by Paul L Maier
Pilate received a committee of spokesmen and made only one inquiry: “Did the high priest, Joseph Caiaphas, or his father Annas accompany you?”
“No, Excellency,” one of them replied.
“Honored Rabbis,” said Pilate, “I shall reply to your petition tomorrow after consulting with my council of state. I am sure you understand.” When this drew no objection, Pilate dismissed the Jewish leaders with a tactful suggestion that they do something to disperse the mass of people outside.
Later, he was appalled to learn that the multitude of Jews was not breaking up for the day, but simply adjusting to spending the night where they were, in the great square adjoining the Herodian palace. They had resolved not to move until their Holy City was rid of its sacrilege. It became a study in human adaptation. Those who had planned ahead now unloaded tents from the backs of braying burros, but most of the people simply spread out blankets and used staffs to support sheets for protection against the chilly November winds. Meanwhile, the merchants of Caesarea eagerly descended on this ready-made market with food, wine, and other items for sale at inflated prices.
Pilate viewed the scene from a lofty palace balcony. “I’ll not negotiate under pressure!” He cursed softly. Rome never permitted it from anyone, ever, under any circumstances, and here it was taking place before his eyes. His resolve focused on two words, “Be firm”—the most-repeated piece of advice he had received from everyone with whom he had discussed Judea. Now, then, was the time to be firm.
In debating the crisis with his council, Pilate demanded to know why he had not been better informed on Jewish sensitivity to images. The advisers might have replied that their opinions had not been solicited at the time, but more diplomatically, they explained that the Augustan Cohort had not been stationed in Jerusalem since its iconic ensigns had been awarded, therefore the present issue was unprecedented.
All agreed that for Pilate to accede to the Jewish demands at this time would set a bad precedent for his administration. It might be misinterpreted as weakness, the one sin Rome would not tolerate in her governors, for weakness bred rebellion.
Pilate and his council drew up a reply to the Jewish petition which rejected any removal of the medallions, on the following bases: (1) The ensigns were designed for and owned by Romans and the Roman military, not Jews; (2) Jews were not to draw religious conclusions from military customs which did not concern them; (3) Jews were not required to reverence the standards, and since Rome left Jewish practices and customs unmolested, why should Jews not exercise a similar tolerance toward Romans? (4) To tamper with its choicest military medallions would unnecessarily penalize the worthy Augustan Cohort.
A final item was written in darker letters to indicate its importance as an argument that could stand even if the rest fell away: “Removing their imperial effigies from the cohort’s standards would be a direct and unforgivable insult to the majesties of Caesar Augustus and Tiberius Caesar.”
The next morning, the committee of spokesmen for the mass delegation was invited to appear before Pilate and his council, and the reply was handed to them in written form. The priests and scribes read it, then struck their breasts in sorrow. Several younger rabbis challenged the statement that Rome left Jewish customs unmolested by pointing out the obvious interference of Valerius Gratus in changing the high-priesthood five different times. But it became increasingly apparent that Pilate and his council would not concede on any point.
Finally, an elderly priest with sun-bleached beard and leather-brown skin consulted briefly with the rest, uttered a prayer in Hebrew, and then told Pilate defiantly, “We cannot allow the abolition of our ancient laws. We shall remain here in Caesarea and pray that God will lead you to remove the accursed abomination from Jerusalem!”
“Amen!” “Amen!” the others agreed. Then they left to join their people.
“Maybe they aren’t representative,” ventured Pilate. “Centurion, read this reply aloud from the dais in front of the palace. Perhaps the people will see the obvious logic in our stand.” Then he added, “But save the part about our rejecting their petition until the end.”
The centurion did as directed, but a roar of disapproval swelled as the refusal became obvious. At the close, the massed thousands took up the cry, “REMOVE THE ABOMINATIONS! AWAY WITH THE IDOLS!” The priests, it seemed, were representative indeed.
Pilate and his advisers listened to the tumult for several minutes from the palace balcony, then descended to a rear garden for an outdoor lunch. Pilate was making a strong effort to appear unruffled in this, his first crisis. That, he knew, would be in character for a strong governor. “A little wine, a little music, colleagues, and we transcend the clamoring crowd,” he quipped, trying to cite an author he could not quite remember. A pipe, horn, and lyre ensemble tried heroically to defeat the sound of the chanting multitude, as the prefect dined with his council.
“That mob will soon tire of shouting, then tire of standing, and finally tire of Caesarea,” a tribune laughed. “I’ll wager half of them will be gone before sundown, and the rest will leave when the chill comes on after supper.”
It seemed an accurate prediction, for by the time they had finished lunch, the chanting had indeed stopped and Pilate received congratulations for the way he handled his first encounter with the Jews.
Early the next morning, Pilate confidently climbed up to his balcony to survey the square in front of his palace, certain it would be empty of people but for a few fanatic diehards. He had already dispatched a squad of troops to clean up the litter that would be left by the departed throng.
He looked out over the balustrade and cringed; if anything, the masses had grown during the night. Scattered shouts began to ricochet among the jews—“Look! There’s the prefect!”—and a thousand arms pointed toward the balcony. A colossal blanket of people, ruddy orange in the rising sun, came quivering to life. They stood up and started shouting, “Remove the idols!”
