ordered to Rome,” Herodias interrupted. “Longinus certainly must have
strong influence with Sejanus, because he’s Senator Piso’s son, for one
thing. Should he point out, and with emphasis, Pilate’s failures as an
administrator—and certainly he’d have little trouble supporting his
charge—he might very likely cause the Prefect to dismiss Pilate as
Procurator or move him to another province. And with Pilate disgraced,
surely you would be permitted to divorce him.” She smiled and airily
lifted her hands. “Then, my dear, you could marry Longinus and return to
Rome to live.”
“Maybe so. But even then how would that affect you and Antipas?”
Herodias leaned toward her hostess, her expression intent. “Suppose
Pilate is dismissed, transferred, even, by the gods, beheaded....” Her
eyes narrowed. “That would cause you no grief, would it?” But she did
not pause for Claudia’s comment. “Then Sejanus, regardless of Pilate’s
fate, might extend Antipas’ realm to include Judaea, don’t you see, and
elevate him to kingship. And I”—she sat back and smiled felinely—“would
be queen.” Quickly the smile vanished. “And I shall never be content,
Claudia, until I’m a queen. Why, soon as Tetrarchess I’ll have no higher
station than little Salome.” She paused, her expression suddenly
questioning. “Did you know that she is marrying Herod Philip?”
“_Her father?_” Claudia exclaimed, aghast. “By all the gods, surely....”
“Of course not, my dear.” Herodias laughed. “The other Herod Philip, her
father’s half brother and”—she grinned—“my half uncle. He rules the puny
tetrarchy over east of us, Batanea and Trachonitis. He’s considerably
older than Salome, naturally, but....”
“Then he’s Salome’s half great-uncle and half uncle as well as half
stepuncle, and ... well....” Claudia broke off with a shrug. “You Herods
really never let anything get out of the family, do you?” Then she was
serious. “But what about old King Aretas? If he should attack
Antipas....”
“Certainly he hasn’t attacked yet,” Herodias hastened to reply. “And he
probably never will. But even if he does, that might just strengthen
Antipas with Rome. At any rate,” she added, “the Arabian isn’t making
trouble at the moment.”
“But, Herodias, what if Sejanus, instead of putting Judaea under Antipas
and making him king, should send out a new Procurator to succeed
Pilate?”
The Tetrarchess of Galilee and Peraea was not abashed. “In that case,”
she replied without hesitation, “he might even make Longinus Procurator,
although I’m sure he—and surely you too, wouldn’t you—would prefer to be
assigned a post in some province other than Judaea. But in any event,
Claudia, if Longinus should very strongly recommend and urge the
transfer of Pilate and the extension of Antipas’ realm to embrace
Judaea, then I’m confident it would have great weight with Sejanus.
That’s why I came to see you, Claudia, the principal reason, I mean. I
hope you’ll suggest such a course to Longinus. It’s a way by which you
and Longinus and I—I’m not considering Pilate and indolent old
Antipas—can attain what all three of us want most.” She leaned forward
again, and her expression betrayed a malevolent cunning. “Claudia,
Longinus would have good reason to advise Sejanus to withdraw Pilate
from Judaea. Pilate from his first days out here has failed to get along
with the Jews, from the High Priest on down. And now, today, the
suddenly bitter hostility of the followers of this Galilean fellow whom
he tried this morning....”
“Galilean fellow?” Claudia’s expression was suddenly grave. “Who...?”
“Maybe you haven’t heard of him. He has a large following devotedly
attached to him, so large that the Temple leaders are both jealous and
fearful of him. They brought him before Pilate this morning, and the
Procurator, wishing to evade responsibility”—her tone was
sarcastic—“sent him to Antipas for trial, since the fellow was a
Galilean, from the village of Nazareth, I believe. But I learned about
it in time to warn Antipas to have nothing to do with the fellow....”
She paused, and the bitter lines around her mouth deepened in a scowl.
“He’s never forgotten that Wilderness fanatic at Machaerus. So he sent
the Galilean back to Pilate.” She smiled. “Whatever the Procurator does
with him, or has done, will add to his troubles with the Jews ...” she
paused—“or at any rate, we hope so, don’t we?”
“Then you don’t know whether Pilate has tried the man?” Claudia tried to
conceal her anxiety.
“No. I only know that Antipas didn’t fall into Pilate’s trap.”
_... Thank the Bountiful Mother I sent Pilate the message...._
“You were always a clever one, Herodias. Antipas is fortunate.” But she
did not elaborate and quickly changed the subject.
