The Redemption of Pontius Pilate

Table of Contents

Cover Page and Copyright Information

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

EPILOGUE

CAST OF CHARACTERS

HISTORICAL CHARACTERS

FICTIONAL CHARACTERS

TIMELINE OF EVENTS

GLOSSARY OF LATIN TERMS USED IN THIS BOOK

THE REDEMPTION

OF

PONTIUS PILATE

Lewis Ben Smith

eLectio Publishing

Little Elm, TX

www.eLectioPublishing.com

The Redemption of Pontius Pilate

By Lewis Ben Smith

Copyright 2015 by Lewis Ben Smith

Cover Design by eLectio Publishing

ISBN-13: 978-1-63213-141-6

Published by eLectio Publishing, LLC

Little Elm, Texas

http://www.eLectioPublishing.com

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PROLOGUE

CRUCIFY HIM! the crowd roared. The force of their rage was physical, gnawing and hungry, ferocious in its anger. It hovered over them like a sentient creature, sending black tendrils of hate into their midst, inflaming ordinary country folk and city dwellers into a blind, howling mob.

The Prefect of Judea was taken aback by their rage, and worn down by their persistence. It had started in the middle of the night, when his guards had roused him from a fitful slumber to inform him that his judgment was urgently required by the High Priest and his cronies. He had been surprised at first that Caiaphas had brought such an enormous mob with him, but its purpose soon became obvious. The old snake was not leaving Pilate any room to maneuver this time! It was very obvious that he wanted Jesus of Nazareth dead.

Of course Pilate knew who Jesus was—everyone in Judea and the Decapolis had heard of the wandering teacher and miracle worker who seemed to delight in turning the religious establishment of the Jews on its head. Pilate had ordered the itinerant teacher investigated by his agents, to see if he posed any threat to Rome, and had satisfied himself that the Galilean was nothing but a harmless religious mystic. Even when he had entered the city a few days earlier and a fawning crowd had offered to crown him as King of the Jews, Jesus had rejected their offer, leaving many of them shaking their heads in wonder and disappointment. Pilate had been relieved when he witnessed that moment; it confirmed his earlier judgment about the Galilean, and seemingly boded well for a quiet and uneventful Passover season—something anyone who had ever governed this difficult and rebellious province would recognize as a rarity.

But then the Supreme Council of the Jews had arrested Jesus on trumped up charges and grilled him for an entire evening. Pilate had heard of the arrest before he went to bed, and figured the Jews would try Jesus by their own law and order him beaten with rods and expelled from the city. Regrettable, perhaps, but the man had been provoking them for months, challenging their control of the Jewish religion that governed several million of the Empire’s subjects and citizens.

Then they had shown up at the Praetorium, demanding that the Galilean be crucified—a death Rome reserved only for the worst offenders—rebellious slaves or non-citizens who had brought death and suffering to the people of Rome. This Galilean preacher had done nothing to merit such a fate, Pilate thought. He initially tried to dismiss the crowd out of sheer irritation, but it was obvious Caiaphas and his old father-in-law, Annas, who controlled the High Priesthood, were out for blood.

Pilate had interviewed Jesus privately, and emerged perplexed and distressed. This was no ordinary man or wandering fanatic! First of all, he required no interpreter, even though Pilate had secured one from among Jesus’ disciples—the Galilean’s Latin was as perfect and flawless as if he were born on Capitoline Hill! His calm, steady gaze and cryptic answers troubled the short-tempered governor, and the bullying tactics of his accusers angered Pilate. He had tried fobbing Jesus off to Herod’s court, but the Tetrarch of Galilee had sent Jesus back to him in a couple of hours, roughed up a bit and wrapped in one of Herod’s cast-off purple robes. As usual, Herod had refused to do anything useful, neither condemning nor protecting the Galilean.

Pilate had then ordered Jesus beaten by his soldiers, hoping to placate the mob’s blood lust. The men had exceeded his orders, nearly flaying the Galilean with a cat o’nine tails, but even that had not satisfied the angry Jews congregated in the courtyard of the Praetorium. They saw the battered and bloody form, barely able to stand, and took up the hateful chant again. Pilate had pulled Jesus back into the building again and interrogated him a second time. Jesus proved reluctant to answer at first and Pilate burst forth in annoyance: Do you not know that I have the power to crucify you, and the power to set you free?

