Pilate's Wife: A Novel of the Roman Empire (27 page)

A
s the
Persephone
swung out from the harbor, she seemed to sprout oars, twenty on either side of her sleek hull. The luxury cruiser, Sejanus's parting gift to us, had been painted purple in my honor. Belowdecks a drum rumbled and the blades dipped. More thunder and they splashed the surface, two men pulling on each shaft. The ship glided forward--slowly at first, then picking up speed as the drumbeats quickened. Too soon the Bay of Neapolis slipped from view.

Day after day I sat under a rippling awning staring out at the twin blues of sea and sky.

The smooth voyage gave me too much time to think. Was Isis laughing at me? Had she been laughing all along? Once I had prayed so earnestly for Pilate's love, zealously repeating her incantation. Had the goddess heard my prayers and granted the object of my desires or had it all been merely a girlish fantasy gone wrong? Pilate did, indeed, want me as his wife, yet what did that matter? Our union seemed so foolish, so misbegotten, now that I had tasted real love. What need was there for potions and incantations? Holtan and I had known from the beginning. I smiled sadly, thinking of Isis and her Osiris. Their love seemed very like our own.

One day Rachel joined me at the railing. Reminded of yet another sorrow, I turned to her, forcing a smile. "You must be very happy, returning at last to your homeland."

Rachel shrugged, her face turned away toward the sea.

"Pilate and I spoke last night. He--we have decided to free you. It is only right that you return at last to your family. Pilate will present your manumission papers at a ceremony. It will be rather grand--Herod Antipas and his court, possibly a few of those high priests, the Sanhedrin. Your family, of course, in the places of honor."

"I have no family," Rachel said, turning to face me. "They are all gone--dead." She started to move away, but I caught her arm. Held it. "I thought your father was an adviser to Herod the Great."

"He was a most trusted adviser, but he was also a Pharisee and a patriot. Father hated Herod's garish shrine. He believed the
world
was God's temple and thought that men should be their own priests. Herod would not hear of such talk. The Temple was his proclamation: 'See how good I am, see how grand.'"

I shook my head impatiently. "That is merely philosophy. Your father was a member of the court. One doesn't reach such a position without compromise."

"He would have been the first to agree with you," Rachel said. "Father was an idealist but not unworldly. He understood Herod's need to reassure the fundamentalists at home and still show the world that he was more than Rome's client king."

I nodded. "It would seem that he achieved his goal. Jerusalem's Temple is the biggest in the world. Even in Rome, they say, 'He who has never seen Herod's Temple has never seen anything beautiful.'"

"Beautiful, yes," Rachel agreed. "But the abomination he added--"

"I don't understand--"

"My father was an orthodox man. He put his faith in the Law, he
lived
the Law. The Second Commandment is clear: no graven images. Over the years Judaeans have learned to live with them. Pagan images are everywhere--in public baths, theaters, civic buildings--but when Herod placed a huge eagle with outstretched wings over the very temple itself..."

"An unfortunate impropriety," I agreed, but reminded her, "He
was
the king. If that's the worst he did--"

"Yes, yes, Father recognized that. Unfortunately, my brother, Aaron, did not. Father's closest friend was Aaron's teacher, a devout Pharisee who came often to our home, talked late into the night. Aaron was fourteen, eager to be a man, listening to every word. His teacher was incensed by the eagle and spoke of tearing it down. Father was horrified. He warned the firebrand, reminded him that Herod was dying, each breath an agony. 'Be patient,' Father admonished and thought no more about it.

"Then one morning the Pharisee scholar delivered a lecture on the wages of sin. It was sin, he said, that caused Herod's illness, sin that burned and gnawed at his bowels. The time had come to remove the eagle no matter what the risk. Aaron was just young enough, idealistic and foolish enough, to rally to the cause. He and some forty other boys ran to the temple, scrambled over the walls, and chopped the blasphemous eagle to pieces."

Rachel's voice was cool and calm, almost as though it had all happened to some one else. "Of course, they were thrown into prison. We prayed that Herod might die before they could be sentenced, but Yahweh wasn't listening. Perhaps we merely amused him--like some board game played by ants. My father was hacked to pieces by guards as he knelt at Herod's bedside begging clemency for his son. Soldiers threw Mother from the tower when our home was taken. One of Herod's last acts was to sell me into slavery. He lived long enough to watch the boys, Aaron among them, burned alive."

