The Redemption of Pontius Pilate

by Lewis Ben Smith

  He also began to notice a change in his wife. He and Porcia had never had secrets from each other, even during their long separations. Unlike most Roman men, Pilate did not feel the need to take on lovers when he was away from his wife, and Porcia had never given him reason to suspect her fidelity. But now he found her gone at odd hours of the day, and none of the servants seemed to know where she was. She glossed over these absences glibly at first—claiming she had gone to the market to fetch this or that item, or down to the docks to purchase some fresh fish—but her answers seemed somewhat contrived to him. Finally, one day, he saw her slipping out the door that led down to their secret beach. Wistfully, he realized they had not gone swimming together since right after his injury, when the exercise had helped his leg to heal. On impulse, he decided to follow her.

  Standing at the door, he saw her slipping past the rocks that separated the small beach from the coast south of town. She seemed furtive in her manner, so he ducked back in and donned a hooded cloak. It was time, he decided, to get to the bottom of her mysterious absences. He slipped through the gap in the rocks just in time to see her disappear over the hillside on a road that led to a small spring a mile or two out of town. It was a popular watering hole for local shepherds to bring their flocks, and there were several stone sheep pens around it. Pilate’s heart was aching—surely, after all they had been through, Porcia had not decided to stray!

  He eased toward the sheepfolds, listening intently. From inside one of them, low voices came. He crept toward the door, trying to make out their words. One of the voices was definitely that of a man.

  “Then Jesus told us, what does it profit a man to gain the whole world, and lose his own soul? What shall any man give in exchange for his soul?” said a familiar voice. “That young ruler had everything that the world could offer—but he left us that day a broken and empty man, because he chose the riches of this world over the kingdom of God.”

  “John?” exclaimed Pilate, stepping into the sheepfold. A circle of perhaps a dozen men and women were seated at the feet of the apostle, and one of them was his own wife, Porcia. The Jews shrieked at the sight of him and huddled together against the far wall, but Porcia and John stood their ground, facing him calmly.

  “Greetings, Prefect,” said the Apostle. “Your wife tells me young Decimus is doing very well.”

  “He is the same little terror that he was before he fell ill,” said Pilate with a reluctant smile. “But I am curious—what is the meaning of this?”

  “Please do not be angry, husband,” said Porcia. “I have been searching for a way to tell you. Ever since John healed Decimus—I’m sorry, rabbi, I mean, ever since Jesus healed Decimus through John—I have been consumed with curiosity about this Galilean and his followers. I asked some of the members of The Way in Caesarea to tell me more, but they were afraid of me because you were my husband. When I heard that the man who healed our son was coming to speak here in Caesarea, I could not contain my curiosity. I have been coming out here every day to hear the stories of Jesus for two weeks now.” She lowered her eyes. “I was baptized three days ago. I am a follower of The Way myself, now.”

  Pilate sat down on one of the stone benches and let out a long sigh. This was an unexpected development! After a moment, he looked up at the group. The local Jews were still pressed against the far wall, regarding him with anticipation and dread. John seemed completely calm, as if the possibility of physical danger had lost all fear for him. Porcia looked at him with the same loving gaze she had always borne for him, but he could see now that there was something else shining in her eyes—a fervor that had nothing to do with the passion between husband and wife. Finally he shrugged.

  “You may believe what you wish, my wife,” he said. “However, it is awkward for me as governor and a representative of the Senate and People of Rome to have my own family involved with such a controversial cult. I must ask—no, I must order each one of you”—he glared at the assembled circle—“to let no one know that my wife is among your number. Especially not in Jerusalem, where the priests would almost certainly use such information against me. I have withheld my hand from you people out of gratitude for what this man John did for my son. But do not presume that I will continue to withhold it if you cross me! Am I clear?”

  The Jews nodded, their faces pale, while John the Apostle regarded him with a smile that was almost fond.

  “Will you return to Caesarea with me now, wife, or would you like to listen to the end of this story?” Pilate asked.