Jesus raised his battered head and looked straight at the governor. The bruises and swelling had not subtracted an iota from the power of his gaze as he said calmly: You have no power over me, except that which is given to you from above. Therefore those who delivered me up to you have the greater guilt.

It was that statement, with its simple assessment, that haunted Pilate as he stood before the mob again. In one simple sentence, Jesus had placed him on trial, and pronounced him guilty—perhaps not as guilty as the religious leaders who still stood outside, urging the crowd to keep up that awful chant, but guilty still. Pilate sat down in the judgment seat overlooking the courtyard and held up his hands for silence. He could feel the rustling of a single sheet of papyrus that he had stuffed into the sinus of his toga, a note from his wife, Procula Porcia, begging him to have nothing to do with the death of this righteous man.

Once more the governor pronounced Jesus innocent of any crime. The crowd’s angry shouts immediately rejected his verdict. Suddenly from the back of the mob, the stern voice of Caiaphas the High Priest rang out.

If you release this man, you are no friend of Caesar’s! he snapped. For he called himself a king—and whoever makes himself a king is Caesar’s enemy!

Pilate turned to his servant, Democles, and whispered in his ear. The Greek slave nodded and disappeared into the Praetorium. Pilate slowly stood and walked to the edge of the raised platform where his judgment seat stood. The crowd slowly fell silent as they beheld the thunder on his brow. The Roman governor had been a terror to the local community for seven years, and had not hesitated to kill any Jews who defied him. At the same time, they knew that Emperor Tiberius had already reprimanded him more than once for his brutality and insensitivity to their customs. If they reported him to Rome again, they might secure his dismissal—although that would do them no good if they died here in the courtyard with a Roman gladius between their ribs! Half fearful, half angry, they stared at this man who was the embodiment of the mighty Roman Empire.

Democles appeared at Pilate’s side with a basin of water in his hands and a white towel draped over his arm. Pilate nodded and dipped his hands in the water three times, then raised them to the crowd.

Let all men see that I am innocent of this man’s blood! he cried aloud.

But then he looked in horror at his own hands. They were dripping with deep, crimson fluid! The drops pattered down on the white marble before him as the Jews recoiled in horror. Pilate cried in revulsion and looked in the bowl. It was an abattoir, filled with crimson. He struck it from Democles’ hands and it shattered on the marble platform, sprinkling his robes with crimson drops. He grabbed the towel and wiped his hands repeatedly, but the blood would not come off. However much he rubbed his hands, they were still soaked with the blood . . . the blood . . .

"THE BLOOD!!’ he screamed, sitting up abruptly in his bed. His wife started next to him, then sadly shook her head and put her arms around him in sympathy. He accepted her embrace for a moment, but then shrugged free—no true Roman man fled to a woman’s arms for comfort. He staggered to his desk and poured himself a cup of wine from a nearby flagon, relishing the sour taste for a moment. Forty days! Forty days since he crucified the Galilean—and the same dream had returned to him every night! Groaning, he put his face in his hands. How had he come to this?

CHAPTER ONE

Lucius Pontius Pilate was born in the hills overlooking Capua in the fifteenth year of the Emperor Augustus, the firstborn son of an ancient and honorable plebeian family. His father was a career soldier and diplomat who had survived the civil wars between Pompey, Julius Caesar, Octavian, and Marc Antony by trimming his political sails and displaying an unerring instinct for picking the winning faction. He had been rewarded, after Octavian’s victory, with a seat in the Roman Senate, and the governorship of a series of provinces. He also cultivated the friendship and trust of Augustus’ right-hand man and son-in-law, Marcus Agrippa.

So it was that the eldest son of Decimus Pontius Pilate was destined to ascend the cursus honorum, the succession of offices young Roman men were expected to hold as they ascended the ladder of status and respectability. At age twelve, Pilate was sent to the Campus Martius, the nearest military camp to Rome itself, to train as a soldier. At sixteen he was assigned as a conterburnalis—a junior officer—in the Roman legions under Tiberius Caesar, the adopted son of the Emperor and Rome’s leading general since the death of Agrippa twelve years earlier.

Pilate was not a natural soldier, but he was a hard-working and conscientious one. Wielding a blade didn’t come naturally to him, so he spent long hours training and practicing until it looked natural. He didn’t have that effortless ease with the enlisted men that had made Caesar and Pompey so beloved of their soldiers, so he tried to be stern and fair, and the soldiers respected him, even if they didn’t like him very much.

