by Paul L Maier
The message written, he turned briskly to summon his next visitor.
A guardsman returning to the Castra Praetoria brought the note to the tribune of the first praetorian cohort, acting camp commander whenever Sejanus was absent, Pontius Pilatus. Pilate read the message and frowned slightly. Not that he disliked Sejanus—quite to the contrary—but he felt saturated with embarrassment over what had happened the previous night. At a party in honor of the praetorian officers’ staff, when everyone had imbibed freely, Pilate had proposed a toast to “Biberius Caldius Mero” instead of “Tiberius Claudius Nero,” a too-clever pun on the emperor’s given name, which meant “Drinker of Hot Wine.” Everyone roared with approving guffaws except Sejanus, who merely stared at Pilate, a shivering, superior stare which the tribune spent much of the morning trying to forget.
If Tiberius got word of his indiscretion, he could lose more than his praetorian rank. Just the year before, he recalled with a shudder, a history published by Senator Cremutius Cordus had dared to eulogize the Caesar-slayers Brutus and Cassius as “the last of the Romans.” Accused of treason, Cordus starved himself to death and his writings were burned. Speech was no longer so free as it had been in Rome’s republican era. With an inner chill, Pilate prepared for the confrontation with Sejanus.
The message from Sejanus had been civil enough, but the time for the appointment was extraordinary, just after lunch when most Romans took a brief nap. This had to be important. After a quick—and wineless—meal, Pilate decided to change to civilian garb. His tunic sported the angusticlavia, a narrow bordering strip of purple running the length of the garment and indicating that the wearer was a member of the equestrian order, a class second only to the senatorial, which boasted the laticlavia, a wider purple strip. In public, the tunic was largely covered by a toga, and draping the toga was nearly an art. Every fold had to hang properly, gracefully, and just the right amount of purple had to show from the tunic: too much would be ostentatious, too little would betray false modesty. Pilate let several folds of purple appear near the shoulder, a compromise in good taste.
Accompanied by an aide, Pilate made his way down Patrician Street, a major axis leading southwest from the Castra Praetoria toward the heart of Rome. Except for his attire, he was not distinguishable from the milling Romans of all classes using that thoroughfare. Less than middle-aged and in the prime of his years, Pilate was of medium build, and his square-cut face was topped with curly dark hair duly pomaded with olive oil. He looked more typically Roman than Sejanus, but, like his superior, Pilate was also not of purely Roman stock. His clan, the Pontii, were originally Samnites, hill cousins of the Latin Romans, who lived along the Apennine mountain spine farther down the Italian peninsula, and who had almost conquered Rome in several fierce wars. The Pontii were of noble blood, but when Rome finally absorbed the Samnites, their aristocracy was demoted to the Roman equestrian order. Still, the Pontii had the consolation of ranking as equites illustriores, “more distinguished equestrians,” and members of Pilate’s clan had served Rome in numerous offices, both civil and military. Some had entered the business world, made fortunes, and even regained senatorial status in the Empire.
A sharp turn eastward up two winding lanes on the Esquiline brought them to the sprawling home of Sejanus. As Pilate was escorted into the atrium, the steward announced that Sejanus could see no one else that afternoon. A troop of disappointed clients, office-seekers, and hangers-on left the premises.
“Come in, Pilate,” Sejanus invited, with unanticipated warmth. The two moved through an elegantly columned peristyle into the library. “I assume the garrison is running smoothly in my absence?”
On his guard, Pilate replied with the expected pleasantry.
“I have an appointment with the princeps in an hour,” Sejanus said, his smile fading, “so we won’t have as much time as I’d like.”
“About last night, sir,” Pilate faltered, cleared his throat, then resumed with just a trace of Oscan dialect in his Latin, “I regret how the wine must have addled my wits. My little joke was—”
“Oh…that,” Sejanus broke in. “Yes. Clever, but dangerously clever. Better forget that pun. But we were among friends, so we can let it rest. Now, if that had been a public banquet, matters might have taken a different turn.”