"Rachel, Rachel, dear." I held her stiff body in my arms. "I am sorry, so sorry. I knew nothing. You never told me. What can I do for you now? Are you afraid to go home--afraid of Herod's heirs? Do not forget that Pilate is now the foremost man in Judaea. We can still free you, send you anywhere you care to go."

"Herod was a madman. Only two sons remain, Antipas and Philip. Surely they praise Fortuna every day for their own lives. They would scarcely remember a screaming child. I have nothing to fear in Judaea and no wish to be anywhere but with you."

O
N THE MORNING OF THE FIFTEENTH DAY AT SEA
, I
SPIED
C
AESAREA
sparkling in the distance.

Pilate stood beside me as we approached, his long, elegant fingers drumming impatiently on the rail. Sounds of the city floated toward us as ships and buildings drifted into view. I had been told that Caesarea was one of the most beautiful cities in the world. Glancing up at the exquisite temple to Caesar that overlooked the harbor, I believed it. Houses, white for the most part, spilled down palm-shaded terraces toward the docks. People waved from windows, crowded balconies. As the
Persephone
sailed into the harbor, a cheer went up from the shore. Flowers, bright blossoms everywhere, drums and flutes, red-robed ministers lined up to welcome us.

The gangplank swayed over the water, crush and noise, bags and boxes at the ready. Since I was a child, the prospect of new places had filled me with wonder and excitement. Now, so far from Holtan, I felt only despair. Rachel brought Marcella out on deck. My child squealed, holding her arms out to me, but it was Pilate who took her. "This is Caesarea, my little one," he said, holding Marcella up to see the spectacle before us.

Looking at me over our daughter's curly head, he added, "We will all be very happy in Judaea."

I
F MATERIAL POSSESSIONS COULD MAKE FOR HAPPINESS, WE HAD THEM
in abundance. Our palace was grand. My apartment was large, with rooms overlooking the sea, balcony after balcony, each a hanging garden. I dedicated the largest to Isis, making a shrine of it with flowers and soft rugs surrounding her statue. Every day I meditated there, but not for long--my social schedule left little time. With a dining room large enough for one hundred couches, Pilate expected me to entertain often. By now I did it easily. Banquets for three hundred were not uncommon. I thought often of Mother. She would have adored my life. I was merely grateful to be kept busy.

Caesarea, built by Herod the Great as a tribute to Julius Caesar, tried hard to be Rome and in many ways succeeded. The city boasted a marble theater that would hold five thousand people and one of the largest amphitheaters in the world. Pilate officiated at state rituals in Caesar's temple. The statues to which he raised his eyes were those of Augustus, Jupiter, and Roma, comforting images of home. I saw more Romans, Greeks, and Syrians on the streets than Jews.

If all of Judaea had been like Caesarea, Pilate's job would have been easy. Unfortunately, nothing could change the fact that it was the Hebrews that my husband had been sent to govern. His entire future depended on it.

Pilate's first action was to dispatch a small troop of soldiers to Jerusalem with orders to display the Roman eagle standards before Antonia. Such a small thing. Antonia was a Roman garrison. The eagles had not been taken into their temple. I was as shocked as Pilate by the reaction.

The Jews were aghast at the intrusion of "graven images" into their sacred city. Within two days, more than a hundred of them journeyed by foot over mountains and through valleys to prostrate themselves before our palace in Caesarea. Shivering in the fall chill, they swayed and moaned, praying that the governor would be moved to take down the accursed eagles. In the face of Roman soldiers with swords drawn, the supplicants remained day after day. Pilate watched from the palace, growing increasingly uncomfortable with their presence.

"Shall I call out the soldiers?" he asked me at last.

"You can't kill people for sitting! But I am sick to death of their wailing. Why not just take down the standards? Tiberius told you to 'keep them happy and peaceful.' Surely giving in to this one peculiarity won't jeopardize Rome. The Jews will be happy, we will be peaceful. Do it--for me."