Tiberius was much older than Pilate, and already an experienced soldier and a capable general. The sixteen-year-old Pilate looked up to him enormously at first, and the Emperor’s heir apparent was impressed with the young officer’s diligence. With Tiberius’ support, Pilate had won his first elected office, being chosen as Tribune of the Soldiers for his legion. This made him the equivalent of a judge advocate, listening to the grievances from the rank and file, judging disciplinary hearings, and representing the legionaries in the officers’ councils. It was a good start to a Roman political career, but what Pilate needed was a successful military campaign to burnish his record. Rome loved a war hero, and he aspired to become one.

The problem was that Tiberius was almost done campaigning. The Emperor’s adopted son had spent several years pacifying Germany during the first part of Pilate’s service with him, but he had appointed Pilate as his quartermaster in Rome—so Pilate’s companions racked up honors and decorations while he stayed in the city, filling out requisitions and arguing with the censors. As the Emperor Augustus grew older and feebler, Tiberius returned to Rome, where he was being prepared for the succession. The political sinks of Rome were no place for a young officer on the rise to earn a military reputation, and after ten years as Tiberius’ junior legate, Pilate was almost ready to request a transfer to leave the army permanently.

Then came the Varus disaster. Three legions, led by Publius Quinctilius Varus, had been ambushed and destroyed by an alliance of German tribes along the Elbe River in Germania. Most of the legionaries were slaughtered and captured, and all three of their golden eagle standards were taken by the enemy. Only a handful managed to escape, and the defeat was made all the worse by the fact that the enemy had been led by a German who was raised and educated in Rome. Arminius of the Cheruscii had posed as a loyal client prince, eager to please Rome at any cost, while secretly building an alliance of tribes to drive Rome out of Germania once and for all. Varus, a Roman of impeccable lineage with a reputation for cruelty, had fallen into Arminius’ trap, and paid with his life and the lives of nearly 20,000 legionaries and auxiliaries. Augustus went half mad with grief when he heard the news, pounding his head against a wall and crying out: Quinctilius Varus, give me back my legions!

Now Tiberius was tasked with avenging Rome’s defeat. For Pilate, the timing was less than perfect—he had just spent a small fortune to get himself elected as one of Rome’s urban praetors, an important step on the cursus honorum. Now he would have to get permission from the Emperor himself to leave Rome during his tenure in office. But the chance for distinction on the battlefield was not something to be missed, so the twenty-six-year-old Roman was ushered into the presence of the man who was already a living legend—Gaius Julius Caesar Octavian Augustus, once simply known as Octavian. For over forty years this unflappable man had ruled the world’s largest empire with dignity and simplicity, inspiring Rome’s bards to proclaim him as the genius of the age.

Pilate’s heart was in his throat as he approached the curule chair from which Caesar addressed the Senate. Augustus shunned the rich trappings of Oriental monarchs—he lived in a small, humble home on the Palatine Hill and dressed as any patrician senator might. But there was no mistaking the aura of power that radiated from him. This trim, white-haired man in the pure white toga with purple borders had single-handedly ended the Roman Republic and turned it into an Empire, becoming a monarch in all but name. Caesar was known for being a rational and humane ruler, but he could also be ruthless toward those who angered him.

Pilate stood before the Emperor and placed his fist over his heart in a soldier’s salute. Augustus finished perusing the scroll in his lap and looked up. Pilate had seen him in public on many occasions, and had heard him address the Senate, but this was his first time to be close to the Emperor. His first impression was how tired the man looked. Caesar was past seventy years of age, and he was wearing those years heavily after the Varus disaster. The piercing blue eyes regarded Pilate with a look of mild amusement. The weight of the Empire seemed to ease for a moment, and Caesar gave him a warm smile.

Pontius Pilate—so you are the young legate my son says he cannot do without! he said. I hope that you are as indispensable as he claims, since good urban praetors are very hard to come by.

Pilate allowed himself to relax just a bit. I have served under your son’s command for several years, sir, and we work well together. I have arranged for my fellow praetors to cover the duties of my district. The timing is somewhat regrettable, but an opportunity to campaign under a general like Tiberius is not to be missed!

And, of course, serving under a man who will one day be Emperor of Rome is not a bad path to advancement for an ambitious young pleb like yourself, is it? asked Caesar, his gaze narrowing.

