. The sicarii’s voice hit a new octave of pain. “And that,” said Pilate, “was because I felt like it.”

  The man looked at the Roman prefect, moaning in agony. Pilate nearly forgot his own pain as he watched his enemy suffer. Finally the bandit captain spoke, his voice trembling. “Kill me,” he begged. “Kill me, you Roman bastard!”

  Pilate gave him a sweet smile. “No,” he replied, and limped back through the city gates.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Pilate never really remembered how he got back up to his bed afterwards. He knew he had pushed himself too far, and when he forgot, his leg reminded him. He stayed in bed all that day; and for the week after that Pilate contented himself with moving from his bedchamber to his office, and occasionally to the dining room. The pain was ferocious whenever he tried to put any weight on the leg, and after the first week, Aristarchus refused to give him any more of the painkilling poppy milk.

  “It is a powerful drug, Prefect, and I have seen too many become addicted to its effects,” he explained.

  Pilate nodded in agreement, but the pain was still unbearable at times. He found himself drinking more than he ever had before. His body proved tough and resilient, and gradually the torn tissues knitted back together. By the end of a month he could put a little bit of weight on the leg, and graduated from a crutch to a cane. His wife’s constant support helped his recovery, but over time the frustration at his limited mobility became a greater source of stress than the pain itself. Simply put, Pilate was not used to being hobbled, and it angered him.

  His soldiers quickly learned that the spare, muscular figure limping about Caesarea on a cane had less tolerance for failure than ever before, or else they paid the price in docked pay and corporal punishment. They still respected Pilate, but many of them began to lose the affection they had developed for him. Only the veterans and officers, who understood his frustration, still treated him as the commander that they had learned to admire over the last few years.

  A couple of months after his injury, Pilate received a letter from the Emperor. Tiberius’ handwriting was
shakier than ever, but his tone was friendlier than it had been since Pilate was banished to Judea. It read:

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

  I am sorry to hear of your injury, and hope that your recovery is quick and complete. One thing a life on the battlefield has taught me is that no part of the human body seems capable of generating as much pain as the knee joint. I have seen grown men, strong and brave warriors, scream like little girls from the sort of injury you describe.

  On the other hand, I am glad to see that the Zealot forces have been trounced once again, thanks to your leadership. I am sorry their leader Bar Abbas eluded you, but I have no doubt you will bring him to justice soon enough. Perhaps the gods have allowed you to suffer this hurt as a warning that you are past the age when you should lead from the front! You are as brave a soldier as I have ever commanded, but you have proven all you can as far as physical courage goes. Don’t continue to risk yourself after this!

  I miss your competent leadership in Rome. Since arranging the fall of Sejanus, I have begun to purge the Senate of its worst elements. They call me a tyrant and a second Sulla, but the Republic has become a travesty of its former self, and I am determined to set it right again before I die! Cutting off gangrenous members is an odious task for a physician, but sometimes it is the only option in order for the body to heal itself. Although I suppose this might not be an appropriate time to mention the subject of gangrene, eh?

  Gaius Caligula is a man now, and I like him less and less as the years go by. I should never have made him my heir, but he is the last of the Julian line except for my grandson Tiberius Gemellus, and Gemellus is still a youth. If I live long enough, perhaps I can dispose of Gaius and elevate Gemellus in my place—but I am not sure I will be spared that long. You tried to warn me, and I was foolish not to listen. Now Agrippina and her other sons are dead, and this youth I thought would be the savior of Rome has grown into a serpent. I should have died a decade ago, when my son might have succeeded me. Longevity is a terrible burden.