Pontius Pilate: A Novel

by Paul L Maier

  But he was not above doing the same thing. Calling a conference with Joseph Caiaphas and leaders of the Sanhedrin, he announced the new imperial policy toward Judea, reading them excerpts from Tiberius’s letter. The Jewish authorities were heartened at the dramatic change, and there were tears in the eyes of saintly Rabbi Zadok, who, two years earlier, had begun what became an intermittent forty-year fast for the safety of Jerusalem. At long last, it seemed to them, healing might yet close the inflamed wounds of Judeo-Roman relations. And when, during that Passover, Pilate appeared publicly before the crowds to announce from his tribunal the annual release of a popular prisoner, he was actually cheered by the people. He could scarcely trust his ears.

  Just when Pilate’s relations with his subjects were finally improving, a new storm suddenly chilled the atmosphere. The first rumblings had been the report of a crowd advancing on the palace, led, incredibly, by Herod’s four sons.

  But it was an orderly demonstration—there were no hoots or shouting—and the leaders of the procession were admitted into the palace when they requested an audience with the prefect.

  Pilate came out to the vestibule and saw the tetrarch of Galilee. “Greetings, Antipas,” he began affably. “Have you come to repossess your father’s palace?”

  “No, friend”—he smiled—“the Hasmonean palace is quite enough for us. You know my brother Philip the tetrarch.”

  “Of course. Congratulations on your marriage to the beautiful Salome, Philip.”

  “…and my brother Herod-Philip.”

  “Pleased to see you again.” Pilate could hardly refrain from saying instead, “Oh yes, Herodias’s one-time husband, cuckolded by the man introducing you!”

  “…and my third brother here you’ve not met. His name is also Herod, my father’s son by Cleopatra of Jerusalem…And several of the chief priests and members of the Sanhedrin have joined us, as you see.”

  “You are welcome, gentlemen,” said Pilate, still wondering what had prompted such a visit, reinforced, as it was, by several hundred citizens at the palace gates.

  “I wonder if we might be permitted to view the interior of the great reception hall of the palace,” Antipas inquired.

  “Of course. This way, gentlemen.”

  Pilate conducted the delegation into the hall, now handsomely ornamented with the golden shields. Immediately an animated conversation in Hebrew broke out among the Sanhedrists, while the Herodian brothers said nothing. Pilate could not understand the priests, but they were obviously discussing the shields, since they approached each and examined it carefully. There were sighs, head shaking, and louder Hebrew. Then the priests called the sons of Herod into a huddled consultation, from which Pilate was again excluded. Minutes passed.

  Finally Antipas broke out of the group and asked, “How long have these gilded shields been hanging here in the palace, Prefect?”

  “About a week. Why?”

  Antipas drew in a long breath and said, “It’s simply that the Jews find the shields offensive, and they—”

  “Do you mean that your delegation and all the people outside came to complain about these simple shields?” Pilate snapped, his ire building.

  “Yes…”

  “How did you all even learn about the shields in the first place?”

  “Several of the Jewish palace servants were troubled about them,” replied Rabbi Ananias, “and they inquired if the shields were contrary to our laws. Later, the public learned about the new abominations and—”

  “Abominations!” Pilate fumed. “I took extreme care that the shields be fashioned so as not to offend your laws. They represent no living thing in heaven or earth. Or hell, for that matter! Look at them. They have no images, gentlemen. Why the objection?”

  Ananias replied with a cool serenity which contrasted with Pilate’s agitation and further infuriated him. “The shields are pagan trophies erected by a foreign power within the walls of our Holy City. Doubtless they also have a sacred significance for you.”

  “They have no religious implication whatever!”

  “Naturally we have no objection to your honoring the emperor in any way you see fit outside the Holy City. But these engraved shields cannot be tolerated within Jerusalem. In the name of the Sanhedrin and of the Jewish nation, we respectfully request that they be removed as soon as possible.”

