Pontius Pilate: A Novel

by Paul L Maier

  Caligula, Agrippa, and Macro returned, the last carefully closing the door behind them, so that only the four were now in the colonnaded hall.

  “Well now, Pilate,” the emperor smiled. “Don’t look so crestfallen. Our little pantomime is over. No, you’re not going into exile, and we won’t take a solitary sesterce from your treasures. Ahaha! You stare at me? Certainly. I would too, under the circumstances.” He nudged Agrippa and Macro, both of whom were quaking with laughter at what they all found a tremendous joke.

  “I suppose we do owe you an explanation, Pilate,” Caligula continued, in what he knew was a diabolical understatement. “Tomorrow the four Samaritans are leaving for Puteoli, well satisfied that they’ve succeeded in their mission of vengeance against you. It was a long trip for them, so the least we could do, for appearance’s sake, was to give you a severe sentence. This way I’ll be very popular with my new subjects in Samaria…even if, regrettably, it was at your expense. I must confess, Prefect, if I’d been at that mountain and faced that rebel army, I’d have taken the same measures.”

  “I doubt it.” Agrippa smiled. “You’d have executed a good deal more than fourteen!”

  Caligula let out a roar of laughter, nodding his head and slapping Agrippa’s back. Then he looked at Pilate and said, “There, there, man. I do believe you’re shedding a tear. Put your emotions in order, Prefect. Though it must be quite an ordeal to pass from the horror of threatened death, to the ignominy of exile, to full acquittal—all within a quarter of an hour.”

  “But Excellency,” said Pilate with mounting elation, “what about Thallus? He’s not returning to Samaria…”

  “Oh, he’s party to the plot. While he deplores your bloodshed, he’s glad you killed the false prophet. Of course, you can’t return to Palestine…or become famous in Rome, for that matter. That would ruin it all. Ahaha! Certainly you didn’t hope to be reinstated as prefect of Judea?”

  “Oh, no. No, Princeps! Quite on the contrary. Ten years is enough for anyone there.”

  “And if the Samaritans should ever learn that you’re still at large here in Rome, we’ll claim that you were recalled from exile for good behavior, or some such excuse. Anyway, by that time their tempers will have cooled too. Join us for lunch, Pilate.”

  It was a simple luncheon on the Palatine. Its sybaritic luxury was limited to a mere eight courses and only four changes of wine. All the while, it seemed, the thin lips of Caligula, sticky with an exquisite vintage, were drawn into the same, inscrutable smile.

  Between one of the middle courses, he emitted a long belch. Then, apropos of nothing, he asked, “Did you and Procula enjoy your trip up the Nile? Ha. Hahaha! And I can also tell you the exact length of your aqueduct from the Judean hills into Jerusalem…the number of pillars in your Tiberiéum in Caesarea.” Caligula continued to supply other minute details from Pilate’s administration in Judea which, of course, astounded him.

  “Now how could I possibly know these items?” the princeps inquired, indulging in his favorite game, playing with people. “Do you really know who my friend Agrippa is, Pilate?”

  “Not a descendant of the great Marcus Agrippa?”

  “No, but named in his honor.” Agrippa smiled. “My full name is Julius Herod Agrippa.”

  “Oh, the grandson of Herod the Great? The brother of Herodias, wife of Antipas?”

  “The same.”

  “I’ve certainly heard of you, but I don’t believe we’d ever met in Palestine.”

  “No. I’ve been in Rome much of the time.”

  For all his forty-seven years, Agrippa was still ruggedly handsome; more so, Pilate thought, than his painted sister Herodias was beautiful.

  “Agrippa’s life story thus far makes the wanderings of Ulysses seem positively boring by comparison,” Caligula interjected. “He was brought up at the court of Tiberius as companion to his son Drusus, the one Sejanus poisoned. Then he sailed to Palestine—I still think it was to escape your creditors, Agrippa. There he got so depressed at leaving Mother Rome that he contemplated suicide. But his dear sister Herodias invited him to Galilee, where she got him some small government job to tide him over. What was it again, Agrippa?”

  “Agoranomos, superintendent of the market at Tiberias.”

