[Illustration: decorative glyph]
HEAR
ME,
PILATE!
[Illustration: decorative glyph]
LeGETTE BLYTHE
HOLT, RINEHART AND WINSTON · NEW YORK
Copyright © 1961 by LeGette Blythe
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or
portions thereof in any form.
Published simultaneously in Canada by Holt, Rinehart and Winston of
Canada, Limited.
First Edition
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 61-11599
Designer: Ernst Reichl
81003-0211
Printed in the United States of America
FOR ANNE AND JULIE
Rome
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1
The capricious flame spattered darts of thin yellow light on walls and
floor as the doors swung gently closed. Claudia turned from her tall,
deeply tanned, uniformed escort to address the servant who had let them
in.
“I won’t be needing you tonight, Tullia. You may go now. But wait ...
before you leave, we shan’t be wanting all these lamps. Put out all but
that one”—she pointed—“and then you may go to bed. Poor thing, I know
you’re tired.” She peered beyond the wide archway opening onto the
peristylium. “I see you left a lamp burning in my bedroom. Good. Well,
then, just put these others out.
“I don’t know what I’d do without her,” Claudia said as the servant
snuffed out the flame and, bowing to them, disappeared into the now
darkened corridor. “She’s a treasure, Longinus, intelligent, faithful,
and, most important, she’s utterly loyal. She would die before betraying
me. She’s Phoebe’s daughter, and Phoebe, you know, hanged herself rather
than be a witness against my mother. Tullia, I’m sure, would do the same
thing for me.” She pointed toward the peristylium. “Let’s sit out there
in the moonlight. It seems a little warm in here, doesn’t it?”
“It does,” he answered. “I was hoping you’d suggest that. It would be a
shame to waste that moon, and the fountain and flowers.” He was glancing
around the luxuriously furnished room. “By the gods, Claudia, you have a
handsome place. It’s been a long time since I was here, but it seems
more lavish. Did Aemilius have it redecorated?”
“Bona Dea, no. That insipid oaf? What has he ever done for me?” She
acted mildly piqued but then smiled. “It has been redecorated, but I had
it done. This apartment’s actually an extension of the Imperial Palace,
you remember. My beloved stepfather, the great Emperor Tiberius,” she
said sarcastically, “had it built for his little girls. When he moved
them out to Capri with him—a new group, of course, for several of us
were too old by then—he allowed me to stay here. But I moved away when I
married Aemilius; we went out to Baiae. After we were divorced, though,
I returned here, and that’s when I had it redecorated. But the place was
built for the Emperor’s little girls.” She paused, leaned against a
high-backed bronze chair. “You understand?”
“I’ve heard stories, yes.”
“Well, when poor Mother sent me to him from Pandateria—you know I was
born on that dreadful island soon after Grandfather Augustus banished
her there, and I really think she sent me to Tiberius to see that I got
away from it. Anyway, he put me in here with the other little girls.
This wing connects with his private quarters, or once did. There’s a
wing very much like this one on the other side; that’s where he kept his
boys.” She shrugged; he sensed that it was more a shudder. “Tiberius,
thank the gods, spent more time over on the boys’ side. There’s a small
passage-way—few persons probably know about it now—that opened from his
quarters into my dressing room. It was all quite convenient. But when
the old monster moved out to Capri, I had the door removed and the
opening bricked up.”
“I’ve heard stories about the Emperor. Was he ... did he really ... I
mean, you know, Claudia, did he actually do ... does he, I mean...?”
She laughed. “Yes, he did. And I presume he still does; they say old men
are worse that way than young men. But he no longer bothers me and
hasn’t for years. I’m much too old for him; he likes them very young, or
did. He’s an old rake, all right, though he can’t be guilty of all the
things they’ve charged him with. Out at Capri now I really think he’s
more interested in his astrologers and philosophers than in his little
girls and his painted pretty boys. But, well”—she shrugged—“there are
things I do know about him, experiences I myself have had with him, and
although I’m not close blood kin to him, my mother, poor thing, was his
wife though she was that only because her father forced her to marry
him.” They had crossed into the peristylium, and she paused to face him,
smiling. “But let’s talk no more of the Emperor and me, Longinus; by the
gods, there are pleasanter subjects.”
“I agree; there are pleasanter subjects than Tiberius.” They walked
around a tall potted plant and sat down. Claudia leaned back against the
plush cushions of the couch; she pushed her jewel-studded golden sandals
out from beneath the folds of her white silk stola. The moonlight danced
in the jeweled clasps that fastened the straps above her shoulders,
while the gold mesh of her girdle glittered brightly. For a moment she
silently studied the fountain. Then suddenly she sat forward.
“Forgive me, Longinus. Would you like some wine and perhaps a wafer? I
have some excellent Campania, both Falernian and Surrentine, in the
other room. Or perhaps you’re hungry....”
“No, no, Claudia, thank you. I made a pig of myself at Herod’s dinner
tonight.”
“But it was a lavish banquet, wasn’t it?” Her smile indicated a sudden
secret amusement. “I wonder what Sejanus will think of it.”
“Sejanus?” Then he smiled with her. “Oh, I see what you mean. He’s going
to wonder where Herod got the money. And why Herod gave the dinner for
Herodias.”
Claudia laughed. “Well, she’s his favorite niece, isn’t she?”
“She surely must be. But she’s also his half brother’s wife.” Longinus
paused thoughtfully. “I hardly think, however, that Sejanus will be
greatly concerned with the domestic affairs of the Herods.”
“As long as they keep the money flowing into his treasury, hmm?”
