The Redemption of Pontius Pilate (27 page)

One legionary took a flaming brand from the campfire and thrust it into the pyre. The wood blazed up quickly in the afternoon heat, and the two bodies were mostly consumed within a couple of hours. The men would continue to throw wood on the fire all night, and in the morning the ashes of the two soldiers would be raked into urns and taken to Caesarea for burial.

About four hours after he had sent them off, Longinus came back with the supply wagon. Eight beams of wood lay across the top of the men's equipment.

“Any trouble?” asked Pilate.

“The young carpenter did not want to sell us the wood—something I figured on, since the Jews cannot stand to see any of their own nailed up. They believe it carries a curse,” said Longinus. “I explained to him that it was a legal necessity, but he still wanted to refuse, so I had the men take the wood anyway. I thought he was going to attack us, but his older brother came out of the house and restrained him. Odd customer, that one. He said something to his brother I didn't understand, and James just went limp in his arms. Then he looked at me and said, ‘We must render to Caesar the things that are Caesar's, even when we do not approve the use they will be put to. But we do not want your money.' I offered to give it to the synagogue, but he pointed out that it would still be blood money and tainted. So he suggested I give it to a poor widow and her son who lived in one of the houses nearby, and I did that.”

Pilate shook his head. “Was there ever a stranger people in all the
gens humana
than the Jews?” he asked. “Well, let's put these beams to good use!”

In half an hour, the three surviving Zealots—the man with the stomach wound had died wordlessly during the afternoon—were hanging by the side of the road, their wrists and ankles nailed to the beams, all of them writhing and screaming except the one with the slashed windpipe. He had lost consciousness almost immediately, and Pilate figured he would be dead within the hour. The other two made up for his silence, though, as they split the air with their cries. He let them hang there for an hour or so before speaking to them.

“Now you see the price for defying Rome!” he said. “Let me tell you a thing or two about crucifixion. First of all, it is not quick. Most men last for about three or four days on the cross, depending on how hot the weather is. Dehydration will be your worst enemy at first. Then the birds will come. They generally arrive about the second day or so. Birds love living flesh, and they will probably go for your eyes first. You can thrash your head about for a while, but eventually you will wear out, and then you'll be blinded. After that they will take your lips and cheeks. You will think you are going to die then, but you won't. If you are lucky, by the third day you will be unconscious, and won't feel it when they start to pull out your bowels.”

The men's cries fell silent as they began to soak in the truth of what Pilate was saying. The older fanatic simply stared at him with redoubled hatred, but the younger one's face was streaked with tears, and he was trembling in agony and fear. Pilate grinned internally. Time to make his play, he thought.

“One odd thing about crucifixion, though—if someone is cut down before the end of the second day, they usually survive and recover. The hands don't necessarily work as well as they once did, but a man can live a fairly normal life after being cut down from the cross, if he gets proper medical attention. So here is my offer. I make it but once. Tell me where your company of brigands hides out, and I will have you cut down from the cross and send you on your way. There is a stream here where you can get water and lay up for a couple of days till you are mobile again. Who knows? After we ride on, perhaps you can cut your companions down as well. That is my offer. It expires at sunset.”

“Sheol and Gehenna take you, Roman swine!” shrieked the older man. “I will let the birds feast on my carcass for a week before I betray my companions.”

Pilate gave the man a wry grin. “And so they will, my Jewish friend. I imagine you will be singing a different tune when it is too late to do you any good.” He turned and gazed at the younger man. “Are you as stubborn and foolish as your companion?” he asked. “Or do you want to live?”

The young man's body racked with sobs. Finally he spoke. “I . . . want . . . to live!” he exclaimed.

“Samuel, you traitor! How dare you!” screamed the leader.

Pilate had two of his legionaries cut the young man down and bring him forward. He could not stand on his punctured ankles, but he was able to keep upright by leaning on the Roman soldiers.

“Now tell me,” he said. “How many are in your company, and where do you hole up when you are not out murdering and pillaging?”