  “But you misinterpret these ornaments. They bear only the emperor’s name and mine, as the donor. What sacral implications could possibly be involved?”

  “Do you deny that the medallions which you tried to introduce into Jerusalem some years ago had religious significance?” Rabbi Alexander interjected.

  “How long do you people carry a grudge? How long, I ask you,” Pilate exploded. “Or did you forget that I removed the standards?”

  “It’s just this, Prefect,” Philip interposed, trying to play a mediating role. “The people knew that the ensigns had a strong religious significance for the troops, and what is a shield but as much a part of military equipment as standards. How then can the people believe the shields are free of cultic significance?”

  “And not only that, Tetrarch Philip,” the illustrious scribe Jochanan ben-Zakkai interjected. “Prefect, are you being entirely honest with us when you say these shields are religiously neutral?”

  “Are you daring to impugn my veracity?”

  “Certainly not. But does the term ancile mean anything to you?”

  Suddenly Pilate caught the significance, though he could not imagine ben-Zakkai learned enough to know of that minute detail from Roman history. At the same time, he could not afford to bluff in case the rabbi knew his ground, so he asked, lamely, “What are you driving at?”

  “It was in the era of the early Roman monarchy, during the reign of your King Numa Pompilius. A sacred oval shield, the ancile, supposedly fell from heaven. Your priests declared that the shield guaranteed divine protection for the city of Rome, so it was zealously guarded. Numa was so worried that someone might steal the holy shield that he had eleven others fashioned exactly like it, so that the genuine one could not be distinguished and stolen. The twelve shields were then entrusted to the pagan god Mars and his priests. And Prefect, I find it significant that you also had a plurality of shields prepared…But the meaning of your inscription must now be clear: May Mars guard the emperor and the city of Rome through the sacred shield of Numa! And this paganism in our Holy City!”

  Pilate was impressed by ben-Zakkai’s knowledge, even if he himself had not recalled the myth of Numa’s shield when preparing the trophies for his palace. “I applaud your knowledge of our past, learned Rabbi,” he said, “and you are right about Numa and the shields. In fact, the priests of Mars troop through Rome every March, clutching their shields as they sing and dance. But I swear to you by your own god that I was not motivated by the story of Numa. For that matter, I don’t even believe in the myth, or in Mars either—I’m not a very religious person, in fact. And you are wrong in supposing that this style of shield harks back to Numa. His were small oval shields, whereas these are round military shields which we call the clipeus, not the ancile.”

  The delegation briefly exchanged thoughts in Hebrew. Then Rabbi Ananias said, “In the context of your previous indiscretions concerning our customs, and in view of the pagan significance of Roman shields in general, however unintended on your part, we must insist that they be removed from Jerusalem.”

  Now angry again, Pilate countered, “But one of your own rabbis in Caesarea stated that nothing offensive was engraved on the shields. I took pains—”

  “And we would agree. The written message does not offend us; but the shields themselves do.”

  Pilate knew it was time to unleash his master stroke. He did not think he would have to use it, but apparently nothing less than such a logical bolt would convince the priests. “Have any of you visited the synagogues in Alexandria?” he inquired. “Do you know how your brothers in the faith honor the emperor in Egypt? They dedicate votiv
e shields to him. And they hang the shields on the very walls of their synagogues! Not in the public basilicas, mind you. Not in their homes. But in their houses of worship. Their synagogues also boast pillars, golden crowns, plaques—all inscribed in Tiberius’s honor! I saw them when I was in Egypt. And now you object when a Roman governor honors his emperor within his own praetorium in a similar fashion! Have you no sense of fair play, no decency? Must your people complain and object, agitate and demonstrate continually, and for no justified cause—just when we had hoped our relations would improve?”

  Several of the priests looked somewhat nonplused. But Rabbi Ananias replied in his now-familiar, lofty tone, “So far as our brethren in Alexandria are concerned, we shall pray for them. They erred in ignorance and we shall so inform them.”

