The Redemption of Pontius Pilate (20 page)

“Is it my fault?” she asked.

“What do you mean?” said Pilate.

“Are you being sent away because of me?” she said.

“No, precious!” he said. “What happened to you was no one's fault except for Gaius Caligula, and what has happened to me is completely unrelated. The Emperor needed a good governor for a bad province, to make it run better. That is all.”

She looked at him, her bruised and swollen face still full of pain. “I think he is sending you away because you hurt Gaius, and you hurt Gaius because he hurt me. So it is my fault!” She turned her face to the wall and began crying. Pilate bowed his head in grief for a moment. Procula Porcia took his hand and squeezed it, and gave him a look that was full of regret—but also of compassion. Despite their current predicament, Pilate thanked the gods that he had married so well. But the atmosphere in the room was oppressive, so he turned and went back up topside to watch the ship get underway.

The first week of the journey was uneventful. The winds were light and southwesterly, and the ship was headed almost due south, so most of the sails were furled and the crew rowed the ship steadily southward, using the aft sail for steerage. It took them four days to reach Rhegium, an important seaport near the toe of the Italian boot. There they took on two hundred amphorae of wine and many bolts of fine Italian linens, which they would sail to Crete with.

The ship had a crew of fifty or so, of whom about twenty-four would man the oars at a time, working in eight-hour shifts. The first mate was a wiry little Greek named Demosthenes, and the crew was a polyglot assemblage of mongrels from all over the Empire. After making a few inquiries, Pilate found that two of them were from Judea. He questioned each of them separately, trying to get a better feel for these people he was going to govern for the next few years.

“We are the Chosen People,” said Simeon, a forty-year-old Jew with the massive shoulders of someone who had manned the oars for many years. “That is the blessing and curse of the Jews. Our Scriptures teach us that God called our ancestor Abraham to the lands around Jordan two thousand years ago, and promised to give those lands to him and his descendants forever and ever. Abraham's son and grandson lived there all their lives, until Jacob, whom we name Israel, went as an old man to live in Egypt with his son Joseph.”

“Wait a moment,” said Pilate. “Is not Israel the name you give your entire nation?”

“Exactly,” said the man. “Jacob had twelve sons, whose descendants became twelve tribes, and so the sons of Israel are numbered as twelve tribes to this very day. I am of the tribe of Asher myself.”

“So why did Jacob go to Egypt?” asked Pilate.

“His younger son Joseph was hated by his brothers, because his dreams foretold he would rule over all of them,” explained Simeon. “So they sold him into slavery, and he wound up becoming the Grand Vizier of Egypt, the Pharaoh's most trusted servant. When a great famine struck all the lands, Joseph was forewarned by God and made sure the lands of Egypt would have food in abundance by saving up in advance. When the lands of Israel began to starve, he revealed himself to his brothers and father as their long-lost sibling, and invited them to come and stay in Egypt as honored guests of the Pharaoh.”

“But weren't the Jews slaves in Egypt?” asked Pilate, recalling a story he had read long ago.

“They were,” said Simeon, “but not right away. A new Pharaoh, from a new dynasty, saw how numerous the descendants of Jacob had become, and feared their might, so he enslaved them all long after Joseph's time. They were treated most cruelly, and cried to God for a deliverer. So he sent them Moses, who called down mighty plagues on Egypt until Pharaoh agreed to let them go back to the land promised to Abraham. Moses also was given a code of laws by God on Mount Sinai, and wrote for us the Torah, which became the heart of our Scriptures.”

Pilate nodded, and dismissed the man back to work. What an odd mythology the Jews had! He wondered if the story of Romulus and Remus would sound equally strange to someone who had never heard it.

He talked to Simeon several times, as well as to Zakariyah, the other Jewish crewman. Zakariyah was more cynical and less religious than his companion, but in essence his description of Jewish culture and history was very close to what Pilate had already heard. At the very least, Pilate thought, he would not arrive in Caesarea completely ignorant of the strange nation he was to govern.

