Pontius Pilate: A Novel

by Paul L Maier

  “And even after Pompey conquered Judea,” Galerius argued, “friendship between Rome and Jerusalem was still possible. Pompey took not one shekel from the temple treasury, but ordered the sanctuary cleansed and sacrifices resumed the next day.”

  “For that matter,” said Pilate, “Julius Caesar himself proved Roman-Jewish friendship—”

  “Oh, Caesar was very Judeophile! He had every reason to be, you know. Jews saved his life when he was here in Alexandria chasing down Pompey. The Egyptian army surrounded Caesar’s pathetically small force of Romans, just near the harbor over there,” Galerius pointed. “It was a nasty siege, the closest Caesar ever came to defeat. Only one man saved him, Antipater of Judea. Antipater helped relieving legions get through to Caesar, and he also had Jewish communities in Egypt provision Caesar’s forces during the siege, and this turned the tide in the decisive battle.”

  “This is the Antipater who was father of Herod the Great?” Pilate inquired.

  “Right.”

  “Small wonder that the Jews and the house of Antipater would stand high in Caesar’s favor.”

  “Yes, Caesar conferred extraordinary privileges on the Jews. Judea was freed from Roman tribute, immunized from taxation, and no soldiers were to be raised or quartered in Judea, the highest favors accorded any state under Rome’s control.”

  “Which explains the long lines of grieving Jews who visited Caesar’s grave months after the Ides of March.” Pilate reflected for several moments. Then he said, “Your lessons in Jewish history, Gaius, have been far better than what I’d learned from supposed experts in Rome.”

  “You never learn anything until you get on the scene, Pilate. Oh, I became a real Egyptologist in preparing for this post, but most of what I’d mastered in Rome was just a caricature of the truth, so bad are the geographies and histories. You’ll have plenty of surprises yourself when you get to Judea.”

  “I know. For one thing, I still have to find out why the Jews there aren’t happy with Rome—unlike here. But it’s comforting to know that you and two Roman legions will be next door in case Judea breaks into revolt. I understand I’m allowed all of four or five cohorts.” The satire was obvious.

  “Pilate, it all hinges on the grain supply. Let an insurrection flare up in Palestine, and Romans continue eating. But if Alexandria revolts, a quarter of the populace back home has no bread…Now, if something big develops and you get stoned out of Jerusalem, send word and I’ll back you up. Probably with my Third or Twenty-second Legion.”

  “I’ll write if I face any large problems”—Pilate smiled—“so you should be hearing from me soon.”

  The next day, with copious thanks to Gaius Galerius and his wife, Pilate, his household and staff embarked on the final leg of their journey.

  Chapter 5

  A craft only half the size of the Trident carried them on the short run to Caesarea, but its triangular lateen sail cut well against the exuberant gusts of the south wind, providing a rough but quick voyage across the Mediterranean corner. On the second day out, the sandy shores of Palestine showed clearly on the eastern horizon.

  Pilate spent most of the trip trying out his Greek on the captain, since this was the predominating language of the eastern Mediterranean. Like most educated Romans, he had mastered Greek before donning the toga of manhood, but there was the usual gap between book and practice. Except for conversations with Procula, orders to his staff, and correspondence with Rome, Pilate would not use Latin again during his tenure as governor. Since he did not know Hebrew or Aramaic, all communication with his subjects would have to be in common, commercial Greek.

  Caesarea, the Roman administrative capital of Judea, reflected a dusky gold from the setting sun at the close of the second day of their voyage. Pilate and Procula had been concerned about Caesarea because, like it or not, this would be their home for as long as Tiberius continued him in office. Seeing it the first time was a little like a groom unveiling a bride he had never previously met: one could only accept the inevitable.