  Porcia blushed slightly. “With your leave, dear, I should very much like to hear a little more. But if you wait for me at our beach, I will join you there shortly.”

  The Apostle John spoke. “Prefect, I would be honored if you, too, would stay,” he said softly.

  Pilate looked at him. The invitation was obviously sincere. He thought a moment, and shook his head. “Another time, perhaps. I think that if I stayed, the rest of your audience might not enjoy the story as much.”

  With that, he turned on his heel and slowly walked back to the grounds of the governor’s palace. His own wife, a follower of the Nazarene! He did not know what to think.

  This uncertainty lasted for a good while longer. Porcia continued to be as loving and affectionate toward him as ever, but he could see in her eyes and hear in her voice that something was different. There was a strange otherness about her that had not been there before—Pilate did not understand it, and it made him uncomfortable. It reminded him too much of the eyes that haunted him in his dreams—the eyes of a man who had been a simple Galilean carpenter, and yet something more.

  Over the next two years, Pilate’s attitude changed. Whatever it was that weighed down his soul, he found himself becoming accustomed to the burden. The idea of forgiveness, redemption even, that had appealed to him at first now seemed like an elusive dream. His old nastiness began to surface—never toward his wife and child, but more and more toward the people he governed. True to his word, he did not lift his hand against the followers of Jesus, but he ceased interfering with the Temple when they continued their persecution of The Way. It was as if his heart was growing harder by the day.

  Four years after Jesus was crucified, the Zealot movement, temporarily scotched by the capture of Bar Abbas, began to stir again—but without its former leader. Somehow the notorious brigand had been changed by the circumstances of his release, and after several lengthy conversations with Peter and John, Bar Abbas had departed Judea forever. Some said he had gone to carry the teachings of Jesus to Gaul, others said that his guilt had driven him to suicide. But the new Zealot movement was centered in the district of Samaria, north of Jerusalem, and led by yet another Galilean, who called himself Moses ben Judah. This Moses claimed to be a direct descendant of the Jewish lawgiver from over a thousand years before, and he began preaching to the multitudes that he knew the location of a rod and sword that the great hero had buried near Mount Gerizim in Samaria. He quickly drew a large following, although he did not commit direct attacks on Romans as Bar Abbas had done.

  Pilate was deeply concerned about this new movement. He summoned Longinus from his new home in Jerusalem to see if his old friend could tell him anything about this new Galilean cult, and whether or not it was related to the followers of Jesus. The former centurion, now beginning to show white in his beard and at his temples, was a bit reluctant to appear before his old commander.

  “Nothing to do with you, sir,” he said, “but many of the disciples who have joined The Way since the events of Pentecost have no idea who I am. When I am summoned to appear before the governor, it makes them nervous.”

  Pilate nodded. “I understand, old friend,” he replied, “but your religious scruples must sometimes take second place to the needs of Rome. What do you know about this Moses character, and is he related to The Way?”

  Longinus sighed. “No,” he said. “He followed us for a brief while, but he was preaching that what Jesus wanted was an armed assault on Rome to
usher in the Day of the Lord. Peter and John finally expelled him from our midst for his disruptive nature and unwillingness to submit to the leadership of the Apostles. Since then, he has been going all through Samaria and Galilee, saying that if the disciples of Jesus will not challenge Rome, then he will—using the very sword of Moses to drive the Empire into the sea. He has called all his disciples to follow him to Mount Gerizim today.”

  Pilate snorted. “Where do these people get their delusions?” he said. “I suppose that I will have to pay a visit to Mount Gerizim and put a stop to this nonsense once and for all.”

  Longinus winced. “Be gentle, Prefect,” he said. “I understand your responsibilities, and the needs of Rome. But these are simple country folk who have been misled by a charlatan. Imprisoning Moses will be enough to disperse them back to their farms.”

  Pilate’s face hardened. “I am tired of being gentle!” he snapped. “I have sent the humble folk back to their farms again and again, and every time they jump back up to follow whatever terrorist waves a sword and screams ‘Death to Rome!’ I am tired of insurrection and rebellion in this damnable province! I wish I had never seen Judea, or heard of Moses, or Caiaphas, or Galilean carpenters who won’t stay dead when you kill them!”