He spent so much time trying to learn about the Jews, at least in part, to take his mind off his worries about his daughter. Porcia Minor was recovering physically, but her spirit seemed broken. Pilate and Procula Porcia took turns trying to reassure her and make her feel loved, but she was convinced that the entire family was being punished because she had somehow failed as Gaius' betrothed spouse. Pilate could not convince her that the assault was not something she had brought on herself. In some childish way, she still refused to believe Gaius could have done something so awful without being provoked by her in some way.

Dealing with her depression left Pilate feeling angry and frustrated. The job of the
paterfamilias
was to make things right, and he could not seem to do that for his daughter. The hungry beast within him that thrived on bloodshed and pain threatened to rise to the fore each time he saw his little girl crying again, and it was harder and harder for him to keep control.

It was in this frame of mind one night that he returned to his family's cabin. Procula Porcia was going to give Porcia Minor a bath, and Pilate had absented himself from the chamber to give them privacy. Romans were not prudish about nudity, but since his daughter's ordeal she had been obsessively modest, and Pilate wanted to give her space. But later that night, when he swung down the hatch and entered the short passage that led to their quarters, he saw the hunched figure of a man at the door, trying to peek in through a crack between the boards. The beast in Pilate's breast burst its cage immediately, and he was on the man, his hand over the bearded mouth and his blade at the throat, in a heartbeat.

Mindful of noise, he dragged the crewman topside. “Not a word!” he hissed, and spun the man about. He recognized him as one of the rowers, an Italian nicknamed Strabo for his crossed eyes.

“What were you doing?” he demanded.

“Begging your pardon, sir, but it's been two weeks at sea with no womenfolk to look at!” said Strabo. “I meant no harm—I just wanted a peek at the girl!”

“That girl has been through enough misery without a common toad like you leering at her while her mother gives her a bath!” snapped Pilate.

“I meant no harm, Excellency, and she would never have known—” the crewman tried to protest, but his comments were cut short as Pilate's blade severed his windpipe. A sharp kick to the chest sent the gurgling corpse overboard, and Pilate made his way to the captain's quarters.

“Here,” he said, throwing a few silver denarii down on the captain's small desk. “For the loss of your crewman. And tell the others to keep their prying eyes away from my family's cabin!”

Diomyrus pocketed the coins and nodded. “Peeping at keyholes, eh?” he said. “Sailors will be sailors, I suppose, but they should not intrude on their betters! Which man was it?”

“The Italian Strabo,” said Pilate.

The captain shrugged. “He was a shirker and a weakling,” he said. “I can hire a better and stronger rower when I get to Joppa, and his absence will be little noted before then. My apologies for your inconvenience.”

Another week saw them arrive at Malta and offload their cargo. Pilate took his daughter topside and tried to interest her in the operations of the ship, but she showed no curiosity about anything. He thought of the lively ten-year-old who had explored every part of their vessel on the return voyage from Spain, and wept for the child that Caligula had murdered with his vile deed, leaving only this blighted and frail wraith in her place.

Three days later, even that pale shade of his daughter was taken from him forever. One night, as Pilate and his wife slept, Porcia Minor slipped out of her bunk and stole topside, where she threw herself into the sea. She left a short note behind, tucked under her pillow.

Tata and mama
, it read.

Forgive me for what I am about to do. I cannot sleep, I cannot heal myself inside, and I know that the two of you are being punished because of me. My life has no joy and no hope; every time I close my eyes I hear his mocking laugh and see his evil smile as he thrusts himself into me again and again. I go to the one place where I hope he can never follow. Leaving the two of you behind is my only regret. Do not blame yourselves; I do this of my own free will. No girl ever had more loving parents. I shall wait for you in the land of the shades.

Your loving daughter,

Procula Porcia Minor

Pilate ordered the ship turned around, and they meandered about the sea for three days, but her body was never sighted. The Mediterranean had swallowed his only child without a trace. Diomyrus commented that one of the ballast weights was missing from the hold, and theorized that the girl may have tied it around her waist before throwing herself into the deep. Procula Porcia wept for days, clinging to her husband for comfort. Pilate was devastated beyond words, but like a true Roman man, he showed his grief to no one except his wife. By the time the ship anchored in the magnificent artificial harbor at Caesarea, his tears had all been shed. It was time to make the most of his exile, and get on with his life. His daughter's smile and voice he kept in a locked chamber of his heart, where he could visit them in his dreams for the rest of his life.

