Pontius Pilate: A Novel

by Paul L Maier

  “Now Tribune,” Tiberius shook Pilate out of his contemplation, “tell us why Rome should appoint one of its ‘Samnite enemies’ as prefect of Judea. Give us your background. Where were you born?”

  “In Caudium, Princeps, a town again as far south on the Via Appia as Tarracina.”

  “Caudium! You don’t have to remind us where Caudium is. It was at the narrow pass just west of your home town that our Roman forces were trapped by your Samnite mountaineers and forced to surrender. Who was the Samnite general? Pontius…yes, Gaius Pontius. Any relation?”

  “My great ancestor,” Pilate admitted, with a little ill-disguised pride. “But that was three and a half centuries ago.”

  “No apologies needed! Pontius was a great general. He made our armies loosen up and learn mountain fighting.”

  Pilate chose to accept the compliment in silence. He was fiercely proud of his ancestors’ military record, but also knew that Tiberius liked to think of himself as a serious student of military history, and the last thing he wanted to do was engage the emperor in a contest of historical recall.

  “But wait a moment—you Pontii weren’t always so lucky,” Tiberius persisted. “Does the name Pontius Telesinus mean anything to you?”

  “The brother of my great-grandfather, from Telesia. I applaud your command of history, Princeps.”

  “Another brave and brilliant general who had the misfortune of being on the wrong side…Do you realize that you Samnites almost conquered Rome just a century ago?” Tiberius suddenly turned on Pilate with what seemed a snarl. “Telesinus staged a surprise night attack on Rome, which was all but unguarded. Never since Hannibal was the city in such danger.”

  “But Princeps, the Samnites only wanted Roman citizenship,” Pilate interjected, hoping to dislodge Tiberius’s apparently swelling animosity.

  But the emperor ignored his meager effort. “Forty thousand there were, and just before the battle it was your great-granduncle, then, who went from rank to rank shouting: ‘This is the last day for the Romans! These wolves who have ravaged Italian liberty will not be exterminated until we cut down the forest that shelters them.’”

  In a low, almost oily tone which contrasted with the emperor’s bellowing, Sejanus interposed, “But Sulla’s forces arrived just in time to save Rome, and the head of Pontius Telesinus was cut off, shoved onto a spear point, and paraded outside the city walls.” He paused for due effect. “And, as you pointed out, Princeps, that was more than a century ago. Now all Samnites are loyal Romans, equal citizens of the Empire.”

  “Yes, military history is my weakness,” Tiberius conceded. “But now, Pilate, to the matter at hand. You have a good record so far. Sejanus tells me you’ve also been in touch with Annius Rufus. Fine. But I’m not overly concerned with the details of your preparation for Judea; these you can best learn from Gratus in Caesarea—if, that is, you succeed him. Let’s rather talk about general provincial policy for Judea—and, mind you, don’t try to bluff me. One of my tutors was the eminent Theodore of Gadara, who told me all about Palestine…By the way, where is Gadara?” he asked abruptly, despite his stated disinterest in details.

  “A city overlooking the Sea of Galilee, near its southeastern shore.”

  Tiberius glared, and in a trice Pilate corrected himself. “Or rather, the Sea of Tiberias.” He flushed at his error in forgetting that the lake had been renamed.

  “Now tell me this: just why is little Judea important to Rome?”

  “It’s the religious capital of the seven million Jews in the Empire, almost seven per cent of our total population. Judea itself commands trade routes and communications between Asia and Africa. This is particularly important for the defense and integrity of our eastern provinces, Syria and Egypt.”

  “And never forget it! If Rome weren’t in charge of Palestine, Parthia would move in to block our access to Egypt, and that would be the end of the Pax Romana. Like it or not, Rome is now the police force of the Mediterranean, and police may not be universally popular, but they’re necessary…How do you propose to handle the Jews?”

  “With firmness, Princeps. Weak governors only beget insurrection.”

  “True. But what if a general riot did develop? How would you deal with it?”

  “Determine the cause. If changes were justified, make them. If not, have the auxiliaries put down the disturbance. If the troops failed, I’d call in the legions from Syria.”

