The first strong nor’wester of fall struck just as the ship hit the open waters, and for days the vessel pitched and rolled in rough seas—but the wind was also pushing them steadily toward the eastern end of Mare Nostrum. It was three weeks and one day after rounding the heel of the Italian boot when the coastline of Syria came into sight, and Pilate disembarked as soon as the ship tied up to the pier, thanking the captain for the swift voyage and saving just enough gold to purchase a swift horse. Within an hour of landing, he was galloping southward toward Caesarea.
But now that the need for speed was greater than ever, so was the need for caution. Pilate did not know if Caligula’s Praetorian Guard had arrived yet or not, nor what kind of welcome he would find in Caesarea when he got there. His long beard would prevent immediate recognition, but he had no doubt that the men who had served under him for so many years would know him despite the change in his appearance. Which one of them could he trust enough to give him an accurate report? Was there a reward on his head already?
He stopped in Tyre long enough to purchase and don a traditional Jewish robe and cloak, then traded out his horse for a less conspicuous mule. Listening to the gossip in the stalls, he was chilled by what he heard. The stories of Tiberius’ death were already in circulation, and had grown in the telling. They said the old man was returning to Rome for the first time in a decade, throwing his entire entourage into a panic. Quintus Macro, the head of the Praetorians, was particularly concerned because he had been buying up the properties of proscribed Senators on the cheap and then reselling them at a huge markup. Somewhere between Neapolis and Rome the old Emperor had caught a chill, the story went, and been racked with a high fever. Caligula had gone mad with anticipation, strutting about and barking orders as if he were already ruling Rome. When it seemed Tiberius had come to the final throes of his illness, the young heir to the purple had entered the sick room and tried to remove the Emperor’s signet ring. This attempted usurpation had rallied the old man, who regained consciousness long enough to cry for help. Caligula fled in panic, and Macro had entered the bedchamber to see what was upsetting Tiberius. When he emerged moments later, the Emperor was dead, and Macro handed the signet ring to Caligula, bowing deeply before the new ruler of Rome.
But that was not the only rumor that upset Pilate. A group of traders from Caesarea confirmed his worst fear: the Praetorian Guard had already arrived there, and had put out a reward for the arrest of Pilate’s wife and son. The only comfort was that no one seemed to know where Porcia and Decimus were. Moving more cautiously, Pilate rode the big mule he had purchased toward the city that had been his home for the last decade.
He arrived on the outskirts of Caesarea and found a small tavern just outside the city walls that catered to Jewish travelers who did not wish to enter the thoroughly Romanized city. Pilate had purchased a small phylactery from a rabbi in Tyre, and bound it to his forehead. Living among the Jews for so long had taught him enough about them to pass for one, he hoped. He rented a room from the gloomy, taciturn innkeeper and sent his mule to the stables. Buying a hunk of bread and some salted fish, Pilate munched on them as he walked toward the city gate.
As he approached, he saw a Roman patrol preparing to ride out from the city gates. It was led by Brutus Appius, the huge centurion Pilate had promoted after beating the stuffing out of him on his very first day as governor. The former barracks bully had made an excellent officer, and more importantly, he was absolutely loyal to Pilate. Or at least, that was how Pilate thought of him. Now it was time to find out where the centurion’s loyalties lay.
Appius was chatting with the gate guard for a moment, letting his men ride on ahead, affording a window of opportunity. As the big man turned away, Pilate threw a small pebble which bounced off the man’s cuirass. Brutus Appius looked to see where the missile had come from, and his eyes locked with Pilate’s for just a moment. Pilate put a finger to his lips, while beckoning with his other hand.
“Ride on ahead, boys, while I see what this merchant wants,” said Appius, turning to follow Pilate. He waited until they were a stone’s throw from the road, and then turned to Pilate, his voice low.
“Jupiter, sir! You are taking a huge risk coming back here! The Praetorians have been looking for you and yours for the last week or more, and they are offering a huge reward to the one who brings you in alive!” he told Pilate.
“I won’t be here long,” Pilate responded. “I just need to find my wife and son.”
Appius looked puzzled. “I figured they were with you,” he said. “They have been gone for almost as long as you have.”
Pilate was stumped. Where could they have gone? Then an idea occurred to him.
“What about the family slaves?” he asked.
“The Praetorians rounded them all up and questioned them pretty harshly,” said Appius. “I don’t think they got anything out of them, though. Most of them were sent to the slave markets, but your steward, Democles, was spared since you freed him last year. He is staying at that seedy inn down by the waterfront.”
Pilate nodded. “You had best get on your way, then,” he said. “I’ll slip into the city once it’s dark and try to find him.”
Appius looked troubled, but nodded. “Sir, I was nothing till you gave me a chance. As far as I am concerned, you are Rome—not these strutting fools in black armor. If you get in a tight spot, I’ll do what I can for you—even if it costs me everything you gave me a chance to become. I owe you that much.”
