The Redemption of Pontius Pilate (37 page)

“Well, First Spear Centurion, what on earth do you make of that?” he asked.

“As an officer of Rome, or as a believer in God?” Longinus asked in turn.

“As a Roman, first and foremost,” replied Pilate. “Although if your faith gives you any insights, feel free to share them as well.”

“It sounds as if John believes this Jesus is the promised Messiah,” said the centurion.

“But why call him ‘the Lamb of God'?” Pilate asked. “From all you have told me, shouldn't the Messiah be more of a lion than a lamb?”

“There you strike on one of the mysteries of Hebrew prophecy,” Longinus answered. “Many of the prophesies do speak of a Messiah who shall be a conquering king, but there are others—especially the prophet Isaiah, who lived about seven centuries ago—who talk of a suffering servant, who shall bear in his own body the penalty for all the sins of Israel.”

“What superstitious twaddle!” snorted Pilate. “What you see in this religion I will never know. But . . . Jesus of Nazareth. That name seems familiar to me somehow, but I cannot place it. No matter! I want you to keep eyes and ears open, and if this Nazarene becomes a public figure, let us keep an eye on him. John the Baptizer posed no discernible threat to Rome. But who knows what someone who thinks of himself as the Messiah of the Jews might do?”

But Jesus of Nazareth had dropped off the face of the earth after his baptism, it seemed. For the next month, no one saw or heard a sign of him, although John continued to preach that the kingdom of God was going to begin on earth any day, and huge crowds continued to go and hear him. Rumor had it that he was denouncing many of the high and mighty among the Jews for their opulent lifestyles, and that he had singled out Herod Antipas in particular for his most scathing denunciations. Herod had recently stolen his brother Philip's wife, a formidable beauty named Herodias, and John was publicly calling her a harlot and Herod an adulterer. The King of the Jews had been called much worse in his time, and seemed to be taking it in stride, but the Jewish gossip mill said that Herodias was furious and wanted to see the so-called prophet dead.

Finally, over a month after Jesus' baptism, word began to come down into Judea that the Nazarene had appeared in Galilee, first turning up at his sister's wedding, where he apparently turned seven large jars of water into wine of the finest vintage. Then he began preaching to large crowds up and down the villages that dotted the shores of Lake Gennesaret. The stories also attributed remarkable healing powers to Jesus, who, as it turned out, had lived the first thirty years of his life as a humble carpenter. But, as far as Pilate could tell, there was nothing revolutionary in the man's teachings, and certainly no hint of violence. Besides, Galilee was technically in Herod's bailiwick, and Pilate had no desire to deal with the King of the Jews unless it was absolutely necessary. The man revolted him.

Another issue claimed the governor's attention that fall. After more than a year of peace, Zealot activity was on the increase. It was autumn, and Pilate was preparing to return to Jerusalem for the annual festival season, when two auxiliaries came galloping in to Caesarea, with the body of a third draped over his horse. They reported to Brutus Appius, who was the duty officer that day. He immediately went and got Pilate.

“Sorry to disturb you, sir, but I think you are going to want to hear this,” said the centurion. Pilate descended the steps to the courtyard, where the men were standing over the body of their comrade.

“What has happened? Who has done this?” he asked.

“Well, Your Excellency, we were part of the garrison stationed down at Joppa,” said the nervous young cavalryman. “Things have been pretty quiet-like down our way of late, and several of us have been hiring ourselves out as armed escorts for merchants traveling inland to Jerusalem or Samaria.”

Pilate glared. Such activities were not technically illegal, but they were not particularly professional either. “Go on,” he said coldly.

“I know what you're thinkin', sir,” said the soldier. “It's not something we would have done when things were so bad with the Zealots before you got here. But with the attacks down, instead of sending an entire patrol to escort a caravan of merchants, it made more sense for three or four of us to go and escort them individually. We've been doing it for a year or more without incident—until this!”

“Tell the Prefect what happened!” snapped Appius.