Vastly relieved, Pilate was promising to bridle his tongue in the future when Sejanus again interrupted. “As a high-ranking member of our equestrian order, you have an excellent education, Pilate, and you’ve nearly completed your military obligations with distinction. Now, what would you like to do after you’ve finished your stint with the praetorians? Resume your rise in the order of offices open to the ‘equestrian career’—a civil service directorship, say, prefect of the grain supply? A foreign prefecture? Or, perhaps, stay on with the Guard and replace me as praetorian prefect some day?”
Pilate was not reassured by the smirk that accompanied Sejanus’s last remark. A subtle man himself, and closer to the prefect than most Romans, he detected a patronizing ring to the question but did not rise to the bait. “Not your post—I think I’d collapse under the demands of the office,” he responded dutifully. “But, while I’ve made no definite plans, I do prefer administration, so I hope to serve Rome in some kind of public office.”
“Good. Too many promising members of our class are deserting politics for business—yet the Empire needs administrators now, not merchants.”
The two men sat back easily in their chairs, to all outward appearances merely enjoying a casual conversation. But Pilate knew better and remained alert, having learned from experience that Sejanus was apt to circle his subject for quite some time, picking up bits of potentially useful information before settling on the real purpose of an interview. Rather than push the pace, Pilate offered measured responses.
Sejanus then turned the conversation in a more profitable direction. “Now, Pilate, let me ask you several random questions, and don’t bother trying to fathom their significance, for the moment. First, what is the city saying about Sejanus?”
“The praetorians are loyal to you to a man. So is most of Rome. Tiberius seems distracted lately, if you’ll pardon my presumption. He’s aging, of course. And ever since the death of Drusus he seems a changed man—morose, suspicious, sullen. He’s rarely seen in public. He doesn’t get on well with the Senate. The general feeling is that for the good of Rome, a strong executive agent is needed to run the government for him, now more than ever. And you are—”
“Enough diplomacy, Pontius Pilatus. Be candid enough to show the other side of the coin.”
“I was just coming to that,” Pilate quickly responded, sensing that Sejanus was testing his integrity as well as his tact. “But you know best who your opponents are: Agrippina and her party, perhaps a third of the Senate—patricians who resent any equestrian in power—and a few stubborn republicans who feel you’re holding together a government which should be allowed to collapse.”
Agrippina, widow of Tiberius’s popular nephew Germanicus, was an arch enemy of Sejanus. She resented his rising influence over the princeps at a time when her sons were next in line for the throne, while Tiberius equally resented her ardent campaigning in their behalf. Agrippina and Sejanus, then, constituted opposite poles in the highly charged party politics of Rome.
“Yes, that’s an adequate catalogue of the opposition,” Sejanus commented to Pilate, “but what about the commoners, the men on the street?”
“The plebeians have never been better off. Rome is at peace. The economy is prospering, and you are given credit for much of this. In candor, though, it’s also known that you recently wrote to Tiberius, asking for Livilla’s hand in marriage, and that he did not give you permission—”
“This is public knowledge?” Sejanus’s eyes were widening.
“Some of the Guard heard it gossiped in the Forum. But it’s also thought that you’ll have your way—eventually. And the people see you as a patient man.”
Livilla was the
widow of Tiberius’s son Drusus, and her affection for Sejanus so soon after her husband’s death was a little below decorum. And since such a marriage would have driven Agrippina insane with jealousy, Tiberius had wisely disapproved it at this time.
“Yes, it was a bit premature. An error on my part, Pilate. Love sometimes interferes with intellect, as you must know!…Now, several other issues. Are you a religious man, Tribune?”
The query clearly caught Pilate by surprise. He shifted his position and cleared his throat. “Well…naturally I revere the official gods of the state—”
“Yes, of course. I’ll wager you’re a real fanatic,” said Sejanus with a satirical smirk, since neither of them took Jupiter or Juno seriously, or any of the other Greek deities rebaptized under Latin names. Lately, it seemed, the gods were invoked only for proper emphasis in curses.