  “But you know these Herodians; they never get along. Once he and Herod Antipas got drunk at a banquet and started trading exquisite insults, so naturally Agrippa had to leave Galilee. Now Pomponius Flaccus had just arrived as our new governor in Syria, and, would you believe it, Flaccus turned out to be Agrippa’s old comrade from Rome! So it was up to Antioch for our wandering friend here. But alas! The people of Damascus hired him to lobby in their behalf with Flaccus, who took that unkindly. So once again Agrippa played bankrupt vagabond. But, knowing that only Rome could improve his fate, he borrowed more money and sailed back to Italy. When he landed, my grandfather Tiberius first had him pay off old debts in Rome, then welcomed him back to court life on Capri, where he’s spent the last year tutoring me. Agrippa is now my closest friend. And do you know who loaned him the funds to pay off his debts? Our rich friend and sage whom you just met, the Samaritan Thallus!”

  “An amazing tale,” said Pilate.

  “Oh, but it’s not finished yet,” said Caligula. “I almost lost my Agrippa. In one false move he nearly ruined the game. One day he and I were out driving on Capri, and, thinking no one could hear us, he said, ‘You know, Gaius, I wish to God Tiberius would soon go off the stage and leave the government to you. You’re so much more worthy of it.’ I smiled, but thank Jupiter, I said nothing! Because the chariot driver overheard us.”

  “The damnable Eutychus,” Agrippa muttered.

  “Well, he told Tiberius about the comment one afternoon when he was being carried around his hippodrome in a litter. Grandfather pointed to Agrippa in a rage and told Macro, ‘Arrest that man.’ Macro, who hadn’t heard the charge, was bewildered, not knowing whom to arrest. When the litter rounded the track a second time, Grandfather was nettled to see Agrippa still standing there. ‘Him, Macro, seize him!” he said. ‘Whom?’ asked Macro. ‘Agrippa, you dunce.’”

  “It was a long six months in prison, Gaius,” Agrippa commented. “But the worst of it was not knowing it would be just six months until Tiberius died. For a while, I think, he had in mind to have me pitched off the cliffs of Capri.”

  “Why not? You’d committed maiestas, you know. But then came the great day at Misenum. Macro told me you were there, Pilate.”

  “Yes, Princeps. I wanted him to arrange my hearing before Tiberius. I had no idea—”

  “Yes, well, do you know what I did after Grandfather died?”

  “You released Agrippa,” Pilate humored.

  “Not just released him. I welcomed him into the palace with open arms. I had his shaggy hair cut and presented him with a new wardrobe.”

  “Far more than that, dear friend,” smiled Agrippa. “In a symbolism which must have drawn tears from the gods, you presented me with a chain of gold, equal in size to the iron fetters which had bound me in prison. And then you put a diadem on my head.”

  Pilate was becoming ill at the touching affection, but he dared do nothing more than smile agreeably. The power which the mature Agrippa exercised over the impressionable young emperor was ominous.

  “You realize the significance of the diadem, Pilate?” asked Caligula.

  “The symbol of royalty?”

  “Exactly. I have the honor to present to you Herod Agrippa I, the new king of Gaulanitis, Trachonitis, and Batanea.”

  “Philip’s former tetrarchy? I thought it was now part of Syria.”

  “Was, Pilate.”

  “My heartiest congratulations, King Agrippa.”

  Agrippa nodded briefly.

  “Yes,” Caligula added, “and we may well increase his territory. Rome has tried prefects in Judea…without a great deal of success. It may take a Jew, or a part Jew like Agrippa, to govern a nation of Jews. At any rate, if our new prefe
ct Marullus doesn’t work out, Agrippa will succeed him also in Judea. The last time that province was well governed was under his grandfather Herod the Great.”

  Pilate swallowed the insult—he had no choice—and then shifted the conversation. “Marullus is replacing Vitellius’s man Marcellus?” he asked.

  “Yes. Of course. Vitellius has tried to endear himself to the Jews by a whole series of changes, but I’m not sure of them. You know that he dismissed your friend Joseph Caiaphas from the high priesthood?”