Pilate’s nervousness instantly returned, but he knew better than to attempt a falsehood to this man who had survived Rome’s treacherous political currents for over fifty years. "Of course, sir. The surest path for any Roman to advance himself is through service in a victorious army under a great general. I was born too late to serve under you or your father, the Divus Julius; but from what I have seen Tiberius inherited the family’s military skills. My duties to him have kept me in Rome for several years now, but I would like to actually serve against the enemy at some point, and such a moment may not come again!"

Caesar Augustus nodded. Spoken like a Roman! he said. "I prefer a little honest ambition to false humility any day. I release you from your duties as urban praetor to serve as a legate under the command of my son, Tiberius. However, to compensate the city of Rome for the loss of your services, you will donate two hundred denarii to each of your fellow praetors, and donate an additional two hundred to the Temple of Mars for your safe return and good fortunes in battle. Thus your colleagues will be reimbursed for covering your responsibilities while you are with the army, and the god of war placated. Make sure that the amount is deposited before you cross the pomerium to join the army. That will be all."

Pilate swore to himself as he left the Forum. The Emperor was not letting him off cheap! There were twelve praetors in all, six of them assigned to Rome itself, and six scattered throughout the provinces. Twelve hundred denarii was not a fortune, but it was a considerable sum nevertheless, especially for a young officer who could not call upon his family’s wealth. His father had been blessed with five children, two daughters who required a dowry to marry, and three sons to climb the cursus honorum. Simply put, the family did not have enough money to finance Pilate’s German excursion, and he did not have the funds on hand himself after the expensive election he had just gone through.

But Rome’s moneylenders were a thriving part of the economy, and Pilate knew that legates headed into the field of conflict were considered a good investment. He was senior enough in rank that the odds favored his safe return, and foreign campaigns invariably meant foreign plunder—treasures from enemy temples, proceeds from the sale of captives brought back as slaves, and money earned by selling the military equipment of fallen enemy soldiers. Soldiering was a profitable business for Rome’s officers, and the moneylenders knew it.

Before nightfall Pilate had sufficient funds borrowed, and the next morning he called on his fellow praetors and handed them the letters of credit from his bank—wealthy Romans had long since ceased carrying coin of any significant amount in the city itself. However, he did withdraw two hundred newly minted silver coins after that to take to the Temple of Mars. Offering a letter of credit to a god was considered very poor taste! As he entered the temple, he saw that the fires of the altar were lit once more, signifying that Rome was at war. It was a point of great pride to Augustus that he had extinguished those fires more often, and for longer, than any ruler in Rome’s history. It was the Emperor’s preference for diplomacy over war that made opportunities for advancement, like Pilate was about to enjoy, so rare. As the young officer donned his scarlet legate’s cape and mounted his horse, he thanked Fortuna, the goddess of luck, that he had made such a good impression on Tiberius. With any luck, this German campaign would mark the beginning of his rise to power. Who knew where that path would take him, or how far? These thoughts made good companions as he steered his course northward.

Pilate joined the army at Tolosa, where Tiberius was mustering his forces. They would have to cross four separate provinces to get to the German frontier. The barbarian tribes of the deep forests had launched a series of raids on Roman colonies after the defeat of Varus, leaving burnt-out farmsteads and charred corpses in their wake. Tiberius was advancing with four full legions under his command, three veteran and one newly recruited—all told, over twenty-four thousand infantry, cavalry, and auxiliaries. It was a force small enough to move with great speed if need be, but formidable enough to deal with a very large enemy host. The two great military men of the previous generation, Gaius Marius and Julius Caesar, had taught Rome that her legions need not be huge to be victorious. A well-commanded, mobile, smaller force was more than capable of fending off vastly superior numbers. What really counted was not so much the quality of the army as the quality of the commander, as Varus had demonstrated. Fortunately for them all, Tiberius was no Varus!

Pilate was appointed second-in-command of the newly recruited Sixteenth Legion, under the leadership of Flavius Sixtus, a hoary old veteran who had marched with Tiberius and Agrippa in their famous campaign to Armenia thirty years before, when Tiberius had been younger than Pilate was now. The veteran soldier regarded the young Pilate with a keenly appraising eye. Tiberius has taken a liking to you, young legate, he said, and he and I go way back. If he says you’re able to do the job, then I’m inclined to respect his judgment.

Thank you, sir! said Pilate. I hope that I will not disappoint either of you.

The march through the three Gallic provinces proved uneventful. It was fall, the crops were being harvested, and the harvest had been good enough that the army did not lack for food. By the time they reached the land of the Belgae, though, they were entering the zone where the raiders from Germania had done the worst damage, and food became scarcer. The veterans tightened their belts and scrimped on their rations, and the new recruits did their best to emulate them, albeit with more grumbling.