“Exactly. And you’re right. Tonight’s lavish feast may cause the Prefect
to suspect that the flow is being partially diverted. Our friend Herod
Antipas ought to have given a more modest affair. No doubt he was
trying, though, to impress Herodias.”
“No doubt,” Claudia repeated. “But it was hardly necessary. She wants to
marry him and be Tetrarchess.”
Longinus looked surprised. “Then you think Antipas will take her away
from Philip?”
“I’m sure he will. He already has, in fact.”
“By the gods, that’s odd. That Arabian woman he left in Tiberias is much
more beautiful. And so is that Jewish woman he brought along with him to
Rome. What did you say her name was?”
“I noticed you had eyes for her all evening.” Claudia’s tone, he
thought, was not altogether flippant, and that pleased him. “Her name’s
Mary,” she continued, “and she lives at Magdala on the Sea of Galilee
just above Tiberias. But of course you know where Tiberias is. And I
suspect you might remember Mary.” Her smile was coy and slyly
questioning. “Herodias says that this Mary is being pursued by half the
wealthy men in Galilee for the artistry with which she performs her
bedroom chores.”
“I must confess”—Longinus grinned—“that unfortunately I am numbered
among the other half. But what does Herodias think of her beloved
uncle’s amours? Isn’t she jealous?”
“Oh, I’m sure she is ... what woman wouldn’t be? But she knows that in
such activities she must share him. Antipas, I understand, is a true
Herod.”
“Yes, and I have a strong suspicion that in such activities, as you
express it, Herodias is a Herod, too.” He sat forward, serious again.
“But what puzzles me, Claudia, is how I happened to be one of Antipas’
guests tonight. It must have been entirely through your arranging, but
why on earth are you involved in a social way with any of these Jews?”
Claudia laughed. “Herodias and I have long been friends. You see, after
her grandfather, old Herod the Great they called him, had her father and
her uncle, his own sons, killed”—she involuntarily shuddered—“Herodias
and her brother Agrippa were virtually brought up at the Emperor’s
court. Agrippa’s a spoiled, arrogant, worthless spendthrift. Old Herod
sent his other sons to Rome, too, to be educated—Antipas and Philip,
Herodias’ husband now, and still another Philip....” She broke off and
gestured to indicate futility. “You see, Longinus, old Herod had ten
wives and only the gods know how many children and grandchildren and
great-grandchildren. Do you know much about the Herods? They’re older
than we, of course.”
Longinus shook his head. “No, nor do I care to. I think maybe I have
seen some of them a few times, including this Philip, but I happily
surrender to you any share I may have in any Jew.”
“But, Longinus, the Herods aren’t orthodox Jews. They even say that some
of them, including Herodias and her no-good brother, are more Roman than
we Romans. They’ve all probably spent more time in Rome than in
Palestine. Why, they have about as much regard for the Jewish religion
as you and I have for our Roman gods. Actually, Longinus, the Herods are
Idumaeans, and they’re quite different from the rest of the Jews. The
Jews are strict in their religious observances.” Abruptly she stopped.
“But why, Bona Dea, am I telling you about the Jews? You have lived out
there in Palestine, and I’ve never set foot near it. Your father has
vast properties in that region, while mine....” She lifted a knee to the
couch as she twisted her body to face him, her dark eyes deadly serious
in the silver brightness of the moon. “Longinus, do you know about my
father?”
“No, Claudia, nothing.”
“Of course you don’t.” She smiled bitterly. “That was a silly question.
I don’t even know myself. I’ve often wondered if Mother did. But haven’t
you heard stories, Longinus?”
“I was rather young, remember, when you were born.” But immediately he
was serious. “Gossip, Claudia, yes. I’ve heard people talk. But gossip
has never interested me.” A sly grin lightened his expression. “I’m more
interested in your father’s handiwork than in who he was.”
“Prettily said, Centurion.” She patted the back of his bronzed hand.
“But surely you must have heard that my father was the son of Mark
Antony and Cleopatra?”
“Well, yes, I believe I have. But why...?”
“And that my other grandfather, the Emperor Augustus, had him killed
when he got Mother pregnant with me and then banished her to that
damnably barren Pandateria?”
“I may have heard something about it, Claudia, but what of it? What
difference does it make?”
“Do you mean to tell me that it makes no difference to you that I’m a
bastard, Longinus, and the discarded plaything of a lecherous old man,
even though that lecherous old man happens to be the second Emperor of
Rome? Does it make no difference to a son of the distinguished Tullius
clan...?”
“And isn’t your slave maid, too, a member of this distinguished Tullius
clan?”
His quick parrying of the question amused her. “It’s funny,” she said,
“I hadn’t thought of Tullia that way. Her grandfather belonged to one of
the Tullii, no doubt. But Tullia is actually not Roman; she’s Jewish.
Her grandfather was one of those Jews brought as slaves from Jerusalem
by Pompey. Tullia is even faithful to the Jewish religion. But that’s
her only fault, and it’s one I’m glad to overlook. Sometimes I allow her
to go to one of the synagogues over in the Janiculum Hill section.”
Longinus reached for her hand. “Nevertheless, Claudia, you must know
that many so-called distinguished Romans are legitimate only because
their mothers happened to be married, though not to their fathers, when
they were conceived?”
“Yes, I suppose so. No doubt you’ve heard the story of what Mother said
to a friend who asked her one day how all five of the children she had
during the time she was married to General Agrippa happened to look so
much like him.”
“If I have, I don’t recall it. What was her answer?”
