to obtain, and I appreciate the appointment. I understand what is
required, and I shall make every effort to administer Judaea to the best
of my ability and in accordance with your instructions.”
“Then you may consider yourself Procurator, Pilate. When the Emperor
gives you your audience tomorrow, he will approve what I have actually
already done.” A sly smile overspread the Prefect’s weasel face. “But
there is one thing further that you must agree to do, Pilate, if you
wish to become Procurator of Judaea.” He stood, and Pilate arose,
remaining stiffly erect. Sejanus walked to the marble balustrade and
looked down at the blue water far below. “But first, come here. I want
to show you something.”
The cohort commander strode quickly to the Prefect’s side. Sejanus
pointed toward the north. “Look,” he said, “Misenum there, and just
beyond is Baiae. Over there”—he swept his arm in an arc—“is Puteoli. And
in this half-moon of shore line fronting on the bay between here and
Puteoli’s harbor, in those mansions scrambling up the slopes”—he drew a
half circle in the air that ended with his forefinger pointing straight
south—“in this lower district of Campania from here to Puteoli and
Neapolis and around the rugged rim of the gulf, past Vesuvius and
Herculaneum, Pompeii and Surrentum out to the end of Capri is embraced
the very cream of the Empire’s aristocracy and wealth.” He turned to
face north again. “There. That is the villa for which Lucullus paid ten
million sesterces. You can see parts of the roof among the trees and
flowering plants. They say that some of the cherry trees he introduced
from Pontus are still bearing. Yes, they rightly call this the
playground of the Empire. Look down there,” he said, pointing toward the
gaily colored barges idling along the shore between Baiae and Puteoli.
“There you will find beautiful women, Pilate, gorgeous creatures who are
completely uninhibited, delightfully immoral. Beautiful Baiae, where
husbands able to afford it can find happy respite from monogamy. Ah,
Ovid, how you would sing of Baiae today!”
Silently for a moment now the Prefect contemplated the villa-filled
slopes, the pleasure barges, the lazily lifting sulphurous fumes above
Lake Avernus in the crater of an extinct volcano to the north, and the
sleeping cone of Vesuvius looming magnificently in the west. Then he
turned again to face Pilate, and a sly, malevolent smile crossed his
narrow face. “You, too, Commander, some day can live in luxury out there
on the slope above Baiae ... if you manage affairs in Judaea properly,”
he paused, for emphasis, “by following explicitly the instructions you
have received and will continue to receive from me.”
“I am ambitious, sir,” Pilate answered, “and I would take great pleasure
some day in joining the equestrian class here. But whether I am able to
achieve a villa at Baiae or not, I am determined to follow explicitly
the Prefect’s instructions and desires.” His hand on the marble
balustrade, Pilate studied the movement in the bay. Then he faced the
Prefect. “But you said a moment ago, sir, that there was still one more
provision?”
“Yes, Pilate.” Sejanus pointed to the chairs beside the lion-legged
table. “But let’s sit down and have some more of the Falernian.”
As they took their seats, a slave who all the while had been hovering
attentively near-by came forward quickly and filled the goblets. Sejanus
sipped slowly. “Surely you have guessed that the Emperor and I confer at
times on matters of particular intimacy, such as the problems of his
household, even the affairs of members of his own Imperial family?”
“I can see, sir, how the Emperor would wish the Prefect’s counsel in
matters of every kind.”
“That is true.” Sejanus toyed with the wine glass, then abruptly set it
down. “This is the provision, Pilate, and I think it not unreasonable.
In fact, I might explain that it was at my suggestion that Tiberius has
included it. And were I in your position, Pilate”—his eyes brightened,
and he flattened his lips against his teeth—“I would be delighted that
such a provision had been made. She is a beautiful woman, young,
possessed of every feminine appeal, and a woman to be earnestly desired
and sought, at least in the opinion of one old man who”—he smiled—“can
still look, appreciate, and imagine.”
“A woman?”
“Yes, Pilate. The Emperor expects you to marry his stepdaughter.”
“Claudia!” Pilate said in amazement. “The granddaughter of Augustus?”
“Indeed.” Sejanus was eying him intently. “And of Antony, too, and
Cleopatra, I’ve always understood.” A sly smile again crossed his face.
“And, if I’m a capable judge, a woman possessed of everything Cleopatra
had.”
Pilate seemed oblivious to the Prefect’s description. “But why should he
want me, the son of a Spanish...?”
