by Paul L Maier
Caligula shot a glance at Pilate and rasped, “Oh, it’s you, Prefect. Yes. Once I told you that you didn’t use enough diplomacy on the Jews. Now I tell you that you used too much! That hateful, rebellious, stiff-necked people have just committed treason and heresy and apostasy in Judea! Tell him, Apelles.”
“You know that sleepy little town of Jamnia in Palestine?” the actor asked Pilate. “The one near the Mediterranean coast?”
“Yes,” Pilate responded cautiously.
“The gentile citizens of Jamnia erected a brick altar to our emperor’s divinity in honor of his recent victories in Germany. But the Jews in town promptly tore it down.”
“Yes,” Caligula snarled, “they overturned it, destroyed it completely! An altar erected to me, to my divinity!”
“Majesty,” said Pilate, “isn’t Herennius Capito our procurator there?”
“He’s the one who just wrote me the horrible details. Here. Read his letter.”
Pilate did as directed. Then it occurred to him why Apelles was there. The actor came from Ascalon, which lay very near Jamnia. He and Helicon had probably filled the emperor with additional anti-Semitism to feed his flaming ire at Capito’s letter.
“Now,” Caligula continued, “as former prefect of Judea, tell me what I should do to punish the Jews for this atrocity, this unbelievable sacrilege. Helicon here and Apelles have made their suggestions. Let’s hear yours.”
Despite the extreme danger, Pilate could not resist asking, “Excellency, might it not be advisable to consult King Agrippa? I understand he’s presently in Rome.”
Caligula glared at Pilate with his vacuous gray eyes. Then he snapped, “At times like this I rejoice in the fact that my dear Agrippa is only one-quarter Jew and three-quarters Idumaean. I might discuss this with him later if I feel he can give me an objective answer. I’m not sure he can. But don’t evade my question! I’m talking to you, Pilate, not Agrippa. You. What would you do to chastise the Jews for this horrendous act?”
“First I would try to identify the perpetrators.”
“Dolt! The perpetrators were Jews!”
“Yes, but which Jews? Capito should find those guilty and punish them. After that he should warn the leaders of the synagogue in Jamnia against any further attempts on the altar and assess them the cost of its reconstruction. Several Roman auxiliaries might also be stationed there to guard the sacred precincts.”
“That’s all you would do?”
“It would seem to be an effective—”
“That’s all you would do?” he screamed. “No wonder the Jews rode roughshod over you in Judea!”
Pilate shuddered at the change which had come over the princeps since their last meeting. Caligula was unable to remain in one place or keep his eyes fixed at anything for longer than a few moments. He romped about his private quarters like a claustrophobic tiger.
“Well, Pusillanimous Pilate, I’ll tell you what your emperor and god is going to do. Helicon and Apelles here think it’s a fine idea. I’m going to have a colossal statue of myself erected in Palestine. And where do you suppose?”
“In Jamnia, Majesty?”
“No, Fool! In Jerusalem itself. Ahahaha! What do you think of that? And more than Jerusalem,” he simpered. “The statue to my divinity will be erected…in what they call the Holy of Holies, in the Jewish temple itself! That should teach them.”
Pilate was now certain that Caligula was insane. Jews, hypersensitive to images, now tolerating Caligula’s statue in their temple? It would be an unthinkably appalling violation of their most cardinal laws against idolatry, Pilate knew, and would render the entire temple useless for future worship. No ritual purification could eliminate such a desecration. He recalled a little contest staged by his troops after the Jews had protested their standards. The best answer was sought to the question, “What is the most unholy combination of things that can be done to offend a Jew?” The winning reply was this: have an uncircumcised gentile sell blood sausage from a strangled pig on the Sabbath Day in the forbidden courts of the temple. A Samaritan had concocted it, a unique combination of dreadful violations of Hebrew law. But now there was a new winner: Caligula’s plan made the Samaritan’s look pious by comparison.