  Longinus looked at Pilate sadly. “Your anger is misplaced, my friend,” he said. “Your deepest loathing is for yourself. You can lay down that burden of sin and misery any time you choose—and I wish for your sake that it would be soon! You are too good a man to punish yourself thus.”

  Pilate snarled: “I am also sick and tired of good Romans forgetting who they are! I have lost you and now my wife to this gentle Galilean who saps the mettle from warriors and turns them into women! Even my son says this Jesus talks to him in his dreams! When my wife makes love to me, I see in her eyes that she loves this foreign god more than she does me! I am sick to death of Jesus!!”

  Longinus bowed and left the room, and Pilate took a deep drink of wine, and then called for Brutus Appius. The burly centurion appeared promptly, and Pilate thought to himself again what an excellent soldier the former troublemaker had become.

  “What do you need, Governor?” he asked.

  “Tell the cohort to saddle up,” he said. “We are taking a little ride.”

  “Where to, Excellency?” asked Appius.

  “Mount Gerizim,” said Pilate. “We are going to dig up a sword and kill some Jews with it!”

  He mounted the stairs to his quarters to don his cuirass and helmet. Procula Porcia was there, with Decimus, now nearly nine years old. She watched him strap on his sword with trepidation in her eyes.

  “Where are you going, husband?” she said.

  “To put down a rebellion before it gets started, my dear,” replied Pilate.

  She nodded. “I never really liked you going into battle,” she said, “but now I positively hate it! Jesus said those who take up the sword will perish by the sword, and I live in fear that those words will prove true of you.”

  Pilate bit his lip before replying. “I am a servant of the Empire, my love. My job is to keep the peace, whatever the cost. I cannot let the Zealots rise up yet again.”

  She sighed and kissed his cheek. ‘Come home safe to me,” she said.

  Mount Gerizim was only a couple hours’ brisk ride from Caesarea, and Pilate was relieved to find it unoccupied when he and his men arrived. It was the highest point for miles around, and using his Greek telescope, he could see a mob of people about five miles off, slowly coming in the direction of the mountain.

  “Looks like good timing, sir,” said Appius.

  “Indeed,” said Pilate, handing him the bronze tube. “How many are there, do you reckon?”

  Appius stared at the oncoming mass for several minutes before speaking. “I’d make it three or four thousand, sir, but about half the numbers are women and children.”

  Pilate shook his head. “These rustics are so inept,” he said. “What do they hope to accomplish?”

  “They probably expect their god to fight for them, like in the old tales,” said the centurion.

  “Well, if he shows up, we fight him too!” Pilate said. “Now put the men in that ravine over there, and you and I will take cover in those boulders. Let’s see what they are up to, and then scatter them good and proper. The leader—this Moses ben Judah—I want him for myself, but keep an eye on the fight. My leg has not bothered me in a while, but if it goes out from under me, I may need you to keep me alive!”

  The men quickly followed orders, and from a cleft between two boulders, Pilate watched as the mob grew closer. Leading them was a tall, white-bearded Jew with strong shoulders and a wild-eyed look about him, leading them in a song about horses and riders being cast into the sea. When the congregation had climbed the slopes of the mountain, he hopped on a rock and addressed them.

  “Children of Judah and Samaria!” he said. “Too long have you let the Temple priests teach you to hate one another, while they grovel to the true enemies of God—the dreadful minions of Rome! The spirit of my great ancestor Moses appeared to me and told me where to find his rod and his sword, and the God of Abraham promises that with them, we will drive the Romans into the sea and restore the Kingdom of David forever! Oh, I know many of you thought that Jesus of Nazareth was the Messiah—but Jesus was weak! He tried to tell you to love your enemies! God has commanded me to hate the enemies of Israel with hatred never-ending, until the soil of Judea has drunk the last drop of their pagan blood. In the name of Elijah and Elisha, of Moses and of Judas Maccabee, I command you to fight until you can fight no more. Behold the sword and staff of Moses!”