“But you will be Procurator of Judaea,” Sejanus interrupted. “Look,
Pilate,” he went on, his face all seriousness now, “I’m sure you’ve
heard the story of Claudia’s mother, the wife of Tiberius. Augustus was
forced to banish her when her adulteries became notorious. It’s one of
those paradoxes, Pilate, of Imperial life. The Emperor may indulge in
any of the ordinarily forbidden delights, adultery, pederasty”—he smiled
again, but this time his smile was a scarcely concealed sneer—“but his
stepdaughter may not. Or she may not publicly, at any rate. And now that
Claudia is divorced from Aemilius and has no husband to point to in the
event that....” He paused and laid his hand on Pilate’s arm. “I dislike
putting the matter so bluntly, Pilate, but there is no other way to
explain the situation. The Emperor wishes to forestall any scandal. The
best way to do so, he thinks, is to have his stepdaughter married and
sent as far away as possible from Rome.”
“But, sir, doesn’t custom forbid the wives of generals and legates and
procurators from journeying with them to their provincial posts?”
“Custom, yes. But custom is not always followed. Agrippina, for example,
accompanied Germanicus on his campaign in the north. Caligula was born
while she was away with the general.” He was watching Pilate closely.
“But you have not said whether you accept the Emperor’s final
provision.”
“Sir, I would be greatly honored and highly pleased to be the husband of
the granddaughter of the great Augustus.”
Sejanus beamed. “Then, Pilate, you may consider yourself the Procurator
of Judaea.”
“But....”
The Prefect held up his hand to interrupt. “The Emperor will speak to
you about the necessity of your keeping your wife under firm authority.
But I would like to emphasize something more important, Commander, and
that is this: keep her happy, and keep her satisfied, in Judaea. I want
no reports coming to me that the Emperor’s stepdaughter is being kept
virtually a prisoner, that she is suffering banishment from Rome.” His
eyes flamed again, and he licked his sensuous lips. “Do you understand,
Pilate? Claudia is a modern woman. She’s accustomed to the ways of
Rome’s equestrians. Keep her contented, Pilate; do nothing to add to her
burden of living in a land that to her, no doubt, will be dull and even
loathsome. If sometimes she strays into indiscretions, overlook them.
Don’t attempt to make of her a Caesar’s wife.” His stern expression
relaxed into a grin. “Besides, I believe it’s too late for anyone to
accomplish that.” Then as quickly as it had come, the levity was gone.
“But I interrupted you. You were going to ask something?”
“Yes.” Pilate stared thoughtfully at his hands. “I was wondering, sir,
if Claudia has been apprised of the Emperor’s and your wishes. What has
she to say about all this?”
“Say?” Sejanus smiled and rubbed his palms together. “My dear
Procurator, Claudia has nothing to say in matters such as this. Tiberius
speaks for his stepdaughter. And _I_ speak for Tiberius.”
5
The next morning one of the fastest triremes of the Roman navy carried
the Prefect Sejanus and Pontius Pilate from the harbor below the
Prefect’s villa straight southward across the gulf toward the island of
Capri.
When Sejanus finished discussing certain other matters of business with
the Emperor, he had his aide summon Pilate into the Imperial chamber.
The cohort commander was nervous as he entered the great hall. It was
his first sight of Tiberius since the Emperor had allowed his crafty
minister to bring all nine of the Praetorian Guard’s cohorts into the
camp near the Viminal Gate, from which, on a moment’s notice, they could
sally forth to enforce the Prefect’s will, even to giving orders to the
Senate itself. A year ago the Emperor, melancholy, embittered, tired of
rule, had left Rome and journeyed southward to Capri to seek on that
island the privacy he had long craved. Since then, with the exception of
the wily Prefect and a few others—the Emperor’s young girls and,
according to Roman gossip, his powdered, painted, and perfumed young
boys and the growing circle of poets and philosophers—Tiberius Claudius
Nero Caesar had seen few visitors. Gradually he had relinquished affairs
of state to the scheming Prefect Sejanus.
But now Pilate saw confronting him a man vastly changed from the tall,
powerful, and thoroughly able general he had known earlier. The Emperor
was noticeably stooped; his once broad forehead and now almost naked
pate seemed to have shriveled into a narrowing expanse of wrinkled
skull. Acne had inflamed and pocked his face, and the skin lay in folds
around the stem of his neck like that of a vulture’s.
Tiberius greeted Pilate perfunctorily. “The Prefect tells me you’re
petitioning us for appointment to the post of Procurator in Judaea. Is
that true?”
“Sire, if it is the will of the Emperor that I serve in that capacity, I
shall be happy to undertake the assignment and serve the Emperor and the
Empire to the full extent of my ability.”