  Antipas, who had remained aloof from the discussion thus far, gently urged Pilate, “You’d better remove the shields. They have become a pagan symbol, an unnecessary show of Roman dominance in the very heart of the Holy City. You’re doing the same thing my father tried to do: please Rome at the expense of Jewish sensitivities. And the Jews hated him for it.—You won’t be able to convince the people.”

  “Well, why don’t you convince them, then, Antipas?” Pilate glared. “As a fellow governor of this troubled territory, you’d do better supporting a colleague than helping to lead a demonstration against him. Does your own record in Galilee show you off as a paragon of Jewish orthodoxy?”

  The debate had now reached the level of personalities, and Antipas was quick to reply in kind. “I find it amusing, Prefect, that you should hurry to hang up these shields just at this time. Could it be because of a certain crisis, involving the fall of a certain individual in Rome?”

  What nettled Pilate was not so much the verbal thrust, which was true to the mark, but the sneer with which Antipas spilled the words from his mouth. And this new pose as champion of the Sanhedrin was nauseating—brother’s wife-stealing adulterer and prophet-killer now playing hero of the faith.

  “My past association with Aelius Sejanus is certainly common knowledge,” Pilate stated with all the dignity he could muster. “And so is yours, Tetrarch.”

  The two glowered at each other briefly before Pilate turned to the rest of the delegation and said, “A matter of principle is involved here, gentlemen. If I were to remove the shields, not only would it be a tacit admission that they were in fact religious after all—and they are not—but this would be the supreme insult to Tiberius Caesar. Imagine his learning that six gilded shields were dedicated in his honor at the Jerusalem praetorium, and then discovering that they had to be removed because of popular pressure.”

  “Nevertheless,” objected Ananias, “unless you can produce a document from the emperor indicating that our customs are to be subverted, we must categorically insist, as a matter of conscience, that the shields be removed from Jerusalem. Don’t be responsible for destroying the peace, Prefect. You don’t honor the emperor by dishonoring our laws. If you fail to grant our request, we shall have to choose envoys to present our case before Tiberius Caesar.”

  The suggestion of going over his head would have been unwelcome to Pilate under any circumstances, but in his present tenuous position it was particularly distasteful. On the other hand, Tiberius’s learning that the sample shield sent to Capri was just a mockery since the originals had been taken down would be even worse. Besides, the priests were probably bluffing. Pilate would meet the test.

  “Choose your wisest representatives then, Rabbi Ananias,” he replied, “for their mission will not be a happy one. In essence, they’ll have to ask, ‘O, Emperor, may we please dishonor you by removing trophies inscribed in your honor?’” Pilate paused, then continued, “I repeat: these are harmless, secular mementos, which have nothing to do with religion, and they’re hanging in Roman territory, in a Roman praetorium, and away from any possible glimpse by the public. Therefore the shields will not be disturbed. And so far as that crowd is concerned, I’ll hold all of you personally responsible for dispersing it peacefully. Good day, gentlemen.”

  The Herodian brothers and the Sanhedrists left the palace to address the people. Pilate could not hear what was said, but it must have been something placating, since the crowd turned away without incident and dissolved into the city.

  There were no subsequent riots in Jerusalem. When Pilate left the city for Caesarea at the close of the Passover celebration, he felt for the first time that he was governor of Judea in fact.

  Chapter 15

  One day, the centurion Cornelius proposed “a fresh solution to the problem of Jew versus Roman.” Pilate, of course, was more than curious, but all Cornelius suggested was “Intermarriage.” Pilate was sure he had not heard correctly. Then the centurion broke his glad news. He, an imperious Roman, had surrendered to the charms of a Jewish girl from Caesarea, and they planned to be married—with Pilate’s permission, of course. It was quite the only solution to Judeo-Roman antagonisms, Cornelius twitted.