"Legatus! called one of the legionaries as Pilate rode by. When are we going to see some of those blond German Amazons the old-timers keep telling us about? Not to mention the famous German bread and mead?"

Idiot! snapped his centurion. You won’t see a German lass until you feel her dagger slip between your ribs!

Pilate nodded his approval at the centurion’s riposte, but then addressed the soldier anyway. This province cannot feed us as well as the Gauls to the south, because the accursed Germans stole all their food, their livestock, and their women! So if you want bread, and mead, and meat, and women, you are going to have to beat the Germans to get them, son!

Bring them on, then! shouted the soldiers. We’re getting hungry! Laughter ran through the ranks, and Pilate allowed himself a tight-lipped smile before he rode on. They were good boys, he thought, and had the potential to become good soldiers. He wished he had the effortless ability to inspire love in his troops, as the great soldiers of previous wars had. A simple jest with the ranks taxed his social skills to their limit, but he knew from experience that such exchanges were worth the effort. Soldiers would die to please a general who treated them with respect and affection.

Flavius Sixtus was such a general, and Pilate knew it. He studied the old veteran carefully as the army proceeded northward, determined to learn all he could from this man who had served Rome for over forty years. He noticed that Sixtus rarely rode for long when the army was on the march. He would ride to the rear of the legion and dismount, sending his horse back up to the vanguard with a servant, and then proceed to march alongside the soldiers, working his way up the legion, taking a moment or two to visit with every century, and calling every centurion by name. It might take him half the day, but when he was done, every member of the legion would be able to say that their general had marched alongside them and bantered with them. So, after a day or two, Pilate dismounted and made the walk with him, carefully learning the names of the legion’s fifty centurions in the process.

The real wonder of the Roman army, reflected Pilate, was its ability to turn a rural meadow into a fully fortified camp in a matter of a couple of hours. Supply wagons hauled the portable timbers and joists, and when Tiberius spotted the site he wanted them to camp for the night, the legionaries went to work with a vengeance. Palisades were erected, trenches were dug, and tents pitched in perfect order. Guard towers were assembled, and watches posted for the night. In the morning, the same process was followed in reverse—the tents were packed away, the guard towers disassembled and their parts neatly stacked on wagons, along with the palisade walls, and in a matter of an hour and a half, 24,000 men were ready to resume the march.

If the generals intended to occupy the same location for more than a night or two, the portable fortifications would be reinforced with timber felled locally, and the walls doubled in height. The site would be chosen based on the availability of water—usually the camp would straddle a spring or stream—and in a matter of a week, the army’s camp would be transformed into a miniature city, with streets and gates and tents that came to resemble small houses more and more as the soldiers added wood floors and walls. Of course, such long-term camps usually meant the army was going into winter quarters, and would be in the area for an extended stay. No chance of that until they had come to grips with the enemy, Pilate thought.

But the enemy was seemingly reluctant to put in an appearance that winter. Once the army arrived along the border with Germania, a strange quiet descended over the region. Less than six months had passed since the Germans had destroyed Varus’ legions and captured their standards, but now that Tiberius and his legions were on their doorstep, they withdrew into the dark forests of Germania and bided their time. The four legions marched up and down the border for over a month, and then went into winter camp along the east bank of the Rhine in December.

Not long after that, Flavius Sixtus died in his sleep one night, and Pilate found himself in sole command of the legion. Tiberius, grown increasingly dour and glum in the bitter cold, nonetheless spoke encouragingly to the assembled legions at Sixtus’ funeral pyre.

Flavius Sixtus was a Roman of the Romans, a man of courage and skill, whose love for his legionaries was matched only by his skill in commanding them, Tiberius said. He died as he lived—in a military encampment, defending the honor of Rome against her enemies. Do you think such a noble soul would depart for Elysium without leaving his beloved boys in the most capable of hands? Sixtus would not have felt content to abandon this world unless he was certain that Lucius Pontius Pilate would lead his legion with the same skill and care that he always displayed. So even as we mourn the passing of our beloved general and friend, let us take courage in the skill and leadership of the successor he leaves to take his place! The men cheered, and even though Pilate knew that they were cheering the memory of the beloved general, he felt his chest swell with pride all the same.