“Well, how about philosophy, then,” Sejanus probed, “the intellectual’s substitute for religion? Which school do you follow?”
Pilate reflected a moment. “I’d consider my view something of a cross between Skepticism and Stoicism. Searching for ultimate truth is fine exercise, but has anyone ever found it? If so, what is truth? Truth as taught by the Platonists or the Epicureans? By Aristotle or the Cynics? To that extent I suppose I’m a Skeptic…On the other hand, Skepticism alone would seem inadequate for any rule of life. Here, I think, the Stoics, with their magnificent emphasis on duty, and the oneness of Providence, have something to teach the Roman state.”
“Well, what about Jewish monotheism, then?”
“The Jews are supposed to believe in one divinity, but they’re hardly Stoics!”
“Any other opinions on the Jews, as a people?”
“I think any Roman would agree that they’re a hard-working but terribly inbred and clannish sort of folk, always quarreling among themselves. Yet they bury their differences when it comes to competing with our businessmen! No, I don’t think Jews make very good Romans, and you remember the Fulvia scandal, of course.”
Several years earlier, four disreputable Jews had persuaded a Roman matron named Fulvia to send as an offering to the temple at Jerusalem a purple robe and some gold, which they promptly appropriated for themselves. When he learned of the swindle, Tiberius furiously banished the Jews from Rome, along with some foreign cultists and astrologers—the first such Roman persecution.
“I have to see the emperor soon,” Sejanus continued, “so allow me now to be brief. Valerius Gratus, the prefect of Judea, has been in office there eleven years, and the princeps and I think it’s time for a change, an opinion, I’m glad to say, which Gratus also shares. In a word, I plan to suggest you as praefectus Iudaeae to succeed Gratus—if you approve.” He paused. “Now, before you tell me otherwise, let me give you some of the background. At the moment, Judea is an especially important post, since there’s no governor in the province of Syria during the current interim.”
“What about Aelius Lamia?” objected Pilate.
“Lamia!” Sejanus laughed. “He’s legatus of Syria all right—in title, but certainly not in fact. The princeps mistrusts him, and he has to serve his term of office here in Rome as absentee legate. So there’s no brother governor just across the border in Syria to assist the Judean prefect if he runs into difficulty. Therefore we need one of our best men in that post. I thought of you for two reasons: a prefecture would be next in order for your equestrian career; and also your record—it’s excellent; it speaks for itself.”
“Thank you, Prefect! I’m honored that you thought of me in this connection,” he managed to say smoothly.
Actually, Pilate was overwhelmed. A provincial governorship was a dramatic promotion for him, the largest step upward in that sequence of offices which the Romans called “the equestrian career.” In assessing his future, Pilate had hoped eventually for a governorship, but had never anticipated Judea. Gratus had been such an able administrator that one simply never thought of replacing him.
“I’m rather curious, though, as to why you had me in mind for Judea,” Pilate added, stalling for time in which to organize his reactions.
“Your experience in that quarter of the world, of course. You served, I seem to recall, as administrative military tribune with the Twelfth Legion. Correct?”
“Yes, but that was in Syria.”
“Next door to Judea,” said Sejanus, with a wave of his hand. “But perhaps you’re not interested in governing a province?”
“Quite to the contrary! When do I sail?” Smiling, Pilate quickly ascribed his reticence simply to surprise.
“As you know, I’m sure,” continued Sejanus, “your salary will be adequate—100,00 sesterces*—not to mention the perquisites. And if your performance warrants it, your stipend can be increased proportionately. The Jews are difficult to govern, of course, so you’ll be earning your wage. But after your term in Judea, greater honors might await you in the government here, especially if you serve Rome well abroad.”
Pilate was about to pose some questions when he was again interrupted, conversations with the praetorian prefect being notoriously onesided. “But all of this is only conditional at the moment. Tiberius must first approve you, of course, and this afternoon I’ll begin the process of winning that approval. I’ll start by citing the needs of Judea, and then casually mention your name and background. Midway in our discussion I’ll refer to you again, and once more at the close. By then you’ll be something of an old friend to the princeps. This doesn’t mean, of course, that he’ll approve you today. Never. That would look as if he were acceding to me, and he’s sensitive to criticism on that score. Tiberius will ‘decide’ on you in a month or so, and that will be it.”