“‘I never take on a passenger unless the vessel is already full.’”
“I can see how that would be effective,” the centurion observed dryly.
“But then how do you explain ... well, yourself?”
“After General Agrippa died, Augustus made Tiberius divorce his wife and
marry Mother. But they were totally incompatible, and I can see how,
under the circumstances, things turned out the way they did. Tiberius
left Rome and went out to Rhodes to live. That pleased Mother; she was
young and beautiful, and she was still the most sought-after of her set
in Rome. So, after Tiberius hadn’t been near her bed for years and a
succession of more interesting men had, it was discovered, to the horror
of my conventional and publicly pious grandfather and the delight of
Rome’s gossips, that I was expected. So the Emperor had the man who was
supposed to be my father”—she smiled—“you know, I’ve always rather hoped
he was—he had him executed, and he sent Mother off to Pandateria.” She
threw out her hands, palms up. “That’s the story of Mother’s misfortune,
me. But you must have heard about all this years ago?”
He ignored her question. “You her misfortune? Don’t be silly. You were
rather, I’d say, her gift to Rome.”
“You do put things prettily, Longinus. Nevertheless, my mother was
banished because of me.”
“But, by the gods, how could you help it, Claudia?” He caught her chin
and turned her face around so that the moon shone full upon it. “Aren’t
you still the granddaughter of the first Emperor of Rome on one side and
a queen and triumvir on the other? Aren’t you still the stepdaughter of
the Emperor Tiberius? Those are distinguished bloodlines, by Jove! What
nobler heritage could anyone have? And aren’t you the most beautiful
woman in Rome? What, by mighty Jupiter, Claudia, do you lack?”
“At the moment,” she answered, her serious air suddenly vanished, “a
husband.”
“A situation you could quickly remedy.”
“A situation that Tiberius or Sejanus could quickly remedy, you mean,
and may attempt to do soon, and not to my liking, I suspect. They may
even pick another Aemilius for me, the gods forbid. Seriously, Longinus,
I wouldn’t be surprised to learn right now that Sejanus has already
arranged it. He and the Emperor are desperately afraid, I suspect, that
I may scandalize Rome, as Mother did, if they don’t get me married
quickly before I have a baby and no husband to blame it on.”
“But, Claudia....”
“By the Bountiful Mother, Longinus,” she laughed, “I’m not expecting, if
that’s what you think. And what’s more, I don’t expect to be expecting
... any time soon. But I know Sejanus, and I know Tiberius. It’s all
politics, Centurion. And politics must be served, just as it was served
in my grandfather’s day and at every other time since man first knew the
taste of power. The same hypocritical public behavior, the same affected
virtues propped right alongside the same winked-at corruption.” She
swung her legs around and stood up. “But enough of this speech-making.
I’m going to bring us some of the Campania.”
She returned with the wine on a silver tray and handed him one of the
two slender goblets. He held the glass up to the light and slowly
revolved its gracefully thin stem between his thumb and forefinger.
“Don’t you like Campania?”
“Very much,” he answered. “But it’s the glass that interests me. This
goblet comes from my father’s plant near Tyre.”
“Oh, really?” She smiled. “I’m glad. I knew they were made in Phoenicia,
but I didn’t know they came from Senator Piso’s glassworks. Herodias
gave me several pieces from a set Antipas brought her. They are lovely.”
She lifted her own goblet and admired it in the moonlight. “Such
beautiful craftsmanship. You know, I’ve never understood how they can be
blown so perfectly. And I love the delicate coloring. Now that I know
they come from your father’s factory, they’re all the more interesting
to me, and valued.” She set the goblet down and sat quietly for a moment
studying the resplendent full moon. “Longinus, I’m so glad you’re back
in Rome,” she said at last. “It seems you’ve been away in Germania, and
before that in Palestine, for such a long time. Did you ever think of me
while you were away?”
“Yes. And did you ... of me?”
“Oh, yes, often, and very much. In spite of Aemilius.” She picked up the
goblet, then set it down again on the tripod and leaned against his
shoulder. “By the Bountiful Mother Ceres”—she bent forward, slipping her
feet out of the sandals—“I can’t get comfortable, Longinus. I’m too
warm. This stola’s heavy, and I’m so ... so laced.” She stood up. “Wait
here; I’ll only be a minute.”
Diagonally across from them a thin sliver of lamplight shone through a
crack in the doorway to Claudia’s bedroom. She stepped into her sandals,
walked around the spraying fountain, and entered the room. “I won’t
close the door entirely,” she called back, as she swung it three-fourths
shut. “That way we can talk while I’m getting into something more
comfortable.”
“I really should be going,” Longinus said. “I have early duty tomorrow.”
“Oh, not yet, please. Do wait. I’ll be out in a moment. Pour yourself
some wine.”
He poured another glass, sipped from it, then set the goblet on the tray
and settled back against the cushions. His gaze returned to the widened
rectangle of light in her doorway. In the center of it there was a
sudden movement. Surely, he thought, she isn’t going to change directly
in front of the open door. Then he realized that he was looking into a
long mirror on the wall at right angles to the doorway; he was seeing
her image in the polished bronze. In stepping back from the door she had
taken a position in the corner of the room just at the spot where the
angle was right for the mirror to reflect her image to anyone seated on
the couch outside.
“By all the gods!” Longinus sat forward.
