The Redemption of Pontius Pilate (7 page)

“Then kiss me, sweet girl, and we will call it a betrothal!” said Pilate. She did kiss him then, and it was a most satisfying kiss—enthusiastic but not overly erotic, as befit the virgin daughter of a respectable Roman family. “Now let me see how this looks on you!” he said, and placed his gift around her neck. The rubies and emeralds in the necklace shone against her lovely pale skin, and she embraced him again in gratitude for such a lavish gift. He held her close for a moment, then offered her his arm and went to the peristyle garden, where Proculus and his wife Marcia were waiting.

“Your daughter has accepted my proposal,” said Pilate.

“Excellent!” said Proculus, clapping him heartily on the back. Marcia hugged their daughter and gave Pilate a guarded smile. “Have you given any thought to where you will live?” asked the father of the bride.

“I will be taking my captives to the slave market tomorrow,” said Pilate. “I got first pick of the lot, and they should fetch top price. I also should be receiving my share of the plunder we took from the Germans soon. That will provide me more than enough wealth to purchase a nice house. I am thinking I should like to live outside the city walls, but close enough to easily ride into town.”

“There is a nice house for sale in the Aventine District,” said Marcia.

“I was not aware there were any nice houses in the Aventine!” said Pilate—the district was mainly known for its large markets, stores, taverns, and brothels.

“That's not entirely true,” said Proculus. “The heart of the district has gone to seed, but along the east side there are some very nice homes. Understand, we are not making any sort of conditions—but we would appreciate your taking a look, at least. It's the most suitable residence we have found yet.”

“Exactly how long have you been looking?” asked Pilate.

“Roughly speaking, since you returned to Rome and had dinner with us,” replied his future father-in-law.

So it was that, a week before midsummer, Lucius Pontius Pilate and Procula Porcia were married in the garden of her parents' home. Tiberius himself presided over the ceremony in his office as Pontifex Maximus, and the Emperor sent a beautiful pair of silver drinking goblets as a wedding gift to the happy couple. Pilate then took his bride to his new home in the Aventine, which, as his in-laws had promised, was comfortable, well-appointed, and in a respectable neighborhood. Procula was a delightful spouse—attentive and always proper in public, affectionate and even sensual when they were alone. Pilate would always remember those first few weeks in their new home as some of the happiest days of his life.

Two weeks after the wedding, Pilate's father collapsed at home, and died the next day. He had been growing steadily weaker all along, and was unable to stand during most of the wedding ceremony, which he insisted on attending even though it tired him. Pilate's oldest brother, Cornelius Septimus, had made it back to Rome in time for the wedding and was still there when the elder Pilate passed away. The two brothers took care of the funeral arrangements and staged gladiatorial games in their father's honor, as befitted a Senator and former praetor. After the games were concluded, they discussed the disposal of the family home. As eldest son, Pilate had been given the choice in his father's will to either take the home for himself, give it to one of his younger brothers, or sell it, as long as he provided a place for his mother to live for the remainder of her days. He would never have considered turning her out of the home she loved, but since he had just purchased such a suitable residence for himself, he agreed to sign ownership of the family home over to Cornelius.

That fall Pilate stood for election as Tribune of the Plebs, with discreet financial backing from Tiberius. He finished second in the polls, which meant that he would be second in seniority out of the ten tribunes elected. It was a very respectable finish for a relative political neophyte, but Romans were always fond of young war heroes. Pilate found that he enjoyed the job immensely; crafting legislation and debating public policy were satisfying activities. He found that Tiberius was not a demanding patron at all; only once did Pilate have to employ his tribunician veto at his request. He did, however, employ his veto purely on his own authority once, to block legislation that would have raised taxes on the sale of captive slaves from Rome's wars. The sale of captives was a critical source of wealth for officers returning from the conflict, who often ran up considerable debts during their long absences from Rome. Charging extra taxes on their greatest source of income, Pilate argued, was like penalizing victory. The crowds cheered his spirited oration, and none of the other tribunes overrode his veto.

