He shifted so he could look her in the eye better. “No matter what happens, take my boy to safety! Do not squander your life, or his, in an attempt to save mine. I will die happy knowing that the two of you are safe.”
“How about if you do not die at all?” she said, and kissed him passionately. “How about we abandon this dreadful conversation and take advantage of these precious moments we have been given before our son returns?” For the next hour, Pontius Pilate did not think once about Caligula, Praetorian guards, or ships sailing from Miletus.
An hour after dark, dressed once more as a Greek merchant, Pilate spurred his horse southward. The moon was nearly full, the night cool, and the roads deserted. Pilate carried half a talent of gold under his robes—he had split the rest of his treasure between the adults in the group, for safer carrying, and to make sure they were provided for in case something happened to him. It took him only four hours to cover the distance riding alone; mentally he calculated that it would take another hour or more with the entire group. It was well before dawn when he rode into Miletus. The city guard waved him through with a bored look; certainly it did not appear that there was a manhunt on. He left his horse at a stable outside the city walls and then walked down to the waterfront. Perhaps fifteen ships were tied up there; most were small fishing vessels that did not look as if they could weather a long sea voyage. But there was one larger vessel, obviously a merchant ship of some sort. Its crew was beginning to stir; some of them were transferring amphorae full of wine from a waiting wagon to the hold of the vessel. Pilate waited until the first rays of the sun rose behind the town, and then saw a tall, well-groomed man emerge from the small cabin in the front of the ship. The man spoke to the oldest member of the crew, who gestured at the wagons, showing that the wine was nearly all loaded. The man nodded and made a check on a small scroll he pulled from his robes.
Pilate stepped forward onto the dock. “Ahoy!” he addressed the tall fellow. “Is this your vessel?”
“Indeed it is,” said the man. “I am Antigonus Philo, and this is my ship. We leave first thing tomorrow morning, bearing wine to Narbo in Spain.”
Pilate nodded. Narbo was a long way from Judea, and not far from his old haunts in Spain. It should be easy for him to find a place for his wife and family to settle down and wait out what he hoped would be Caligula’s brief reign.
“I would like to speak to you, Antigonus,” he said. “I think I might be able to make this voyage much more profitable for you.”
The ship’s owner walked down the gangplank, and Pilate took him to the end of the pier to avoid being overheard. In a matter of moments, the deal was struck. Pilate would pay half a talent of gold now and the other half when his family arrived in Narbo. In exchange, Antigonus guaranteed them a swift and confidential voyage through the length of the Mediterranean, with no stops in Italy or Sicily. It was an outrageous fee, but one that would be irresistible to any merchant with a lick of fiscal sense. He told Antigonus that he and his family, as well as two Jewish servants, would board the ship at dawn the next morning.
As soon as the deal was made, Pilate returned to the stables and claimed his horse. He was nervous of traveling during the day, but willing to take the chance this once. All the way to Ephesus, he kept an eye out for any suspicious parties. There were no Praetorians or legionaries patrolling the road, and the few travelers he saw were humble country folk or busy merchants—not a single familiar face presented itself. By mid-afternoon he had returned to Ephesus and rejoined John and the others.
Once more the family was able to enjoy supper together, and afterward, they retired to their rooms. This time all five of them congregated in Pilate’s slightly larger chamber and went over their travel plans one last time. Afterward, they rested and talked of light things—of some of the more amusing moments that Pilate had experienced in his years in the legions, and John’s tales of the ups and downs of fishing the Sea of Galilee. As the evening drew later, John related a long story about Jesus and a little girl whom he had called back from death at the village of Capernaum. She had succumbed to a high fever and a racking cough, and was being washed and dressed for burial when Jesus had chased all the mourners out of the room, leaving only her parents and the three closest disciples—Peter, James, and John. Then He had taken her by the hand and gently told her to wake up—and she did! Her breath resumed, she opened her eyes, and the flush of life returned to her cheeks. Pilate listened in wonder, and wished that Jesus could have healed the broken heart and spirit of his own daughter before her tragic end.
