Tiberius was growing increasingly glum as the day approached. Pilate did not pry into his general’s personal business, but he could see that relations among the Imperial family were strained. Augustus seemed genuinely fond of Tiberius, but at the same time frustrated by him. The Empress Livia doted on her son, who alternately seemed to adore her or despise her, according to his mood. As for Tiberius’ wife, Julia, she remained away from Rome, disgraced after her father’s sentence of banishment for her serial infidelity to her husband.
Pilate’s star still seemed to be rising, however. Tiberius called him to the villa almost daily to plan the triumph, and also to discuss the future of Rome.
“It is no easy thing, being the heir of Augustus,” he commented one afternoon, a week before the parade. “My father has cultivated an atmosphere of worship around himself which has drawn an enormous number of sycophants and fools to his side. During his prime, he could easily sort the fools from the useful clients, but age has clouded his judgment, and all too often he heeds the voice of flattery these days. I want to clear Rome of the useless sycophants and replace them with competent administrators!”
“What about those who are shameless sycophants and competent administrators?” asked Pilate.
Tiberius let out his barking laugh. “You mean those like you?” he asked. “You have a long way to go before you sink to the level of those I am speaking of! You have yet to write a single poem comparing me to Jove, Adonis, Mars, or any other god I can think of, and you are not trying to talk me into marrying any of your kin!”
Pilate nodded. “So I am either a very incompetent sycophant, or else I am a man who knows the limits of his usefulness,” he said.
Tiberius shook his head. “I have a feeling, Lucius Pontius, that you have not begun to reach the limits of your usefulness to me! But more importantly, I think that you shall prove to be of great use to Rome. In the end, that is the standard by which I will judge you, and all my other clients. My father is handing down to me the greatest Empire the world has ever known. I intend to preserve it, to improve it, and to hand it down better than I found it! If you can help me do that, then you will rise high indeed!”
Those words were still ringing in Pilate’s ears when he donned his uniform and decorations the morning of the Triumph. It was the first time he had actually worn the Civic Crown since he won it in Germania. With the golden torc on his arm and his medals riding over his gleaming breastplate, he donned his crimson cape and mounted his horse feeling like Julius Caesar himself.
Tiberius waited in the ancient chariot that had carried every triumphator for the last four centuries, and the legions formed up neatly behind their centurions as all prepared to enter Rome through the ancient triumphal arch. The general’s face was painted a deep red, and a golden crown of leaves was held over his head by a slave. For this day, the triumphator became the living incarnation of Mars, the Roman god of war, and all Rome congregated in the streets to pay homage to him.
Tiberius looked at Pilate and the other legates and spoke softly, moving his lips as little as possible to avoid causing the thick make-up to crack and flake off. “Enjoy this, my friends, because this is the one event that many Romans of great rank and prestige never get to take part in!” he said. “This chariot carried Scipio Africanus, Gaius Marius, and Julius Caesar. Today it is my turn to ride in it, but someday it may be yours. For now, enjoy the day!”
He turned and took his position, standing straight upright in the chariot, one hand on the rail, the other raised to salute the crowd. The slave held the crown of golden leaves above his head, and then leaned forward to whisper the ancient warning in his ear: “Recordare, tu quoque sunt mortalia!” Remember, you, too, are mortal!
The procession wound through the ancient streets of the city one district at a time before ending at the Forum. In the Suburba, thousands of people from every corner of the Empire stood in the streets, cheering themselves hoarse as the parade wound by. The legionaries smiled, waved, and winked at the pretty girls, while the officers rode straight and proud, glancing left and right, but making no gestures of greeting, as befitted their rank. The crowds were not so restrained—they howled, whistled, cheered, and gestured at the soldiers. The captive kings and princes were jeered and hissed at, but their escort of seasoned troops protected them from any violence. The rank-and-file captives had it worse—they were pelted with fruit and mud, and occasionally jostled or shoved. But that was all; everyone knew that these unfortunates would be showing up in the slave markets soon, and deliberately damaging them would be harming another person’s property.