  As the ship neared the harbor, they were pleasantly startled by the size of the city. This was certainly not the smallest of Rome’s provincial capitals and would, they hoped, offer a certain cosmopolitan way of life that might remind them of Rome. Nature had molded the west coast of Palestine into a very rectilinear shoreline, and there was hardly an indentation in the vast, extended beach to use in building a harbor. Undaunted, Herod the Great had created one artificially at Caesarea. By driving huge stone pilings into the sea bottom in a semicircular arc in front of the city, he fashioned a great mole which was two hundred feet wide and absolutely impervious to Mediterranean storms. Jutting up from this jetty were towers in which mariners lived while their ships were in port. The great harbor, the captain assured Pilate, compared favorably with the port of Athens itself.

  A sharp starboard tack carried the ship through the harbor narrows and between six great stone colossi rising from the ends of the interrupted jetty. A forest of masts and hulls seemed to grow out of the placid turquoise waters of the harbor, which were crisscrossed by a labyrinth of quays. Pilate had heard earlier the comparison between the ports of Caesarea and Athens, but had always written it off as exaggeration. Now he was less inclined to do so.

  Caesarea’s skyline seemed extraordinarily impressive to Procula, too grand for what she had heard of Palestine, and she asked the captain about it. He explained that the city was built at one time—a dozen-year period; of predominantly one building material—white stone; in one architectural motif—Hellenistic columnar; and by one man—Herod the Great. With such unitary planning, the result was a civic work of art. Herod had lavished vast sums on Caesarea and named it in honor of his close friend and patron, Caesar Augustus. His temple, resembling a slightly scaled-down version of the immortal Parthenon, crowned a summit overlooking the harbor. Just off the waterfront, they saw a series of government buildings, all gracefully columned in Doric, and, farther off, the unmistakable shapes of an amphitheater as well as a dramatic theater.

  When their ship docked, an honor guard blew a trumpet fanfare and then escorted Pilate’s party from the central receiving wharf to the palace of Herod. Procula thought it a bad omen: unquestionably, the retiring governor, Valerius Gratus, should have been at dockside to welcome his successor officially, a matter of common state courtesy. Certainly there were enough curious Syrians and Jews lining the harbor to witness the arrival of their new governor, even though it was getting dark and flickering torches started to appear. Pilate agreed that it was a breach of courtesy, and wondered what excuses Gratus would manufacture.

  “I have it, Procula,” he murmured. “Gratus is probably angry that I took so long in arriving. He’s been writing for release ever since the new year, I understand.”

  “Maybe that’s it,” she agreed, “yet it’s still no reason for such a snub.”

  But at the entrance to the Herodian palace, the wife of Valerius Gratus apologized, “Forgive my husband for not meeting you at the harbor,” said the stately Roman matron, who was much older than Procula, “but he’s been ill with a recurring fever. Today was one of his worst days.”

  She showed them to the guest quarters, and her manner was so gracious that they thought the medical excuse might have some validity. The next morning they were sure of it. Gratus greeted them with cordiality and regrets for his indisposition, which verified itself by his pallor and trembling hand.

  “This sickness runs in cycles. Give me a short time and I’ll be strong again,” he said. “I must say, Pilate, I’m relieved by your arrival. I’ve put in eleven years here, so I think we exiles are entitled to return whence we came.”

  Gratus was a stout, middle-aged figure, balding, gray at the temples, but aging with dignity. Flashing, steel-colored eyes sparked his conversation and seemed to compensate for his ashen skin.

  “I wish we’d arrived sooner than this,” Pilate apologized, “but Tiberius showed a good bit of indecision on whether you should be repl
aced. One parts with good governors only reluctantly.”

  “Show that kind of diplomacy, my man, and you should have no trouble with the Jews,” laughed Gratus. “But before anything else, you must tell me all the news of Rome. Out here we get only wisps of gossip and official reports.”

  For the next hour or so, Pilate had to reconstruct Rome as he had left it a month earlier. Clearly, Gratus was eager to return.

  After wringing the last shred of information out of Pilate, he said, “We have much to accomplish in the short time we’ll be together here. You see, we’re all packed and ready to sail before navigation closes. An Alexandrian ship will pick us up in a few days.”

