The Redemption of Pontius Pilate (43 page)

His leg was gradually regaining some of its strength, and over the winter Pilate tried to train with the troops again. Although he could still wield a sword quite well, the injured leg was simply not dependable. The slightest wrong move or turn would cause it to buckle, and excruciating pain would shoot up his leg. As much as he regretted it, he found that the Emperor's advice about not leading men in direct combat any more was the best policy. But that did not keep him from training two or three times a week in the courtyard, and as he regained his strength, the men became more sympathetic of his plight, and he regained the affections of some who had come to dislike him during his painful recovery.

Bar Abbas was nowhere to be found. After the murder of Milo Lammius, he disappeared without a trace for three months, and Pilate began to hope that perhaps the Zealot leader had fled the province, or—gods willing!—met with a well-deserved death in the desert wastes. The reward notices were posted in every village, along with Pilate's warning proclamation against harboring the dangerous fugitive.

At the end of the year, Pilate received a letter from the Emperor. It was short and businesslike, for the most part—Pilate found himself wondering if the emotional missive from that fall had been written when Tiberius was drinking. Near the end of the letter, the Emperor said this:

I received yet another angry, outraged letter from the High Priest recently about your disrespect for the Temple and for his own religious authority. Oddly enough, however, he declined to give any details about whatever it was you said or did that set him off this time. I am certainly not going to chide you for some unspecified, undescribed offense, but do try to show proper respect to the local religious establishment when it is practical to do so! That being said, it is Rome and not the Temple that rules Judea, and if Caiaphas needs to be reminded of that, I will always back up your authority.

Pilate read the paragraph with a sigh, and set the letter down. Confound the High Priest and his connections in Rome! He had no doubt this was about his refusal to cooperate with regard to Jesus of Nazareth. Pilate was not going to arrest an innocent, harmless man just to satisfy the malice of a corrupt, jaded religious potentate. Still, he supposed at some point he might need to make a gesture of conciliation to the Temple.

A week after the letter arrived, one of Pilate's patrols came thundering into Caesarea, horses puffing and soaked with sweat, bearing news. Bar Abbas had struck again!

“He was in a public marketplace in Damascus,” said Lucius Scribonia, the senior legionary of the group. “Apparently he and his handful of followers were in the hills outside town, starving for lack of food, and he decided to take the chance of purchasing it himself. He pulled a shawl over his head and went looking for bread and fish, and a young girl in the crowd recognized him and called his name out loud. That was when Bar Abbas made what may prove a fatal mistake. Instead of turning and running, he grabbed the girl, clapped his hand over her mouth, pulled her into an alley, and cut her throat. But she had been heard by several, and when Bar Abbas came out of the alley covered with blood, an angry mob took out after him. He killed two more and slashed several others cutting his way to the gate, but was wounded himself in the process.”

Pilate spoke sharply. “Why are you here telling me this?” he asked. “You and the others should be in pursuit, instead of riding here to inform me!”

“Longinus sent us,” he said. “He has an entire century out beating the bushes, trying to find him. But here is the thing, Your Excellency—every person from the village is out looking too! The girl Bar Abbas killed was the daughter of a local rabbi, and they are outraged—furious even—at her death. The entire countryside is inflamed against the Zealots now, and Longinus thinks it is only a matter of days—perhaps even hours—before Bar Abbas is dead or captured.”

Pilate broke into a grin. “Well done, then, soldier! You and your men have a rest and a drink, and be ready to set out with me in the morning. I want to be in Damascus when this wretch is captured!”

Before they could set out the next day, another rider came into Caesarea, bearing a note from Longinus. Pilate broke the seal and read it greedily.

Gaius Cassius Longinus, Primus Pilus Centurion, to Prefect Lucius Pontius Pilate, Governor of Judea, greetings. They got him! A volunteer patrol from Damascus found the Zealot murderer Bar Abbas in the wilderness west of the town, holed up in a small cave. They beat him pretty severely before my men showed up to take him into custody, and he is still bleeding from a stab wound sustained during his escape from town. The locals insist on bringing him to you in person, but I am coming along with a squad of my lads just to make sure he does not meet with a fatal accident en route. We should arrive a day or two after you receive this letter.

