The Redemption of Pontius Pilate Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page and Copyright Information

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  EPILOGUE

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  HISTORICAL CHARACTERS

  FICTIONAL CHARACTERS

  TIMELINE OF EVENTS

  GLOSSARY OF LATIN TERMS USED IN THIS BOOK

  THE REDEMPTION

  OF

  PONTIUS PILATE

  Lewis Ben Smith

  eLectio Publishing

  Little Elm, TX

  www.eLectioPublishing.com

  The Redemption of Pontius Pilate

  By Lewis Ben Smith

  Copyright 2015 by Lewis Ben Smith

  Cover Design by eLectio Publishing

  ISBN-13: 978-1-63213-141-6

  Published by eLectio Publishing, LLC

  Little Elm, Texas

  http://www.eLectioPublishing.com

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  The eLectio Publishing editing team is comprised of: Christine LePorte, Lori Draft, Sheldon James, and Jim Eccles.

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  PROLOGUE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  CHAPTER ONE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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