But now she had disappeared. The mirror showed only a corner of her
dressing table with its profusion of containers—vials of perfumes, oils,
ointments, jars of creams—and scissors, tweezers, strigils, razors, he
presumed them to be, though because of the distance from them and the
table’s disarray he could not see them clearly. Now they were suddenly
hidden behind the brightness of the stola as the young woman again came
into view. She dropped a garment across a chair, then turned to face the
dressing table and the mirror above it. The light shone full upon her
back. Both stola and girdle behind were cut low, and the cold shimmering
whiteness of the gown accentuated the smooth warmth of her flesh tones.
Now her fingers were busy at the jeweled fastenings of the girdle; the
light flashed in the stones of her rings. Quickly the girdle came off,
and her hands went to one shoulder as her bracelets, their stones
glimmering, slipped along her arms. The clasp gave; the strap fell to
reveal warm flesh to her waist. She unfastened the other strap, and the
stola slipped to the floor. Bending quickly, she picked up the
voluminous garment and, turning, laid it with the girdle across the
chair.
“Jove!” he exclaimed. “By all the great gods!” In the strong but
flickering light of the wall lamp, Claudia stood divested now of all her
clothing except for the sheer black silk of her scant undergarments.
“Are you still there, Longinus?” she called out. “And did I hear you say
something?”
“I’m here,” he answered. “But really, Claudia, I should be going.” He
hoped his voice did not betray his suddenly mounting tension.
“No, not yet. Just a minute. I’m coming now.”
She reached for a dressing robe and hurriedly swept it around her.
Fastening the belt loosely about her waist, she turned toward the
doorway and stepped quickly back into the peristylium. He stood up to
meet her. Gently she pushed him to the couch and sat beside him.
“Please don’t go yet, Longinus. You’ve been away in Germania so long,
and I couldn’t have you to myself at the banquet. There’s so much to
talk about, to ask you about.” She leaned back and snuggled against him.
Then she looked down at her knees, round and pink under the sheerness of
the pale rose robe. “Bona Dea!” She clamped her knees together and
doubled the robe over them. “I didn’t realize this robe was so
transparent, Longinus. But it is comfortable, and there is only the
moonlight out here.” She reached out, caught his hand, squeezed it, and
released it. “And you can lean back and look only at the moon.”
“But in Germania we had the moon.”
“Yes, and women. I’ve heard much about the women of Germania, and seen
them, too. Women with yellow hair and complexions like the bloom of the
apricot or the skin of the pomegranate. And women free for the asking,
eh, Centurion?”
“Not often for the asking. Sometimes for the taking.” He pulled her
close and felt through his tunic the quick surge of her warmth against
him. “But tonight is not Germania and women whose hair is the color of
ripening grain, Claudia. Tonight is Rome and a woman with hair as black
as a raven’s wing and skin fair and smooth and warm and greatly
tempting.”
“A woman maybe for the asking, or the taking?” Quickly she twisted out
from the arm about her waist, and her gay, impish laughter broke upon
the fountain’s sleepy murmuring. “I didn’t know you were also a poet,
Longinus.” She reached for the pitcher. “Wine to toast the weaver of
beautiful words,” she said, filling the goblets; she handed him his,
then held hers aloft. “I drink to the new Catullus. ‘Let us live, Lesbia
mine, and love.’
“How did he say it...?
“And all the mumbling of harsh old men
“We shall reckon as a pennyworth.
“And then, well....
“Give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred,
“Then another thousand, then a second hundred,
“And still another thousand, then a hundred.
“It goes on,” she added, “but that’s all I can repeat. Now drink with me
to your own pretty words.”
Longinus laughed and sipped the wine. “Were his words quoted by you for
me ... from you? Remember that Catullus later wrote of his Lesbia:
“A woman’s words to hungry lover said
“Should be upon the flowing winds inscribed,
“Upon swift streams engraved.”
She leaned out from the shadow into which the retreating moon had pushed
them. “Maybe they were quoted to spur your asking, Longinus, or”—she
paused and smiled demurely—“your taking.” Then quickly she sank back
against him. “You think I’m a blatantly bold hussy, don’t you?”
“No, Claudia,” he smiled, “just experienced. And beautiful, and ... and
very tempting.”
“Experienced, yes, but believe me, not promiscuous, Longinus. By the
Bountiful Mother, I’m not that way, in spite of my experience.” The
teasing was gone from her eyes. “In spite of everything, not that.”
She snuggled against his arm outstretched along the back of the couch,
and gently he half turned her to let her head down upon his lap. Her
eyes were wide, and in each he saw a luminous and trembling small, round
moon; her mouth was open, and against his thigh he felt the quickened
pounding of her heart. As he bent over her, she reached up and drew him,
her hot palm cupping the back of his cropped head, down hard upon her
lips tasting sweet of the Campania and desperately eager and burning.
He raised his face from hers and lifted her slightly to relieve the
pressure of her body on his arm. She drew up her feet and, with knees
bent, braced them against the end of the short couch. Her robe slipped
open, and she lay still, her eyes closed, her lips apart.
His throat tightened, and he felt a prickling sensation moving up and
down his spine, coursing outward to his arms and past tingling palms to
his fingertips. Deftly he eased his legs from beneath her; lowering her
head to the couch, he stood up.
“Oh, Longinus, please, not now,” she pleaded, her voice tense, her tone
entreating. “Please don’t leave me now.”
For a moment he stood above her, silent, and then, bending down quickly,
he lifted her from the couch and started toward the still open bedroom
door. He was past the fountain when a sudden, loud knocking at the
entrance doors shattered the silence.
