by Paul L Maier
Within the last year, however, Pilate had been drawn more and more to Procula and they had actually fallen in love, an unexpected and—by the standards of Rome—an unnecessary development. Procula was now little more than half his age—he in his upper thirties, she in her late teens—an average disparity, though friends were quipping that Procula might be getting a bit old for Pilate. Not a man to deceive himself, Pilate realized that the opposite was closer to the truth, and now resolved to marry as soon as possible so he and Procula could enjoy a full life together. He knew she would offer no resistance, since, in her own quiet way, Procula had been hinting at matrimony for the last two or three years.
After Sejanus’s confirmative report, Pilate retired to his quarters to indulge in that premeditated assault on the human body which the Romans called their “bath.” Cleanliness was only an incidental by-product of this elaborate process, which demanded a frigid plunge, then a parboiling in the hot bath, a roasting in the steam room, a parching on marble slabs in the dry-heat chamber, a scraping down with strigils, a thorough rubdown, and finally, an anointing with perfumed unguents to appease the violated skin. All this was genuinely relished probably only by masochists, but most Romans readily endured the bath: the sultry Mediterranean climate demanded it, and this was also prime time for the men of Rome to transact their professional and business affairs.
For his evening with Procula, Pilate chose a tunic-toga ensemble which was properly gleaming white. After entrusting the Castra to his officer of the day, he walked the short and familiar distance under the massive maroon arches of the Julian Aqueduct, through the lush Gardens of Maecenas, to the Proculeius mansion. The prospect of seeing Procula and announcing the news which would, hopefully, alter both their lives exhilarated Pilate. Today would be one of those hinge occasions, from which life would arc off in a new direction.
Her name was really Proculeia, the feminine of the gens name of the Proculeius family, but usage had shortened it to Procula, a familiar Roman given name. Society knew her as the girl who “had a grandfather, not a father.” Actually she had both, to be sure, but her grandfather was the Gaius Proculeius whose wit was so keen, whose career so colorful that he obscured his immediate descendants. A close companion of Augustus—he once saved his life in a naval battle—Proculeius had personally captured the Egyptian queen, Cleopatra, for Augustus, and after returning to Rome in glory had rejected political office to serve as patron of the arts instead.
Procula had been raised in her grandfather’s shadow, for it was her father, the Younger Proculeius, who inherited the family residence near the Porta Tiburtina, overlooking the Gardens of Maecenas, and here she grew up in almost patrician luxury. The Pontii, near neighbors of the Proculeii in Rome’s fashionable fifth district, were not so wealthy, but when the father of Pontius Pilate casually suggested the alliance of their families to Proculeius Junior, he was favorably inclined. The Proculeii and Pontii, after all, had much in common: both were highest-class equestrians; both had a military history; and both, lately, favored the party of Sejanus—except for Procula, who had a woman’s sympathy for Agrippina.
Turning down Tibur Way, Pilate soon arrived at the two-story Proculeius mansion. Like many of the grand old houses of Rome, this one had an attractive, pillared portal, but very little else to commend it from the outside. It was the interior which harbored beauty in the Roman home, and the Proculeius mansion was popularly known as the “Tiburtine Art Museum” for its frescoes and the magnificent sculptures collected by the Elder Proculeius from across the Mediterranean. A servant admitted Pilate into the atrium, from which the entire pillared interior could be viewed as far as the garden, a tasteful composite of marble and mosaic, richly colored curtains, and fountains gently splashing into sunken pools.
“Please inform the Lady Procula of my arrival,” Pilate told the domestic. While waiting, he sauntered over to the impluvium and put his foot on the edge of that rectangular basin, situated directly under an opening in the roof which admitted both sunlight and rain. Moments later he was caught by a shove from behind which nearly toppled him into the pool.
“I’ve been watching you the whole time from behind that column,” Procula chirped.
“You lynx of Hecate!” he laughed, gathering her into his arms. “Come out into the garden—I have a rare piece of news for you!”
“Oh? What is it? Surely not, at long last, the date of our wedding?”