  Pilate assumed he was jesting, until the centurion presented his bride-to-be. She was a striking girl of seventeen, whom Pilate already knew well as one of Procula’s palace attendants. Cornelius claimed she would have no trouble lowering the raised eyebrows of Caesareans. The city’s Jewish community frowned on marriages between The Chosen and pagans, while gentiles in the capital were just as convinced that Cornelius would demean himself by “such a misalliance.” Though startled and somewhat skeptical, Pilate would deny nothing to his favorite, and so approved the marriage. He could hardly blame his officer, for he himself had been noticing the girl’s charms.

  The wedding was a discreet compromise between a Roman civil marriage and the Jewish ceremony, which apparently satisfied those attending the nuptials, the first such social mixing between Jewish and gentile elements at Caesarea in anyone’s memory. The couple had settled their religious differences by simple inertia. Since Cornelius was as skeptical as Pilate about the deities of Roman mythology, he believed in nothing supernatural. But his bride, as a good Jewess, had a strong faith. And since something is usually better than nothing, Cornelius promised to let his wife practice her religion unhindered, with the stipulation that she not try to make a Jew out of him. They had not yet agreed on how their children would be reared.

  The secret matchmaker in this unlikely romance was Procula. She did not want her role a matter of public knowledge for fear it might embarrass her husband, but since the bride had been one of Procula’s favorite attendants, it was she who first introduced her to Cornelius and then watched their romance ripen into marriage. Procula had always been liberal in such matters.

  She also had a higher respect for Judaism than did her husband. The hysteria and political bloodshed at Rome had shaken her once-unquestioning confidence in Roman state religion. What kind of deities could have been in charge of the Empire to let such atrocities happen? In contrast, the Jewish belief in one god, and only one, seemed to her less confusing than juggling loyalties to several dozen gods, goddesses, demigods, spirits, and dead emperors. More than that, the Jews had a dynamic code of conduct—their law—which guided their lives far more meaningfully than watching the gustatory habits of sacred chickens or poking around a sheep’s liver. Romans, she felt, had been getting their omens from animals for so long that they were starting to live like them also.

  Pilate was happy to learn of his wife’s disenchantment with Roman paganism, but her new admiration for Judaism worried him. He feared she was becoming a Jewish proselyte, and right under his governor’s nose.

  “Tolerance is not conversion,” Procula replied.

  “But tell me, then,” he probed, “why did you choose the young Cornelius for your experiment in interethnic romance?”

  “Experiment? This will be a very happy marriage. You’ll see. But why Cornelius? Because he’s as much a favorite of mine as yours. In fact,” she said, “I saw quite a bit of him while you were away in Jerusalem. We’ve had long conversations…”

  “Oh
?” Pilate raised his left eyebrow. “Should I be jealous?”

  “I hardly think so,” she said coyly. “We had a wedding to plan. But there was also something which you never even told me about.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The fascinating reports about that new prophet up in Galilee.”

  “Who now?” he grumbled. What Pilate needed least at the moment was a new prophet in the land.

  “He’s called Yeshua.”

  “Oh, him. Yes, I know about that Jesus. He seems to be some kind of faith healer.”

  “More than that, apparently. While you were in Jerusalem watching the Jews prepare their Passover Seder, this Jesus provided his own kind of Passover feast for more than five thousand people who were hearing him teach near the Sea of Tiberias.”

  “Well, that was kind of him…but hardly spectacular. Caesar’s friend Crassus once threw a banquet for the entire citizenry of Rome, and several times fifty thousand crowded to the tables he set up in the streets—”

  “Let me finish, Pilate. This was entirely different. Jesus hoped to get away from the crowds by taking his twelve student followers on an excursion across the Sea of Tiberias. But the people moved along the shore and intercepted him just after he landed. So he spent most of the day teaching and healing the people anyway, but when evening came they were all hungry and the nearest market was miles away. A little shepherd boy sold them five barley loaves and two carp, but that was hardly enough—”

  “Procula, this is a moving little tale of dedication, but does the story have a point?”