Six weeks later, the Cheruscii—the same tribe that had destroyed Varus’ army the previous year—came screaming down from the forests and launched themselves at the Roman defenses. Sixty thousand Germans—tall, their blond hair stiffened into fantastic spikes, and wielding iron-tipped spears—stormed the palisades as the Roman legionaries used all their ingenuity to keep the camp from falling. Scorpions and ballistae were fired into the howling masses as fast as they could be reloaded, and the fighting on the wall grew furious.

Tiberius was in the thick of it from the start, grimly stalking the walls and barking orders to his centurions. As the fighting grew more intense, each of the senior legates took one side of the encampment, staying on the wall constantly. Pilate discovered that he enjoyed battle very much—the fear of death was like a drug that kept his nerves on a razor edge, intensifying every sensation. Near the climax of the fighting, a particularly persistent band of Germans got over the wall Pilate was guarding, and into the Roman camp. Sextus Dividicus, Pilate’s primus pilus centurion, was borne to the ground by the crush and disarmed. A huge German warrior stood over him, about to skewer the hapless officer with a spear, when Pilate launched himself at the barbarian and drove his gladius deep into the man’s belly. The German gave a howl of pain, and Pilate yanked the sword free and stabbed him again through the throat, ending the howls abruptly. Three more Germans hurled themselves at him, and Pilate slashed and parried like a madman. In a matter of moments, all three of them lay dead, and Sextus was back on his feet and fighting by his side. The demoralized troops rallied around their general, driving the Germans back across the palisade. Pilate ordered the scorpions brought up and began pelting the German ranks with stinging stone missiles.

The huge barbarians roared in fury and massed for another charge. Pilate looked at his thin ranks and knew that this moment could turn the tide of the battle one way or the other.

Archers! he shouted. A hundred crossbowmen leaped to the walls as the Germans began rushing the fortifications again. On my command—FIRE! roared Pilate, and a hundred bowstrings twanged at once. Nearly every bolt seemed to find its mark, and a good portion of the enemy’s front rank crumbled to the ground.

Flamepots! he shouted next. A row of catapults hurled a dozen pots of boiling oil at the enemy, and a company of Gallic bowmen followed with fire arrows which ignited the fluid that soaked the advancing barbarians. Screams of anguish went up and down the ranks as the flames scorched flesh and clothing.

Now! Scorpions! Let them have it! Pilate ordered, and a shower of lead and stone pellets, each the size of a duck egg, was launched at high speed, denting helmets and shields and breaking bones where they struck. Howls of pain and frustration welled up from the enemy, and then, as suddenly as the attack had come, it ended. Within a few minutes, the last of the Germans fled the field. An eerie quiet descended over the Roman camp, broken only by the groans of the wounded.

By the gods, sir—that was as neat a bit of fighting as I have ever seen! said Sextus as he cleaned his blade on the cape of a fallen Cherusci. I must confess, I thought of you as a bit of a dandy when we first met, but Julius Caesar himself could not have turned back that assault any better.

Pilate allowed himself a grin. Thank you, centurion! he said. Things did get rather intense there, didn’t they?

The veteran soldier looked at Pilate respectfully. That they did, sir, and you saved my life—and you held your ground and killed several of the enemy with your own hands. Didn’t he, boys? Sextus asked the men around them.

They cheered in the affirmative, and then grew suddenly quiet as a familiar figure in a red cape approached. Tiberius Caesar looked at the sprawled bodies of the enemy and the battered survivors with satisfaction. Well, Pontius Pilate, you have repaid my confidence in full! he said. The enemy threw his toughest men at your wall, and I had no reinforcements to send you at that moment. But it looks as if you did not need them!

Pilate gave a respectful bow, and suddenly Sextus spoke up. Sir, I would like to recommend the legate receive the Civic Crown! He saved my life and held his ground throughout the battle, and personally killed at least five of those big fellows lying there.

Pilate was stunned. The corona civitas! There was only one higher honor that Rome could give! The Civic Crown carried with it a full membership in the Senate and an exemption from all taxes, and its holders were always honored at public events when every Senator present rose when they entered. Tiberius looked at Pilate and nodded.

It sounds as if you have earned the honor, Legate! he said. Now have a drink and wash your face. I want to see all the officers in my tent in half an hour. Now, men, throw the enemy bodies back over the wall, post sentries, and have some dinner! The men cheered as the general departed, and the centurions surrounded Pilate and congratulated him on his honor.