“That I would expect and demand,” Tiberius harshly replied. “It is a
difficult post. The Jews are a stubborn and intractable people. They are
fanatically religious, and they resent bitterly and will oppose even to
the sacrifice of their lives all actions they consider offensive to
their strange one-god religion. Their priests are diabolically clever,
and they are determined to rule the people in accordance with the
ancient religious laws and traditions of the land.” His cold eyes
fastened upon the cohort commander’s countenance. “Pilate, I shall
expect you to govern in that province. Foremost among your functions of
office, in addition to maintaining at all times Roman law and order,
will be the levying and collecting of ample taxes. That, in itself, will
be a burdensome duty. In addition, I charge you to see to it that Rome
is not embroiled in any great difficulty with these Jews. I warn you, it
will be difficult. Do you think you are equal to such a task?”
“I am bold enough, Sire, to think so. Certainly I shall do everything
within my power to demonstrate to the Emperor and his Prefect that I
am.”
“We shall see.” The Emperor’s cold eyes bored into those of the officer
standing before him. Suddenly his grimness relaxed into a thin smile.
“Sejanus tells me also that you have ambitions to marry my stepdaughter
Claudia.”
“To marry your stepdaughter, Sire, should it be the Emperor’s will,
would bestow on me the highest honor and afford me the greatest
happiness.”
“Evidently he knows little about her,” Tiberius observed wryly to
Sejanus, “else he would not consider himself so fortunate.” But quickly
his eyes were on Pilate again, and the malevolent smile was gone. “I
grant my permission, Pilate. The dowry will be arranged, and I assure
you it will be adequate. Sejanus will settle the details. Unfortunately
I shall not be able to attend the festivities of the wedding.” Now he
twisted his head to face the Prefect. “If there is nothing further,
Sejanus?” He did not wait for an answer but arose. The Prefect and
Pontius Pilate, bowing, were backing toward the doorway when Tiberius
suddenly stopped them. “Wait. I wish to tell Pilate a story.
“Once a traveler stopped to aid a man lying wounded beside the road,” he
began. “He started to brush away the flies clustered about the wound,
when the injured man spoke out. ‘No, don’t drive away the flies,’ he
said. ‘They have fed on me until now they are satisfied and no longer
hurt me. But if you brush these off, then other, more hungry ones will
come and feed on me until I am sucked dry of blood.’” A mirthless smile
crinkled the corners of his mouth. “Pilate, I want no new thirsty fly
settling after Valerius Gratus upon the Jews in Judaea. Nevertheless,
from them I must be sent a sufficiency of blood. Do you understand?”
Pilate swallowed. “Sire, I understand.” He licked his heavy red lips.
As they were at the door, Tiberius raised his hand to stop them again. A
sly grin, leering and sadistic, spread across his face. “Take Claudia
with you to Judaea, Procurator. And rule her, man! Rule her!”
6
Languidly the Princess Herodias of the Maccabean branch of the Herod
dynasty lay back in the warm, scented water so that only her head,
framed in black hair held dry by a finely woven silk net, was exposed.
“More hot water, Neaera,” she commanded. “But be careful. I don’t want
to look cooked for the Tetrarch.”
Quickly the slave maid turned the tap, and steaming water gushed from
the ornate eagle’s-head faucet.
“That’s enough!” shouted Herodias after a minute. “By the gods, shut it
off!” She sat upright in the tiled tub, and the water ran down from her
neck and shoulders, leaving little islands of suds clinging to her
glistening white body. “Now hand me the mirror.”
She extended a dripping arm and accepted the polished bronze. For a long
moment she studied her image. “Neaera, tell me truthfully, am I showing
my age too dreadfully?”
“But, Mistress, you are not old,” the maid protested.
“You’re a flatterer, Neaera. Salome, remember, is fourteen.”
“But you were married very young, Mistress.”
“And I was married a long time ago, too.” She peered again into the
mirror. “Look. Already I can see tiny crow’s-foot lines around my eyes.”
“But unguents and a little eye shadowing....”
“More flattery.” Herodias shook a wet finger at the young woman’s nose.
“But I love it; so don’t ever stop. But now”—she grasped the sides of
the tub—“help me out. I mustn’t lie in this hot water any longer, or
I’ll be as pink as a roast by the time the Tetrarch comes.” She grasped
the maid’s arm to steady herself as she stepped from the tub to the
tufted mat, and Neaera began to rub her down with a heavy towel. When
the slave maid had finished drying her, Herodias turned to face the
full-length minor, her body flushed and glowing from the brisk robbing.
