The Redemption of Pontius Pilate

by Lewis Ben Smith

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

  You are recalled to Rome immediately to face a disciplinary hearing before the Emperor on charges of corruption, unnecessary use of force, misappropriation of state funds, and for generally failing to honor the customs, traditions, and laws of the Jewish people, whose homeland has been committed to your care for the last ten years. Your Proconsular imperium is revoked. Report to the Emperor on Capri as soon as possible. Your family is commanded to remain in Caesarea until your case is heard and your sentence pronounced. This letter is to be forwarded to your superior offer, Lucius Vitellius, and recorded in the official annals of the province.

  Pilate shook his head as he read the letter. Nothing about it sounded right—the cold, impersonal tone, his abrupt relief of command, and the utter lack of interest in the circumstances which had led to the complaint. He turned then to the letter in the Emperor’s own shaky hand and began to read. After the first three sentences, he turned pale and sat down slowly, read the rest of the letter and then reread it three times.

  My dear Pilate, it began, dispensing with the usual ceremonies.

  First of all, I must command you to burn this letter as soon as you have read it and memorized it. Not a word of its contents can be revealed to anyone in Caesarea, not even your wife! You see, old friend, I require one last favor from you before I can restore to you the honor and dignitas that I wrongly stripped from you ten years ago—you must kill Gaius Caligula.

  He has suborned most of my servants. I wrote this letter alone in my writing nook in the middle of the night, and now carry it inside my tunic, waiting for a chance to send it to you without being detected. The High Priest’s whining letter about your very effective action against the Samaritan rebels gave me a perfect opportunity. I told Caligula I was going to relieve you of your command and try you for treason and corruption before the Senate. How he smiled! After the scribe takes my dictation, I shall carefully slip this letter inside the other and seal it.

  I was more wrong than I could possibly realize about Caligula. He is a monster of the first order, a filthy creature addicted to cruelty and perversion, with no redeeming qualities whatsoever. His charm is considerable, but it is a mask for a soul that is utterly corrupted. I fear for my life every day, knowing that he wishes me dead so he can rule Rome. Only the faithful Macro stands between us, and I see Caligula constantly wheedling and cajoling him whenever he thinks I cannot hear. I trust no one in my own household now.

  I do not care how he dies, but Caligula must never be allowed to become Emperor. He would sweep away the last vestiges of the Republic and become a despot far worse than any Eastern potentate. Do this for me, Lucius Pontius Pilate, and I will raise you higher than you ever stood before. The fate of the Republic is in your hands. If there is someone you trust implicitly, you may enlist their aid. But be careful! Caligula’s spies are everywhere. The captain of the vessel bringing you this communication is his creature, I think. I certainly would not trust him. Act quickly, and with your usual competence. May all the Gods of Rome, and any other gods there may be, watch over you!

  Pilate quickly destroyed the letter, his mind still reeling from its message. At long last, a chance to avenge the death of his murdered child! But how to proceed? He summoned the captain of the courier ship and began pacing around his quarters as he waited. The man came along very shortly, and Pilate rounded on him immediately.

  “Have you opened this letter?” he roared as the man stepped in.

  “No, Prefect!” the main exclaimed. “It is sure death to break the Emperor’s seal!”

  “Do you know what that old man has done to me?” Pilate demanded. “He is relieving me of my command as governor because of the puling complaints of the local priests! This is an outrage!”

  The captain looked very uncomfortable. “I am sorry to hear that, Prefect Pilate,” he said unconvincingly.

  Pilate resumed pacing. “I may have been gone from Rome for ten years, but I am not without friends in the Senate. I am going to demand a full and proper trial, but first I will report to Vitellius, my superior, as any proconsul should do before surrendering his office. I am going to send a letter back to Rome with you right now, and I will follow hard on its heels. Tell the Emperor I will not be summoned to a drumhead tribunal on Capri! I will stand before the entire Senate and refute every one of these charges. Corruption, indeed!”

  He took a blank piece of papyrus from his desk and began scribbling furiously. The captain edged closer, trying to read over his shoulder, but Pilate kept writing, then when he was finished and had blotted the letter, he read it out loud to the captain.