“Perhaps. You’ll see.”
No conversation with Procula in recent months had been complete without her injecting some reference to marriage, and Pilate smiled to himself that this time she was not far wrong. They strolled through the peristyle, an even more elaborate inner court, and out into the garden. Procula was wearing a simple house tunic; not until marriage could she assume the formal stola of the Roman matron. She looked petite at Pilate’s side, although a pile of luxuriant brown hair, combed up and held in place with jeweled pins, augmented her stature. The pronounced family features of the Proculeii had generously softened in her case to confer a serene loveliness, which was not lost on the aspiring young men of Rome. Only Pilate’s nimble wooing of the last year and the security of the mutual family contract had preserved their courtship.
“Procula,” Pilate asked as they reached the garden, “if I…if we had to live for a while outside of Rome—beyond Italy, in fact—where would you prefer to go?”
“Why? Are you being sent somewhere?”
“Answer my question first.”
“Greece, of course. Now, not Athens necessarily. None of the cities. Just a sunny little island in the inky blue Aegean.”
“Be serious, Procula.”
“Oh, all right then,” she pouted. “Egypt. The grandeur of Alexandria, the mystery of the Nile.”
“Wrong again. Try in between.”
She paused, then brightened. “Syria! Is it Syria, Pilate? Imagine living in luxurious Antioch.”
“No, my romantic little magpie!” He laughed. Then, assuming a contrived pomposity, he announced, “Sejanus has formally recommended to Tiberius Caesar that I be appointed prefect of Judea.”
“Judea?” She paused, looked out across a stand of pines into the darkening sky, and repeated, “Judea!…Well, the Jews are a fascinating people, I suppose…”
Pilate sensed that this was a noble effort to conceal disappointment, so he quickly told her what the advancement meant to his career, and also of the sparkling hints for the future Sejanus had so broadly dropped. But Procula, more surprised than really disillusioned by the news, was already planning ahead in another category.
“The question of where you’re appointed doesn’t concern me nearly as much as whether or not you’re going alone, Pilate.” There was a smoldering determination in her hazel eyes that he had never noticed before.
Precisely here he made the capitulation which nature, society, and his inmost feelings demanded of him. “Procula,” he hesitated momentarily, “are you prepared to go with me to Judea—as my wife? Are you ready to choose the day—”
“Ubi tu Gaius, ego Gaia,” she whispered with a radiant smile, the formula she would repeat later at their wedding, “Where you are Gaius, there am I Gaia.” Gaius represented any Roman name, since it was the most common.
After their exuberant embrace, Pilate said, “Do you realize how lucky we are, Carissima? Several years ago, the Senate almost made it illegal for governors to take their wives along to their provinces. Caecina Severus stood up and proposed that the women be left behind, otherwise ‘ambitious, domineering wives’ would turn their husbands’ heads and change Roman policy in the provinces.”
“How cruel that would have been—to separate people in that fashion. Barbarous!”
“Well, you know who was behind the idea? Tiberius! It was actually his opening shot against Agrippina. When she was off in Syria with Germanicus and continually interfered with his gov—”
“That’s your version of it,” Procula glowered in reply. “Poor Agrippina
is one of the most misunderstood, most slandered—”
“Don’t ever say that in public, especially not in front of Sejanus,” he snapped.
Until now, their bantering had been lighthearted, floating along on top of their joy, and Pilate tried to restore the mood. “Please, little one, let’s not go over this again. Whatever you may think of Agrippina, just remember that her party is now regarded as hostile by both the emperor and his praetorian prefect, the two men on whom my future depends. So don’t court disaster.”
“Well, if Tiberius dislikes governors taking their wives along to provinces, do you still want to take me to Judea?”
“Of course! The princeps was only trying to embarrass Agrippina. But when he saw how unfavorably the Senate reacted to the ‘Wives Bill,’ he quickly reversed tack, and the original motion was roundly defeated.”
“All right…But I still don’t understand why you get so snappish whenever I have a kind word for Agrippina.”