  While his wife showed Procula the dining salons, the kitchen complex, storerooms, bedrooms, and the servants’ quarters, Gratus took his successor on a tour of the atrium, peristyle, and state rooms. Herod’s palace much resembled an elaborate Greco-Roman mansion, Pilate thought, but with such additional items as tropical courtyards, a private bathing pool, and the praetorium or government headquarters at the center of the structure. Then too, a military barracks adjoined the palace to ensure its safety. This would be Pilate’s official residence throughout his tenure as prefect of Judea, and his cultivated tastes found Herod’s beautifully ornamented palace an aesthetic delight.

  The tour of Caesarea was equally impressive. Like Alexandria, the city was laid out with streets crossing each other at right angles and major arteries converging on a busy Forum-like public square. Less than forty years old, Caesarea lay almost painfully white in the brilliant Levantine sun, securely ensconced in a semicircular city wall. A huge hippodrome stood just outside the east wall, a consoling sight for the new prefect, since he would not have to surrender his Roman’s penchant for sports and chariot racing. Indeed, Gratus told him that an institution called “Caesar’s Games,” a kind of Palestinian Olympics, was held there every five years. While Jews would not take part in them, the many gentile residents of Caesarea and neighboring cities participated with gusto.

  “Herod built all this?” Pilate puzzled. “His name doesn’t enjoy this kind of reputation in Rome. We remember him only as the man who was continually writing Augustus for permission to kill his own sons on suspicion of treason. Wasn’t it the princeps himself who finally said, ‘I’d rather be Herod’s pig than his son’? Pork, at least, isn’t slaughtered for consumption among the Jews.”

  “Yes,” replied Gratus, “but that was when Herod was old and a little deranged. The young Herod cut a very dashing figure, with all the exceptional qualities of his father Antipater. By the bloody club of Hercules, that house surely knew when to switch allegiances! They shifted from Pompey to Caesar. After the Ides, they switched from Caesar to Cassius, then from Cassius to Antony. And finally they exchanged Antony for Augustus. Each time the proper substitution; so correct, so well-timed it nearly brings tears to the eye!”

  “Yes, but—”

  “The young Herod, I say. There was a man! It was four years after the assassination of Caesar when Herod first came to Rome. He had no army, no money, no real support in Judea. He offered only the loyalty of his house, and that was enough, apparently. Mark Antony took up his cause and presented him to the Senate, citing the services of his father Antipater. The Senate debated briefly, then declared him King of Judea. And, ten years later, Augustus generously reconfirmed that kingship.”

  Gratus paused and reflected. “This is all part of Herod’s gratitude—Caesarea,” he said, spreading his open hands out over the city. “And the man never stopped building. He had a regular mania for constructing palaces, fortresses, temples, aqueducts, cities. His greatest project, of course, was the new temple in Jerusalem.”

  “Built at the cost of some very heavy taxation, I hear,” Pilate added. “But tell me, where did he go wrong?”

  “It’s a tragic history,” Gratus admitted. “The man eventually killed…let’s see…his wife, her grandfather…his mother-in-law…his brother-in-law…and three of his sons. Yes, that’s it. But the real villain in the story was his dear sister Salome. She was so jealous of Herod’s wife that she sowed the seeds of suspicion in that family for years, concocting monstrous lies about everyone in the palace. And her brother believed them all!”

  “Your predecessor Rufus told me—”

  “Annius Rufus!” Gratus exclaimed. “And how is that son of Bacchus? I hear he’s done quite well for himself in Rome.”

  “Rufus is fine. But he told me something so ghastly about Herod it must be a myth. Supposedly, Herod was worried that no one would mourn his death—a justified concern! So he issued orders from his deathbed that leaders from all parts of Judea were to be locked into the hippodrome at Jericho. When he died, archers were to massacre these thousands in cold blood, so there would indeed be universal mourning associated with his death. True?”

  “That was the plan, and it did get as far as crowding the Jews into the hippodrome. But when Herod finally did die, sister Salome countermanded his orders and released the Jews, the only good thing she ever did.” Gratus pondered a moment, then continued, “Herod did succeed in committing one public atrocity, though. It was in his final months: a slaughter of babies in Bethlehem, a small village near Jerusalem.”

  “You’re joking, of course.”