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

  I must protest most strongly my unjust and unfair relief from the office you entrusted to me. I utterly reject and deny all the charges you have listed against me, and insist upon the right of a trial before the full Senate of Rome, not a private hearing on Capri with you and the odious creature who is your heir. I am sending this to you straightaway, while I will take all the official records of my term of office to Antioch, where I shall see them read out in the presence of my superior officer, Lucius Vitellius. Then, with his seal on my records, I shall set sail for Rome to formally stand trial before the Senate. If you wish to lodge the charges against me in person, then I shall see you there. This injustice against me will not be allowed to stand, when I have served you and the Republic faithfully and well for a decade in this gods-forsaken posting.

  The captain raised an eyebrow. “Far be it from me to tell you your business, Governor, but I would never dream of taking such a tone with Emperor Tiberius! I don’t know what he was like when you knew him, but he is an irritable and deeply suspicious old man. A letter like that is a sure appointment with the headsman!” he told Pilate.

  Pilate smiled grimly as he sealed the letter. He knew that Tiberius would be able to read between the lines, but hopefully the angry protest would blow some smoke into the eyes of Gaius Caligula long enough for him to arrive in Italy and make his way to Rome stealthily. He escorted the ship’s captain down to the docks and ordered him to set sail for Capri by the end of the day. The sailors, already dispersed among the fleshpots and taverns of Caesarea, protested mightily, but they were rounded up and the ship set sail by sunset. Pilate stood and watched the sails shrink on the horizon before returning to the governor’s palace. Porcia was pacing the floor in anxiety.

  “Oh, Lucius!” she said. “Relieved of command? Charged with treason? Hasn’t that dreadful old man hurt us enough already?”

  Pilate hugged her close. “There is more to this than I can tell you,” he said, “But I can promise you that things are going to be all right. Take care of my child, dear wife, and know that I love you beyond all reason! Now please leave me. I have much to do before dawn, when I ride to Antioch.”

  Once she had left the governor’s office, he wrote a quick letter to Quintus Sullemius and then disappeared into a small cloakroom where he kept all his extra garments. He found a wrinkled, hooded robe and a gnarled staff that he had used before when he wished to walk unseen among the people, and pulled it over his head before disappearing into the growing darkness, hunched over and leaning heavily on the staff. The letter, rolled up and sealed, was tucked into an inner pocket of his robe. It said:

  Lucius Pontius Pilate, former Prefect of Judea, to Quintus Sullemius, Scoundrel, Confidential Agent, and generally useful soul,

  Old friend—if all your talk about longing for bloody adventures is sincere, then you might be interested in the offer I have for you. I have been assigned to bring down my biggest quarry yet, and could use a trusted pair of hands and a sharp blade to assist me! I should be in Brundisium in about a month, traveling incognito. Ask for an historian named Lucius Scaveola, or leave a letter for me at the local tavern owned by Valerius Po
stumus. We are going to right an old wrong, my friend, and perhaps restore me to a position where I can remember with gratitude those who stood by me during my years of disgrace and exile. I hope to see you soon.

  About an hour later, Pilate came to the doors of the seediest tavern in Caesarea, which catered to smugglers, pirates, and fugitives. He already had a pretty good idea of who would be the best candidate to deliver his message quickly and discreetly to Rome, and the man was there, swilling down wine with a giggling barmaid on his lap—Diomyrus, who had brought him to Judea ten years before and acted as the occasional courier for his communications with Sullemia and other friends in Rome. Pilate walked over to the table, dropped a bagful of gold coins in the captain’s lap, and stumped to a deserted corner of the tavern. Moments later, Diomyrus joined him.

  “You’re awfully free with your coin, old man,” he said.

  “Who are you calling old?” Pilate asked, raising the hood ever so slightly.

  “Prefect!” exclaimed the sailor. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m not here,” said Pilate. “I never was. But this letter needs to go to Quintus Sullemius in Rome, and it needs to be there in three weeks if you can do so. He will have another purse of this size for you if you deliver it within the appointed time. Don’t dawdle, Diomyrus. This is important. Now enjoy your doxie, and then gather your crew. You’ll need to sail tomorrow morning.” Pilate rose and slipped out the door into the night.