  “That’s a standard military answer, Tribune, and it’s correct, of course. But one additional suggestion: why not try a little tact? Without it, you’d never succeed in governing the most ungovernable people on this earth. Pompey discovered the Jews for us, Caesar coddled them, Antony protected them, and Augustus favored them. Sometimes I wonder why. Sejanus has been urging severe measures against the Jewish community in Rome, and you may have to be severe also in Judea…if we send you there. But don’t overdo it.”

  “No, Princeps,” replied Pilate. “I have given the matter some thought, and I envision a fresh approach to the problem. Why not make an effort, at least, to Romanize the Jews? For almost a century Judea’s been under Roman control. Other nationalities have been assimilated into Roman culture during this period of time—even in shorter times. Why not also the Jews? Is their culture immune to outside influences? I doubt it. Many of them have been Hellenized, and if a Jew can become half-Greek, we ought to be able to make a half-Roman of him.”

  Several advisers in the imperial circle nodded approvingly. Tiberius only shifted in his chair and observed, “Your proposal sounds reasonable, Tribune, but not practical. How would you ever bring it about?”

  “Well, I’ve not yet thought this through completely,” Pilate dodged, “but one means might be to educate sons of leading Jewish families in Rome.”

  “Pilate, do you hope to grow rich as governor of Judea?” blurted Tiberius.

  “Certainly not, sir!” replied Pilate, with what he hoped was just enough pique to indicate what he thought of the insulting query, without antagonizing the princeps in the process.

  “A nasty question, I admit. But too many provincial governors have left Rome in an aura of idealism, only to return in disgrace for condemnation by the extortion court. Take ex-Governor Capito, for example, the man who looted Asia Minor. Power corrupts, Tribune, and if appointed, you’d be the most powerful man in Palestine. Take care. Now, suppose you were assigned a tribute quota of two million sesterces from Judea in a given taxing, but you were easily able to collect an extra half million and send it to Rome without the Jews knowing you had raised the surplus. Would you do it?”

  Pilate pondered momentarily. Then he replied, “No.”

  “What? Not even for the greater financial benefit of the Empire?”

  “No. Wouldn’t it be unethical to—”

  “You’re absolutely right. Aemilius Rectus, my former prefect of Egypt, once sent in more taxes than his quota and expected commendation. Ha! I wrote him that I want my sheep sheared, not fleeced…Suppose you leave us for now, Tribune, while we confer. Join us for lunch in the grotto.”

  With considerable relief, Pilate retired. The interview had drained him.

  The grotto area was connected with the upper villa by several steep stairways. Framed by pines, this natural pleasure dome was embellished with pools, fountains, and exquisite statuary, some of it colossal in size. But Pilate barely noticed the beauty as he descended to the grotto in a cloud of exhilaration. The emperor had just formally commissioned him as prefect of Judea, and he was receiving congratulations from members of Tiberius’s entourage.

  The dinner party gathered around a table set in the middle of the grotto and then reclined on couches to a half-prone position for the meal, the usual languid pose which, Romans assumed, aided their digestion. While the Greek intellectuals in the imperial circle modestly chose the ends of the table, ranking advisers reclined near Tiberius, Sejanus, and Pilate at the center. Servants fluttered busily about them, serving up delectable viands and the ra
rest wines.

  Pilate was satisfied that this was easily the most exotic place in which he had ever dined. At the mouth of the grotto was a circular fish pond of turquoise sea water, bordered with crystalline marble statues of fauns, satyrs, and demigods of mythology, little cupids and colossal deities, each fancifully executed in Rhodian baroque. But crowning the collection on a pedestal at the center of the pool was a magnificent Laocoön group, the familiar sculptured serpent-monsters strangling the priest of Troy and his two sons for warning against the wooden horse.

  Thrasyllus, who was reclining next to Pilate, turned to him and asked bluntly, “When were you born, Prefect? I’d like to cast your horoscope.”

  Pilate, who had been mesmerized by the tortured sculpture dominating the pool, wrenched his eyes from the marble Laocoön to the living astrologer of Tiberius and cringed with astonishment. They had the same face!

  “Look like him, don’t I?” laughed Thrasyllus. “It’s the beard that does it. But tell me the date of your birth.”