Ironically, for all his revolutionary fervor, this bandit may have done more to build positive feelings for Rome than anything you or I have done. His cruelty, disregard for innocent life, and brutal guerrilla tactics have made him the most hated man in Judea. My men and I were cheered when we brought him back into Damascus in chains! I look forward to turning him over to your authority.

Pilate shared the news with all the cohorts in Caesarea, and sent riders to carry the news to every other Roman garrison in the province. The joyful mood was not only shared by every Roman legionary and citizen in Judea; in many towns the locals came out and celebrated as well. Only in a few Zealot strongholds was the capture of Bar Abbas not openly celebrated. About noon the next day, excited guards from the tower reported a large group approaching along the north road. Pilate had already donned his formal toga and ordered his curule chair brought out into the courtyard, where a raised dais had been prepared. Flanked by his lictors and an honor guard, he waited as the crowd was ushered in through the city gates.

The procession was an interesting one to say the least. A group of prominent citizens of Damascus led the way, flanked by mounted legionaries commanded by Longinus. Behind them, dragged on a chain, was the bleeding and bedraggled form of the guerrilla leader who had complicated Pilate's life for the last year. Behind Bar Abbas was a lengthy parade of Judean country folk, all of them in a jolly mood, some singing, others shaking their shovels and pitchforks at the bound bandit. All told, Pilate estimated that nearly a thousand people had come to witness Bar Abbas being handed over to the Roman government. He let them fill the courtyard and held up his hand for silence. Gradually, the crowd complied.

“First things first,” he said. “Who actually captured this thug?”

Two young men stood forth, looking so much alike Pilate thought he was seeing double. “We did, Your Excellency,” they said at the same time.

“And who might you two be?” he asked.

“Elijah and Elisha, sons of Eleazar ben Matthias,” one of them answered. “We are brothers, and Tamar, the young girl who was killed, was our cousin. We were leading a search party of a dozen men from our village, but it was the two of us who entered the cave and subdued Bar Abbas.”

“Well,” said Pilate, “this is now yours.” He reached into the sinus of his toga and pulled forth a purse heavy with coin—a thousand denarii, as promised, to which he had added another four hundred from his own funds. “In addition, in the name of the Senate and People of Rome, I will offer you and your family full citizenship in token of gratitude for your courage.”

One of the twins stepped forward and accepted the bag of coins. “I humbly thank you, sir, but no reward will bring back the life we lost. Tamar was her father's only daughter, the jewel of his old age. The only thing we really want is to see justice done.”

“You need have no fear on that account,” said Pilate. “Bar Abbas, for your foul murder of Roman citizens and your own countrymen, I sentence you to flogging and crucifixion. Given the extent of your injuries, I am postponing your flogging until your wounds have healed. Then you will receive forty lashes every two weeks until the time of Passover, when you will be publicly crucified at Jerusalem, where all the citizens of Judea can witness your well-deserved demise.”

The battered head lifted and the eyes focused on Pilate. “Just kill me now and get it over with, you Roman dog!” growled the murderer.

“Oh no,” said Pilate. “For all the suffering and misery you have inflicted, I will make sure your spirit dies long before I allow life to leave your body. I will see to it that you are not just killed, Bar Abbas. I will see you broken!” As he uttered those words, he glared at the bandit leader with all the ferocity he could muster. Bar Abbas tried to meet his gaze, but the sight of the slavering beast that dwelt inside the heart of Pontius Pilate was too much for him—he dropped his eyes, and the legionaries hustled him off to the prison cells. Several of the onlookers caught Pilate's glare and averted their eyes as well. He let his expression return to normal, and looked out at the crowd.