“Oh, Longinus, put me down!” She swung her legs to the floor. “Bona Dea,
who could be coming here at this hour! Of all the damnable luck!” She
stared in dismay at her disarrayed and transparent robe. “By all the
gods, I can’t go into the atrium dressed like this! Longinus, will you
go? Tullia’s probably sound asleep.” With that, Claudia darted into the
bedroom, while the pounding grew ever louder and more insistent.
Longinus started toward the door, but before he could reach it, Tullia
had appeared from the corridor. She quickly opened the door, then backed
away as the robust soldier stepped inside.
“I am seeking the Centurion Longinus. I was told ... ah, there you are!”
he cried.
“Cornelius! What are you doing here?”
“Longinus! By Jove! I’ve been searching all Rome for you.”
“But I thought you were still in Palestine.”
“And I thought you were still in Germania!”—Cornelius laughed—“until
today.”
“Come, sit down,” Longinus said. “When did you get back?”
“Only a week ago, and most of that time I’ve been out at Baiae with the
family. I came into Rome today to report to the Prefect.”
“Jove! Is he going to name you Procurator of Judaea, Cornelius? I hear
that Valerius Gratus is being recalled.”
“Me Procurator? Don’t be silly, man. No, but I have an idea it’s
something concerned with Palestine that has him calling for you. I’ve
got orders to find you and bring you to his palace immediately. So we’d
best be going, Longinus.”
“To see Sejanus? At this hour?”
“Yes, he said it was urgent. He’s leaving early tomorrow morning for
Capri, and he says he’s got to see you before he goes.”
“By the gods!” Longinus’ countenance was suddenly solemn. “What have _I_
done?”
“Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing to be alarmed about. Probably some special
assignment or other. I don’t know. But come, man, you know Sejanus
doesn’t like to be kept waiting. Get your toga. I have a sedan chair
outside.”
“In a minute, Cornelius. I must tell Claudia.”
“Couldn’t her maid explain...?”
But Longinus already was striding toward the peristylium. “Claudia,” he
called through the crack in the doorway, “the Prefect has sent for me. I
don’t know what he wants, but I’ve got to be going.”
“Bona Dea!” She was just inside the door. “Sejanus?”
“Yes. Cornelius says he wants to see me tonight, right now. I don’t have
any idea what he could want, but tomorrow night, if I may see you then,
I’ll explain everything.”
“What could that old devil be wanting with you, Longinus?” The question
seemed addressed more to herself than to him. “Yes, of course, you must
come. I’ll be anxious to know.”
The sound of his retreating steps echoed along the peristylium and
across the mosaic floor of the atrium. Claudia listened until she heard
Tullia shut the double doors, and then there was silence. She closed her
own door and crossed to her still undisturbed bed; she flung herself
upon it.
“Sejanus, the devil! The old devil!” With furious fists she pounded on
the bed. “May Pluto’s mallet splatter his evil brains!”
2
“Centurion Longinus, how well do you know Pontius Pilate?”
The Prefect Sejanus sensed that the soldier was hardly prepared for the
blunt question. He had only a moment ago entered the ornate chamber. But
Sejanus added nothing to qualify the question. Instead, he seemed to
enjoy Longinus’ momentary uneasiness. His small eyes reflected the light
from the lamps flanking the heavy oak desk behind which he sat, while he
waited for the centurion to answer.
“Sir,” Longinus at last began, “during our campaign in Germania he
commanded the cohort of which my century was a unit, but I cannot say
that I know him well.”
“Then you and Pontius Pilate”—the Prefect paused and smiled
blandly—“could hardly be described as devoted friends or intimates?”
“That is true, sir, and I am not sure that Pilate....” He hesitated.
“Please speak frankly, Centurion.” The Prefect’s smile was disarmingly
reassuring. “You were about to say, were you not, that you are not sure
that Pilate has many intimate friends?”
“I was going to say, sir, that in my opinion Pilate is not the type of
soldier who has many intimate friends. I may be doing him an injustice,
but I have never considered him a particularly ... ah ... sociable
fellow. I have the feeling that he is a very ambitious man, determined
to advance his career....”
“And his private fortune?”
Longinus thought carefully before answering. “So far as that is
concerned, sir, I really cannot say. I have no information whatever on
which to base an opinion. Nor did I intend to indicate in any way that I
thought Pilate was seeking advancement in the army in an improper
manner.”
Sejanus sat back in his chair. His falcon-like eyes darted back and
forth as they measured and appraised the young man. “Centurion,” he
said, leaning forward and smiling ingratiatingly, “you are cautious, and
you evidence a sense of loyalty to your superiors. Both qualities I
admire, particularly in the soldier. This makes me all the more
confident that you will be able to carry out the assignment I propose to
give you.” He stared unblinkingly into the centurion’s eyes. “Longinus,
no doubt you have been wondering why I sent for you, why I insisted you
come at this late hour, and why we are closeted here alone.”
“Yes, sir, I have been wondering.”
“It is irregular, of course, even though it is with the son of Senator
Marcus Tullius Piso that the Prefect is closeted.” The wry smile was
gone now; the Prefect’s countenance was serious. “Longinus, you must be
aware of the regard your father and I have for each other. You must know
that we also understand each other, that we are colleagues in various
enterprises widely scattered about the Empire.”
“I know, sir, that my father has a high regard for the Prefect, and I
have known in a vague way of your association in certain business
enterprises.”
“Yes, and they have been profitable to both of us, Longinus. Have you
ever wondered, for instance, how it happens that whenever your father’s
plants in Phoenicia begin to run low on slaves, a government ship always
arrives with fresh ones?”
Longinus nodded. “Whenever such a vessel arrived, I always thought I
knew why. But I never asked questions or ventured comments, sir. I just
put the new slaves to work.”
