by Randy Singer
Pilate would soon be judged by six hundred senators, most of whom were not willing to stick their necks out for an innocent man. Unbidden, the sight of Pilate washing his hands at the trial of Jesus flashed before me. It was exactly what the senators, other than Marcus Lepidus, had symbolically done at the trial of Apronius. In a few weeks, it would probably happen again, and we both knew it. The only thing that would be missing at the trial of Pontius Pilate would be the bowl of water.
The news came the next day, and it hit me hard. I tried to re-create my prior night’s conversation with Pilate, second-guessing everything I had said and beating myself up for not extending my client more hope. My own despondency at losing the trial of Apronius had affected my view of Pilate’s chances. I desperately wanted to talk with him again and put a better spin on it. I would promise him victory. I would tell him that we needed to keep on fighting. I would remind him that true Romans faced their accusers with the courage of Apronius. Romans were willing to die for the truth.
I would never have a chance to tell him any of those things. After our meeting, Pilate had donned his armor from his days as a Praetorian Guard. He had polished his breastplate and sword. He had put on his helmet and sandals and belt.
He had written a new will, leaving enough to Tiberius that the will wouldn’t be invalidated. He had left everything else to Procula. He had ended the will with a profession of his virtuous service as prefect of Judea and a declaration of his love for his wife and children.
He had sealed the will, left it on his desk, and marched into his gardens. There, like a good soldier, he had removed his breastplate and placed it on the ground. He had taken out his sword, grabbed the hilt, and pressed the point up under his ribs so that when he lunged, it would go straight into his heart.
I learned these things from Procula, who was beside herself with grief. She had found the lifeless body of her husband, his sword rammed into his chest, lying in a pool of his own blood. She sobbed as she told me the news, her words anguished and broken. There was nothing I could do to console her.
CHAPTER 40
The day set for Apronius’s execution began with a pounding rain, accompanied by cold and biting winds. A few degrees colder, and Rome would have been covered by snow. Even after the rain stopped, the clouds hung low, blanketing the Seven Hills of Rome. In a desperate move the prior day, I had gone to a fortune-teller, and she had checked the entrails of a goat. It was not good news. There were dark clouds hanging over the entire empire, she had said, and the execution of Apronius was just the beginning.
She had spread the entrails on the table in front of her, squeezing the intestines, examining the liver, running her index finger along the stomach. She bent over to get a closer look, her nose a few inches from the putrid smell of the goat innards. She sat back and frowned.
“I see a noble prince on the horizon who will usurp the evil head of the empire,” she said.
I assumed she was referring to Caligula, who was now living with the emperor and being whispered about as the heir apparent, despite the fact that his mother had died in exile. I would hardly refer to him as a “noble prince.”
“But first there must be much shedding of blood.”
She said it with great drama, as if this would be something new and unprecedented in the empire. It occurred to me that nobody had to check the entrails of a goat to guess that there would be shedding of blood when a new emperor took his place.
The woman was unsure if some of the blood would be mine. Either way, I put little credence in what she said. When I left, I wasn’t sure what had possessed me to go to the woman in the first place. She was supposed to be one of the best, and I had paid a full day’s wages to buy her prophecy. But all I learned was that there would be no reprieve for Apronius.
I arrived at the Forum nearly an hour before the scheduled execution at the fourth hour of the day. The sun was starting to slice its way through the clouds, shards of sunlight casting shadows. The Praetorian Guard made their presence known, and the Roman police force showed up in great numbers as well. I found myself stuck in the middle of the crowd, being shoved around as people tried to get a better view of the proceedings.
In sixty minutes, Apronius would be led out of the Tullianum and paraded across the Forum to the temple of Augustus. There his sentence would be read. Then he would be marched back to the Gemonian Stairs, where he would be strangled. By decree, his body would be left where he died until the birds and dogs had picked it over. After a day or so, it would be dragged to the Tiber and tossed in.