“There are about fifty of us,” said the young man, still wincing in pain. “Thirty, after this disaster. If you follow this defile northward into the desert, you will see a tall, craggy hill on the right. On the far side of that hill is a cave that goes back several hundred feet. That is where we sleep and store our arms, and hold any prisoners we wish to have ransomed.”

Pilate nodded and turned his back. “Thank you, Samuel the Zealot,” he said. “Now, as I have promised, I will send you on your way!” He drew his gladius and whirled about, plunging it to the hilt in the man's chest. The Zealot sunk to the ground without a sound, and the two legionaries dragged him over to the fire where the other bodies were burning.

“You Roman dog!” shrieked the elder Zealot from his cross. “You said you would let him go!”

“I said I would send him on his way,” said Pilate, “and that is what I did. Quickly and painlessly on his way to wherever it is you people go when you leave the land of the living. He really should have listened better. Did you honestly think I would let a murderer of Roman citizens live?”

“I curse you!” shrieked the rebel. “May you see the face of God and realize the full shame of what you have done! May your wife be a widow, and your children fatherless! May your teeth fall out and your eyes go blind!”

He kept going on in that vein for a good while, until Pilate finally had one of the soldiers climb the upright beam of the cross and cut his tongue out.

A month later, Pilate was back in Caesarea. The remainder of his inspection tour had been a notable success. The same night that the Zealot survivors were crucified, he led his men into the wilderness and found the hideout that the young bandit had told him about. The rebels were in a frenzied preparation to leave, warned of the Roman ambush by the handful who had escaped it, but apparently none of them thought that the Romans would find their hideout and attack them that same night. Advancing under the light of the full moon, Pilate and his men stayed in the shadows until they were only a few hundred yards from the mouth of the cave, with faint torchlight flickering on its walls to mark the fact that it was occupied. The Roman cohort surged up the hillside and stormed in, killing all who resisted—which was just about everyone, except for a handful of women and children, and one terrified captive—a young Roman girl that had been kidnapped from her father's caravan outside Ptolemais a week before. The Jews had treated her roughly and threatened her with death, but she seemed to be physically unharmed.

Pilate had the captives sent to Caesarea, to be shipped from there to the slave markets of Rome. The fifteen of them would not fetch a fortune, but it would be more than enough for him to cover all the costs of the expedition, and pay each soldier that had accompanied him a bonus as well. “Take care of your soldiers and they will take care of you” was a dictum he had learned from Tiberius, who had in turn learned it from Augustus, and so on all the way back to Gaius Marius himself. The young girl was returned to her grateful father, and Pilate had to choke back his emotions as he watched the reunion, knowing he would never see his own daughter again.

After destroying the Zealot stronghold, Pilate and his men had turned southward and visited every other Roman garrison in the small province before returning to Caesarea. Every garrison but one—Pilate wanted to wait and go to Jerusalem with his full legion for the winter season, not with the small guard he had taken on his inspection tour. The season of the Jews' big festivals was coming up soon, and that would be a good time to let them know that they had a new governor.

It was late afternoon when he got back to the governor's residence and found a pile of correspondence waiting for him. A letter from Sullemius was at the top of the stack, so he picked it up first. Reclining on his couch, he opened the scroll and read it at his leisure.

Old friend
, it began.

I cannot tell you how grieved I was to hear of your daughter's savage treatment at the hands of Gaius Caligula! The misery was compounded when the crew of the returning ship told us that she had ended her life on your voyage to that gods-forsaken hellhole that Tiberius has banished you to. There are no words to express my sorrow for one who has been both a partner in crime and a generous patron to me.

If it is any comfort, young Gaius, according to my sources, has had a rough recovery. They say one of his arms may never be quite the same length as the other. It's a shame you did not kill the little worm when you had the chance! The Emperor has become more glum and morose than ever. It seems that he is resigned to accepting Gaius as his heir, but the episode apparently did serve the purpose of removing his illusions about the kind of man Caligula is becoming. He told one member of the Senate that he was raising up a viper for the people of Rome! Agrippina and her other two sons have fallen even further from his favor since you left—it is a matter of open speculation how long it will be before they are banished from Rome.