I was pleased when Pilate complied and I stood beside him on the palace balustrade breathing a sigh of relief when he gave the signal. After six days of passive protest, the supplicants went home, their mission accomplished.

"I don't understand these people," Pilate said as we watched the dust settle after the departing caravan. "The Jews
asked
Rome to come here and settle their problems."

"I know, but that was long ago.
Tata
told me about it when I was a girl. His grandfather served here under Pompey. He died trying to settle their disputes. But," I hesitated, "that was a long time ago. The people who invited Rome are dead."

"Their descendants should be grateful. We guarantee their peace. No more fighting among themselves, one faction constantly at the throats of another. They have their own courts, their own religion, collect their own taxes--"

"We tax them, too," I reminded him.

"Of course. That's the price of a stable government. Should we be expected to give up this splendid buffer against Parthia? The Jews will just have to live with Rome. Everyone else does."

I
N THE SPRING
, P
ILATE ASKED ME TO ACCOMPANY HIM TO
J
ERUSALEM
on his first inspection tour. Curious about the fabled Holy City, I agreed. The road to the ancient capital sixty miles to the southeast was a fine one built by legionnaires, who had marked the way with Roman milestones. In Caesarea we had been popular, with cheering crowds everywhere. Now, the farther we got from the coast, the more I sensed antagonism. Nothing overt, but sullen glances; and once, as we neared the outskirts of the city, I heard angry muttering. I had traveled far with Germanicus and never experienced anything like it. What was the matter? Aware of Jerusalem's antiquity, I had anticipated a cosmopolitan center with a sophisticated worldview. What I found was a dreary desert garrison filled with narrow-minded, argumentative people who barely bothered to conceal their hostility.

Nevertheless, the city had one attraction that was world famous. Everybody who had ever been to Jerusalem spoke with awe of the Temple. As our caravan approached the citadel, the mammoth structure, framed by massive walls and porticoes, took my breath away. The whiteness of its stone was so brilliant that the Temple looked like a mountain covered with snow. I wanted to see the inside, but Pilate was adamant. He perceived Jerusalem as a breeding ground of unrest. "Stay inside the palace," he ordered. When I looked up at him in surprise--I had not heard that tone in a while--his voice softened. "You'll have plenty to do there. Let the city come to you."

Settling into the residence that Herod had redecorated for us did keep me busy. It was a white-marble wonder with agate and lapis lazuli floors and splashing fountains. The vaulted ceilings were painted gold and scarlet, the silver inlaid furniture encrusted with jewels. A little overdone, Pilate and I agreed, but what could you expect from barbarians? These people were so--so--flamboyant. Fortunately, we would not have to spend much time in Jerusalem, and I did enjoy the view. The hillside palace commanded a splendid outlook of the city on one side and tree-shaded gardens on the other.

Early one morning I watched with Rachel as the city's gray stone buildings slowly emerged from the blue-black shadows of night. The entire east side of the city appeared to be engulfed in flames as the first rays of dawn struck the burnished gold plate atop the sanctuary columns. "You must admit it is splendid," she said as the rising sun gilded the Temple's dome. "When I lived here as a child, Herod was still rebuilding it. Pompey's armies..."

"Splendid, indeed," I hurriedly interrupted her, feeling a tinge of Roman guilt for the earlier destruction. "Pilate said it took a thousand priests overseeing ten thousand workers to complete the job."

Rachel merely shrugged. "The Temple is everything in Jerusalem."

Everything, indeed. That settled it, I was determined to see this marvel for myself. Without saying anything to anyone, I slipped out one afternoon and hired a litter. It was a long ride down one hill and up the next, the bearers grunting all the way. As we neared the Temple Mount, I noticed an unpleasant odor and thought of Agrippina's makeshift hospital in Germania. So terrible, but this was worse. I had never smelled anything like it. At last the litter was lowered to the ground. I pulled the curtain and looked out. The front of the Temple was certainly impressive--huge white slabs of polished marble and lavish gold plating that glittered in the sun. But, oh, the smell! Large troughs at the side of the building overflowed with blood and entrails that drained out into the street and down the hill.