Pilate found himself unable to reply. The “trick” of commanding loyalty, which he had struggled so hard to master in his youth, was no trick at all. Men of honor would give back what you had given to them, no matter the cost. Finally, he gave a gruff nod. “I hope to be here and gone before anyone else realizes it,” he said. “I probably won’t need you. But your offer—is appreciated. More than you can know. Now join your men before they start to wonder why you are spending so long chatting to a Jewish merchant!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
About two hours after dark, a middle-aged, unkempt-looking Jew straggled in through the gates of Caesarea. He was a bit taller than average height, with a long, scraggly beard and an ornately carved phylactery bound around his forehead, where it occasionally snagged on the hood of the long cloak he wore. He was stooped slightly, and leaned on a heavy staff. The gate guards waved him through, and as he headed toward the waterfront, he was nearly knocked over by two burly Praetorians swaggering back toward the governor’s palace. He shrieked curses at them in Hebrew and spat upon the ground; they laughed at his vehemence and returned to the barracks.
Once they were out of sight, the scraggly Jew let out a sigh and continued to his destination. He sidled into the tavern and took a seat in its darkest corner, ordering a jar of the cheapest wine they had. From his vantage point, he saw a sad-looking, middle-aged Greek sitting close to the bar. The man poured one cup of wine after another down his throat for an hour, then staggered upstairs to a room where long-term guests could rent a private bed for a week at a time.
The Jew watched and waited as the customers drank themselves into a stupor. Some headed to back rooms in the company of the tavern’s three overweight, bored-looking prostitutes, others staggered out into the night when they had drunk their fill or spent all their coin, and a few others retired to upstairs rooms as the Greek had. Finally, when everyone in the bar was either passed out or staring senselessly into space, the slender, bearded man got up and stealthily crept up the stairs. He surveyed the scene to make sure no one was following his progress, and then slipped into the room that the old Greek freedman had entered.
Democles was lying on his side, staring at the wall, but wide awake. He started to cry out when the bearded stranger entered the room, but the man was at his side with a hand over his mouth before he could make a sound.
“Not a word, old friend. I am sorry I had to startle you like this, but I can’t strut through the streets of Caesarea like I used to!” said Pila
te.
“By Zeus and Hera!” exclaimed the startled servant. “That beard! I would have walked right by you on the street, master! Thank all the gods you are safe! They flogged me, but I could tell them nothing—not about you, anyway. You disappeared so fast no one knew exactly where you had gone or what you were doing!”
“That was my intent when I left, but unfortunately I was not able to achieve what I set out to do,” said Pilate. “Do you know where my wife and son have gone?”
“A group of the Nazarenes left the area some time ago, returning toward Jerusalem,” said Democles. “Lady Porcia suddenly decided to accompany them—I don’t know why. She seemed adamant about it, though. She said that Cassius Longinus would know where she was. There was fear in her eyes, sir. It was as if she had some premonition of what was to come.”
“It would not be the first time she has been granted the gift of foresight,” said Pilate. “Now tell me, Democles—are you provided for? You have served me well for twenty years, and I would not see you left destitute.”
The old man smiled. “You were a good and benevolent master,” he said. “I have enough laid by to stay here as long as I wish and drink as much as I can. But, knowing you are safe, and that the lady Porcia will see you again, I don’t see the need to drink quite as much. I may buy a small house away from the city and settle here. I did not like this place when we came here, but it has grown on me.”
“Marry yourself a nice young Jewish girl so you will have someone to care for you in your old age,” said Pilate. “This should help you purchase that house.” He dropped a purse full of gold coins on his former steward’s bed.
“Are you sure you can spare this?” asked Democles. “I do not know how far you will have to run to get away from the Praetorians.”
Pilate smiled. “I have enough coin laid by to flee this region forever, and set up housekeeping wherever I choose,” he said. “There wasn’t really much to spend it on in this dreadful place, and my wife has always been a woman of simple tastes. Good luck, old friend! Now if you will excuse me, I am going to exit through the window—I don’t think anyone saw me enter, and I want to be sure no one sees me leave.”
Before dawn, the disreputable Jewish traveler had left Caesarea behind, never to return.
Four days later, in Jerusalem, a group of Nazarenes were meeting in the upper room of a wealthy merchant’s home. This upper room had special significance to the inner circle, known as the Apostles, because it was there they had shared their last Passover with their beloved Master. Now it was a site where they brought the most promising converts to instruct them in the teachings of Jesus, so that these men could then spread the message of the Son of God wherever they went. On this particular night, three of the best-known Apostles were there: Simon Peter, commonly called the Big Fisherman; his friend and former business partner John, the Son of Zebedee; and one man who had known Jesus longer than any of them—James, the son of Joseph, or, as many were already calling him, James the Lord’s Brother.
About two dozen acolytes surrounded the Apostles, as James told them the story he had heard from his father about Jesus’ miraculous birth, and then Peter and John explained how they had been called away from their nets by the mysterious rabbi from Nazareth. One of the believers in the group looked a little different than the others—his olive skin and Roman nose marked him as Italian by birth, and the beard and robes he wore could not disguise the ramrod-straight bearing that twenty years in the Legions had drilled into him. Brother Gideon, as he was known these days, had heard the stories before, but could never get enough of them. He was one of the most effective preachers of the Gospel in the Jerusalem church, and he helped the Apostles choose those who would be trained as missionaries and pastors.