It took the better part of the morning for the procession to arrive at the great Roman Forum, and once there, Tiberius stepped up onto the platform to receive the adulation of the Senate. Then he sat in the high triumphator’s chair, and his legates took their positions on either side of him. One by one, the captive kings and officers came and made their obeisance, then were hustled off to the Temple of Mars. After that, the legions marched by, saluting their general as they passed, and then breaking into the usual ribald and vulgar marching songs. For once they refrained from lyrics that would have slandered Tiberius himself—whether out of respect or fear of him, or simply from the fact that Tiberius had no known vices which made for funny rhymes, only the troopers knew.
Once the sacrifices to Mars were complete, the crowds surged toward the great open market, where tables groaning with food had been set out for them. At last the officers were freed from their stations, and Tiberius retired to his home on the Palatine to wash the red from his face. Pilate stepped toward the Senate’s banquet hall, realizing that he was suddenly famished.
“A most satisfactory triumph for the Emperor’s heir, don’t you think?” came a voice at his elbow.
“Ave, Proculus!” said Pilate. “Indeed it was. This was the first triumph I have witnessed since I was fifteen, and it was most satisfying to be marching in it instead of standing in the crowd!”
The older man nodded. “I watched it from the window with your father,” he said. “He was very gratified to see you so close to the triumphator’s chariot!”
Pilate smiled. “I am glad he was well enough to see it,” he said. “I fear he does not have long left with us.”
Proculus nodded. “I will be surprised if he lives past midsummer,” he said. “There is one more thing he told me he would like to see before he crosses the Styx.”
“His eldest son’s marriage?” asked Pilate.
“Exactly!” said Proculus.
“I have been meaning to speak to you about this,” Pilate said. “With your permission, I should like to propose to your daughter, Procula Porcia.”
The older man beamed. “Her mother and I have been hoping you would ask,” he said. “She has been fond of you for many years, long before you went to Germania.”
“That is gratifying to know,” said Pilate. “I did not notice her much then, except to see that she was growing into a beautiful young lady. I will speak to her tomorrow morning. For now, how about if I join the feast with my future father-in-law?”
The two Romans linked arms and walked toward the couches that had been set up inside the Forum for the members of the Senate and senior army officers. As they stepped into the chamber, the members of the Senate rose as one and applauded the newest winner of the Civic Crown. Pilate returned their salutes with a generous bow, and then reclined at the table. Being shown such respect by men who were far his senior in years and rank filled him with a deep joy. His rise in the world was truly well begun!
The next morning Pilate went calling at the home of Gaius Proculus Porcius, dressed in his finest toga and bearing a fine, jeweled necklace as a gift for his lady. He was shown to the atrium, where Procula Porcia waited for him. Her carriage and posture were flawless, as befit a Roman lady, but her eyes were demurely cast downward, as befit a maiden unbetrothed.
“Good morning, Procula Porcia,” said Pilate. “I trust you are well?”
“I am quite well, Pontius Pilate,” she said. “It has been a joy to see you back in Rome, and I was very proud to see you honored before the city yesterday.”
“I have spoken to your father, Porcia, to ask for your hand in marriage,” said Pilate. “That is, if such a union is suitable to you.”
She looked him in the eyes and smiled. “Nothing would suit me more!” she said. “Oh, Pilate, I was so hoping you would ask, and so afraid that you would not! Of course, I would marry whoever my father asked me to, but I was so afraid he would choose some fat old Senator thirty years older than me!”
“A Senator would be a fine match for your family,” said Pilate. “And he could probably keep you in better style than I will be able to. Should I withdraw my request?”
“Silly man!” she said with a giggle. “You are a Senator, only younger and better looking than the majority of them. And the only way I want to be kept is by you!”
“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.
The Redemption of Pontius Pilate Page 5