“Excellent. You are discreet, indeed. There is nothing more valuable to
me than an intelligent man who can keep his eyes open and his mouth
closed.” Sejanus arose, came around the desk to sit in a chair at arm’s
length from the centurion. “Longinus, the assignment I propose to give
you is of immense importance. And it is highly confidential in nature.”
His expression and voice were grave. “To accomplish it successfully, the
man I choose will have to be always on the alert; he will have to have
imagination and initiative; he will need to exercise great caution; and
above all, he will have to be someone completely loyal to the Prefect.”
For a long moment his quickly darting eyes appraised the soldier. “I
know that you are intelligent, Longinus, and I am satisfied that you
possess these other qualities.” He leaned forward and tapped the
centurion on the knee. “I had a purpose in asking you if you knew
Pontius Pilate well. Tomorrow Pilate is to see me. If everything goes as
I expect, then we shall start for Capri to see the Emperor, and the
Emperor will approve officially what I shall have done already.” He
paused and smiled cynically. “You understand, of course?”
Longinus smiled. “I believe, sir, that you speak for the Emperor in such
matters, do you not?”
“In all matters, Longinus. The Emperor no longer concerns himself with
the affairs of the Empire.” His piggish eyes brightened. “He’s too busy
with his astrologers and his philosophers and his”—he smiled with
contempt—“his friends.” But suddenly the contemptuous smile was gone,
and Sejanus sat back in his chair. “Longinus, Pontius Pilate is anxious
to succeed Valerius Gratus as Procurator of Judaea.”
The centurion sensed that the Prefect was waiting for his reaction. But
he said nothing. Sejanus leaned forward again. “I am speaking in
complete frankness, Longinus. We must understand each other; you must
likewise speak frankly to me. But what we say must go no further. Is
that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Now to get back to Pilate. He’s a man well suited to my purpose,
I’m confident.” Once more the Prefect hesitated, as if seeking a way to
proceed. “Some years ago, before you went out to Phoenicia, the
Emperor’s nephew, General Germanicus, was fatally poisoned at
Alexandria. It was rumored at the time that the Emperor had ordered it.
Pilate, who served in Gaul under Germanicus, came stoutly to the
Emperor’s defense with the story that the poisoning had been done by
supporters of the Emperor but without his knowledge, because they had
learned that the nephew was plotting the uncle’s downfall. Perhaps you
heard something about this?”
“I believe I did hear something to that effect, sir. But that was about
seven years ago, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, no doubt. Time passes so fast for me, Centurion. But let’s get
back to Pontius Pilate. He’s ambitious, as you suggested, and as I said,
he wants to be appointed Procurator in Judaea. So he should be amenable
to ... ah, suggestions, eh, Centurion? And he should therefore be a
perfect counterpart in Judaea to the Tetrarch Antipas in Galilee.”
Sejanus suddenly was staring intently at the sober-faced young soldier.
“How well, Longinus, do you know Herod Antipas?”
“I hardly know him at all, sir. I’ve seen him a few times; I used to go
into Galilee and other parts of Palestine for our glassware plants; I
tried once, I remember, to sell him glassware for the new palace he was
building on the Sea of Galilee. But those were business trips, you see,
and I rarely saw him even then. I was usually directed to speak with the
Tetrarchess or Herod’s steward.”
“But you were a guest at the banquet he gave this evening, weren’t you?”
“I was, sir.” Longinus wondered, almost admiringly, how the Prefect
managed to keep so well-informed of even the most private goings-on in
Rome.
“It was a sumptuous feast, no doubt?”
“It was quite lavish, sir.”
“Hmmm. I must remember that.” The Prefect puckered his lips, and his
forehead wrinkled into a frown. Leaning across the desk, he drew his
lips tightly against his teeth. “Soon, Longinus, you will be having two
to watch.” His eyes narrowed to a squint. “Three, in fact.”
“To watch, sir?”
“Yes, that is the assignment I have for you, Longinus. I am sending you
out to Palestine, to be my eyes and ears in the land of those
pestiferous Jews. At intervals you will report”—he held up his hand,
palm out—“but only to me, understand. You will travel about the various
areas—Caesarea, Jerusalem, Tiberias, to your father’s plants in
Phoenicia, perhaps other places—ostensibly on routine tasks for the
army. The details will be worked out later.” He leveled a forefinger at
the centurion. “It will be your task, among the various duties you will
have, Centurion, to report to me any suspicions that may be aroused in
your mind concerning the flow of revenues into the Imperial treasury in
accordance with the terms that I shall make with Pontius Pilate, and
likewise with the revised schedules I shall”—he paused an instant, and
his smile was sardonic—“suggest to the Tetrarch Antipas before he
returns to Galilee.” He sat back, and his sharp small eyes studied
Longinus.
“Then, sir, as I understand it, you are suspicious that both Pilate and
Antipas may withhold for themselves money that should be going to Rome?”
“Let’s put it this way, Longinus.” The Prefect leaned toward the
centurion and tapped the desk with the ends of his fingers. “I don’t
trust them. I know the Tetrarch has been dipping his fat hand into the
treasury, though not too heavily thus far, let us say. That white marble
palace at the seaside, for example, and the gorgeous furnishings,
including Phoenician glassware, eh?” He shot a quizzical straight glance
into the centurion’s eyes, but quickly a smile tempered it. “We don’t
object to his buying glass, do we, as long as it comes from your
father’s plants?”