Half an hour later he and the other legates and lieutenants stood in Tiberius’ tent and faced the general, whose usual grim demeanor had returned. At his side was his second-in-command, Julius Caesar Germanicus. Germanicus was Tiberius’ natural nephew and adoptive son and heir, but there was little love between them. He was, however, Rome’s best young general, and one of its most beloved public figures. He would make his mark in the years to come, but for now, he was a loyal subordinate to a prickly and difficult general.

An excellent effort today, gentlemen, said Tiberius. The enemy threw about sixty thousand of his warriors at us, and as near as I can tell, left about half of them lying on the ground outside our camp. We lost about a thousand killed and perhaps as many wounded, but considering the odds and the suddenness of the attack, those losses are actually minimal. The enemy only breached our walls at one point, and thanks to young Pilate here, they were thrown back quickly and forcefully! He nodded at Pilate, who flushed and bowed. The other legates grinned and thumped him on the back.

"But I didn’t come to Germany to fend off attacks; I came here to avenge our fallen comrades and destroy those responsible for their deaths! Tiberius’ face darkened, and he pounded his fist on the table for emphasis. Now we have a dilemma on our hands. My scouts followed the retreating Germans, and I am waiting for them to return and tell us where their camp is. I want to set out in pursuit and catch them at dawn and destroy their army, as they destroyed Varus and his legions! But at the same time, we are the only army Rome has north of the Alps right now, except for two understrength legions in western Gaul. If we should perish, there is nothing to keep the Germans from harrowing all our provinces from here to Italy!"

The men nodded. The loss of Varus’ legions, and the cost of the dreadful campaign into the Balkans three years before, had left Rome’s armies stretched thin. Another victory by the Germans might throw all the northern provinces into rebellion, and destroy the Pax Romana that Augustus had worked so hard to achieve.

So we must temper our desire for vengeance with caution, said Tiberius. I want to take ten thousand men out of our camp about six hours from now, as soon as I hear back from our scouts. Germanicus, you will command the remainder until I return. If I do not return, fortify this camp even more strongly and send to Rome for reinforcements. Then, next spring, you can retrieve my skull from whatever tree the Germans have it nailed to—unless one of their kings uses it for a drinking cup! He laughed, but it was a humorless laugh. The awful fate of Quinctilius Varus had been told from one end of Rome to another. Tiberius continued: Of course, I have every intention of returning, and if Fortuna smiles on us, I will come back bearing all three of Varus’ standards! Pilate, Verbinius, and Cassius—pick the strongest, least exhausted men from your legions and tell them to get some sleep while they can. We march before dawn!

Pilate wound up taking about half of his legion—he had several hundred dead and wounded, but considering the ferocity of the fighting, they had gotten off pretty lightly. The Gallic scouts came filtering back into camp at midnight. These men were walking forest spirits, Pilate thought as he beheld them, wrapped in black fabric with twigs and leaves protruding from them at every angle. You could walk right by them in broad daylight and not realize they were there!

They reported that the Germans were encamped some twenty miles distant, exhausted and demoralized. Their camp was guarded, but not heavily so, because they were counting on the Romans being too battered and worn out to pursue them. Pilate sent the centurions to wake his men, and an hour after midnight, the expedition set forth. Two stripped down legions, double timing through the forest, ready to wreak havoc on a foe they despised—Pilate would not have wanted to be in the German camp when they arrived!

As the sun cleared the horizon they could see the smoke of the campfires rising before them. Tiberius gave the order, and Pilate sent two dozen of his best Numidian archers forward. In a matter of moments, the German sentries were dropped where they stood, and not a single one lived to give an alarm. The legionaries formed up, the archers rejoined their ranks, and then Tiberius raised his sword and lowered it dramatically.

With a roar of pure fury, the Roman legionaries charged into the German camp, unleashing their pilae at short range, then wading in with gladius in one hand and shield in the other. The rain of spears had skewered dozens of Germans, and the sight of the Roman army descending on their camp dismayed many of them. Some of the forest warriors had already begun to break and run before the legionaries came to grips with the host.

But most of them stood their ground and tried to defend their camp. They knew the reputation of the Romans, and were determined to die on their feet rather than live on their knees. For the second time in twenty-four hours, Pontius Pilate felt the joy of battle as he threw himself into the enemy’s ranks, slashing and stabbing at the huge warriors. The clash of arms sounded like a hundred blacksmiths hammering their forges at once—except that molten metal did not scream when the hammer struck it!