As diplomatically as he could, Pilate explained to Caligula how the statue scheme would represent the ultimate abomination for Judaism, the supreme sacrilege; that the people would never, under any circumstances, tolerate it. He had to tell the truth; otherwise, when Caligula’s plan miscarried later on, it would be the worse for him. But now, when he saw the imperial eyes widening in rage, he quickly shifted to another tack. “You should know, Majesty, that the Judeans may be a recalcitrant people, but not a day passes without public sacrifices being offered up at their temple in your behalf.” Pilate labored the point, for he thought it might be the one hope of sidetracking the emperor from his fantastic intention.
Caligula glowered at Pilate, his lips quivering. All color drained from his face. For some moments he was unable to speak but for assorted animal-like noises. Pilate was terrified.
Finally, Caligula violently cleared his throat and found his tongue. “I…didn’t…ask…for…your…objections, Pilate. Only your suggestions, but you have no suggestions worth anything.” He walked over and locked his eyes onto Pilate’s, their faces just inches apart. “Now I want to know just one more thing from you. Concentrate, Peculiar Pilate, you may yet furnish me one normal answer…What will really happen when my statue is erected? You see, Petronius will come down from Syria with two legions to do the job, so there’s no question about whether or not the statue will go up. But how long will it take the Jews to learn their lesson and accept my deity?”
Pilate now realized his life was at stake. He guarded every syllable: “If you order the statue erected, Majesty, it will certainly be erected.”
“That’s better, Pilate.” Caligula smirked. “The Jews will allow it, then?”
“Of course. They’d have to. How could women and children halt your legions?”
Caligula scowled. “What about the men?”
“They would all have been killed or taken prisoner in defending the purity of their temple.”
“You mean their silly belief in one god is that strong? No race is so fanatic about religion. When ten thousand Roman legionaries arrive, watch how quickly they change their minds! You are a fool, Pilate, and you’ve given me nothing but foolish answers. Guards! Guards!” he cried, clapping his hands as several praetorians came into view. “Arrest this man! Seize him!”
Frigid perspiration broke out on Pilate’s brow. He suddenly gambled all on the precarious assumption that Caligula’s fury was a matter of the moment, that if he could stall a bit he might yet surmount the crisis.
“Majesty”—Pilate smiled serenely—“I thought you and Jupiter Capitoline were on close terms.”
“We are.”
“Well, last night the great Olympian Father of the Gods came to me in my sleep and told me that you, his brother, would summon me to the palace today, and that if I spoke frankly, you would be better served than if I merely told you what you wanted to hear.”
Only a lunatic, at best a fanatic, would have believed the story, but it was enough to make Caligula pause. In that hesitation, Pilate continued his dangerous gambit. “Since I am merely a mortal, Divinity, indulge the fact that I cannot see into the future with your prophetic eye. If your statue stands in the Jerusalem temple, the mistaken opinion of one, Pontius Pilatus, will be the necessary foil against which your sovereign wisdom will shine all the brighter.”
“Yes. That makes sense,” he said slowly. “At last you’ve come to your wits. Guards…dismissed. But don’t leave Rome, Pilate. The day my statue is dedicated in Jerusalem, I’ll want you at a corresponding ceremony in my temple here at Rome. There you will deliver a public testimony about your error and my divine omniscience.”
“I look forward to that day, Excellency,” Pilate lied, as he bowed deeply and left the pal
ace.
It was the first time in his life that he had been driven to absolute sycophancy. It was nauseating, dishonest, and humiliating; but necessary in humoring a madman. Small wonder Vitellius had stooped to the same expedient. Probably only Agrippa might yet stop the insane plan of the princeps, and even he might not succeed. The gods knew, Pilate had tried.
But Caligula did not bother consulting Agrippa. The tribune Chaerea kept Pilate very closely informed of the emperor’s next moves, since he might be involved again at any time. Caligula now commanded Publius Petronius, the new governor of Syria, to make and erect his statue. It was to be larger than life-size and plated with gold. He was to use the Syrian legions to overcome any Jewish resistance.
Disgusted that the Roman military should be used for such purposes, Petronius nevertheless complied. He ordered the statue constructed at Sidon and then advanced with two legions to the borders of Palestine.
Cornelius wrote Pilate what happened next. Understandably frantic at the projected monstrosity of sacrilege, the Jewish populace went on an agricultural strike in protest. A delegation of Jewish leaders met with Petronius, respectfully imploring him not to execute Caligula’s plan. They would sooner die, all of them, than tolerate idolatry and blasphemy on this scale. Petronius agreed to temporize. His troops would spend the winter in camp before proceeding, and he planned to write the artisans in Sidon to take their time on the statue.