“Three of our mates had signed on to escort a seller of perfumes from Joppa to Jerusalem, and they left town five days ago. Two days later, one of their horses wandered back into the post without a rider. We sent out a full patrol, and about ten miles up the road from Joppa we found the bodies. The merchant's head was cut off and perched on a rock with a perfume jar in his mouth, and our three comrades were all lying dead in the middle of the road, stripped of their armor and gear. Rutilius here was the senior one among them, and I guess the
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must have tortured him into admitting it, because he's the one they left their signature on.”

“Signature?” asked Pilate.

They rolled the body over. He had been dead for three days, and was already starting to stink, but it was not the stench, nor the ghastly wounds, that cause Pilate to scowl. Carved into the man's chest in crude Greek letters was a name. A Jewish name—BAR ABBAS. The fanatics had found a new leader, it seemed, who was determined to provoke the Romans to wrath. Very well, thought Pilate. If wrath was what they sought, he would deliver it.

The hunt for Bar Abbas consumed most of Pilate's time that fall and winter. The new Zealot leader was elusive and very wary; he struck infrequently, and always in the areas where Pilate was not looking for him. In fact, Pilate became increasingly certain that the man must have an informant in Caesarea who kept him posted as to where the patrols were searching. Unfortunately, there were so many travelers, traders, prostitutes, and merchants in the city that finding the culprit was almost impossible. Pilate began keeping his plans more and more secret, only trusting his centurions with their orders at the last minute, and keeping the men in the dark until they actually set out. But the bandit leader still eluded him.

Little Decimus was growing rapidly, and continuing to terrorize the town and soldiers with his antics. Concerned for his safety, Pilate detailed two legionaries to follow the boy around at all times. They immediately fell under the toddler's spell and could be seen at all hours giving him rides on their shoulders, and sparring with him using wooden swords. Of course, at two years of age, they let him win every battle. But Pilate made sure that the child did know some limits; he had no desire to raise a spoiled monster like Gaius Caligula in his own household.

Procula was less tired now that the boy was bigger and not quite so dependent on her, and at times she seemed almost like herself again. Only occasionally did the memory of the daughter that Caligula had destroyed erase the smile from her face, but the scars of that loss were still there for both of them. Pilate, in the private recesses of his mind, bounced back and forth between a stoic acceptance of his fate and a primal desire to bathe in Gaius Caligula's blood. But in front of his family, he was affectionate to his wife and amused by his son and generally presented an attitude of contentment. Still, he missed Rome. As he wrote in a letter to Sullemia that spring,

I know that the Senate will resume its meetings in a few weeks, and I miss the give and take of the debates. I miss the honors that my Civic Crown accorded me when I entered the chamber, and I miss proposing and commenting on legislation. I even miss the things I never thought I would—the interminable speeches that set us younger Senators whispering among ourselves, and the droning voice of the Princeps Senatus as he called us “Conscript Fathers.” Most of all, though—and I will say this to you because you know what I mean—I miss those special missions for the Emperor; those opportunities to clean up a messy situation or silence a dangerous voice. It's not that I miss Tiberius himself—the old curmudgeon can go rot for all I care—but I miss being important! I miss being a player in the great game of Roman politics. I don't know that I will ever return to that world, but I remember it and long for it with an aching heart sometimes.

He received a reply from Quintus Sullemius as summer began:

Old friend, rest assured that the Rome you remember so fondly is not the Rome that I live in now. In fact, I may be coming your way soon if things do not improve. Last week Sejanus, who had recently been elected Consul, was summoned to a meeting of the Senate, where a sealed letter from the Emperor was opened and read. In it, Tiberius ordered the Conscript Fathers to immediately arrest his longtime agent and fellow consul Sejanus and execute him for treason on the spot! For once, Sejanus had no clue what was coming, but oh! How eagerly the Senate carried out that order! He was dragged screaming from the Forum and locked in the ancient Latumnia prison, and tried the next morning for treason. The trial lasted an hour; the Senate unanimously voted Condemno and he was strangled shortly thereafter. They rolled his body down the Gemonian stairs, and the crowd tore his carcass to pieces. There was rioting in the city all evening as the people tore down every statue and bust of Sejanus that they could find. His longtime lover Livilla is under arrest, along with both her children. Macro is now Prefect of the Praetorian Guard, and he seems like a much more reasonable fellow—for the moment, at least.

