The Redemption of Pontius Pilate (55 page)

This new Pilate was a different man in many ways. He was more patient and less proud, more happy and less angry, and quick to ask forgiveness if he felt he had given offense. Porcia was radiant, knowing that her husband now shared the faith she had embraced so passionately. Young Decimus, now ten years old, was still immature in his faith, but he had come to love the God who made his parents so happy together, and frequently came and sat with his father to hear the tales about the man from Nazareth who had come to save the world.

It took Pilate a while to realize the biggest change in himself, but one day he realized what it was. On the way back to their small house from the upper room, a burly Greek sailor bumped into them and swore, then gave Porcia a lascivious glance. Pilate put himself between the offensive stranger and his wife, and the man moved on. As they walked on home, Pilate realized what was different. The angry beast that had lived inside him for so many years would have been envisioning a dozen different ways to make the sailor scream and beg before ending his life—but all Pilate felt, after the initial flash of anger, was a certain sympathy for a man who was so consumed by his sins that he did not even realize how lost he was. The vicious, cruel side of Pilate's personality that had urged him to bathe in his enemies' blood was simply gone, and Pilate found he did not miss it at all.

He and Porcia talked at length about what to do once the Emperor's search for them faded away. Pilate still had a tidy sum tucked away, and thought that they might yet escape to a faraway land where the Emperor's arm could not reach them. The idea appealed to both of them, but neither wanted to leave the warm embrace of the Jerusalem church yet. Perhaps, sometime next year, they could take the Gospel to Gaul or Egypt. But for the moment, they were content.

By the Feast of Lights, the Praetorians had left Jerusalem, although the reward for Pilate's capture was still out there. By all accounts, Caligula, after an initial show of generosity and kindness to the people of Rome, was letting his true nature show. His behavior was becoming more erratic, cruel, and bizarre at every turn. Even in far-off Judea some of the stories about him caused people to shudder. According to one tale, he invited a wealthy Senator to a dinner party at his palace, along with a number of other prominent men and their wives. This Senator had recently married a lovely young girl from an ancient and honorable family, and Caligula took notice of her. Halfway from the meal, he grabbed her by the arm and abruptly hustled her out of the room. The Praetorian guards kept anyone from leaving the table, commanding them to continue eating, even though the young bride's cries for help were echoing from the room next door. After a half hour, Caligula came back, smug and smiling, and complimented the girl's husband on his excellent taste in women. The man's wife crept into the room moments later, her clothes torn and face bloodied. When the Senator tried to leave, the Emperor refused to let him, instead pouring him a cup of rich wine and thanking him for bringing such lovely entertainment to the party.

Pilate was deeply affected by this story, because it so closely echoed his own experience with the wretched man now ruling Rome. How could a just God let such a vile man control the fate of millions? Finally, he went to John, who was teaching at the Temple, and asked if he could speak to him alone. As always, the young apostle was gracious and kind, and walked away in deep conversation with the troubled Pilate.

So intent were they on trying to understand God's willingness to tolerate evil that neither of them saw a black-robed figure emerge from the Temple and follow them for several blocks. The mysterious observer was stooped with age now, his beard nearly solid white, but he kept the two Nazarenes in sight until he finally got a good look at Pilate's face. His mouth thinned to a grim line, and he scurried back toward the Temple as fast as he could without drawing too much attention to himself. Once there, he asked to be shown to the High Priest, Jonathan. The Temple guards escorted him in after a brief delay.

The High Priest was hunched over a scroll, attended by two scribes. He looked up from the passage he was reading and smiled.

“Uncle Caiaphas,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

It was nearly time for Passover again. Five years had passed since Jesus came to Jerusalem to celebrate the feast with his Apostles; five years since the turbulent trial that had seen the Son of God sent to the cross. Now the man who had uttered that death sentence was an accepted member of the Jerusalem church, and a passionate follower of The Way. Pilate preferred to be called Levi now; his old name, like his old life, had been left behind when he chose to follow Christ—partly to protect him and his family from the ongoing search ordered by Gaius Caligula, and partly because many newer believers would not have been comfortable worshipping with the man who had sent Jesus to the cross. But all the Apostles and their inner circle knew who the quiet, taciturn Brother Levi was, and were sometimes saddened that they could not share the story of his remarkable conversion with the world.