  A hard ride through the night and the next day took him to Tyre, where he caught a ship to Antioch, the provincial capital of Syria Province. Four days after the Emperor’s letter arrived in Caesarea, he strolled into the office of Lucius Vitellius, the governor of Syria.

  “Prefect Pilate!” he said. “How good to see you!” Vitellius was a genuinely likable man, a young, loyal functionary of the Empire who had been in place for a little over a year. He was class-conscious and knew that Pilate should have been his superior by virtue of birth, rank, and seniority. But rather than let his elevation go to his head, he had gone out of his way to be friendly and deferential to Pilate during his time as Proconsul of Syria.

  Pilate smiled ruefully. “It may not be good to be seen with me anymore, sir,” he said. “I have been relieved by order of the Emperor himself, and remanded to Rome for trial.”

  “Trial? Whatever for? You are a consummate professional when it comes to your duties in Judea!” protested Pilate’s superior.

  Pilate handed him the letter, then handed over the account books of his tenure in Judea. He knew that, if Caligula read his angry letter to Tiberius, the scheming heir to the throne would be suspicious and would check to see that Pilate had actually reported to Vitellius as he had threatened to. Following through on the written promise was the best way to keep Little Boots in the dark, Pilate thought.

  “This is simply terrible,” said Vitellius. “You have been occasionally harsh, Pilate, but in dealing with the Jews, Zealots, Nazarenes, and other troublemakers in your province, harshness is an absolute necessity! I will have my clerk go over your books, but I am sure everything will be found in order, and I plan to write a glowing reference to the Senate for you. This is a disgrace!”

  Pilate offered his gratitude and then retired to the guest quarters for the evening. The next morning, he was summoned to Vitellius’ chambers, and the Proconsul of Syria handed him a sealed scroll.

  “Not a single irregularity!” he told Pilate with a smile. “You have made some money for yourself, but all in a perfectly legal and honorable fashion, altogether in keeping with Rome’s mos maorum for provincial governors. I don’t know who accused you, Lucius, but their charges will be very hard to prove with the report I just gave you.”

  “You have my gratitude,” said Pilate. “Now I must depart for Rome quickly, and take advantage of the summer winds.” He took the scroll and tucked it into his trunk full of confidential papers, then went down to the docks and found a swift trireme bound for Crete. The winds were favorable, and the voyage uneventful. Ten days later, he strolled down the gangplank, ducked into a seedy tavern, and changed into the hooded robe he had disguised himself with earlier. He had not shaved during the entire voyage, allowing his iron-gray whiskers to grow to a length they had never attained before. Glancing at himself in a burnished bronze mirror, he did not like what he saw. The gray beard made him look like some sort of religious fanatic. But it did a good job of masking his rather distinct face, so he let it keep growing.

  The confidential papers he burned in the brazier that night, and the next morning a hooded, bearded man booked passage under the name Lucius Scaveola on a ship bound for Italy. It was nearly three weeks later that he arrived in Brundisium. By now the whiskers had become a full beard, and Pilate was confident that he could have walked by his own brother in the street without being recognized. The hood was now left pulled back, as he walked through the streets of the ancient Italian seaport to the tavern where he had told Sullemius to meet him. There had been some civil disturbance of some sort, he saw—several figures hung on crosses just outside the gates, shivering and moaning in agony. For some reason the sight unnerved Pilate slightly, even though he had seen many men die on the cross before. For a moment, the haunting gaze of Jesus of Nazareth floated before his eyes, and he swallowed hard and then shook his head. There was no time for such vain imaginings—he had a monster to slay!

  “Is there a letter for Lucius Scaveola?” he said.

  The innkeeper nodded knowingly. “Aye, master, a fellow left it for you yesterday! Seemed rather nervous, he did. Said you were an historian when he left it for you. Did you know that Gaius Marius himself stayed in this inn, back in my grandfather’s day?”

  Pilate forced himself to smile and listen to the story of Rome’s great general and his time at the inn, and then excused himself to his chambers where he broke the seal and began to read. Sullemius’ handwriting was unusually shaky, and Pilate had to strain to make out the words. His face grew pale as he read.

  Lucius—RUN!