With the same suddenness that it had begun, like the opening and closing
of a great door, the storm ended, and the sun shone down through skies
sparkling and refreshed. “I must be going,” said Herodias. “I’ve much to
do before we start back to Tiberias. My dear”—she laid her hand
affectionately on Claudia’s arm and stood up—“do come to visit us again.
And won’t you talk with Longinus about this? You’ll be seeing him, of
course, perhaps tonight?”
“Perhaps.” But Claudia’s smile was thin.
Herodias’ visit and the dissipation of the storm clouds had done nothing
to dispel Claudia’s misgivings; the news brought by the Tetrarchess had,
in fact, served to deepen her foreboding. Why hadn’t Pilate acknowledged
receiving her message, if indeed he had received it? Suddenly the
desperate notion possessed her that the Procurator had failed to get her
hurriedly scribbled warning. And why, if he had seen it, had he failed
to reassure her that Jesus would not be condemned? What, by the gods,
had Pilate done with him?
She summoned her maid. “You must go up to Antonia and discover what’s
happened to the Galilean, Tullia,” she said. “Until I hear, I shall have
no peace.” She hesitated, brow furrowed. “No, wait. I’ll go myself. Call
the sedan-chair bearers.”
53
When Herodias returned to the Hasmonean Palace she learned from Neaera
that the Tetrarch had shut himself away from all company in the
seclusion of one of the inner chambers. He seemed to be entering a
period of depression, the maid reported, like the one into which he had
plunged after the beheading of the Wilderness prophet.
The Tetrarchess found him sprawled in his chair, staring at the wall,
his heavy jowls sagging. For a moment he appeared unmindful of her
entrance. Then he turned ponderously to face her. “The Galilean,” he
said slowly, as though in pain, “is dead. Crucified.”
“Dead already? How did you learn it?”
“Joanna. She was at the Hill of the Skull with some of his friends,
including Mary of Magdala. They saw him die. But she declared she knew
that the Galilean”—suddenly his dull eyes brightened with the pain of
sharpened fear—“would rise from the dead and avenge himself upon his
enemies. Herodias”—he got heavily to his feet and flung out his hands in
desperation—“why did you make me do it? By the beard of the High Priest,
Tetrarchess, why, why?”
“Are you mad, Antipas?” Her dark eyes snapped. “You didn’t kill him! By
the gods, Pilate did. The Procurator tried him. You sent him back to
Pilate, don’t you remember?”
“Of course I sent him back to Pilate. But I had it in my power to free
him; instead, I sent him to his death. When he rises, he will wreak upon
me a double vengeance.”
“Double vengeance?”
“Yes, the vengeance of both the prophet of the Wilderness and of the
Nazarene.” His eyes glittered with incipient madness. “The Nazarene was
the prophet returned to life. When he arises, he will be the two
returned.”
“Nonsense!” Herodias advanced, her eyes flaming, and grasped her
husband’s arm. “If the Galilean is dead, he’s dead, and you know it.
Must you give heed to Joanna’s superstitious drivel?” Her scowl
lightened into a crafty smile. “Pilate has served you well in crucifying
this fellow. Can’t you see that the Galilean’s followers will be all the
more determined to do the Procurator ill?”
“But how will his misfortune help me?” the Tetrarch asked.
“Your father ruled this whole province. Should Pilate’s mishandling of
his duties drive him from the Procuratorship, the Emperor might elevate
you to king of all the region. It’s not for nothing that your father is
called ‘Herod the Great.’” She shook a ringed forefinger under his nose.
“If you had one-fourth the ambition and energy that he had, you’d
already be wearing the crown!”
“But I don’t want to wear a crown,” Antipas protested. “Crowns often
become greater burdens than they’re worth. We can live out our lives at
Tiberias, happy and unchallenged, and enjoy the benefits of the royal
prerogative without risking its dangers and burdens, my dear, and with
considerably less chance of drawing the ire of old Sejanus.”
Herodias stamped her foot angrily. “Don’t you have any aspirations,
Antipas? Are you willing to continue being a mouse instead of a man?”
Her tone was coldly sarcastic, and she knotted her hand into a fist to
emphasize her stern words. “Well, by the beard of the High Priest,
Antipas, I’m going to see to it that you sit on the throne of Judaea as
your father did. I’ve just returned from talking with Claudia about my
plan ... and my determination ... to get you elevated to kingship. She
will help; she wants to see Pilate disgraced so that she can divorce him
and marry Longinus.”
“I don’t know about that, my dear Tetrarchess. What would be the
difference anyway, except in titles? Wouldn’t it be best to let well
enough...?”