Pilgrims from all over the world were coming to Jerusalem for the Passover, as they did every year. But many of them were coming not only for the traditional Seder feast, but also to hear the teachings of the Apostles of Jesus. No one knew exactly how many followers The Way claimed at this time, but all knew that number increased daily. The Apostles baptized every week at the Pool of Siloam, and sometimes it took several hours to immerse all those who had proclaimed faith in the name of Jesus. Pilate had been baptized only a day or two after his prayer for salvation had been answered, and now he came each week to see the new believers welcomed into the fellowship of The Way.

That evening, Pilate and his family had retreated to their small home in the merchants' quarter, and shared a hot meal of soup, bread, and broiled fish together, after thanking God for providing another day of safety and sustenance. Little Decimus was yawning, and the family was thinking about bedtime when suddenly a loud pounding sounded on the door.

Some of Pilate's old instincts came flooding back. He told Porcia to take Decimus into the bedroom, next to the window, while he slipped toward the sturdy wooden door. “Who is there so late?” he demanded.

“It is John, Lucius,” came a familiar voice. “Let me in, please!”

Pilate raised the bar and opened the door. John stood there with his wife Miriam by his side. She looked frightened, and the normally serene Apostle was a bit paler than usual.

“What on earth is the matter?” asked Pilate.

“Praetorians are on their way from Caesarea,” said John. “The High Priest found out where you were and sent a letter to the Emperor, reporting your presence in Jerusalem—and that it was my family that had sheltered you and yours. They are coming for us all. We have a day at the most!”

Pilate stiffened. He had feared this day might come, but every week that had gone by without discovery had cause him to relax that fear ever so slightly. He had begun to think that he had avoided the Emperor's dragnet altogether. As he pondered possibilities, something occurred to him.

“How do you know this?” he asked.

“I once delivered fish to the High Priest's palace every week for nearly a year,” said John. “I knew most of his household, and several of the servants became good friends of mine. One of them, Eleazar ben Simeon, is a follower of The Way—although he has kept his faith a secret from the priests. He told me some time ago that Caiaphas had asked for an audience with the High Priest Jonathan, his nephew. He has been trying for some time to find out what that conversation was about—he said that the expression on Caiaphas' face right before the two of them shut the doors and ran the servants out was positively frightening! Finally, this afternoon, he overheard the High Priest telling his uncle that the Praetorians should be in the city to arrest Pilate and all those who sheltered him first thing tomorrow morning. My friend, we must escape the city! James and Peter are safe, I think—their names are not associated with yours as mine has become. But for my wife's sake, and for the sake of the Gospel, we must avoid being apprehended if we can.”

Pilate nodded. “Let us flee towards Ephesus,” he said. “I have a large sum of money on deposit there under a false name. That will give us sufficient funds to flee wherever we wish to go, until the Emperor grows bored with trying to avenge an ancient grudge.”

John looked at his friend curiously. “Why does the new Emperor hate you so?” he asked.

“I broke both his arms and nearly beat him to death,” said Pilate.

John's mouth opened so wide that Pilate was forced to laugh, despite the urgency of the moment.

“It's a long story,” he said, “and perhaps on the road I will tell it to you. But now, we need to prepare for our flight.”

Porcia and Decimus had been listening from the bedchamber, and Pilate's ever-efficient wife was already throwing garments into a traveling bag. Pilate gathered the few possessions he wanted from his old life, tossing them in the pack. Last of all he picked up his battered, much-used legate's gladius. He drew it from its scabbard and studied it for a long moment.

“You know that is not our way,” said a soft voice from behind him. He turned and saw John standing in the doorway watching him.

“That may be true, but can a man not defend his family?” Pilate asked.