After additional conferences with the Jews, Petronius realized the impossibility of Caligula’s scheme, so he did a very heroic thing. At the risk of his life, he wrote the emperor of the enormous difficulties which would be caused by execution of his orders and wondered if they might not be rescinded.
Caligula, meanwhile, was unable to keep the joyful news to himself. Like a boy anxious to open a gift before his birthday, he could not resist telling his dear Agrippa about the object lesson he was planning for Jerusalem. When he heard the staggering news, Agrippa actually fainted and had to be carried home in a litter.
Later, Agrippa consulted with Philo, the famed Jewish philosopher who was in Rome at the time to represent the Jewish case in race riots which had broken out in Alexandria. Together they sent a long memorandum to Caligula which explained Hebrew theology in relation to the emperor’s plan. Included was a prominent reference to Pontius Pilate, pointing out that if the Jews had objected to Pilate’s shields, which had only his and Tiberius’s names inscribed on them, how much greater would be their protest against an idol.
But the memorandum was long and philosophical. Apparently it failed to impress Caligula. King Agrippa got much further by entertaining the princeps at one of the most lavish banquets even he had ever attended. Tongues wagged about its courses, its sumptuousness, above all, its wines. Cassius Chaerea was on duty with his guards that night, so he could give Pilate an eyewitness account.
When Caligula had drunk well and Agrippa had toasted him to proper excess, the emperor countered graciously by suggesting that the king ask a favor of him.
“No, Magnificent Friend,” Agrippa replied modestly. “I seek no personal advantage. You’ve already conferred on me far more honors than I deserve.”
“No, Esteemed King and Colleague, but you must request something…anything which will contribute to your happiness.”
His imperial quarry properly cornered, Agrippa sprang his very risky trap. He pleaded with the emperor to countermand his orders about the statue.
Pilate quickly saw it as a reiteration of Salome requesting the head of John the Baptizer from Herod Antipas. Like the tetrarch, Caligula was embarrassed and sorry he had left himself open. Like the tetrarch, the emperor could not go back on his word before the friends who were banqueting with him. Like the tetrarch, he granted the wish. The statue project was allowed to lapse.
Shortly afterward, Petronius’s letter arrived with the identical request. It could not have come at a worse time. Caligula was pouting over Agrippa’s trick and Petronius seemed a convenient scapegoat. He sent him orders to commit suicide. He also secretly arranged that another statue for Jerusalem be constructed in Rome.
Gaius Caligula planned to visit Egypt, the only land which really understood how a ruler could be god incarnate. But before making the trip, he wanted to be sure no conspiracy developed in Rome behind his back. In two secret notebooks entitled “The Sword” and “The Dagger,” signifying public execution or private assassination, he began listing names of the chief patricians and equestrians who were to be slain before he sailed. Chaerea found out about them; how, he would not tell his friend Pilate.
But the princeps did so need a change of scene. An insomniac for much of his life, he rarely slept more than three hours in twenty-four. A typical night would find him wandering among the colonnades of his palace, calling for Dawn to show herself. Once he summoned three ex-consuls to the Palatine at midnight. Arriving in mortal fear of their lives, they were seated below a stage on which Caligula suddenly burst out in a solo dance, accompanied by flutes and clogs.
Nor were theatrics limited to evenings. In the daytime he sometimes dressed in lion’s skin and carried a club to indicate that his versatile deity was that day incarnated as Hercules. By dusk he might be clutching a trident to reveal himself as Neptune. Wigged and dressed as a maiden set for the hunt, the divine transvestite was now Diana. But his favorite pose was with golden beard and wooden thunderbolt in his right hand. Who but Jupiter? He had even contrived a “thunder-and-lightning machine” which would rumble and flash in competition with Jupiter’s own natural reverberations, of which he was terrified.