Palms on hips, she studied her own straight, still lithe frame. “Really,
Neaera,” she asked, “how do I look?” With fingers spread she caressed
the gently rounded smooth plane of her stomach and then lifted cupped
palms to her firm, finely shaped breasts. “I haven’t lost my figure too
badly, have I?”
“You haven’t lost it at all, Mistress,” the maid assured her, as she
picked up a filmy undergarment from the bench. “It’s still youthful and
still beautiful.” Herodias braced herself as the girl bent low to assist
her into the black silk garment. Neaera leaned back and studied the
older woman again. “You have the figure of a young woman, indeed,
Mistress,” she said, “though fully matured and....”
“And what, Neaera? What were you going to say?”
“Well, Mistress, a figure to me more beautiful because of maturity, and
more interesting.”
“And more alluring, more seductive, maybe?” Her smile was lightly
wanton. “To the Tetrarch, perhaps? But the Herods, Neaera, and old
Tiberius, too, I hear, like their women very young.” Her expression
sobered. “I’m almost afraid he’ll be having eyes for Salome rather than
for me. The child has matured remarkably, you know, in the last year.”
“I should think, though, Mistress, that the Tetrarch....”
A sharp knocking on the door interrupted her.
“By the gods, Neaera, it must be the Tetrarch, and I’m not ready. Tell
Strabo to seat him in the peristylium and pour him wine and say that I
shall be ready soon.”
But the visitor was not the Tetrarch of Galilee. Strabo announced that
the Emperor’s stepdaughter was in the atrium.
“Claudia! How wonderful! Show her into the solarium, and tell her I’ll
join her in a minute. Neaera, hurry and fetch me my robe. We can sit and
talk while you do my hair.”
“I can’t stay for more than a few minutes,” the Emperor’s stepdaughter
announced when, a moment later, Herodias greeted her in the solarium.
“Longinus is going to take me out to the chariot races, and he may be
waiting for me right now. But I wanted to tell you, Herodias....” She
paused, her expression suddenly questioning. “Bona Dea, I’ll bet that
the Tetrarch is taking you there, too, and I’ve caught you in the middle
of getting dressed.”
“Yes, you’re right, but there’s no hurry, Claudia. I can finish quickly.
And if I’m not ready when he comes, he can wait.”
“So,” Claudia laughed, “you already have the Tetrarch so entranced that
he will wait patiently while you dress.”
“Not patiently, perhaps, but he’ll wait ... without protesting.”
“Then it won’t be long before you’ll be marrying him and leaving for
Palestine.” She said it teasingly, but immediately her expression
changed to reveal concern. “But, Herodias, when you do, what will his
present wife say; how will she take it? And his subjects in Galilee?
Doesn’t the Jewish religion forbid a man’s having more than one living
wife?”
“The daughter of King Aretas will resent his bringing another wife to
Tiberias, no doubt”—Herodias smiled coyly—“if I do marry him. And as for
the religion of the Jews, well, my dear, you must know that neither
Antipas nor I follow its tenets too closely.”
“Of course. But I wasn’t thinking of you or the Tetrarch as much as I
was of how his present wife would react. And the people of Galilee, too,
how will they feel about his having two living wives, one of whom is his
niece. Won’t it offend them?”
“Yes, if we marry, it will offend a great many of them. But my
grandfather, old King Herod, father of Philip and Antipas, had ten
wives, remember, nine of them at the same time. The Jews didn’t like
that, but what could they do? No, we aren’t too concerned about what the
Jews will think. But Aretas’ daughter probably will try to cause
trouble. Not because Antipas will be having a new bedfellow, but because
she won’t any longer be Tetrarchess. Being replaced will make her
furious. She cares not a fig for the Tetrarch’s bedding with other
women; she even gave him a harem of Arabian women, Antipas told me.” She
paused, smiling. “Claudia, you remember that black-haired woman at the
banquet the other night, the one called Mary of Magdala?” Claudia
nodded. “Well, Antipas told me that his wife not only knew that Mary was
coming with him to Rome but actually suggested that he bring her. He
said his wife and Mary were good friends even though the Tetrarchess
knew quite well what the relationship was between him and Mary.”
“Maybe the Tetrarchess sent this Mary with Antipas to keep his eyes from
straying to other women, like you, for example.”
“Keeping his eyes from straying would be an impossible task.”
“Do you think Mary is jealous of you now?”
“That woman!” Herodias tossed her head. “Of course not. Nor am I jealous
of her. I really don’t care if he spends an occasional night in her bed.