“Procula, I’m not a consul, presiding over the Senate in ‘The Case of Tiberius and Sejanus versus Agrippina.’ For better or worse I’m in politics, and whether Agrippina is ultimately right or wrong isn’t for me to decide. I have to honor loyalties that affect me directly. Now, Sejanus has treated me handsomely; I can only reciprocate. His enemies are my enemies. The only question I should ask myself is this: am I morally justified in following Sejanus? I think yes. The emperor himself reposes full confidence in him.”
“But what if—”
“Did you know that images of Sejanus are honored among the standards of our legions? You’ve seen his bust next to that of Tiberius in the Forum…and his statue in the Theater of Pompey.”
“But what if all of you are wrong and Agrippina is right?” Procula objected. Then she surrendered, “Oh, let’s stop all this. That’s why I hate politics—it’s too difficult to know good from evil in your affairs of state.” She looked at him with a new brightness. “But now, my ambitious Roman statesman, when are we to be married?”
“As soon as the calendar will allow.” He laughed. “Tomorrow, if that were possible.” Excitedly they returned inside for a family counsel with the rest of the Proculeii, who would have as much to say as they about setting the date.
Choosing a wedding day in ancient Rome was a very intricate matter. The object was to select a religiously favorable day to please the gods, but a non-holiday to favor relatives and friends, who would likely have other commitments during festival times. But since rituals, public games, and holidays had by this time reserved no less that 150 days of the calendar, nearly half the year was barred. Besides this, two days at the calends (1st), nones (5th or 7th), and ides (13th or 15th) of each month were deemed unlucky, as was the first half of March, all of May, and the first half of June. Since the remainder of April would not allow enough time to prepare for the wedding, the Proculeii decided on the fourth day after the ides of June (June 17).
The intervening weeks saw Procula shopping for their indeterminate stay in Judea, and preparing for the nuptials. Pilate was occupied with grooming his successor at the Castra Praetoria, consulting with Sejanus on Roman provincial policy, and learning as much as he could about Jews and Judea. Annius Rufus proved helpful here. He had been prefect of Judea from 12 to 15 A.D., just before the present incumbent, Valerius Gratus, and was now living in retirement at Rome.
“Three years was too short a time for me to accomplish much in Judea,” Rufus apologized to Pilate, “but I don’t think Gratus has done very much more in his eleven.” The tone was that regularly used by predecessors who evaluate the work of successors.
“No, those were fairly quiet years—for Judea,” he continued. “There had been a rebellion at the time the census was taken, but nothing much since then.”
“So the people aren’t really that hostile to Rome?” Pilate ventured.
“I didn’t say that. They’re always looking for a chance to shatter what they call the ‘Roman yoke,’ but don’t give them that chance. First requirement for any governor of Judea will have to be firmness. Only after that comes justice and good government.”
Rufus continued with a run-down on who supported Rome in Palestine: generally, some of the educated and ruling establishment, including priests. The common people could swing either way, while a group Rufus identified as the Zealots might, he happily assured Pilate, slip a knife between his ribs some dark night.
The former prefect alerted Pilate to other difficulties. “You’ll be understaffed, undermanned, and undersupplied out there. Rome really should station a legion in Judea instead of those cursed local cohorts. Which is probably the reason you got the appointment, Pilate. The prefect of Judea must know his military tactics.”
“Why not a legion, then? I could suggest it to Sejanus.”
“No,” the canny Rufus corrected him, “I doubt if Tiberius would spare a legion. Besides, legions are usually commanded by senatorial legates rather than equestrian prefects like yourself, so let things rest as they are. And I don’t think Tiberius would like another senatorial legate in the East. Do you know why, young man?”
“Probably because he fears the Senate will interfere in foreign policy. Even now the legate Lamia is detained in Rome instead of governing Syria.”
“Exactly.”