  It was news to Pilate. “What about Vitellius’s war in Antipas’s behalf against King Aretas?” he asked.

  “That stopped the moment I acceded to the principate. Antipas is now Agrippa’s rival in Palestine. I didn’t want Roman legions used to support the competitor of my closest friend.”

  A gratifying morsel of information, thought Pilate.

  By now they had finished lunch. Pilate was about to excuse himself from the palace when Caligula asked, point-blank, “Tell me, Pilate, do you think you have any future in Roman government? How and where would you like to serve the Empire next?”

  “I’m at your disposal of course, Princeps. But I’d like to take an extended vacation before assuming any new post.”

  “I think you should. How old a man are you?”

  “Almost fifty.”

  “You might consider retirement, then. No, I really don’t think Rome can use your services in the future, Pilate. Certainly you did nothing worthy of exile or death, but Agrippa has given me a full report of your decade in Judea. There were many instances of tactlessness. Forethought, diplomacy, sensitivity, and skill were missing on numerous occasions. Of course, some things you did very well. Taxes were collected regularly; you kept the peace; Caesarea was well administered. The Tiberiéum, the aqueduct, and other constructions were well conceived. But you failed in other matters. The standards and the shields affairs were silly. Perhaps Thallus was right about the Samaritans being pacified without bloodshed. Possibly such frictions were unavoidable and you couldn’t help it. You’re not a Jew—we Romans do have that handicap—and you did govern as well, I suppose, as any of our prefects so far. That much should be said.”

  Pilate cast a not-so-friendly glance at Agrippa, and Caligula caught it.

  “No, Pilate. Don’t think unkindly of Agrippa as some kind of spy who observed you the whole time. He admitted to me that he reflected the Jewish viewpoint in commenting on your administration. He also spoke in your behalf after the hearing this morning.”

  They reached the door of the palace. Caligula extended his hand and said, “So, Pontius Pilatus, your career for the state is concluded. Rome thanks you. And you’ll receive the usual government pension, of course.”

  Pilate was trying to make as graceful an exit as possible under the circumstances when he saw Agrippa whisper something to Caligula. The emperor nodded his head.

  “It’s time for the baths,” said Agrippa. “Might I accompany you, Pilate?”

  The very last thing Pilate wanted to do that afternoon was to visit the baths with Herod Agrippa. But a king had made the request. He was in no position to refuse.

  Their litter went several blocks north up the Via Lata, then west to the Baths of Agrippa. As they were deposited, Agrippa dropped the pleasantry. “I’ve always thought these baths especially well named.”

  Pilate ignored the bad humor.

  “But Pilate, don’t you think it a bit of irony that you, who have judged the Jews for so many years, should finally be judged by one? Gaius virtually gave me full sway in determining your fate. And even if you won’t believe it, I could have given the princeps a worse accounting of your administration in Judea. I can show you letters from the Pharisees which pleaded for your exile.”

  “Why?” Pilate retorted angrily. “You know that would’ve been unjustified.”

  “Simply because the Pharisees reject any non-Jewish government. So if it could be demonstrated that a Roman is just not able to govern Jews, then the emperor might make another arrangement. You, of course, as the latest example, were dispensable in the interests of that cause.”

  “Do you share that viewpoint?”

  “Partially. Which is why I had to expose some of your foibles. I concur in the thought that any Roman is ipso facto a poor governor of Jews. You just don’t know enough about us to handle us correctly.”

  By this time they had stripped and were swimming about in a section of the cool bath reserved for Roman officials. Then they shifted to the warm mists of the tepidarium before moving on to the steamy vapors of the hot baths.

  It all fell into place in Pilate’s mind. Clearly, Agrippa was aiming at kingship over Judea. Soon, undoubtedly, he would supply evidence to show that Marullus, like Pilate, was inadequate as prefect, and then his good friend Caligula would enlarge his diadem to include Judea and Samaria as well.

  “I think I understand the situation,” said Pilate, “but tell me this: why didn’t you go along with the Pharisees in requesting my exile?”