Pilate jerked himself away from the railing and retreated inside the palace. Now angry rather than startled, he summoned his staff and announced orders for the day: “One cohort to guard the palace—yours takes over today, Tribune—but it will be normal routine for the rest of you. That mob can shout till its voice is a gravelly whisper! We’ve tried to reason with them, but the emperor’s honor must be preserved. Tribune, tell your men not to antagonize the crowd, but be prepared to defend yourselves if necessary.”
It became an exasperating day, with tempers getting shorter each passing hour. Periodically the clamor grew intense, then it would vanish for several hours. From the women’s quarters of the palace, Procula looked down at the multitude, ill with uncertainty but trying to manage a confident front for her husband. She wanted to plead with him to give in. After all, what were a few military emblems compared to the peace of a nation? But she knew better than to inject herself into affairs of state. From the first reports of turmoil in Jerusalem, she had had a premonition that the affair would expand into major trouble for her husband, but she had not expected to have thousands camping on her doorstep. What if it came to violence? She was sure that the noisy mob could overwhelm the palace guard. For the first time in her life, Procula knew fear—haunting, numbing fear.
The third day it rained. Pilate looked up at the clouds and was jubilant. “Ave, Jupiter Pluvius! More, you Rainbringer!” And as if in response, a heavy squall blew in from the Mediterranean, unleashing a deluge upon the protesting throng. A relentless, soaking drizzle followed.
Soldiers reported that some of the Jews were starting to leave the square. “Fine. How many?” Pilate inquired. He dispatched couriers to take counts at the three points of exit. A half hour later they returned to report, “According to our tally, about twenty-seven people left during the squall, and—”
“What! Only twenty-seven out of all those thousands?”
“They were the very aged. I understand the priests instructed them to leave.”
“Incredible!”
That evening, dozens of campfires illuminated the square as the Jews dried their clothes and warmed themselves against the bleak November night. They joined in singing some plaintive folk songs, which penetrated the palace as if it had walls of gauze instead of stone. One haunting psalm tune seemed to be repeated often, with everyone joining in the singing. Procula asked one of her attendants who knew Hebrew about it. “Oh, that’s very familiar, very sacred to them,” she said, and then supplied a translation.
God is our refuge and strength—a well-proven help in trouble.
So we will not fear though the earth should change
—or mountains quake in the heart of the sea.
The other nations rage, their kingdoms totter
—He utters his voice, the earth melts.
He makes wars cease throughout the earth
—He breaks the bow, shatters the spear, burns the chariots.
“Be still, and know that I am God.
—I am exalted among the nations, exalted in the earth!”
The Lord of hosts is with us—the God of Jacob is our refuge.
“Why that’s beautiful poetry,” Procula commented.
“Their mythology leaves no doubt as to who is in charge of the world,” Pilate observed.
“Only this isn’t mythology to the Jews, Excellency,” Procula’s attendant replied. “They believe their god truly possesses this majesty.”
“If Romans had one-quarter of their faith,” Procula noted, “Augustus wouldn’t have had to legislate religion or take citizens by the scruff of the neck and make them sacrifice to the gods.”
“But if it breeds this kind of fanaticism—adult, presumably intelligent people inviting illness—then Judaism commands my sympathy, not my admiration.”
Pilate, of course, could not forget the mass at his door, and that night he even dreamed about the multitude. He was on the dais in front of the palace, holding a huge ensign from which dangled two enormous iconic disks with the imperial busts. On the balcony were Tiberius and Sejanus, glaring down at him as if anticipating weakness on his part. The mob howled in a ghastly frenzy, but Pilate refused to give in. Finally the Jews stormed the dais, clutched at the disks, and triumphantly tore them to tatters. With a hideous scowl, Tiberius ordered a review of Pilate’s cohorts and sentenced them to decimation, that terrible military punishment for failure which selected every tenth man for execution by flogging before the eyes of the rest of the troops. The grisly tally ended with a ninth man at the end of the ranks. Pointing a quaking finger at Pilate with a malicious leer on his pock-marked face, Tiberius ordered that he be the final tenth—a terror which lurched him awake. But behind the grotesque caricature of the nocturnal fantasy had been a certain grim logic, Pilate thought.
And now it was the fourth day. The crowd had not budged. Pilate turned the palace over to his highest-ranking tribune, ordered a carriage and guard, and retreated with Procula into the countryside. Since the conveyance could be closed against public gaze, there was no difficulty escaping the people, and Pilate felt entitled to a brief rest. They turned north up the coast road toward the grandeur of Mount Carmel, trying to shed their common concern before the spectacular seascapes along that part of the Palestinian coast. The storm of the previous day had cleared the air, and it seemed that spring, not winter, was approaching.
There was no conversation about the Jewish demonstration. They had finally discussed it the previous night, but without resolution. He would not retreat where Rome’s honor was concerned, while she urged him to concede such minutiae as the medallions in order to keep the peace. Only she regretted using the word “minutiae,” since Pilate had nearly exploded at it, delivering a heated lecture on the consequences if Tiberius learned that his bust had been removed from regimental colors.