As for the Emperor himself, he no longer leaves the Isle of Capri. Sejanus is in charge of the city now, and is showing himself to be a petty tyrant as well as a venal mercenary. He actively takes bribes from anyone and everyone, proscribes those who displease him, and is currently planning to marry his longtime lover Livilla. He is boasting that her children (notice I do NOT call them Drusus' children!) will inherit the purple rather than Gaius Caligula. I cannot think of anything he could possibly do that would further cement the wretched Caligula's succession in Tiberius' eyes. The Emperor truly hates his former daughter-in-law, and her brats!

None of this is good news for you, I know, but I figured you would rather hear it from a friend than from common gossip. I hope that you are finding Judea tolerable, at least. Your predecessor there, Valerius Gratus, is one of the worst specimens Rome has belched forth on her hapless subjects in our generation. You should be a welcome improvement to the men and to the people of Judea as well. Let me know if there is any way that I can advance your fortunes here in the city. And come home soon—Rome is a very boring place when you are not in it!

I remain your faithful client,

Quintus Sullemia.

Pilate nodded at the letter, grateful for its thoughtfulness, but also for its matter-of-fact manner. Sullemius had been a good investment for him, indeed! Looking through the other scrolls, he was surprised to see one bearing the seal of the Emperor himself. He wondered what Tiberius would have to say in light of the circumstances of his departure, and opened it next.

Lucius Pontius Pilate,

I was wrong, you know. I thought Caligula was young enough to retain some childlike innocence, but if it ever existed in him it has long since been slain by the dark spirit that lurks in his breast. It grieves me more than I can say that a loyal client and friend like you should have suffered so much misery at his hands. The death of young Porcia broke my heart when I was told of it.

Unfortunately, the young monster is still my heir. There simply is no one else. I know that this must grieve you even further, after what he did, but I am working on him as he recovers from the injuries you inflicted. I am trying to make him see that what he did was not only morally wrong but horrifically impolitic as well, and that the proper thing for a future ruler of Rome to do is make amends as best he can. Right now I do not think he fully understands, but I hope that before I die I can at least persuade him that vengeance against you and your family for his injuries would be against his self-interest. Since true compassion seems to be altogether absent from his breast, that may be the most you—and I—can hope for.

In the meantime, I hope that your assignment to Judea is not too unpleasant. Gods know that you can only be an improvement after the wretched Gratus—I only sent him there to get him out of Rome, where his disgusting habits were a constant embarrassment to his father, an old comrade from my youth who has since passed on. Clean the province up as I know you are capable of doing, and perhaps before I go to the land of shades we can look on each other once more. I regret my anger at our parting; in your place I would have done no differently than you.

Tiberius Caesar

Pilate set it aside with a snort of disdain. Nice to know the old dodderer still had a heart, but the affection he once felt for Tiberius was gone. How any man could realize that he had adopted a monster as his heir and not find the moral courage to set him aside was beyond his understanding! He would not go out of his way to alienate Tiberius, and would compose an appropriate reply to the letter, but all eagerness to please the man had left him. From this time forward, Lucius Pontius Pilate would serve only his own interests.

The other letters were routine inquiries from clients, and a short note of sympathy from his brother. All things that could be dealt with later, as far as Pilate was concerned. He stacked the correspondence neatly on the side of his desk and weighted it down with a polished piece of onyx he had found in the Zealots' cave. He was anxious to see his wife.

She was waiting for him in the living quarters, and supper was laid on the table. He gave her a gentle kiss on the forehead and they reclined to dine together, exchanging pleasantries and catching each other up on the news. Porcia was like many wealthy Roman women—forbidden by centuries of custom from pursuing anything like a public career, she followed her husband's fortunes with keen interest, anxious to see him rise and worried that he would fall. The death of their daughter and Pilate's posting to one of the worst duty stations in the Empire had grieved her, but she was proud to see the difference his presence here had already made. She told him how the soldiers were now competing with one another to see who could complete their duties with the greatest thoroughness and alacrity, and described the respect she received when she left their quarters to visit the market or to take a stroll through the city. Pilate, in turn, described his inspection tour and his victory over the Zealots, leaving out the more grisly details.