But just as quickly the Prefect was serious again. He sat back against
the leather and put his hands together, fingertips to fingertips. “Herod
Antipas wants to be a Herod the Great,” he declared. “But he hasn’t the
character his father had. By character, Centurion, I mean courage,
stamina, strength, and ability, yes. Old Herod was a villain, mean,
blackhearted, cold-blooded, murderous. But he was an able man, strong, a
great administrator, a brave and brilliant soldier, every inch a ruler.
Beside him, his son is a weakling. Herodias, on the other hand, is more
like her grandfather than Antipas is like his father. She’s ambitious,
vain, demanding. She is continually pushing Antipas. She seeks
advancement, more power, more of the trappings of royalty.” He lifted a
forefinger and shook it before the centurion. “Herodias will likely
bring ruin upon both of them.” Then he paused, thoughtful. “But so much
for Antipas. Watch him, Longinus. If he”—his expression warmed with a
disarming smile—“buys too much of that Phoenician glass, then let me
know.”
“I will, sir.” Longinus was smiling, too. Then he was serious. “But,
sir, you were speaking also of Pontius Pilate....”
“Yes. I think Pilate is the man I want for Judaea. But I don’t trust him
either. I want him watched closely, Longinus. I suspect that his fingers
will be itching, likewise, to dip too deeply into the till.”
“But, sir, if you can’t trust him....”
“Why then am I sending him out there?” The Prefect laughed cynically.
Then he sobered. “It’s a proper question, my boy. We must be frank, as I
said. I’ve told you that I believe Pilate will be amenable to
suggestions. Like Antipas, he, too, is a weakling. He has a good record
as a soldier, but always as a subordinate. I question whether he has the
courage, the stamina, to lead and rule. He will be looking to Rome, I
believe, for direction. And he will always be fearful of displeasing the
Prefect. But at the same time, Longinus, I think he will be looking for
ways of adding to his personal wealth. So he will bleed those Jews to
get all Rome requires and some for his own pocket as well.” He paused,
thoughtful for a moment. “Yes, I believe Pontius Pilate is the man I
want. Certainly I shall give him a chance to prove himself.” Quickly he
raised an emphatic finger. “But I want you to watch him, Longinus. I
want you to ascertain whether any diversions are being made in the flow
of the tax revenues to the Imperial treasury, and if so, to report it to
me. Even if you have no proof, but only strong suspicions to go on, by
all means report them too. I’ll work out a plan whereby you can make the
reports confidentially and quickly.”
The Prefect paused, leaned back in his chair, and calmly studied the
younger man. When Longinus ventured no comment, Sejanus continued with
his instructions. “You will be transferred from your present cohort to
the Second Italian. Your rank will remain the same; as a centurion you
will be more useful to me, since you will be less observed and therefore
less suspected in this lower grade. But you will be properly
compensated, Longinus, with the extent of the compensation being
governed in great part, let us say”—he puckered his lips again—“upon the
degree of functioning of your eyes and ears.”
Sejanus arose, and Longinus stood with him. “You have made no comment,
Centurion Longinus.”
“Sir, I am at the Prefect’s command. But may I ask when I am to be given
further instructions and when I shall be sailing for Palestine?”
“Soon, Centurion, as quickly as I can arrange it. I would like you to go
out ahead of Pilate and be there when he arrives at Caesarea. It will be
important to observe how he takes over the duties of the post from the
outset. I shall summon you when I am ready and give you full
instructions.”
The audience with the Prefect was at an end. At the door, as he was
about to step into the corridor, Longinus paused. “Sir, a moment ago you
said there would be three for me to watch. You spoke of Pilate and Herod
Antipas. Who is the third?”
Sejanus smiled blandly and rubbed his hands together. “The third, ah,
yes.” His black small eyes danced. “And there will be others also. But
you need not concern yourself with any of this detail at the moment.
When I have completed my plans, as I’ve said, I shall summon you here
and instruct you fully.”
3
Longinus sat up in bed, thrust forth an arm to peel back his side of the
covering sheet, pulled up his feet, and twisted around to plant them
evenly on the floor.
“Jove!” He craned his neck, blinked his still heavy eyelids, and
strained to rub the cramped muscles at his shoulder blades. From the
northeast, rolling down through the gentle depression dividing the
mansion-studded slopes of the Viminal and Quirinal Hills, came the
fading plaintively sweet notes of a trumpet. He glanced toward the
window; the light was already beginning to sift through slits in the
drawn draperies.
Claudia opened her eyes. She pushed herself up to a sitting position.
“Are you going, Longinus? Must you be leaving so early?” She rubbed her
eyes and squinted into the slowly brightening window. “Do you have
to...?”
“The morning watch at Castra Praetoria,” he explained, nodding in the
direction of the window. “It awakened me, luckily. I must be out there
before the next call is sounded. Today I’m on early duty.”
“You always have to be going.” Her lips, the rouge smeared but still
red, were pouting. “You hardly get here, and then you say you must be
leaving.”
“But, by the gods, Claudia, I’ve been here all night, remember.” He
pinched her chin. “I had dinner with you, and I haven’t left yet.”
“Oh, all right. But if you must go, you’d best be dressing. Although,
really, Longinus, can’t you stay a few minutes longer, just a few?
Please.” She slid back to lie in a stretched position, her figure
clearly outlined beneath the light covering.
“Temptress! By the gods, I wish I could.” He bent down and kissed her
smeared lips. “Well, at least it won’t be like this when we get to
Palestine. Out there I’ll be able to arrange my own schedule, and
there’ll be no early morning duty then. But by great Jove, I’ve got to
be going now.” He stood up and walked to the chair on which his clothing
lay. “Today I’ll begin getting preparations made so that we can be ready
to sail when Sejanus gives me his final orders. And the preparations
will include arrangements for our wedding,” he concluded, grinning.