  He nodded at four young men and hopped off the boulder he had stood on. They levered it out of the way, revealing a stone box buried in the ground. From within, Moses ben Judah retrieved a long wooden rod and a blade, and then held them aloft. Pilate suppressed a snort of contempt. The sword had probably been in the ground no more than a month, and it looked for all the world like a legionary’s gladius given a new hilt, with the Star of David etched on each side of the pommel. As Moses held the blade aloft, Pilate put a small horn to his lips and blew a note.

  Roman legionaries poured from the gully and launched themselves at the crowd, cutting down the armed men in the front ranks before they could even draw their blades. Pilate drew his own gladius and swiftly moved toward Moses ben Judah, who was watching his revolution die before his eyes.

  “Defend yourself, Jew!” snapped Pilate as he raised his weapon.

  The shock on the Zealot’s face twisted into rage, and he flew at Pilate, screaming as he did. If he had any skill to match his passion, it might have been an interesting fight, but the man had apparently never wielded a weapon before in his life. He made great, sloppy swings as if he were trying to cut down a tree, signaling his every move in advance. Pilate laughed at the pitiable quality of his opponent, angering him even more.

  “Die, Roman pig!” shrieked Moses ben Judah, taking a massive swing at Pilate’s head.

  “Not today, I think,” Pilate said evenly, parrying the blow with such force that Judah’s blade buried itself in the ground. As the Zealot leader tried to yank it free, Pilate drove his own blade through the man’s chest. Moses’ eyes widened for a moment, and then he went limp, slowly sliding to the ground.

  Pilate wiped the blood from his blade, using his enemy’s robe, and looked around. Several dozen Jews lay dead, and the rest were running away in terror. A half dozen of the men had been rounded up and disarmed, while their wives and daughters shrieked and begged for their lives. Not a single Roman had been killed, although two legionaries had been lightly wounded.

  Brutus Appius came over and saluted. “Too easy, sir!” he said.

  “Indeed,” replied Pilate. “This man was the most incompetent leader the Zealots have thrown up yet. Throw him in the stone box and put the boulder back over it, but remove his head first and bring it back to Caesarea and display it on the battlements. Crucify the men, let the children go
, and do as you please with the women. I am going home.”

  He retrieved his horse from the valley where he had tethered it, and looked over the battlefield, such as it was. He noticed that some of the slain were hardly more than children; and one or two were actual children, probably trampled in the crush. He let out a long sigh. When would the Jews learn that Rome was not to be defied?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Reaction to Pilate’s crushing of the Samaritan rebellion was widespread and very negative. Caiaphas had been deposed by the new governor of Syria, Vitellius, but the new High Priest, Jonathan ben Ananias, led a delegation to Caesarea to protest the “excessive brutality,” and Roman legionaries were hissed at and jeered in the streets. Angry letters were sent to the proconsul of Syria and to the Emperor himself. One Roman patrol was bombarded with the contents of chamber pots in the Merchants’ Quarter of Jerusalem. Pilate was secretly amused—he doubted that the High Priest and his associates would spit on a Samaritan who was on fire, but now the despised half-breeds were being idolized as martyrs to the brutality of Rome. Just to be safe, Pilate fired off a quick, accurate report to Tiberius on the event and then ignored the storm. By midsummer it seemed as if the tempest had passed. The routines of governance and trade continued, and the outrage of the Judean people began to fade.

  But on the Ides of the month of Julii, Pilate received a letter with the familiar seal of the Emperor, delivered by a swift courier ship. The captain informed Pilate that he had been ordered to stand by while Pilate read the letter, prepared to sail instantly with a reply. Puzzled, Pilate retreated immediately to his office, where he broke the seals and unrolled the letters. There were two sheets of papyrus, one nearly covered with the spidery, tremulous handwriting of the elderly Emperor, the other shorter and more official-looking, in the clear writing of a professional scribe. He read the scribe’s letter first.