Rome could tolerate this farce no longer, for the humor in it had been lost in the general atmosphere of terror. Romans of every class were being exterminated like so many pests. Each magistrate now considered himself a doomed man, and wondered only when the tyrant would cut him down. A well-knit conspiracy was launched. The praetorian prefects—Caligula had created two of them in hopes of diluting their power—their staff of tribunes, and some in the imperial court were part of it. But the principal role was claimed by Pilate’s old-school, no-nonsense comrade, Cassius Chaerea, who was a republican at heart. The praetorian tribune cut so masculine a figure that the puny and effeminate Caligula, begrudging him his physique, loved to taunt him with womanliness. Whenever Chaerea asked for the day’s password, Caligula would suggest: “Venus,” or “Love,” or “Fertility,” and the like. And when an amenity required him to kiss the princeps’ hand, Caligula would extend it, but then draw back all fingers except the middle one, an obscene gesture which has stood the test of time.
On the night of January 23 in the year A.D. 41, Chaerea paid Pilate a hasty visit. “This is absolutely secret,” he whispered, “but do you want to see history being made before your eyes?”
“Certainly. But what do you mean?” He noticed that Chaerea was very nervous and continually looked around to see if he were being overheard.
“Come with me to the Palatine tomorrow morning,” he murmured.
“To the Palatine? Too dangerous for me.”
“Don’t worry. The praetorians will keep you out of sight and we control the whole palace security.”
Pilate knew he should refuse the invitation and he was about to refuse. But once Chaerea’s intentions registered in his mind he was unable to refuse. That night he could barely sleep, and Procula asked what was the matter. “Indigestion,” he fibbed.
Early the next morning, he and Chaerea went to the Palatine. As a precaution, Pilate was wearing an old praetorian uniform whose helmet covered his face fairly well. About 10:00 A.M. they walked over to the palace theater where Caligula was attending a dramatic spectacle. Chaerea seemed to be communicating with scattered pairs of eyes solely by using his own. Staying in a dark alcove at the rear of the theater, Pilate cringed a bit when he saw the theme of the pantomime: a robber chieftain being crucified. Soon the stage was saturated with great quantities of artificial blood, a deadly omen to portent-seeking Romans. At the close of the mime, Ca
ligula stood up and delighted his guests with the announcement that he himself would make his public debut on the stage that evening. Then he left for lunch via a covered passageway which connected the theater with the rest of the palace.
Pilate watched him walking through the lengthy portico. Suddenly Cassius Chaerea and another praetorian tribune named Sabinus loomed up in his path.
“May we have the day’s password, Princeps?” asked Sabinus.
“Well, let’s see…How about ‘Cupid’ in your honor, gentle Chaerea,” said Caligula, a sickly sweet smile stretching his gaunt features. “No, on second thought, we’ll make it ‘Jupiter.’”
“So be it!” cried Chaerea, as he yanked out his sword. “As god of sudden death, may he assist yours!” He plunged the sword into Caligula’s neck.
“Guards!” he screamed, a rivulet of blood pouring from the gash.
Sabinus dirked him in the breast. Caligula yelled in pain, his knees starting to bend. Praetorians and magistrates in on the plot now came running toward Caligula from both ends of the portico, brandishing bared daggers. They clustered about the falling emperor to share in the honor of his assassination.
Too late the litter bearers and members of his German bodyguard came dashing to his rescue. Caligula was dead, his body torn by some thirty wounds.
Pilate quickly blended into the crowd and escaped the scene, as Chaerea had insisted, for there was danger from Caligula’s bodyguards. He had now seen what he came to see. And he luxuriated in a flood of relief.
Caligula’s corpse was hauled outside where it was spat upon and ridiculed by the rejoicing populace. His statues were toppled. Cries of “Liberty!” “Restore the Republic!” rent the air. It was a tyrant’s typical end.
News of such a death spread faster than normal communications. Across the Mediterranean in Syria, Petronius learned the glad news almost a month before Caligula’s letter ordering his suicide arrived, since the ship carrying it had been delayed three months by storms. Now he could read the death command in laughter rather than terror. He was saved. In Jerusalem, the temple reverberated with thanksgiving to God for having delivered his people from the tyrant and his statue. The Jews were saved. Those senators and equestrians who now read their own blacklisted names in the confiscated notebooks “The Dagger” and “The Sword” were saved.