About a year after Tiberius returned from Germania, the Emperor of Rome died in his seventy-fourth year. The entire world was stunned by the news—Augustus had ruled over the Empire for forty-five years, and had been co-ruler for five years before that! Men had been born, married, and had children and grandchildren without ever seeing any other figure at the head of the Empire. Many old-timers, however, regarded the passing of the Emperor with trepidation, remembering the civil wars and struggles for succession that had followed the death of Julius Caesar nearly sixty years before.

After he heard the news, Pilate made his way to the home of Tiberius to offer his condolences, and to see if he could be of any service. He found his patron looking unusually shaken, and Tiberius quickly dismissed his other attendants and poured a glass of wine for each of them. He gestured for Pilate to join him on the couches in the dining chamber, and for a while the two associates sipped their drinks in silence. Finally it was Tiberius who spoke first.

“I never really expected the old man to die,” he said. “Logically, of course, I knew that he was mortal, and that his body was failing. But emotionally, all I could see was that Rome had always had Augustus, and I thought it always would.”

“You are far from the only one who feels that way, your Highness,” said Pilate.

“By the gods, please do not call me that!” snapped Tiberius. “I hate flattery! I hate how it takes otherwise honorable Romans and unmans them, reducing them to shameless sycophants and toadies. If I am truly your Emperor, Lucius Pontius Pilate, then I command you—always speak your mind in my presence!”

“Very well, sir,” said Pilate. “Then let me say this: you are the Emperor now. The moment Augustus joined the ranks of the gods, you became the most powerful man on earth. Men are going to flatter you. They are going to do everything in their power to buy, seduce, or compel your affections. Nothing you can do or say will change that, and complaining about it helps nothing. You need to make up your mind what kind of Emperor you are going to be. Your father's reputation is already secure and established; it is time for you to begin creating your own.”

Tiberius nodded. “That is excellent advice, Lucius Pontius,” he said. “You are a good counselor, and I will have need of such in the days to come. It is odd, you know—I never really loved Augustus as a son should love his father. He was a very closed man in many ways. You know, of course, that I was adopted when I was only a child. My natural father, Tiberius Claudius Nero, hated Octavian so much! He had always sided against the Caesars, first with the assassins of Julius Caesar, then with Marc Antony—anyone but Caesar's heir. He spoon-fed me with hatred for the Julii when I was too small to understand any of it. Then when my mother had the temerity to fall in love with Octavian, and both of them already married! I do believe he would have beaten her had she not been pregnant with my brother. To this day I do not know what stratagem Octavian used to force Nero to divorce my mother, but it worked. I remained at my father's house until he died a few years later, along with my baby brother. You cannot imagine the hateful rants he spewed forth when he was in his cups!”

Pilate listened, enthralled. The personal lives of Augustus and Livia had been a subject of gossip to generations of Romans, but they were both intensely private people who furnished little grist for the gossip mill. To actually be hearing the story of that complex marriage from one who knew it better than almost anyone was something many in Rome would die for! A shame, he thought, that he would never be able to share what he was hearing.

“So when my father died, I was about nine and my brother only four. Suddenly we were taken to live in the house of this monster who had stolen our mother. I don't really remember what I was expecting, only that I knew it would be horrible,” Tiberius continued, taking another drink of wine. His glass emptied, he called for more. After the goblet was filled, he went on. “But it wasn't horrible—not at all. I think that Octavian felt bad that my brother and I had been forced to grow up with no contact whatsoever with our mother, because he treated each of us with exquisite kindness. It was bewildering to me, to see that everything my natural father had told me about this man was not only false, but the direct opposite of the truth. In time, I came to be grateful—very grateful—that Octavian had taken us in and adopted us as his sons. But I never loved him. In fact, truth be told, Lucius Pontius—” Tiberius drained the goblet again and held it up for more. His butler poured the cup full, and Pilate realized that the Emperor of Rome was getting drunk before his eyes. He took a very small sip of his own cup, determined to keep a firm grip on his own wits this evening.