Languidly she lay back and watched him as he dressed. “Longinus,” she
said, as he finished latching his boots, “do you really believe that
your father will be willing to let you marry me?” Her expression
indicated concern. “I have no doubt but that my beloved stepfather will
be quite willing, quite happy, in fact, because I’m sure he’s already
anxious to be freed of the responsibility he has, or thinks he has, for
me. But I do wonder about Senator Piso.”
“By the great and little gods, Claudia, it’s not the senator you’re
marrying, remember? _I’m_ the one,” he said, thumping his chest with
stiffened thumb. “Me, understand?”
“Of course, silly man.” She sat up again and fluffed the pillow behind
her. “But the senator might object, Longinus. He’s a proud man, proud of
his name, his lineage. He’s not going to like the idea of his son’s
marrying a bastard and a divorcee, even though she may be the
granddaughter of the Emperor Augustus.”
“He won’t object, Claudia; I’m sure of it. But even if he should, I’d
marry you anyway, despite him, despite Sejanus, despite even old
Tiberius himself.” He adjusted his tunic, then came over to stand by the
bed. “Remember that, Claudia.”
“Even in spite of last night?” She was smiling up at him, and she said
it capriciously, but he thought he detected a note of seriousness in her
voice. “You don’t think I’m terribly wanton, Longinus?”
“Last night makes me all the more determined.” He studied her for a long
moment; her expression was coy, but radiant too, a little wistful and
warmly affectionate, he saw. “Wanton? Of course not, my dear.” A
mischievous grin slowly crossed his face. “Wanting, maybe. And wanted
certainly, wanted by me. The most desirable woman I’ve ever known, the
most wanted.” He bent down to her, his eyes aflame, and gently he pushed
the outthrust chin to separate slightly the rouge-smudged lips raised
hungrily to his. Greedily their lips met and held, and then as the girl
lifted a hand to the back of his head to crush his face against hers, he
grasped the protecting sheet from her fingers and flung it toward the
foot of the bed.
“Oh, you beast!” she shrieked. “By all the silly little gods!”
Roaring, he darted for the peristylium. As he fled past the long mirror
near the doorway, he caught in it a glimpse of the laughing Claudia
struggling wildly to cover herself with the twisted sheet.
4
The magnificent villa of the Prefect Lucius Aelius Sejanus clung
precariously to the precipitous slope high above the blue waters of the
bay. The greater part of the mansion had been built some hundred years
before in the days of Lucius Licinius Lucullus by one of the general’s
fellow patricians. This man’s family had suffered the misfortune of
having had the villa confiscated after the pater familias had been
beheaded for making the wrong choice in a civil war of that era.
Sejanus had acquired the property—many Romans wondered how, but they
were too discreet to inquire—and had added to it extensively, including
a spacious peristylium with a great fountain that spouted water piped
from higher on the slope and palms and flowers and oriental plants. But
most interesting of his improvements was the spreading terrace pushed
outward from the peristylium to the very edge of the precipice, paved in
ornate mosaic with slabs of marble transported in government barges from
quarries far distant—gray and red from Egypt, yellow in various shades
and black from Numidia, green cipolin from Euboea—and bordered by a
protecting balustrade of white Carrara.
This morning the Prefect and his guest, Pontius Pilate, a cohort
commander lately returned from a campaign in Germania, sat on this
terrace before a round bronze table whose legs were molded in the size
and likeness of a lion’s foreleg. On the table were a pitcher and
matching goblets. Pilate, large, broad-framed, with a round head and
hair closely cropped, a heavy man and, in his early forties, perhaps a
score of years younger than the Prefect, was eying the unusual pitcher.
Sejanus motioned to it.
“You may be interested in glassware,” he said, as he reached over and
with a fingernail tapped one of the delicate blue, blown goblets. “These
pieces came from Phoenicia. No doubt you will have the opportunity while
you’re in Judaea to visit the glassworks where they were blown. It’s
situated near Tyre, up the coast from Caesarea and not far from Mount
Carmel. One of Senator Piso’s enterprises.” He fastened his unblinking
small eyes on Pilate’s florid face. “But of course you won’t be
concerned with this operation. It’s not in Judaea anyway, and its
affairs—so far as Rome is concerned—are being supervised from Rome.”
Pilate nodded. “I understand, sir.”
“Good. It’s important that you do understand fully. There should be no
area, for example, in which your duties and responsibilities overlap
those of Tetrarch Herod Antipas. I trust that you’ll always bear that in
mind.”
“You can depend upon my doing so, sir.”
“Then is there anything else not entirely clear to you concerning your
duties, powers, and functions as I’ve outlined them? Do you fully
understand that as Procurator you will be required to keep the Jews in
your province as quiet and contented as possible—and they are a
cantankerous, fanatical, troublesome race, I warn you—even though you
will be draining them of their revenues to the limit of their
capacities?” He held up an admonishing forefinger. “And do you also
understand that it is tremendously important for you, as Procurator of
Judaea, to avoid becoming embroiled in any of the turmoils arising out
of their foolish but zealously defended one-god system of religion?”
Sejanus curled his lower lip to cover the upper and slowly pushed them
both out into a rounded tight pucker; his eyes remained firmly fixed on
the cohort commander’s face. “It is a difficult post, being Procurator
in Judaea, Pilate.”