The Redemption of Pontius Pilate Read online

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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