  “Several reasons,” Agrippa replied. “First, I value justice, and exile would have been too severe. You did try in Judea, Pilate. You yielded when you should have in the various quarrels with the Jews, and I think Antipas and my other uncles overreacted on those insignificant shields. But it was symptomatic that you didn’t quite have the right touch.”

  Now they moved into the dry-heat room, where they lay on marble slabs while being scraped down with strigils. Agrippa looked carefully at Pilate and continued, “Another reason I didn’t press for punishment in your case was this: the Arabs have an old proverb, ‘My enemy’s enemy is my friend.’ Dear Herod Antipas may be both uncle and brother-in-law to me, but he remains my deadly political enemy. I’ll never forgive his humiliating me. Now, Antipas and you didn’t get along either, despite your half-hearted attempts at friendship…”

  It took Pilate only a moment’s thought to ask, “When do you plan to indict Antipas before Caligula?”

  “Gaius, Pilate.” He laughed. “He insists on Gaius. Never call him ‘Baby Boots’ to his face.”

  “Before Gaius, then?”

  “You’re a bit ahead of me. But on the right track. If it ever comes to that, I may need a witness here in Rome who can testify to Antipas’s maladministration.”

  “And I could hardly provide that witness in exile.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Eventually, then, his territories would be added to yours, perhaps Judea as well—a restoration of your grandfather’s kingdom.”

  “It’s time for the massage and the unguents.”

  When that process was completed and they had dressed, Agrippa warned, “I need not suggest that you keep this conversation confidential. If, for example, you were indiscreet enough to report any of our remarks to the princeps, I should deny them, accuse you of malicious lying, and do everything possible to secure your exile. You see, I plan to stay in Rome some months yet before taking over my new kingdom.”

  Pilate nodded.

  As they parted outside the baths, Agrippa said, “Oh yes, Pilate, there was another reason I felt you had governed comparatively well. I’d nearly forgotten it. You handled one case in Judea masterfully, I thought: the blasphemy-treason trial of that Galilean, Yeshu Hannosri. Oh, I can see why you, as a Roman, were lenient at first, but, believe me, that kind of heresy had to be cut down at its source. Yes…absolutely. It was a good decision, Pilate—crucifixion. A good decision.”

  Chapter 24

  Pilate returned home exhausted. His day on the Palatine, a lurching shuttle between hope and despair, had smothered his spirit. Whatever relief he gained in successfully defending himself was blighted by his dismissal from imperial service, even if the official explanation would be that Pilate had requested retirement. With wifely solicitude, Procula begged to be told everything, but Pilate put her off until the next morning. That night he looked up an old friend at the Castra Praetoria, and together they got quietly drunk.

  Like a wounde
d organ trying to repair itself, Pilate’s mind supplied rationalizations for his new status. Even if Caligula had offered him another prefecture away from Rome, he would not have accepted it, since he had been away from the city too long. Nor did he need such an office. His father-in-law Proculeius had invested his funds so shrewdly during the decade of his absence that by now Pilate could retire even without pension and still lead a life of comfortable opulence. As to the negative appraisal of his competence in Judea, someday Rome would appreciate his efforts there. And how accurate were the critical opinions of an unseasoned twenty-four-year-old trying to play at emperor, whose only source of information was a Herodian opportunist twice his age but biased against Pilate? And what extraordinarily bad taste, turning the imperial tribunal into a stage just to coddle the Samaritans.

  When Procula finally heard the full report of the critical hours before Caligula, she was too happy to bother consoling her husband. Privately, she had lived in mortal fear of the eventual hearing before the emperor. With that shadow removed, nothing else mattered, especially now that Rome would be their future home. Too independent to be a social climber, she was relieved that Pilate would now be anchored clear of the treacherous crosscurrents of Roman politics.

  But adjusting to the role of spectator rather than actor proved very difficult for Pilate. He lived a week or two with his rationalizations, then grew tired of them. Personal candor compelled him to face reality and see there the figure of Pontius Pilatus—ex-prefect, pensioner, retired man, emeritus before his time. His idealistic goals had him rising to lofty heights in the Empire; his actual fate saw him pensioned out of government service.