“And spend the rest of our lives in an out-of-the-way poor district of
illiterate fishermen and grape growers! Never!” she stormed. “Would you
be willing for me never to occupy a station higher than Salome, by all
the gods?” She studied him, her contempt plainly revealed. “I do believe
you _would_. Well, I’m not willing. I’ll leave you first ... and go back
to Rome!” She was silent for a moment and when he made no retort,
continued. “This is what we’ll do,” she said, her tone even now. “We’ll
return to Tiberias and begin to assemble choice presents for the
Emperor, and most important, for Sejanus. And you will increase the
revenue going to the Prefect. The gifts will please and flatter him, and
the increased revenues from Galilee and Peraea may suggest to him that
if you were governing the whole province the increase in taxes would be
substantial. And we won’t send them to Rome, the gifts, I mean, but
we’ll take them ourselves, and then we can personally petition Sejanus
to make you king over the entire province.”
Herod Antipas shook his grizzled head slowly, and his countenance was
troubled. “But I foresee only disaster if....”
“I don’t care what you foresee or how agitated you may become,” she
said, with a defiant toss of her head, “we are going to Rome to ask the
Prefect to make you king, and I’m either coming back to Palestine as
queen or I’m not coming back at all!”
54
As Claudia and her maid entered the anteroom adjacent to the
Procurator’s great chamber in the southwestern tower of Antonia, two men
of serious mien, well-dressed and with beards oiled and carefully
braided, emerged from Pilate’s room and walked quickly into the
corridor.
Claudia motioned Tullia to a seat and without pausing strode past the
attendant through the still unclosed doorway.
Pilate stood before one of the windows facing westward. His long shadow
reached out to her feet across the high-domed room; soon now the sun
would be dropping beneath the wall of the ancient city, and the
solemnity of the Jewish Sabbath would still the Passover festivities. He
turned to face his wife, and she saw that his expression was deadly
serious. She questioned him with a lift of her head. “Those men who just
went out?”
“Wealthy Jews,” he replied. “One of them anyway, a merchant from
Arimathea. Both of them members of the Sanhedrin. They came to petition
me.” He saw that she was still not satisfied. “A small matter; they
asked for the body of one of the men crucified today. They want to bury
him.” He advanced toward her and managed a thin smile. “Here, my dear
Claudia,” he pointed, “have this chair.” His smile warmed. “To what am I
indebted for the honor of your visit?”
“This man whose body they wished,” she asked, ignoring his question,
“could it be that he was the Galilean mystic?”
“Yes, they said he was from Galilee.” His eyes avoided her probing
stare.
“He was called Jesus?”
“I believe they called him that.”
“Then you did not receive my message ... about the dream I had?”
She saw in his eyes a mounting panic. “Yes, Claudia, but it was only a
dream, and the High Priest demanded....”
“You condemned to the cross an innocent man”—she stood up and pointed a
trembling finger at the Procurator, and her eyes blazed
furiously—“because the High Priest demanded it! The great Procurator,
representative of imperial Rome, _crucified_ an innocent man because a
jealous and mean little Temple strut-cock _ordered_ you to send him to
the cross! By all the gods, Pilate, _and_ you condemned him after _I_
sent you that warning!”
“But, Claudia, I was being pulled at from both sides. I didn’t want to
condemn him. I told them I found no fault in the man. I had a basin of
water fetched and before the multitude I washed my hands of his blood,
and....”
“You washed your hands of his blood! Never! Oh, by all the gods, those
hands! Those blood-red, crawling, slinking hands!” She held her palms
before her face. “In the dream I saw them. Now you’ll never be able to
cleanse those foul, polluted hands.”
“But if I had released him, Claudia, and news had got back to the
Prefect that I had allowed a dangerous revolutionary to go free....”
“You knew he was no revolutionary.” Her voice was almost a hiss. “You
knew he was an innocent man, and you sent him to the cross.” She crossed
the room quickly and looked out toward the Hill of the Skull. The
shadows were heavy in the square before Antonia, but the sinking sun
shone levelly upon the three burdened crosses on the hill. “Which cross
is his?” she asked, without taking her eyes from the macabre scene.
“The one at the center,” he replied, his eyes fixed unseeing on the
polished surface of his desk.
“And he is dead, you’re sure of that?”
“I don’t know. I’ve sent for the centurion in charge of the execution,
and now I’m waiting for his report. I told the two Jews I would not
release the body until I was certain the Galilean was dead. Should the
body be taken down and the man revived, and should word, as it would,
get to Rome....”