All I want is to be Tetrarchess. If he marries me, I shall insist,
though, that he divorce that Arabian woman. No, our concern,
Claudia”—she lowered her voice and glanced cautiously around the room,
but Neaera had left the solarium—“is not what the Jews in Galilee, or
his present wife, or this woman from Magdala will think, but rather what
the Prefect himself will think. Sejanus could cause us much trouble. But
now everything seems to be all right. Antipas assures me that we needn’t
worry about it any longer. He says that he and Sejanus have reached an
understanding.”
“And I have a good idea of what that understanding is based upon,”
Claudia said. “But what about your husband, Herodias? What will Philip
think?”
“Philip! Hah!” She sneered. “What Philip thinks is of no concern. I’ve
never really cared for him anyway. It’s a little hard to feel romantic
toward a man who’s your half uncle, you know.”
“But Antipas, too, is your half uncle, isn’t he? And he’s Philip’s half
brother as well. Hmm.” She smiled mischievously. “That makes him both
Salome’s half uncle and half great-uncle, doesn’t it? That is, if
Philip’s her father.”
“Well, yes,” Herodias admitted. “I suppose he’s her father. Anyway, he
thinks so. But he’s also an old man, a generation older than I.” She
said it with evident sarcasm. “Antipas is old too, of course, but
remember, my dear, he’s the Tetrarch of Galilee, while Philip is only a
tiresome, fast aging, disowned son of a dead king, dependent for his
very existence on the favor of a crotchety Emperor and a conniving
Prefect. Antipas is old and fat, Claudia, but he has power and an
opulence far in excess of Philip’s, and a title, too. And some day,
perhaps not too far away, with my pushing him, who knows, he may be a
king like his father was.” She shrugged. “As for romance, the world’s
filled with younger men.”
Claudia studied the face of her Idumaean friend. “Herodias, you worship
power, don’t you?”
“Why shouldn’t I?” Herodias replied tartly. “Power and wealth, you
forget, are rightfully mine. I am the granddaughter of Mariamne, King
Herod’s royal wife, daughter of the Maccabeans, while Philip’s mother
was only a high priest’s daughter and the mother of Antipas was a
Samaritan woman. I am descended from the true royalty in Israel.” Her
irritation faded as quickly as it had come. “You say I worship power.
What else, pray, is there for one to worship? Your pale, anemic Roman
gods? Bah! You don’t worship them yourself. Why then should I? I’m not
even a Roman. Silly superstition, your Roman gods, and well you know it,
Claudia. And the gods of the Greeks are no better. Nor the Egyptians. If
I had to embrace the superstition of any religion I would be inclined to
worship the Yahweh of the Jews. He’s the only god who makes any sense at
all to me, but even he is too fire-breathing and vindictive for my
liking. But I’m not a Jew, Claudia, even though I am descended on one
side from the royal Maccabeans. I’m a Herod, and the Herods are
Idumaeans. The Jews call them pagans, and by the Jews’ standards, pagans
we are.” For a moment she was thoughtful, and Claudia said nothing to
break the silence. “But I suppose you’re right, Claudia,” she said at
last. “If I have any god at all, he’s the two-headed god of power and
money. And if the Tetrarch were your Longinus, well, my god would have a
third head, pleasure. I envy you, Claudia! By the way,” she added, as
she poured wine for her guest and herself, “may I be so bold, my dear,
as to inquire how things between you and the centurion stand just now?”
“That’s why I came to see you, Herodias. I wanted to thank you for a
most enjoyable evening too, but mainly I wanted to tell you that
Longinus and I have—how did you express it—reached an understanding.”
“Wonderful!” Herodias beamed. “Are you going to marry him, Claudia, or
are you...?” She hesitated, grinning.
“Am I going to marry him, or will we just continue as we are without the
formality of marriage vows?” She laughed. “Yes, I’m planning to marry
him. But this is what I wanted to tell you, Herodias. I’m going out with
him to Palestine. He’s being sent there on some sort of special mission
by the Prefect Sejanus.”
“By all the gods, that is wonderful, Claudia! Then we’ll be able to see
each other out there. Where will you be stationed? At Caesarea?
Jerusalem? Maybe even Tiberias?”
“He hasn’t received his detailed orders yet. But I’ll be able to visit
you at the palace anyway. I hear it’s a magnificent place.”
“It must be. I’m anxious to see it myself; you know, I haven’t been near
the place since it was finished. And it will be wonderful to have you
and Longinus to visit us.” But suddenly her expression sobered.
“Claudia, has the Emperor given his permission for you to marry
Longinus? And does the Prefect approve?”
“Neither of them knows about it yet. But I’m sure they’ll both be glad
to see me married and away from Rome. Longinus is going to speak to
Sejanus about us.”