All Roman provinces beyond Italy were of two kinds: senatorial provinces, the older, pacified areas administered by the Senate, such as Sicily or Greece; and imperial provinces, lands which Rome had acquired comparatively recently, and which might require special military intervention, such as Egypt and smaller border territories like Judea. The latter were under the direct control of the emperor, who often sent equestrian rather than senatorial officials to govern them in order to balance the two upper classes off against each other. A senatorial legate governing Syria, for example, would find something of a modest counterpoise in the neighboring equestrian prefect of Judea. If one stepped out of line, the other would surely report it to the emperor.
“But any advice I give you is bound to be a little outdated by this time,” Rufus admitted. “It’s more than a decade since I was in Judea. Hardly seems possible…Gratus will give you a full briefing in Caesarea when you take command.”
“Yes,” Pilate acknowledged. “But one thing still worries me, Rufus. I served in Syria, so I know something of the country, and a little of the Near Eastern mind. But I’ve had hardly any contact with my future subjects—Jews. Well, I’ve run across them here in Rome—who hasn’t?—but I have no friends of that persuasion.”
“Naturally,” snickered Rufus, with typical Roman prejudice.
“But if I went over to the Trans-Tiber, I could find some of the leaders of the Jewish community there. Do you think I’d gain anything by talking with them?”
“Not really, for several reasons. While the Roman Jew is related to the Jew of Judea, he may also be very different, depending on which faction he follows. Just an example: one of their synagogues here in Rome is called Congregation of the Herodians, in which they teach that King Herod was the Messiah promised in their scriptures. Messiah indeed!” He laughed. “Most Judeans would be revolted by such a thought. But don’t worry, Pilate, you’ll learn your Jews very quickly after you set foot in Judea.”
“This talk of a Messiah…What’s it about?”
“Messiah is Hebrew for ‘the Anointed One,’ who is to be a kind of religio-political Deliverer of his people—sent by their god, no less—to liberate the Jews from oppressions of every kind…and oppressors, by which they mean us. A new world monarchy under the Messiah-king is to replace the Roman Empire, and an era of peace and prosperity will descend on the earth. So if their Messiah appears, I suppose Rome would be obliged to disappear.”
“I’ll keep an eye out for him!” chuckled Pilate. “But a last question, Rufus. When you were in Jerusalem, did you ever get a glimpse into the forbidden recess of their temple?”
“You mean their Holy of Holies?”
“I think that’s what they
call it.”
“No, and don’t you try either. It would spark instant rebellion.”
“Of course. I was only wondering if it were true—the rumor that there’s a statue of a wild ass in there, or an ass’s head, which supposedly represents their deity. Weren’t the Hebrews fleeing from Egypt and dying of thirst in a desert when a herd of wild asses guided them to a spring of fresh water, and so they worship the ass image in their temple?”
“I’ve heard that story, but it must be false. At least there’s no statue of an ass in the Holy of Holies. Pompey was the last Roman to look inside that sanctuary, after his conquest of Jerusalem, and he found it stark empty. And that does go along with Jewish belief that their god can’t be represented in sculpture or painting of any kind.”
Pilate took leave of Rufus with due thanks, even though he was under no delusions that his knowledge of Judea had been much enhanced by their discussion.
The month of May was a paradox. Though Italy was fragrant and bursting with spring, this was the time in the religious calendar for gloomy exorcisms of ghosts. But, like most Romans, Pilate and Procula gladly left this task to the priests while they made final preparations for their wedding. It would be one of the prominent equestrian events of the spring social season at Rome. In deference to the memory of the senior Gaius Proeuleius, noted senatorial and patrician families had indicated they would attend. Sejanus and his numerous satellites promised to grace the occasion, along with the praetorian officers’ staff, and even Pilate’s relatives from Samnium would converge on the Proculeius mansion that June.
Pilate’s father, a retired civil service official named Pontius, had shrewdly advised his son not to be timid when discussing dowry with Procula’s father. This was a sticky point in Roman matrimony; weddings had actually been canceled when prospective in-laws could not come to terms on the size of the dowry. But such distasteful haggling proved unnecessary in Pilate’s case, since Proculeius had vast holdings and the nuptial contract that he offered proved him a generous father-in-law-to-be.