Shortly after midnight they set out. The streets were largely empty except for a few drunks and prostitutes, but just outside the gate they passed a squad of Roman legionaries led by a centurion in his thirties. Pilate reflexively ducked his head, but the torches they carried still illuminated his face for a moment. No one called his name, however, and by the time they cleared the city walls and spurred their horses southward, he thought that once more he had avoided detection.
The leader of the patrol was a man Pilate should have known. Antonius Hadrian was the ranker who had been promoted to centurion ten years before for securing the services of Fatimah the prostitute for Valerius Gratus. Pilate had tried hard to make a good officer of the man, but he tended to be lazy and liked drinking too much, so after two years Pilate had demoted him back to legionary and sent him packing. It had taken Hadrian several years and lots of favors for various superiors to regain his centurion’s rank, but he had never forgotten the man who took that rank away from him.
He did not recognize Pilate right away, but that half-glimpsed face in the torchlight lingered in the back of his mind for a couple of hours as he finished his patrol and returned his soldiers to their barracks. But as he poured himself a cup of wine, and reflected with bitterness on his career and the man who had nearly ruined it, the realization of who he had seen leaving the city hit him as forcefully as a charging bull. Leaving the wine untasted, he ran as fast as he could to the governor’s palace, where a half dozen Praetorian guards had been staying all week, looking for Pontius Pilate, former Prefect of Judea.
Meanwhile, Pilate and his group rode leisurely through the night, southwards toward Miletus. Pilate was looking forward already to a leisurely summer sea voyage, and to seeing the mountains of Spain once more. Land was cheap north of Narbo, cheap and fertile. A small farm, perhaps a chance to raise horses, and the opportunity to carry the Gospel of Jesus to a place where it had never yet been heard—all these things were flitting through his mind as he rode along, with his son dozing in front of him.
Dawn was breaking in the east as they spied the city in the distance. He had told Antigonus that they would be ready to board ship within two hours of sunrise, so he spurred the horse along a bit faster. The trotting gait woke young Decimus, who stretched and turned around to give his father a hug. The group stopped to let the youngster empty his bladder, and Pilate and John dismounted, as did their ladies, to stretch and pace a moment. They were less than a half hour from the ship, and safety.
“Pater, there are riders coming up behind us in the distance!” his son said.
Pilate turned and saw six horses crest the horizon about a mile or more behind them, riding swiftly. He pulled his bronze telescope from his saddle bags and looked through it, the blood draining from his face as he recognized the black uniforms.
“Praetorians!” he said. “We are detected!”
“Can we get to Miletus ahead of them?” John asked.
“Barely,” said Pilate. “But I don’t think the ship would be able to get underway before they caught up to us.”
“Oh, Lucius, what shall we do?” Porcia asked.
“You will take my son to Spain and raise him to be an honorable man, and a follower of Christ,” said Pilate. “I shall purchase the time you need.” The decision had required little thought—he had made his mind up the moment he recognized the black uniforms of his pursuers. He drew his gladius from the bottom of his sack o
f worldly goods.
John shook his head. “Let me stay,” he said. “You and the others can escape.”
Pilate laughed grimly. “My dear friend, you are an apostle of Jesus and a man of peace. You barely know one end of a sword from the other! The Praetorians would eat you alive and barely be slowed for a moment. I can buy you a half hour or more. You have the money to pay passage to Spain—now go!”
John swallowed hard. “I will never forget this, and I will make sure the world remembers that you sacrificed yourself to save us!” he said.
“No!” said Pilate. “Don’t sully my sacrifice by glorifying it. In fact, forget I ever became a believer. Let the world remember me only as the man who crucified Jesus.”
“I don’t understand,” said the Apostle.
Pilate shook his head. “There is no time to explain,” he said. “But please honor my wishes.” He turned to his wife, who was watching him with tears streaming down her cheeks. “My Porcia,” he said, his voice catching for just a moment. “I have never deserved a love as pure as yours, but I have never ceased to be grateful for it. Ride like the wind, and save our son!”