When the prisoner finally emerged at the top of the Gemonian Stairs, a gasp went up from those around me. I had last seen Apronius in his regal toga, leaving the Senate, staring down those who had condemned him. Now, nine days later, he was hardly recognizable.
His gray hair was disheveled, and despite the cold, he wore nothing but a loincloth, exposing the bony body of an old man who probably hadn’t eaten since the day of his sentencing. I could count his ribs, and they expanded with every breath as he shivered and shuffled his way down the steps, led by members of the Praetorian Guard. He was unshaven, and his scruffy gray beard seemed to add ten years to his visage. Unlike the proud senator who had been led from the Senate chamber, Apronius kept his eyes glued to the ground in front of him.
The guards created a gauntlet to shield him as he passed through the Forum on his way to the temple of Augustus. Macro led the death march, his armor gleaming, muscles flexed, his sunken eyes darting around to pick out any sympathizers.
The temple of Augustus was built entirely of Carrara marble and had eight enormous columns supporting the portico and a similar number on each side. On the marble at the top of the elaborately decorated columns was a relief of Mars, the war god, leaning on his lance. There were numerous marble statues on pedestals around the outside of the building, including a statue of Augustus himself riding a triumphal chariot. Even though I had seen the place ten thousand times, its grandeur was still a little overwhelming.
Cato, in his role as consul, stood at the top of the steps and waited for the disgraced senator to join him so that he might pronounce the sentence.
Slowly Apronius climbed the stairs. When he reached the top, he turned to face the crowd, his body curled against the cold, a humiliating display for everyone in Rome to see.
Cato read the formal verdict—guilty of treason—and added that Caesar had seen fit not to commute the punishment.
I could sense the teeming restlessness of the crowd, a pot ready to boil, but the soldiers were everywhere. The men around me murmured curses against the Senate and a few women dabbed at tears.
Apronius was led down the steps and paraded the length of the Forum a second time, passing in front of the Basilica Aemilia, the Curia, and the Basilica Julia, where I spent most of my time trying civil cases. I was far enough back that I could no longer see him. The next time I would lay eyes on him would be when they led him up the Gemonian Stairs for his execution.
When he passed the temple of Vesta, a disturbance arose at the front of the crowd. Shouting ensued and guards rushed forward, surrounding Apronius, pushing the crowd away. I stood on my toes but couldn’t tell what was happening. I heard more arguing and shouting, and then we were all being pushed back. People around me asked each other if they had seen what had happened. Rumors started flying.
I didn’t notice the Vestal until someone pointed to the top steps of the round temple of Vesta. I caught only a glimpse of her back as she entered the temple. Several bare-chested lictors formed a semicircle around the door, guarding against anyone who might try to make a run at her.
I would not learn until later that it was Flavia.
Confusion bordered on chaos as the Praetorian Guards began clearing out the Forum. Using their shields and occasionally their whips, they chased the crowds down the narrow streets that led away from Rome’s capital square. I tried to go against the flow of people, but the guards weren’t letting anyone past.
&nb
sp; “Is it true?” people asked. “Did the shadow of a Vestal free Apronius?”
“That’s what they’re saying.”
The guards held their tongues, but it became obvious there would be no execution that day. The news rippled through the streets of Rome, a wave of excitement bringing smiles and embraces and shouts of relief.
And so it was that on the last day of February in the twenty-third year of the reign of Tiberius Julius Caesar Augustus, the shadow of a Vestal Virgin set a condemned prisoner free. Of course, the law required that the event be accidental on the part of the virgin. But who would challenge the word of a high priestess of Rome?
That night, I celebrated by going to the public baths. The talk was all about the events of that day. Flavia’s name was on the tip of every Roman tongue. Some of my friends suggested that she had been moved when she heard about my stirring speech in the Senate chamber. I smiled at the thought, though I didn’t believe it.