Now everyone is waiting in anticipation to see what Tiberius will do next. The problem is, the people of Rome have not seen their Emperor for nearly five years! There are all sorts of rumors about him that swirl about—many claim that he has degenerated into a disgusting pedophile who has boatloads of children brought to Capri for his pleasure, and that he executes those who do not please him. Although my sources in Neapolis tell me that this is not true, the fact that the mob is willing to believe it shows how little they think of their Emperor now. We do not know what to expect with Sejanus gone, but no one I know thinks that things will get better.

Pilate put the letter aside with a sigh. Now that he was three years removed from his close acquaintance with the Emperor, he was more objective than he had been while acting as Tiberius' confidential agent and client. It seemed to him that Tiberius' problem was that he simply did not like himself very much, and being perpetually disappointed with himself had made him disappointed with everyone else. He wondered sometimes if Tiberius had ever been truly happy.

As for his own feelings about Tiberius, Pilate's anger had faded since the birth of his son, although it was never gone completely. He blamed Caligula for the death of Porcia Minor, and would till the day he died, but his feelings for the Emperor were more of a detached pity than the rage that had consumed him. He would never be fond of Tiberius, but he could at least understand the man more now than he once did. He decided that he would write a personal letter to the Emperor soon, something more friendly than the professional reports on the province that he had been sending out.

The day after his missive from Sullemius arrived, Longinus returned from an extended patrol in pursuit of Bar Abbas. He had managed to capture a couple of Zealots alive, but even under torture they had refused to betray their leader's location—in fact, they would not even admit knowing where he hid out. But the unknown bandit leader was growing bolder—as Longinus could testify.

“Right there in Capernaum, where my family lives, he set fire to the synagogue and burned it to the ground—and his men killed the local rabbi who was a good friend to me and my wife. He left his name carved on poor Samuel's chest, so that we would know who was responsible,” said the centurion.

“Horrible!” said Pilate. “Bad enough they attack the soldiers of Rome, but when they start murdering all who are friendly to us, things can get ugly very quick. What about your family? Are they safe?”

Longinus nodded. “I am bringing them to Caesarea until this plays out,” he said. “Too many Roman citizens and sympathetic Jews are being targeted by this scum.”

“Do we know anything about him yet?” asked Pilate. “What sort of man is he? Does his name give us any clues?”

“Bar Abbas just means ‘son of my father' in Hebrew,” said Longinus. “It's commonly used by the sons of prostitutes or adulteresses who have no idea who their true father was. I did get a bit of a description from one of the Zealots we interrogated. We had to remove most of his toes before he started talking, but when he finally broke he gave us some details.” He unrolled a small scroll and read aloud: “‘A man of less than average height, but broad shouldered and powerfully built. He has a large scar down one side of his neck, and a chunk of his left ear is gone.' According to the man we interrogated, he is incredibly strong. When one of the
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flinched at killing the Jewish children of a Roman citizen, he picked the man up and strangled him barehanded while holding him in the air. I'm a strong man, Prefect, but I doubt I could do that to the smallest member of our legion. This fellow is a brute!”

Pilate sighed. “All the more reason we need to find him and nail him up!” he said. “If we cannot protect the people, or our own men, we will be held in contempt, and our governance of the province will be threatened. Continue to use all our resources to locate this man and his followers. Now, any other news of note?”

“Herod finally arrested John the Baptizer at the insistence of his wife Herodias,” said Longinus. “Fat lot of good it did her, though. The king goes down to the dungeon to hear John preach and steadfastly refuses to lay a hand on him—apparently he either fears the wrath of God or the wrath of the mob.”

“Herod!” said Pilate. “I got an invitation from him this week—he is throwing a celebration of his birthday in a fortnight. As much as I despise the man, I suppose I will have to go. Sorry, Centurion. What else?”