Last of all, he looked at Decimus. “My son,” he said, “take care of your mother, and never forget me—but I would suggest you leave the name Pilate behind forever. It is too dangerous a name to carry.”
“What should I call myself then, tata?” asked his son, tears streaming down his face.
“Use a name no one would ever suspect Pilate’s son of choosing,” he said. “Call yourself Gaius. Now go! All of you! I don’t want this to be in vain!” The five followers of Jesus spurred their horses down the road. Pilate called after them, “I’ll try not to kill any more than I have to!”
With that, he said a short prayer to Jesus of Nazareth, and then positioned himself in the middle of the road. Moments after his companions disappeared over the edge of the hill, the six riders topped the ridge to the north, descending upon the former Governor of Judea like a swift-moving storm cloud. When they saw Pilate, they reined in their horses and trotted toward him, stopping a few paces away.
“Whom do you seek?” Pilate asked in a loud clear voice.
“We are looking for Pontius Pilate, the former Prefect of Judea, and traitor to Rome!” said their centurion, a lanky youth with a jaded look in his eyes. “The Emperor wishes to see him punished for his many crimes!”
“I am Pilate! Does your master think so little of me as to send only a half dozen men? I figured I should merit a cohort at least!” Pilate said.
The centurion glared at him. “The Emperor has many scores to settle!” he said. “But there were over a century of us—twenty remain in Caesarea, and another score or more in Jerusalem. The rest rode to every port in the region, hoping to catch you as you fled. But it appears we have won the prize. Surrender yourself, old man, and perhaps I can persuade Gaius Caesar to make your end quick!”
“I know Gaius Little Boots better than that,” said Pilate. “He gives a quick, clean end to no one. I will not make it easy for you, centurion! Achieve me if you can, but I shall make you work for it!”
The six men spurred their horses toward him, but Pilate stood his ground. He knew the beasts would get in each other’s way, and would shy to the right or left, leaving him only one to deal with. The centurion’s mount was a spirited animal, surging ahead of the others, so Pilate made it his target. As he thought, the others swerved aside at the last moment, and he ducked low just as the horse gathered its strength to hurl itself over him. When it did, he thrust upward hard and felt a gush of warm blood spray his arm. The screaming animal plunged hard to the earth, snapping its neck and throwing its rider. The centurion landed head first and lay there, dazed. The other five wheeled their mounts about.
“Is that all you’ve got?” asked Pilate. “I was gutting war horses in Germania when you whelps weren’t even thought of!”
Alarmed by his skill, the five men dismounted and drew their blades, as Pilate had hoped. He prayed his bad knee would not choose this moment to give out on him, and waited for them to charge. In his experience, the Praetorians, although drawn from the ranks of the regular legions, tended to be spoiled, arrogant boors who quickly forgot the discipline and skill that had earned them their appointment. Sure enough, all five of them charged him at once, getting in each other’s way and slowing their reaction time. Pilate waited till they were a couple of paces away, then lowered his body, lunged wide to the left, and with a strong swing of his blade, severed the calf muscle of one of the men trying to kill him. The man fell to the ground, dropping his blade and screaming as he held his injured leg. Two down, thought Pilate. He could have finished the man with a quick thrust, but he had sworn not to kill unless it was absolutely necessary.
Now the four remaining Praetorians charged him again. They were more wary this time, and Pilate was forced to drive his blade through one man’s throat to avoid being skewered. But the force of the Praetorian’s charge tore Pilate’s blade out of his hand. He lunged for the twitching corpse and grabbed the hilt of his gladius, but as he yanked it free he felt the sting of a deep, slashing cut to his left arm. He spun away and counter-thrust, grazing his opponent’s ribs. As he raised the weapon for another attack, he felt a searing pain in his middle and looked down to see the point of a sword sticking out of his belly. He tried to swing his blade at the man behind him, but it was growing heavy. He saw the point that was impaling him pulled free, and turned, swaying on his feet, to see a burly Praetorian drawing back for another swing. With one last surge of strength, he stuck his sword deep in under the man’s arm, puncturing a lung. But then his grip loosened, and he could not pull his blade free. He fell to his knees, and then slowly collapsed backward. He put his hand to his stomach, and it came away bloody.