  “No, no. All the male infants in town were murdered. A horrible affair! It seems a caravan of astrologers came to Jerusalem and asked Herod one of the most undiplomatic questions imaginable: ‘Where is the newly born King of the Jews?’ Mind you, not a tactful, ‘Where is the new prince who will one day succeed you?’ but, in effect: ‘Where is the real king, you imposter?’ Imagine what must have gone through Herod’s mind!”

  “It’s a wonder Herod didn’t clap them in irons.” Pilate smiled.

  “Oh no. Herod was much too smart for that. He had to find his king first. He asked the astrologers how they came by this quest, and they told him they had seen a great, traveling star which led them to Jerusalem.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  “Shortly before Herod’s death, say, about the twenty-fourth or twenty-fifth year of Augustus’s reign.”

  “Precisely, then. Thrasyllus, Tiberius’s pet astrologer, told me to ask about that star when I arrived here. Can you tell me anything more?”

  “No. I wasn’t here at the time, of course.”

  “Well, how do the babies fit in?”

  “Herod consulted the chief priests, and their sacred writings indicated that a Messiah-king would be born in Bethlehem. So he sent them there under the condition that they return to tell him where the regal infant was. But they suspected that the king was up to no good, and they never returned to tell him. Actually, it’s a shame they didn’t, because then only one baby would have died; whereas Herod was so angry at being tricked that he ordered his men to slaughter every last infant in town.”

  “So the little ‘Messiah-king’ died too, then?”

  “Yes, evidently. At least no ‘King of the Jews’ has shown up in Judea since then. Every so-called Messiah who has turned up so far has been a fake, a rabble rouser, or self-appointed revolutionary who succeeds only in getting himself and his followers executed. But let me warn you of one thing, Pilate. If any impressive leader develops who speaks with authority and commands deep loyalties from a broad base of Jews, another Judas Maccabaeus or better, then prepare for the worst. He may declare a holy war of independence against Rome. In the long run, of course, Rome would merely pick up a swatter and swat the Judean fly. But you and your auxiliary troops would probably be crushed before assisting legions arrived, unless you were flexible and prepared.”

  “In such a situation, I’d first call in Pacuvius from Antioch, correct?”

  “Yes, he’s acting legate there in place of Aelius Lamia, who never quite made it to Syria.” Gratus smiled. “Pacuvius would probably send down his Legio XII Fulminata, the ‘Thundering Twelfth Legion,’ and, if necessary, Legio VI Ferrata, the ‘Iron-Clad Sixth.’”

  “
Anything like this ever happen during your term of office?”

  “No. And it probably won’t during yours.”

  Pilate cupped his chin in his hand and commented, “There’s one thing I don’t understand. Why this desire for independence here? The Jews I saw in Alexandria seemed content, even happy, under Roman rule. They aren’t—”

  “You miss the point, Pilate. The Jew in his homeland and the Jew in foreign countries are cousins, not brothers. There’s quite a difference. Here in Judea, the people think it’s heresy not to be ruled by their own priests. Their normal form of government, they insist, is a theocracy, a rule by God. Any foreign control is regarded as a purely temporary arrangement, a divine chastisement which will be suspended when the Messiah comes. This land belongs to the Chosen People, they argue, and they must rule it. A Jewish priest once showed me a passage from their law which clarifies this attitude. It runs something like this: ‘You must not put a foreigner over you who is not your brother.’”

  “Gratus, your policies have certainly been successful here in Judea—”

  “I doubt that the Judeans would agree.” Gratus chuckled with the attitude of one who failed to regard that prospect as a criterion of failure.

  “Rome’s been satisfied, or you wouldn’t have remained here eleven years. Now what quintessence of wisdom can you leave behind to assist a neophyte provincial governor?”

  Gratus thought for a moment, then replied, “Let the Judeans know that you are firmly in charge—at all times; that you are here to act, not react; that you will brook no civil discord. Let the Zealot party detect even a hint of irresolution, a solitary act of vacillation, and they will build on it, plan around it, and hound you into concessions. Be firm, Pilate, be firm.”