The battle lasted less than an hour. Another ten thousand Germans lay dead when it was done, and at least five thousand warriors, plus a host of women and children, were taken prisoner. The victory was not without cost, though. Another thousand Romans lay dead or wounded, and Varus’ eagle standards were nowhere to be found. However, in the general’s tent, three large chests full of gold coin and jewels were recovered, as well as the mistress and young son of Arminius, the German mastermind.

The march back to the Roman encampment was much slower and more exhausting than the trip in had been. The adrenaline had subsided, and the men were feeling the full effects of fighting two pitched battles within twenty-four hours. The mournful wailing of the captives only added to the gloomy atmosphere—the German women knew what fate awaited them when they were turned over to the legionaries, and pleaded with their menfolk to save them. The vanquished warriors ignored their pleas, marching forward grimly with their heads down and their fists clenched. Before sunset, the legions were within sight of the camp. They turned their captives over to Germanicus’ soldiers and tumbled to their tents, exhausted but victorious.

Two days later, Tiberius assembled the entire army to hand out the decorations and awards that the men had won. In accordance with tradition, Tiberius’ own decorations were displayed for the men to see, drawing whistles of amazement from those who had not seen them before. The only honor the Emperor’s adopted son had not won was the corona granica, the Grass Crown, which was only given to those who single-handedly saved a legion from destruction, and then helped it defeat the enemy. Only a handful of soldiers in Rome’s storied past had won this coveted honor—a simple crown woven of the grass from the field where the deed was done.

But many other decorations were handed out that day—two Civic Crowns; one for Pilate and one for Germanicus, and many gold, silver, and bronze phalerae, as well as several golden torcs and armillae. These were medallions, necklaces, and armbands that all signified specific acts of valor on the battlefield. Pilate received one golden armband and one gold and three silver medallions, in addition to his Civic Crown. He was now a legitimate war hero, honored by law and custom as a true son of Rome. Many other soldiers were decorated that day, and Tiberius was hailed as imperator, or conqueror, by his men for the fourth time in his career, guaranteeing him a triumphal march when he returned to Rome.

That was the end of the fighting for the season. The Germans withdrew into their forest and contented themselves with small raids and acts of arson, and the Romans withdrew their line of settlement back west of the Danube and fortified their strongholds all up and down the frontier.

It was a couple of nights after the battle that Pilate made an uncomfortable discovery about himself, triggered by a common accident. His Greek servant Sosthenes was an inoffensive, mild-mannered slave given to occasional clumsiness. Pilate had just finished an oil bath and had changed into a comfortable tunic to spend the evening writing letters to his family when Sosthenes stumbled and spilled a cup of wine all over the fine linen garment.

You dolt! snapped Pilate. This tunic is ruined!

I’m terribly sorry, master! stammered the Greek, but his apology did no good. Pilate balled up his fists and struck him hard in the face. The slave wailed and tried to cover himself—no Roman slave would dare lift a hand to his master, for fear of crucifixion—but Pilate waded into him, punching and kicking with a fury he did not know he had. Half an hour later, he threw himself on his bed exhausted, and the weeping slave crawled from the tent, leaving several teeth on the floor.

The next day, Pilate did not know what to think. His educated, urbane half was horrified at the savagery of his own temper, and by the damage he just had inflicted on a loyal and well-mannered servant. But another part of his mind—a baser part, a slavering beast coiled around his psyche like a serpent—relished the memory of each blow landed, and each drop of blood shed. To his horror, Pilate had discovered that since his initiation in battle, he liked being cruel—and that discovery shook him to his core.

There in the bitter cold German winter, the two halves of Pontius Pilate emerged together for the first time—the brave, competent, and intelligent soldier who had learned to inspire loyalty and respect from his men; and the angry, vengeful, and petty martinet who delighted in harming those powerless to defend themselves. As Pilate pondered the events of the evening, he wondered which side of his character would be the one he was remembered for. Only time would tell, he supposed.

CHAPTER TWO

The next year in Germania was uneventful. Tiberius pulled back all the remaining Roman colonies and farms to the east side of the Danube, consolidating Rome’s position within a more defensible border. Germanicus did more and more of the actual soldiering, leading his men on punitive raids against the Cheruscii and seeking clues as to the location of Varus’ lost eagles. As for Pilate, after winning honors on the battlefield, he now found his legion mainly involved in helping Roman colonists relocate, and finally building a permanent fort on the banks of the Danube where they would be able to protect several large communities that were less than an hour’s ride away. Garrison life was boring,