He closed his eyes for a moment, and said a prayer for the souls of the men he had killed. He asked Jesus to forgive him this final foray into violence, and to his great satisfaction, he found that the beast that had once lived within him, which would have rejoiced in this carnage, was still gone. Die he might, but he would die as a follower of Jesus, not a bloodthirsty madman.
Pilate felt a hand on his shoulder, rolling him over. Opening his eyes, he saw that the centurion who had been knocked senseless was sitting up, glaring at Pilate and the three men lying on the ground, one dead, one mortally injured, and the other most likely crippled for life.
The centurion stood and looked at the remaining two men. “Is he alive?” he asked.
“I . . . live,” Pilate said.
The man walked over and looked down at him. “Not for long, from the look of that wound,” he said. “A pox on you, old fool! Our orders were to bring you alive to Rome.”
“What do you want us to do?” asked one of the remaining Praetorians.
“Get me some timbers from that old barn on the hill,” the centurion said. “We’ll nail him up, like he killed that Galilean everyone talks about.”
“Isn’t he still a citizen?” asked one of them.
“Do you think the laws of the old Republic still matter?” asked the centurion. “Caesar wants him killed as painfully as possible, and crucifixion will fill the bill nicely.”
“He won’t last an hour on the cross,” said the man Pilate had hamstrung. “That gut wound will bleed out in no time.”
He crawled over to Pilate and looked at him. “You could have killed me easily, old man. Why didn’t you?”
Pilate tried to focus his eyes on the young soldier. His mouth was dry, but he could still form words. “I didn’t want to kill any of you,” he said. “It is not our way. The others . . . I had to. You were out of the fight, so I spared you.”
The man angrily punched Pilate in the face. “Not before crippling me!” he snapped. “I’d rather be dead than useless.”
Pilate nearly lost consciousness from the force of the blow, but he looked the man steadily in the eye. “No life is useless to God,” he said. Then he blacked out for a few moments.
“I forgive you,” said Pilate, “as Christ forgave me.”
He raised his eyes and looked southward, at the bright blue waters of the Mediterranean stretching away from Miletus. He could see the sails of the vessel carrying his wife and son to safety pulling away from the port, heading westward to freedom. A spasm of pain gripped his body, and he prayed to Jesus one last time for strength before his spirit left his body.
Pontius Pilate died trusting his soul to the Christ, but also with the knowledge that, in his own eyes, at least, he had redeemed himself.
EPILOGUE
Gaius Caligula ruled Rome for nearly four years, and his name has become a synonym for madness and debauchery. Of his end, the historian Suetonius recorded:
In the covered passage through which he had to pass, some boys of good birth, who had been summoned from Asia to appear on the stage, were rehearsing their parts, and he stopped to watch and to encourage them; and had not the leader of the troop complained that he had a chill, he would have returned and had the performance given at once. From this point there are two versions of the story: some say that as he was talking with the boys, Chaerea came up behind and gave him a deep cut in the neck, having first cried, “Take that,” and then the tribune Cornelius Sabinus, who was the other conspirator and faced Gaius, stabbed him in the breast. Others say that Sabinus, after getting rid of the crowd through centurions who were in the plot, asked for the watchword, as soldiers do, and that when Gaius gave him “Jupiter,” he cried, “So be it,” and as Gaius looked around, he split his jawbone with a blow of his sword. As he lay upon the ground and with writhing limbs called out that he still lived, the others dispatched him with thirty wounds; for the general signal was “Strike again.” Some even thrust their swords through his privates. At the beginning of the disturbance his bearers ran to his aid with their poles, and presently the Germans of his bodyguard, and they slew several of his assassins, as well as some inoffensive senators.
The Redemption of Pontius Pilate Page 44