  “I…I really don’t hold much stock in astrology,” replied Pilate, with less tact than candor.

  “That’s all right. Your attitude won’t affect the reliability of the horoscope. Wouldn’t you like to know in advance what will happen to you, say, in Judea?”

  “Perhaps. But your predictions probably have validity only in that they prepare someone to act unknowingly in fulfilling them, while otherwise—”

  “Posh! You sound like a Greek Skeptic. You’re actually afraid to tell me the date of your birth for fear I’ll somehow tamper with your destiny. Well, don’t bother then. I get paid handsomely for my predictions, which I offered you without charge.”

  Pilate was trying to apply the salve of diplomacy to the ruffled feelings of the astrologer when Thrasyllus ventured on a new tack. “When you get to Judea, Prefect, would you at least do me an important favor?”

  “Certainly, Thrasyllus. What is it?”

  “You know, of course, that the princeps spent almost seven years studying on the island of Rhodes? In fact, that’s where he met me.”

  “Yes.” Pilate thought sulking would have been a better term than studying, since this was the famous self-imposed exile of Tiberius, in resentment at Augustus.

  “Well,” continued Thrasyllus, “I was teaching the princeps astronomy, as well as its greater application, astrology, when my calculations were upset by a strange celestial phenomenon in the southeastern skies. A star…no, it was brighter than a star…a planet, perhaps, but larger than any we know…moved along the southeastern horizon somewhere south of Syria and north of Egypt, possibly Judea.”

  “Perhaps it was a comet.”

  “Yes, more like a comet than anything else, but its movements were more erratic. And it appeared just two years after the conjunction of Jupiter and Saturn in the Sign of Pisces, the Fish.”

  “Is that significant?”

  “The planet Jupiter symbolizes the ruler of the universe. The constellation of the Fish represents the last days. And Saturn is the planet of Palestine. So Jupiter encountering Saturn in the Sign of the Fish means that a cosmic ruler will appear in Palestine at the culmination of history.”

  “Well, how does the comet fit in?” Pilate was doing his best to humor the astrologer.

  “Comets signal important changes in the Roman state. What dominated the skies in the year Caesar was assassinated? A blood-red comet, so bright you could see it in the daytime. What preceded the battle of Philippi? A comet. What heralded the death of Augustus?”

  “A comet?” Pilate ventured boldly.

  “Exactly,” smiled Thrasyllus. “So, on the basis of both the conjunction and the comet, this world ruler from Palestine should also cause great changes in the Roman state.”

  “A rather sweeping prediction. But what was the favor you wished of me?”

  “When you get to Jerusalem, contact the college of priests and inquire whether some kind of astral event took place in the skies over Judea about thirty years ago. Then write me their reply and its description.”

  “Easily done.”

  The dinner progressed through a modest four courses. Pilate was rejoicing in the silence of Thrasyllus when he noticed Curtius Atticus fastening his beady brown eyes on him. “Now I know why the name Pontius struck me as so familiar,” Atticus exclaimed. “The tribune Pontius Aquila—were you related to him, Prefect?”

  Noticeably nervous, Pilate replied, “Just a distant cousin of my father.”

  “Oho! It was your relative Aquila, then, who wouldn’t stand up to salute Julius Caesar in his triumphal parade,” smirked Atticus. “And Caesar never forgot that insult. How did he conclude his speeches in the Senate? ‘I will proceed in these matters…if, that is, Pontius Aquila will permit.’”

  The dinner party had stilled to an incongruous hush. The reference to Pilate’s republican connection disturbed Tiberius, who stopped eating and now looked uneasily at his new appointee.

  Unrelenting, Atticus continued, “And later on, your cousin Aquila helped stab Caesar to death.”

  Sejanus broke in angrily, “We all have some republican relatives, Atticus. Even the family of the princeps once opposed Caesar—”

  “Thank you, Prefect, but even this is unnecessary,” Pilate interrupted, now more angry than embarrassed. “Do you all remember how Aquila died? Fighting on Augustus’s side. The Senate even voted a statue in his honor. Of all the conspirators against Caesar, Aquila was most honored in death.”

  “Enough, gentlemen!” commanded Tiberius. “You have our confidence, Pilate. Show as much loyalty to the Empire in Judea as Pontius Aquila, ‘the Eagle,’ did to the Republic. No one can ask for more.”