I exercised hard in the gymnasium and made my way to the calidarium. The massive room, with its high-vaulted ceiling covered with colored stucco and paintings of mythological scenes, was filled with steam, making the atmosphere surreal. Under the floor of the calidarium were huge furnaces, fed by the efforts of hundreds of slaves, generating the hot air and steam that filtered up through vents. The furnaces also heated the water that filled the massive tubs of the calidarium, water that hovered around 120 degrees.
The torches that provided lighting were muted with glass that was colored red, blue, yellow, and green. It was impossible not to relax here. I found a solitary place in a hot tub where I could lean back and allow myself to unwind from the events of the last ten days.
Because the room was built of marble, voices echoed and reverberated here. But the voices blended in with the constant sound of running water from the dozens of fountains that adorned the place. All of that background noise, combined with the steam and the relaxing feel of the hot water, nearly put me to sleep. I closed my eyes and savored the moment.
“Enjoy it while you can,” a voice said, rousing me from my half slumber.
I looked up to see that I had been joined by the last person in Rome I wanted to lay eyes on. I was struck by how unimpressive he looked without his toga. He had pale skin, an almost-sunken chest, thin arms, and a small paunch of a stomach. The man obviously didn’t make his living from physical labor.
“Today was a good day for Rome,” I said, closing my eyes again.
“There will be other defendants,” Crispinus said casually. “The virgins won’t be able to save them all. We’ve taken precautions so that these accidental crossings won’t occur in the future.”
“I’m sure you have.”
Crispinus sat down next to me in the hot bath. I opened my eyes, sighed, and resisted the urge to move away in order to keep my distance.
“Normally a man of your slight reputation and low economic standing would not be a target for a maiestas proceeding,” Crispinus said, his voice hoarse and threatening. He moved a little closer to my ear. “But for you, Cato might make an exception. You remember Cato? Fat, fat Cato? A man who does not like to be mocked.”
I used every ounce of self-discipline to keep from showing a reaction. It might have been 120 degrees in the calidarium, but the remarks sent a chill down my spine. Crispinus knew about my tirade on the Rostra. This was a man who would stop at nothing to get revenge.
“Most of us are not really interested in you,” Crispinus continued, pulling away from my ear. “We know Seneca is the one pulling the strings. You are just the puppet. Testify against Seneca, and we’ll cut you in on a fourth of his wealth.”
I sat there motionless for a second, letting the audacity of what he had just said sink in. Without warning, in a flurry of water and motion, I turned on him, grabbing his throat with my left hand and squeezing his neck back against the edge of the bath. His eyes bugged out in terror.
“Make a move against Seneca and I’ll personally hunt you down and make sure it’s the last thing you ever do,” I said. I held him there for a moment, pinned against the bath, and then released my grip.
He sniffed, touched his neck, and twisted it from side to side as if making sure he was uninjured.
“You had your chance,” he said pleasantly. He stood so he could loom over me again. “Just remember: you never see the knife that lands between your shoulder blades.”
Crispinus walked away, and I let him go. The man had powerful friends in the Senate, and I would probably regret this encounter for the rest of my life. But at that moment, I was proud of what I had done.
Apronius had been set free. I wouldn’t let his tormentor ruin this night. The Roman system of justice had worked. Perhaps I had declared its death prematurely.
CHAPTER 41
Despite my bravado in the public baths, I spent every minute of the next two weeks on edge. I couldn’t sleep, and I had lost my appetite. More maiestas charges were filed, this time against some high-ranking officials in the Praetorian Guard. There were whispers that I would be next. Crispinus and his cohorts were building a case against both Seneca and me, and I feared it was only a matter of time. I met with Seneca about it, but we both knew there was nothing we could do.
“It will help if you stay sober,” he reminded me, as if I could have forgotten about my drunken tirade.
My law practice had picked up again, fueled by the notoriety I had gained. I was even approached by one of the commanders in the Praetorian Guard who had been accused of maiestas, but I decided to sit this one out. I had already made enough enemies to last a lifetime.