Tiberius went on, oblivious to Pilate's train of thought. “I am not sure that I can love,” he said. “There are people I am fond of, don't mistake me. But I have never known a single person that I would lay down my life for, except for Vipsania. Ah, Pilate, I would have opened a vein for that woman in a heartbeat. Isn't that the definition of love? Someone you care about more than you care about yourself? I could feel that for Vipsania, but I couldn't even feel that for my father—neither my natural father, nor for the man who adopted me and treated me like a son! No matter how kind he was to me, I always held back my heart from him. Then he forced me to divorce the only woman I ever cared about and marry his vile daughter instead. I was so angry, and he tried so hard to make it up to me. Now the old bastard is dead, and I never even once thanked him for all he did for me! Is there something wrong with me? Am I somehow broken inside, that I cannot feel love anymore?”

“We all have our regrets, Caesar,” said Pilate as neutrally as he could.

“Listen to this!” said Tiberius. He crossed the room, staggering a bit, and returned with a beautifully written scroll. “This is his will,” said the new Emperor. “He gives the usual blather about Rome, and his wife, and leaves me all his offices and honors—but then there is this, that he wrote just for me:
‘
To Tiberius Caesar—I have left you the greatest inheritance ever bequeathed. Guard it jealously, yet handle it with care. It can make you into a god, but it can also destroy you, my son. Govern with justice, but with caution, and when the need for ruthlessness should arrive, do not hesitate to be as ruthless as the occasion demands. May the gods give you wisdom!' You know the saddest part of it all, Lucius Pontius? He never asked me if I wanted any of this! Emperor of Rome! Ruler of the world! I have no desire to govern the world—it is all I can do to govern myself!”

He tossed his goblet aside and grabbed the flagon from his butler, drinking directly from it. Then he struck the slave across the cheek. “What are you looking at?” he roared. “Get out of here!” The servant scuttled out of the chamber quickly.

Pilate spent three hours there, watching as Tiberius got steadily drunker and drunker, roaring in anger at times, and weeping at others. Reflecting on how glum and morose the man normally was, Pilate figured that he was seeing the accumulated stress and misery of many years being released in one mighty bender, triggered by the stress of the Emperor's death. Finally, around midnight, Tiberius began to wind down. Pilate helped him to his bedchamber and out of his toga, and then pulled a light blanket over his exhausted form.

“Thanks you sho much!” Tiberius drawled. “You a good man, Looshus Ponchus Whatsis. Are you my friend?”

“I suppose I am, Caesar,” said Pilate, tiptoeing to the door.

“That's just funny,” Tiberius whispered. “I've never really had a friend before.”

Neither of them ever referred to that night again, but Pilate never forgot it, either.

Over the next few weeks, all of the city of Rome and the citizens of the broader Empire mourned the death of the Emperor. Augustus was proclaimed to be a god, just as his own adoptive father Julius Caesar had been. He was cremated in an impressive public ceremony, with Tiberius reading off a beautiful oration that left many Romans weeping for the loss of their beloved leader. The funeral games and feasting that followed were the most impressive seen since the death of Julius Caesar himself.

When the month of mourning was over, the Senate convened and ratified the will of Augustus, bestowing on Tiberius all the titles and honors that the former Emperor had held, and naming him Princeps, the First Citizen of Rome—the same title it had created for Augustus after his defeat of Marc Antony had left him as the sole ruler of Rome. Rome's leaders never wore a crown, yet they were considered superior to any king or potentate. For good or ill, Rome ruled the known world, and those kingdoms it had not yet conquered paid enormous tributes to avoid that fate. From the chilly northern shores of Gaul to the burning sands of Egypt, Rome ruled supreme. So it was that Tiberius Julius Caesar Augustus became the second Emperor of Rome, and the entire world waited to see what manner of ruler he would be.