“It has been several years now since I came to serve as your governor,” he said. “During that time, it has been my primary goal to keep the peace in this province and hold the enemies of Rome and Judea at bay. I know that many of you will never love Rome as do we who were born on her fair hills, but I hope that all of you have come to realize that Rome is not your enemy unless you make her so. What the Senate and People of Rome want is not that far from what you want. You wish for peace, prosperity, and the right to worship your God according to your law. All these things Rome is willing to grant, in exchange for your submission to her authority and her laws. Freedom and independence are fine concepts, but freedom is messy and divisive. Independence leaves Judea open to invasion and war at any time. Rome's yoke is not heavy unless you make it so. With the capture of Bar Abbas and the end of Zealotry as a political cause, let us together create a new era of harmony, where Roman and Jew can live side by side in peace, under the wise leadership of the Senate and People of Rome, and of our beloved Emperor Tiberius Caesar.” The crowd was silent, but the raw hostility that might have met such a speech a few years before was not there. Pilate even saw some of the older Jews nodding as he spoke.

“Now, in celebration of the capture of Bar Abbas and the destruction of his band of brigands, I declare today to be a feast day! The merchants of Caesarea have been paid out of my purse to provide you with all the food and wine you desire for the rest of the day. Enjoy this occasion, and may your journey home be safe and uneventful!”

The crowds cheered at the news of the feast, and Pilate stepped down off the dais and made his way to the steps that led to the governor's quarters. Longinus followed him up a few minutes later, after making sure that Bar Abbas was securely chained in a heavily guarded cell. Pilate was seated behind his desk, rubbing his throbbing knee.

“Well done, sir,” said Longinus. “I think you handled the crowd quite well—they hate Bar Abbas so much that I didn't even hear any grumblings about him being crucified. I would make one suggestion, however, if I may.”

“What would that be?” asked Pilate.

“Don't crucify him right before Passover,” said Longinus. “The Jews don't want bodies hanging on the cross on their holiest of days. Wait and nail him up when Passover ends Saturday evening, or even first thing Sunday morning. That way they will all see him as they leave the city.”

Pilate nodded. “Or,” he suggested, “we could nail him up first thing Friday morning and break his legs an hour or two before sunset. He'd be dead before the Passover actually began that way. I hate to cut short his time on the cross, but after multiple floggings he'll be half dead anyway.”

Longinus shuddered. He could not imagine having your whip scars healing and scabbed over, only to be torn open again—and again, every two weeks. Bar Abbas would truly be broken long before he went to the cross. But, he reflected, it was still a better end than the murdering thug deserved! He fixed the images of Bar Abbas' victims in his mind, and all trace of sympathy for the Zealot vanished.

“Do you think that Judea will ever truly become a peaceful province?” Pilate asked. “The more I learn about the people, the more I doubt it. Everything about the Jews' culture and religion is so alien to Rome; I don't see how the two can ever co-exist. But then, Caesar's men probably said that about Gaul eighty years ago, and look how thoroughly Romanized Gaul is now.”

Longinus looked thoughtful for a moment. “I fear you may be right,” he said. “Much of that will depend on the direction the Empire takes when Tiberius is no more. It seems to me, from my perspective way down at the bottom of the political dung heap, that the Empire has been drifting for many years now. If the new Emperor governs wisely and respects the culture and religion of Judea and the other provinces, we may actually see long-term peace. But if he should prove to be reckless and dangerous—and what you have told me of Gaius Caligula makes me fear that is his nature—I doubt Judea will ever be free of rebellion.”

“One thing is for sure,” said Pilate. “Once Tiberius is gone, this province will not be my responsibility for long.”

“What will you do when Caligula succeeds to the purple?” asked the centurion.

“I only wish I knew,” said Pilate.

For the next couple of months things remained peaceful. The Zealots, their warriors dead and their leadership languishing in the dungeons, were a spent force for the time being. Jesus of Nazareth remained in Galilee, preaching and teaching to enormous crowds, but did not venture into Judea. According to Pilate's sources, Herod Antipas had tried repeatedly to see Jesus in person, only to be brushed off by the Galilean rabbi.

For Pilate, these months were to be the last truly happy times he had as governor of Judea. His son, now four and half years old, was proving to be a highly intelligent lad, speaking in complete sentences and asking questions about the world and the people that he encountered on a constant basis. His thirst for knowledge was insatiable, and Pilate usually enjoyed explaining things to him. Occasionally, however, the boy would ask about things that Pilate would have preferred he not bring up. One day he saw the guards dragging Bar Abbas from his cell to be flogged and came running up to his father's office.