Prefect Valerius Gratus was overjoyed at his unexpected relief from duty as Governor when Pilate landed in Caesarea. Gratus was a chubby, middle-aged Roman of mediocre talent and limited intelligence, whose rise to proconsul had been largely achieved through family connections. He had repeatedly pestered Tiberius and the Senate for an appointment as a provincial governor, hoping to restore the family fortune he had squandered on expensive artworks and prostitutes. Tiberius had appointed him as Prefect over Judea as a grim joke—it was a poor province, having been squeezed of its gold by a succession of corrupt client kings, priests, and conquering empires for almost a thousand years. Valerius had still tried to line his pockets through aggressive tax farming and an excessive entanglement in local religious politics, but had only succeeded in making himself despised among the Jews.

“They are an impossible people, Pontius Pilate!” he said after welcoming Pilate to the governor's palace. “Illogical, irrational, and altogether too devoted to their religion! Won't work on Saturday, won't go near certain animals, and they seem to take off work for religious festivals on a near-constant basis!”

“We do have religious festivals in Rome, too,” said Pilate, sipping a glass of wine to wash the dust of the town's busy streets from his throat.

“But our festivals are joyous!” said Valerius. “A time to drink and sing and fornicate to our heart's content, all to the honor of our gods! They come together and mourn and wail for the forgiveness of their sins, and pray for their god to send the Messiah to restore their fortunes!”

“What on earth is a Messiah?” asked Pilate.

“A huge part of their religious mythology,” said Valerius. “Supposedly he will be a human descendant of their great warrior-king David, but also will be an incarnation of their invisible God—who, incidentally, does not have a proper name. At least, not one that they are allowed to say. They use substitute names like ‘Elohim' or ‘Adonai' instead. At any rate, this Messiah-King is supposed to be from David's line and will drive away the evil Gentiles—that's their term for us, and for all foreigners—and then restore the kingdom to its former glory, and bring about the rule of their God on earth.”

Pilate nodded. “What kind of shape is your legion in?” he said.

“Bored, lazy, and corrupt,” said Valerius. “I parcel them out into the countryside, a few dozen to a hundred in all the major villages and towns, and keep a cohort or two here in Caesarea in case of trouble. Half of them are criminals from the worst stews of Rome who live to make trouble with the locals; the other half are decent soldiers. Some of them have gone native and married Jewish girls; a few even worship Adonai or whatever his name is.”

“Why do you tolerate laziness and corruption among your soldiers?” Pilate asked rather sharply.

“I am not much of a military man, I'm afraid,” said Valerius. “I can see the problems, but I have no idea how to fix them. I hope you will have better fortune than I have had!”

“It seems to me, Gratus, that the majority of your problems are self-inflicted!” said Pilate. “Tell me, who is your senior Legate?”

“Don't have one at the moment. Titus Vorenus was the last one I had, and he got his throat cut by a Zealot over a year ago. Rome has not seen fit to send a replacement,” said Valerius.

Pilate snorted. He wondered if Valerius Gratus had even bothered to ask. “So is your
primus pilus
centurion worth his salt?” he asked.

“Cassius Longinus?” he said. “A decent fellow, but he is one of those who have gone native since he has been here. He lives in a village called Capernaum with a Jewish wife, and even owns a copy of their Scriptures and reads them to his children from time to time. But he is a first-rate soldier, and seems to understand the local culture as well as anyone.”

This means, thought Pilate, that he would probably be a better governor than you! But he held his silence.

“Do you suppose that I could use the ship that brought you here to return to Rome?” asked Gratus.

“Of course,” said Pilate. “But the captain wants to put out to sea within the week. Will you have your effects gathered and your report to the Senate ready by then?”