“Are you concerned only with what sort of reports go to Rome?” she
demanded, her voice heavy with sarcasm. “Have you no interest in seeing
justice prevail even in Judaea?”
“I am interested, my dear Claudia”—he appeared somewhat to have regained
his composure—“in maintaining myself in the office of Procurator.
Perhaps I erred in the case of this Galilean. Perhaps I should have
given greater heed to the message you sent me. But I’ve spent many hard
years in the army, and I have long dreamed of being the Procurator of a
province of imperial Rome. Now that I have attained it, I must not gain
the further enmity of the Temple leadership, or I might lose the post,
you know.”
“Then your only concern is in remaining Procurator of Judaea?” Her tone
was coldly scornful. “And you might have the post taken from you, at
that. Much depends, you know, on the attitude of the Prefect toward
you.”
Pilate blanched. “But, my dear, surely you wouldn’t suggest to him that
he carry to Sejanus an evil report about my conduct of affairs....”
“To _him_? To whom, Excellency”—she paused, and her tone was
taunting—“do you refer?”
But once more he was evasive. “Perhaps you are tired, my dear,” he said
with a short, humorless laugh. “Perhaps you should return to the palace.
I can order the sedan-chair bearers....”
“Mine are outside,” she replied evenly. “But why are you trying to get
rid of me, Pilate? Does the Galilean haunt you already?”
“Indeed, no.” Again he attempted a laugh, but it lacked conviction. “Any
minute now the centurion will be reporting to me, and I thought perhaps
you would not wish to be reminded again of the Galilean’s death or your
strange dream....”
“No, I will stay. Perhaps it is you who do not wish to be reminded that
you condemned to a terrible death a man innocent of the crime charged
against him, innocent of any crime, and known by you to be innocent!”
“But, my dear Claudia, had I freed....”
The Procurator’s protest was interrupted by a knock on the door, and a
moment later at Pilate’s bidding the attendant entered. “The Centurion
Longinus, Excellency,” he said, bowing, “has arrived to make his
report.”
“Longinus! By great Jupiter, did you send Longinus to crucify the
Galilean?” She whirled to face the centurion, who had entered the
chamber. “Surely, Longinus, you didn’t...” Abruptly she stopped; her
face, suddenly drained of fury, betrayed apprehension and pain.
“Yes,” he said, “I killed him. I was ordered by the Procurator to do so,
but that doesn’t absolve me from guilt. I crucified an innocent man”—his
eyes shifted to level on Pilate—“as the Procurator well knew when he
condemned him to the cross.” He paused, but Pilate did not challenge the
statement. “Excellency, you sent for me to report. The Galilean is dead.
Your order has been carried out.”
“Thank you, Centurion. Then I shall grant those Jews’ request for the
body for burial.” He spoke calmly, but his flustered manner betrayed an
inner stress. “You may return to your duty and notify the men, who will
be at the execution ground, that I grant their petition. You may have
your quaternion help them remove the body from the cross and ...”
He broke off suddenly. Through the slit in the doorway, which Longinus
had failed to close completely behind him, came the insistent voice of a
man talking with Pilate’s aide in the anteroom. “By the gods, I’m glad
to catch him. I’ve come from Caesarea with a message for him from the
Commander Sergius Paulus. And I was given emphatic instructions to
deliver it myself into his hands with the seals unbroken,” they heard
the man say. “I’ve been searching all over Jerusalem for him; I even
went out to the crucifixion hill.” He lowered his voice. “It’s bound to
be an important message. It came from Rome, probably, by the gods, from
the Prefect or even the Emperor.”
“Centurion, perhaps you’d prefer to go out there”—Pilate’s face had
paled perceptibly—“to accept the message.”
Longinus nodded and left the room. As the door closed behind him,
Claudia turned with renewed fury upon her husband. “Why did you assign
Longinus to crucify the Galilean?” she cried. “Was it because I sent my
message by him and you suspected he had spent the night with me and you
finally did me the small honor of being jealous? Well, by the gods”—her
voice was tremulous as her anger rose—“_that’s exactly what he did_!”
With hatred in her eyes she approached him, coming so close that their
faces nearly touched. “And, you fool, that wasn’t the first time,” she
added with a low, harsh laugh, “nor even, by Jupiter, the last!”
The Procurator stepped back and sank heavily into his chair. For a long
moment he sat silent, staring at the floor. Then he raised his eyes to
his wife’s bitter, scornful face. “Surely you cannot believe me that
stupid, Claudia my dear,” he said quietly, “to think that I haven’t
known. Surely you must know that I am not entirely deaf and blind, that
I have even contrived to spend many an evening away so that you....” He
paused, pensively contemplating the woman before him. “But perhaps you
don’t know....”