  I do not know who ordered you to Rome, but the wrong you suffered cannot be righted now. Tiberius is dead, smothered in his bed by Macro, and Caligula is the Emperor of Rome. He conducts himself with graciousness and generosity towards the people for now, but already his agents are scouring the Empire looking for you. Both your surviving brothers have been arrested, and I suspect I was followed here. Rumor has it that Praetorians have already been dispatched to Judea to collect your family. Hurry and save them if you can! I am about to disappear, and see if I am as good a fugitive as I once was. You’re a good man, Pilate, and you deserve better than this. I’m sorry. Get out of Italy while you can!

  Pilate pulled the cloak over his head and slipped out the back door of the inn. He looked outside the city gates at the four crosses again, and suddenly a sinking feeling came over him. He slowly sidled toward the gate and the nearest cross. The man had only been nailed up for a few hours, from the look of him—he was still conscious and turning his head back and forth. It was Quintus Sullemia. The other two crosses held two men and a woman, and as Pilate stared at them, he realized he was seeing his two brothers for the first time in more than a decade. The woman it took him a moment longer to recognize, but then he saw that she was his sister Pontia—an inoffensive, middle-aged Roman matron. Rage seized him, and his face flushed scarlet. That Caligula would take out his rage against Pilate upon a family that he had not even seen for years! He was filled with fury—if the Emperor had stood in front of him at that moment, he could have ripped Caligula’s heart out with his bare hands.

  He must have made some sound, because the bloody, battered head of Quintus Sullemia turned his way. The old smuggler’s eyes widened as he recognized his former patron, and his mouth formed a single word—“Run!” It was good advice, so Pilate turned to go back through the gate, but bumped right into a burly legionary.

  “Not so fast, old salt!” the man said. “We are looking for a dangerous fugitive who is supposed to be
arriving here in Brundisium in the next day or so. How long have you been in the city?”

  “About a month now,” said Pilate. “Came south from Gaul with a slave caravan.”

  “Well, now, that’s most odd, because the innkeeper told us you just arrived this morning, and collected a letter that was left for our fugitive!” the soldier drawled.

  Pilate had kept his hand on the hilt of a wicked, sharp dagger inside his robes from the moment he turned to re-enter the city, and in a lightning-fast motion, he drove it through the man’s neck and deep into the carotid artery. A second legionary was following the man Pilate stabbed; Pilate shoved the dying soldier at him, and then took advantage of the man’s attempt to catch his mortally wounded comrade to drive the dagger through his neck as well. Then he ran as fast as his bad leg would let him into the slums of Brundisium.

  He wandered through the narrow alleys and dives of the port city for an hour, until he was sure he was no longer being followed, then ducked into a small tavern and sat down to catch his breath and plan his next move. His mind was racing. The Emperor dead, Caligula seemingly as determined as ever to seek revenge for Pilate’s savage beating of him so many years before, his family now threatened—all the plans of revenge that Pilate had nursed in his breast from Caesarea to Brundisium now lay in ashes at his feet. All that remained to him was to somehow save his wife and son—yet he knew the ships leaving Brundisium would be watched. Now that two legionaries were dead, Caligula would know that his quarry was nearby. What move would he least expect from Pilate?

  After a half an hour in which he rested and nourished his body, Pilate’s plan was formulated. He snuck over the city wall, avoiding the gates, and found his way to a small tavern a mile or two down the Appian Way. It was nearly dark, and he watched as a group of travelers turned their horses over to the groom to be stabled for the night before going inside to eat and spend the evening. He waited in the gathering gloom till it was fully dark, then slowly eased into the barn behind the inn. The groom had fed the horses and was bustling about, humming to himself. After a half hour or so, he ambled off to the inn, leaving the horses in the dark. Pilate had already picked the one he wanted, a long-legged, deep-chested roan that looked fast but not too wild. He saddled the beast and led it out of the paddock, taking it about a half mile down the road before mounting up and spurring it onward. By dawn he was in Tarentum, and he found a fast ship headed for Antioch, whose captain was not averse to taking on an anonymous passenger. Less than twenty-four hours after reading the letter from Sullemia, Pilate was at sea again, heading back to Syria and thence to Judea. He prayed he would not be too late.