John thought a long moment. “Jesus did tell us, just before he was crucified, that everyone who did not own a sword should sell his cloak and buy one, because dark and difficult days lay ahead for us all,” he finally said. “Three of us had swords—and yes, I was one of them! When we showed them to him, he told us that would be enough. Yet later that night, when Simon tried to attack those who arrested our Master, Jesus told him to put his blade away—that those who took up the sword should perish by the sword. Is that what you want, Pilate? To die as you lived in your former life?”

Pilate swallowed hard. “What I want is to raise my wife and son in peace, and to share the words of Jesus with enough people to atone for the guilt I still feel for sending Him to the cross,” he said. “But if I can save my family, or yours, by letting a blade take my life—then that is what I will do.” He placed the sword in the bag and stuffed it under some of his clothes.

The city was going to bed, the rattle and clatter of the daily crowds giving way to the more muffled sounds of night. John led them to the Sheep Gate along the city's north wall. There was a small stable not far from the gates, whose owner was a recent follower of The Way. He had several horses saddled and waiting for them. The owner conferred with John for a few moments, and then Pilate walked over. He reached into his cloak for his bag of coin, but the man shook his head.

“I am glad to give you all a chance to escape the city,” he said. “Don't take away my true reward by sullying the deed with money.”

“I thank you, sir,” said Pilate. “If we can, I will send these horses back to you from Ephesus.” He threw his bags across the animal's back, and then Pilate lifted his son up to ride in front of him. John rode beside him on a large sturdy mule, while the two women were mounted on small ponies. Miriam started to ride side-saddle, but Porcia shook her head.

“When speed is required, maidenly modesty must give way to necessity,” she told John's wife. “It is dark, and no one will care if your calves are showing.”

Moments later, they spurred their mounts and disappeared into the moonless Judean night. They rode hard all through the night, and stopped briefly in Galilee late the next morning. John knew a tavern owner who was also a follower of Jesus; he directed them to a quiet back room where all five of them slept the daylight hours away. They woke as the sun was setting; eating a brief meal, they slipped out of the inn and were on the road again by full dark. They rode hard northward, towards the snow-capped peak of Mt. Hermon, and then on to the southern parts of Lebanon before stopping at midday near a sparkling, clear stream that flowed down from the mountain that now loomed to their east.

The horses, worn out from two days' hard riding, drank deeply. Pilate expertly hobbled them in the midst of a good stand of rich grass to let them graze for a while. His son joined him as he removed the saddles and rubbed down their tired mounts.

Decimus looked up at him curiously. The boy was now ten years old, and as Pilate watched the anxious young face, he could see in its lines the man his son would become someday—if he survived the current crisis. He had Pilate's steady gray eyes and aquiline nose, but the gentle lines of his mouth and slightly upturned brow reminded Pilate of Porcia—and, he suddenly realized, of her father, his old friend Proculus. But the troubled child was none of these, Pilate thought—he was his own, unique person, and was obviously unhappy with their current situation.

“
Pater,
” he said—using the more mature term for father was something he had just recently begun to do—“why did we have to leave Jerusalem? I miss Peter and Andrew and the boys I used to play with.”

“My son, many years ago I made a very powerful person very angry with me,” said Pilate.

“The Emperor?” Decimus asked.

“Yes, son,” said Pilate. “He was not Emperor then—in fact, he was only a few years older than you. But he did a very wicked thing, and I hurt him for it.”

“Did he deserve to be hurt?” asked the boy.

“By all rights, he deserved to die!” said Pilate. “I know that vengeance is the territory of God, but by the laws of Rome and of all civilized men, what he did was deserving of severe punishment. I certainly intended to kill him.”

“Is he the one that killed my sister?” Decimus asked.

Pilate's jaw dropped. He and Porcia had never told their son about their lost daughter—partly because he was so young, at first, and partly because they feared the knowledge might fill the boy with thoughts of vengeance as he grew older. But Decimus merely smiled at his father's expression.