For the first time Pilate wondered what would happen if events actually came to bloodshed in Caesarea. Would it spark a general revolt in Judea? An angry mob in one city was not that dangerous, but a whole province in arms was something else, and certainly more than five cohorts could handle. When he had suggested to Sejanus that Judea might be undermanned, the only answer he received was: “Just 1,200 men, strategically placed, control all Gaul. A mere score of lictors keep the peace in Asia Minor. You should have no trouble in little Judea, Pilate. We need our legions on the frontiers.” At the time he had recoiled with embarrassment. Now he wished he had expressed a strong counterargument: unlike Gaul or Asia, Judea was practically the only rebel province in the Roman Empire, having been torn by twelve major rebellions since its conquest.
The outing did little good. It was not even an escape, since nature seemed to conspire with the Jews in reminding Pilate of their protest. The panorama of whitecaps rolling in from the Mediterranean looked like the Jewish thousands. The tiers of pine trees staring down at them from the somber green hills were the Jewish thousands. Even the approaching rows of white clouds high in the northern sky were the Jewish thousands. Pilate ordered his driver to turn back to Caesarea.
The fifth day of the protest saw a dangerous complication developing. The gentile population of Caesarea grew hostile to the demonstration, for it had now interrupted business. In reaction against inflated local prices, the Jews were managing to import their own provisions. The Caesareans busily organized counterdemonstrations, which lavished appropriate insults and catcalls from the surrounding perimeter. One group of town youths released some stolen pigs into the plaza, which the Jews angrily beat off into a squealing retreat. Other gentiles drew rude, insulting portraits of Jews on large sheets of papyrus and hung them from buildings bordering the square.
A few more provocations and Pilate knew it would come to bloodshed, a civil war in his capital less than two months after his arrival—a handsome entry on his record back in Rome! Clearly, the disturbance would have to be terminated.
Following a strategy meeting with his council, he mobilized two local cohorts and ordered a third to come over from Sebaste. Early the next morning, trumpeters silenced the crowd for an announcement. A herald called out that the prefect of Judea would personally reply to their petition from his tribunal in the great stadium at the southeastern edge of town. The people were to assemble there within the hour. The throng hesitated, waited for instructions from the priests, and then did as directed.
The governor’s tribunal or judgment seat could be set up anywhere at will, since it was the portable raised platform used by the Roman magistrate whenever and wherever he acted in official capacity. Obviously, the tribunal might have been erected in front of the palace to accommodate the multitude, but Pilate wanted to raise the siege of his palace and evacuate the plaza.
All the lower tiers of carved stone seats in the great hippodrome at Caesarea were filled with the mass of Jews. Preceded by lictors as he ascended his tribunal, the prefect of Judea was arrayed in a gleaming official toga that flashed more than a modest amount of imperial purple. To inaugurate the ceremonial, a trumpet corps blasted out a fanfare as the golden eagle which symbolized Rome and the purple governor’s standard—Sejanus’s gift at Puteoli—were mounted at the center of the dais. The fluttering pennant with its image of Tiberius caused no crisis, since priests passed the word that Caesarea was not the Holy City, but merely the pagan capital of a foreign power.
As a concession, Pilate did refrain from taking omens or offering public sacrifice. The Jewish leaders were stationed in front of the tribunal, and now they formally renewed their petition for the removal of the hated medallions from Jerusalem.
“You permit no images of any kind? No pictures or portraits? No sculpture?” Pilate inquired.
“No,” they replied.
“Perhaps I can understand your aversion to foreign themes in your art, but have you no representations of even Jewish people or Jewish things?”
“No. Making graven images contradicts the law of Moses and the word of God,” replied Rabbi Eleazar, who was one of the spokesmen.
“Have you no art, then?”
&n
bsp; “No pictorial or representative art…only ornamentation and architecture.”
“On that point, gentlemen, you are either playing with the truth or are amazingly uninformed,” countered Pilate, with the half-smiling assurance of one armed with a surprise argument. “I’ve heard that Jews in Mesopotamia paint pictorial frescoes on the walls of their synagogues, no less, while I know for a fact that Jews in Rome draw and sculpt figures of human beings on their burial vaults.”
“Don’t conclude from the sins of our cousins, far-removed from the Holy City, what our true doctrines are,” exclaimed Ishmael ben-Phabi, the incarnation of Judean orthodoxy.
“What about the golden eagle which Herod placed over the very gate of your temple?”
“That was torn down by the people even before his death.”
“What about your coinage, then? Don’t you carry silver denarii with Tiberius Caesar’s image and superscription on them?”
Momentarily the priests paused to ponder Pilate’s argument. Then Rabbi Helcias, the temple treasurer, replied, “Because we must pay tribute to Rome, we must perforce use Rome’s money. But such denarii are never used for tithe offerings at the temple. Also, we attach no religious significance to coinage as you do to your standards. This is the difference.”
“We don’t ask you to worship our standards!” said Pilate, raising his voice, astonished that his argument did not penetrate.