  Sejanus grabbed a goblet, raised it slowly, and said, “Then I propose a toast to Pontius Pilatus. May he reform Judea as successfully as the javelin improved the Roman military!”

  Pilate was delighted with the toast, for it had been a play on his name Pilatus, which meant “armed with a javelin.” The pilum or javelin was a balanced missile six feet long, half wooden handle and half pointed iron shaft, which Roman legionaries hurled at their enemies with devastating effect. It was the pilum, in fact, which had made the Empire possible, Pilate proudly reflected.

  Oblivious to the rise and fall of voices around him, Pilate happily anticipated Procula’s excitement at hearing of his official appointment. He was too lost in thought to feel a slight tremor that shook the walls of the cave, nor did anyone else at the noisy dinner table.

  Then he went on to explore several private doubts about his new post. Although his knowledge of Judea was far from complete, one consideration, which he suspected might be of prime importance, had already become clear to him. Force of arms alone would not ensure peace in Judea. A great deal of diplomacy would be required as well, and this was what worried him. Well aware of his own strengths and limitations, Pilate knew himself to be a more than competent military commander; but he wondered about his ability to understand these strange people, the Jews. How should one deal with subjects who, apparently, see little value in the Roman way of life and cling so tenaciously to their own laws and customs? Romanization? A fine proposal when discussed among Roman officials, but, he asked himself, how would the Jews react?

  As Pilate came out of his reverie, he began to look with greater interest at the interior of the grotto. He now noticed that the walls of the cavern were not entirely stone as he had assumed, but appeared to consist of a good deal of clay as well. Another gentle vibration shook the cave, this time causing Pilate to bound to his feet. Then a much stronger tremor rocked the entire grotto, accompanied by a terrifying rumbling noise, as if the earth were splitting in two.

  “Earthquake! Clear the grotto,” roared Pilate, but his voice was lost in the ghastly creaking sound and the general confusion.

  A huge, jagged boulder, smeared with foul-smelling clay, crashed onto the table, splattering Pilate and Thrasyllus with food and wine. Great sections of the ceiling of the cavern became dislod
ged and plummeted down on the panicked dining party. The pungent earth smell of the grotto grew intense, unbearably acrid, as more of the cavern caved in. Atticus, white as his toga, started screaming, and he was joined by a full shrieking chorus of terrified guests.

  Accustomed to danger, but frozen with the fear of being helplessly trapped and squashed like an animal, Pilate hesitated for a crucial moment before gathering his wits and breaking toward the daylight of the grotto’s entrance, But a razor-edged slab of stone broke off the ceiling and sent him sprawling to the floor of the cave. Oblivious to a serious gash in his left arm, he scrambled to his feet and now had to slosh through knee-deep water, since the fish pool was disgorging its water across the floor of the cavern. The Laocoön serpents seemed to come alive as the great statue lurched forward and crashed, amid the echoing clatter of shattering statuary throughout the cave.

  When Pilate stumbled to safety on the open beach, he found Thrasyllus, quaking and crying, and could locate about half of the dinner party. But where was the emperor? And Sejanus? Pilate looked back into the murky darkness of the grotto and saw several figures trying to escape. At that moment, the huge upper lip at the mouth of the cavern parted from its matrix and came thundering down, completely blocking the entrance in a cloud of debris. The screams of those crushed beneath the masses of rock and earth echoed up and down the shore, while the Mediterranean started pouring in angrily through fissures which yawned open in the sands.

  “The guards! The praetorians!” Pilate shouted. “Somebody get the guards!”

  But the praetorians, who were ringing the villa to ensure Tiberius’s privacy, had already started down the long stairways with the first sounds and tremors, and now they came rushing over to what was left of the grotto. With remarkable efficiency, they burrowed into the rubble and extracted the living, the wounded, and the dead. Pilate tried to assist them until a burly young praetorian pointed to the wound on his arm. Looking down, Pilate saw a great stain of spreading crimson and meekly surrendered to medical assistance. Casualties were soon set at five dead—two of the guests, Greek scholars, and three servants had been killed—with a score injured or bruised.