“Do you think I should plan for the prefecture, or wait for Tiberius’s approval?”
“Plan. I’m not going to suggest any other candidates, and I don’t think the emperor has any in mind.”
With that he escorted Pilate out to the atrium, and prepared for his own visit to the Palatine.
Pilate stepped out into an afternoon that had become unseasonably warm. A southwest wind was pouring down from the Aventine, carrying with it a fresh, wheaty smell from the large state granaries along the Tiber. Soon it would rain, but not till late in the afternoon.
While returning to the Castra, Pilate luxuriated in his transformed prospects. He had come expecting a reprimand, no, a cashiering; he had left with a Roman province. To govern Judea would be more than a challenge, of course. From all reports, it was an enormously complex task to keep the Jews satisfied under Rome’s rule. He knew that Palestine had been restive and turbulent ever since Pompey conquered it nearly ninety years earlier. Rome had tried indirect government under King Herod and direct administration under her prefects, but a growing hostility between Roman and Jew in that sun-saturated land had still given birth to a series of riots and rebellions, each of which was put down in blood.
This was the prospect which troubled Pilate. He tried to analyze Sejanus’s unexpressed motives for selecting him, and it soon became rather clear. Pilate had gained the reputation of being a tough commander ever since he had helped put down a mutiny in the Twelfth Legion by an adroit combination of oratory and force, applied in fairly equal parts. Word of Pilate’s role reached Sejanus, and he had sent him a commendatory letter on that occasion. Maintaining control was the first commandment in Sejanus’s decalog.
Suddenly, Pilate wondered if his prefect had a deeper motive. What about Lamia, the absentee governor-without-a-province? Was it only Tiberius who was suspicious of him and prevented his going to Syria? What about Sejanus? Several years earlier, Lamia had crossed swords with Sejanus in a public trial and since then had gone over to the party of Agrippina. And though quarantined to Rome, eastern affairs did pass over his desk. Someone, therefore, had to represent the party of Sejanus in the East, now that his father, who had been prefect of Egypt, was dead. Someone? Himself!
Well and good. For several years, he had staked his career to the fortunes of Sejan
us, his fellow equestrian who was now second only to the emperor, and that calculated decision had paid off handsomely. Judea would be a formidable assignment, but if he succeeded, in Sejanus’s words, “greater honors await you in the government here.” It was a typical Sejanism—hyperbole with a dash of satire—but it gilded Pilate’s prospects.
* About $10,000 at current valuation, though see the Notes for further discussion.
Chapter 2
A few days later, while reviewing the Guard at the praetorian camp, Sejanus told Pilate that the princeps had received his nomination with predicted favor and advised him to start briefing himself on Judean affairs by consulting scholars from the eastern Mediterranean who were teaching in Rome.
Above all else a prudent man, Pilate had not yet told his fiancée, Procula, about his new prospects. He thought it wise to remain silent until he learned how Tiberius had reacted to his candidacy. For a military man trained in the discipline of making quick, iron-clad decisions, Pilate was surprisingly gentle and patient with the young girl who would soon be his bride, and he had wanted to avoid raising hopes that could be dashed by a negative reaction from the emperor. Now he looked forward to that evening, when he would surprise her with news of the appointment.
Officially, their marathon engagement had not yet ripened into marriage, because Pilate needed time to complete the military commitment in his equestrian career. But he was beginning to wonder if that might have been a pretext. Like many of his contemporaries, Pilate had treasured bachelorhood, that blend of sovereign freedom and easy morality which had so captivated the men of Rome that marriage and birth rates were dwindling alarmingly. Pilate’s family-arranged betrothal had formally engaged him to Procula when she was only in her early teens. This had allowed him several years before marriage would normally take place, and he had taken advantage of the custom which allowed him a wide range of freedom.