John had started describing the lengthy discourse Jesus had shared with the Apostles on the night of his betrayal, and everyone in the room was hanging on his words, when the door came crashing open and a bearded stranger entered the room, looking exhausted and bedraggled. He did not look at the startled Apostles, or at the faces of any of their acolytes save one. He crossed the room directly to Brother Gideon and said: “Longinus, where is my wife? Where is my son?”
James flushed pale as he stared at the face of the stranger. “It’s Pilate!” he exclaimed. “This is the man who crucified my brother!”
John shushed him as Longinus looked his former commander in the eye.
“They are safe, sir,” he said. “The Apostles have given them shelter. Lady Porcia is staying at the house of John and his wife, Miriam.”
Pilate looked at John with an expression of mixed relief and guilt. “After all I have done, you would still shelter my wife and son?” he said.
“The lady Porcia shares our faith,” said John. “And your son is an innocent child. We would never turn such away. Also, one of our number, a man named Agabus, who is occasionally gifted with prophecy, told me that I must warn her to flee Caesarea. He said that her fate was bound up with mine, and that if she perished there would be great harm to the advancement of the Gospel.”
James interrupted. “This man is not to be trusted! He is a ruthless agent of the Roman government, here to betray us all!”
Pilate stood and faced him. “It is true that I was an agent of Rome for my entire life, until three months ago,” he said. “It is true that I have inflicted great suffering on many in the name of Rome. I tried to make sure that it was the guilty who suffered most, but I also have shed innocent blood—most notably, that of your brother Jesus. I could have saved him—I wanted to save him—but when the crisis came, I was weak. I bowed to pressure from the High Priest and his cronies.” He dropped to his knees and held his arms out to the Galilean. “From the bottom of my heart, I am sorry. I have not known a night of peace since I sent your brother to the cross. Can you forgive me, James of Nazareth?”
The entire room was frozen in shock at the sight of Judea’s former governor, the scourge of the Zealots, on his knees before a carpenter from Galilee. James stared at Pilate for a long time, and his gaze slowly softened.
“I bear my own guilt, Prefect,” he said. “When my brother claimed to be the Messiah of Israel, I did not believe him. When he performed miracles, I scoffed at them. When these men proclaimed him the Son of God, I cursed them for encouraging his delusions. When the High Priest wanted to kill Jesus, I dared him to go and confront Caiaphas and the Sanhedrin. I thought he was insane, an embarrassment to the family, and most of all I hated him because my mother and father always treated him differently. When I heard he had been sentenced to the cross, I left Jerusalem and refused to stand by him at the end. That is why my mother now lives with John and not me. You did not know my brother, yet these men tell me you acquitted him seven times of any crime. I knew him longer than any of them, and I was willing to see him die. I forgive you, Pontius Pilate, because despite my meanness and jealousy, He forgave me. How could I do less?”
Pilate looked at the young Galilean in wonder. Jesus’ own brother had rejected him? He could not help but ask the question that crossed his mind.
“What made you become a believer?” he asked.
James smiled. “A week after he died on the cross, Jesus appeared to me,” he said. “He came to me in Nazareth, walking through the door without ever opening it! When I saw him, I broke down and wept. He embraced me, just as he did when I was little and had hurt myself. I cried until I could weep no more, and he just held me as all the jealousy, misery, and guilt went pouring out of me. I felt them leave! It was as if my very soul had become lighter. When I finally looked up at him, he was staring at me with that same fond smile he always regarded me with. Then he simply said: ‘Follow me, my brother—and believe!’ Since then I have made my home with these men. I am the bond-servant of my Lord Jesus, and no longer his angry little brother.”
John stepped up beside Pilate. “You are weary, Governor, and have journeyed far. Shall I take you to your wife and son?”
Pilate nodded, blinking bac
k tears. Something inside him was shifting, changing—he could not grasp it, or perceive it, but he could feel a part of himself stretching, tearing, and separating itself from the rest of him. He had the feeling that some transformation was about to take place, but he could not tell what he was about to become. However, he found himself caring little. If he could hold his wife again, he was prepared to become whatever this strange new God wanted him to be.
John led him through the dark alleys of Jerusalem. The Jewish capital never went fully asleep, but the noises that would be cacophonous during the day were muted, murmuring all around him as those whose business took them out after midnight moved about, trying not to disturb those who slept. Pilate still felt strange, and found himself wanting to talk to John.
“I didn’t know you were married,” he finally said.
John looked back over his shoulder and smiled. “I married a girl from Nazareth that I met at the market one day,” he said. “Miriam is beautiful and glad-hearted, and when I saw her smile I knew that she would be my wife. When I proposed, her mother and brothers told me that I would need to establish myself and prepare a home for her before they would give their consent. I fished harder and longer than ever and sold our catches all over Judea—even delivering to the High Priest’s household in Jerusalem! It took me a year, but I saved enough money to build a small house in Capernaum and buy three boats in partnership with my brother and Simon. Miriam’s mother gave her consent, and our wedding became the talk of the district.”
The Redemption of Pontius Pilate Page 41