“Oh, how I despise you!” she screamed. “I knew you were a weakling, a
coward, a ... yes, today, even a murderer. But I didn’t know you were a
crawling worm who would willingly lend his wife to another man! By all
Pluto’s fire-blackened imps, I....”
“But perhaps you don’t know,” the Procurator went on, “that I was
commanded by the Prefect and the Emperor, at the time our marriage was
arranged, to do everything possible to keep you content in this dismal
province ... even to overlooking any indiscretions....”
“Then you’ve been willing to do anything, by the Great Mother, in order
to stay in the good graces of old Sejanus,” Claudia hissed. “You’re
willing to send a good and innocent man, maybe a god-man, to the cross
rather than displease a contemptible High Priest who might complain
against you to the Prefect!” She clenched her fists and brought them
down, hard, across the desk. “You’re even willing to surrender your wife
to another man’s enjoyment in order—you said it—to keep her ‘content’
but _really_ to keep that man from reporting to Sejanus your bumbling
incompetence, your foolish provocations, your utter imbecility!” Her
voice had risen to a shout. Slowly she moved toward the window, and then
she whirled about to face him again. “Well, I’m not ‘content,’ and I
never will be ... with you! And by all the gods, I hope Longinus will go
to Rome and reveal to Sejanus how miserably you have administered the
affairs of the Empire in this province!” She pointed at him from across
the room. “And how you have dragged in the dust Rome’s vaunted justice,
how in all probability”—her voice dropped to a menacing tone—“you have
withheld funds from the Empire’s treasury....”
“No! Oh, no, Claudia! I have kept back nothing due the Empire or the
Prefect! Nothing! Not one shekel, not a denarius! Longinus knows it’s
true.” He lowered his voice. “Hasn’t he been watching; hasn’t he been
reporting? Surely you don’t think I haven’t suspected....” But suddenly
he broke off his protests. Quickly crossing the chamber, he opened the
door and summoned the centurion. “You have heard my wife’s words?” he
asked, as he closed the door behind them.
“I’ve heard excited words,” Longinus replied cautiously. “I didn’t get
the full import of them, though.”
“Claudia has been hurling accusations at me. She said she hoped you
would report me to the Prefect when you go to....” He paused, and both
his face and voice revealed his fear. “The message was from Rome, wasn’t
it? From Sejanus? He asked you to report to him on the situation out
here, how I’m administering...?”
“He asked me to come at once to Rome, but he said only that it was to
meet with him on a matter of utmost concern, the nature of which he did
not indicate. Here, Excellency”—he handed the letter to the
Procurator—“you may read it yourself.”
Eagerly the Procurator accepted the message. His forehead creased as he
studied it. “True,” he said, handing it back to Longinus, “there’s no
mention in it of the Procurator. But surely the Prefect will ask you how
I’m administering affairs. I beg of you, Centurion, don’t give him an
unfavorable report; don’t make any charges against....”
“What of the Galilean you’ve just crucified?” Claudia interrupted. “Can
you contend that you even thought you were acting justly? Didn’t you
just tell me you found no fault in the man? What else could Longinus
tell the Prefect concerning your trial...?”
“But the centurion will say nothing of this Galilean, surely.” The trace
of a sickly smile flickered across his round face. “The centurion will
remember that it was _he_ who crucified the man.”
“Yes, I shall never forget that I killed him,” Longinus said. “And I
suspect that to the end of his days the Procurator, too, will remember
the part he played in this horrible thing. But if this Galilean’s case
comes to the Prefect’s attention and he inquires of me about it, I shall
reveal fully what happened, and why I was involved.”
“But surely, Centurion, unless you report it, Sejanus will never know
about it. Caiaphas is pleased. The illiterate, poor followers of the
Galilean didn’t even attempt to aid him at the trial; their protests, if
they offer any, can never reach as far as Rome. I beg of you, Longinus,
make no mention of it to the Prefect. The Galilean is dead; soon he’ll
be forgotten.”
“No!” Claudia protested. “I’ll never forget him! Longinus will never
forget him! Nor will _you_! Look at your hands, Pilate. Soon you will be
seeing them as I saw them, cold, clammy, scurrying to hide themselves
under the rocks, foul and evil and reeking with _his_ blood! By all the
gods, Pilate”—her voice was shrill in newly mounting anger—“if Longinus
doesn’t tell the Prefect of your cowardly flouting of Roman justice, _I_
will!”