I desperately wanted to thank Flavia for what she had done, but I also sensed that I was being watched. By law, the intersection between her and Apronius had to be accidental. If I met with her to thank her, it would fuel suspicions that the whole thing had been orchestrated. I figured Seneca was the one who had convinced Flavia to take the action, but he never admitted it to me. And after my little episode on the Rostra, who could blame him?
With all of Rome already in an uproar, tensions notched even higher when the news arrived during the second week in March. Seventy-eight-year-old Tiberius was coming back to the capital city!
On the sixteenth day of March, I was trying one of many cases in the main hall of the Basilica Julia, an enormous atrium 270 feet long and 60 feet wide. As usual, large curtains had been dropped from the ceiling so the central nave could accommodate four trials simultaneously. There were wooden benches for dozens of spectators in each section, and depending on the case, other observers might stand behind them. In Rome, trials were spectator sports for the intellectually curious.
I was cross-examining a witness who had been lurking on the stairwell outside the basilica earlier, a man obviously willing to sell his testimony to the highest bidder. The crowd was enjoying my dissection of the witness, the exchange punctuated by clapping when I asked certain questions and whistles when they didn’t like his answers.
A commotion arose in the section behind me, followed by enough murmuring that the magistrate called the court to order. I turned and noticed people filing out quickly. Within minutes the court was emptied of spectators. A servant came running down the aisle and waited behind me until he was signaled forward by the magistrate. He whispered to the magistrate, and I watched the man’s face go pale. He stared into space for a moment, and then he stood.
“This court stands adjourned indefinitely,” he announced. He paused as if he couldn’t believe what he was about to say.
“Tiberius Julius Caesar Augustus is dead.”
The celebrations began almost immediately. Roman citizens poured into the streets—shouting, dancing, singing. It was as if we were celebrating Saturnalia in March. As the day wore on, they draped garlands on the public buildings and broke out instruments. Wine flowed, and the crowds grew.
I sat on the steps of the Basilica Julia and watched the celebration spin out of control. Rome could breathe again, and the bottled-up passion that had bee
n so carefully constrained during the reign of Tiberius spilled out into a riotous party. The crowd began to chant, “Tiberius to the Tiber,” the same fate that had awaited anyone accused of conspiring against the emperor. I marveled as I watched the predictions of Seneca come true. I could almost feel the shifting of the tide, and I knew that by the time the evening sun disappeared over the hills, the power in the Senate would have changed—those loyal to Tiberius would be the ones looking over their shoulders.
There was talk about how Tiberius had died, all from reliable sources, but the accounts conflicted with each other. The most credible versions claimed that Tiberius had seemed to die peacefully in his sleep. But then, just as his closest aides were preparing to declare Caligula the new emperor, the old man regained consciousness, sat straight up in bed, and asked for food. Macro, who was outside the emperor’s tent, was told about the sudden resuscitation and had everyone except himself and Caligula clear the bedchamber. Macro then smothered the emperor and pledged the support of the Praetorian Guard to Caligula, the adopted grandson of the emperor.
As Rome partied the night away, this much was clear: Tiberius’s reign of terror was over. Caligula, the fabled son of the beloved Roman general Germanicus, was the choice of the military to become the new emperor. It took the Senate less than two days to fall in line and invalidate the last will of Tiberius, a document that would have left half the empire to his natural-born grandson Gemellus.
Caligula rode into Rome ten days later, dressed in the black and tattered garments of mourning, and the populace fell at his feet in worship. They had built altars all along the road to Rome, calling out to him as their “son” and their “star.”
I watched from a distance as my childhood tormentor entered Rome and the crowds along his path exalted him. I hadn’t seen the man in over a decade, but he had barely changed. He still had the unruly red hair, the buggy eyes, and the head that seemed too big for his body. He was still tall and gangly. He had the smooth skin of a sixteen-year-old boy, and I was amazed that the time he’d spent with Tiberius—the man responsible for killing Caligula’s brother and mother—hadn’t aged him more.
