Pilate did not need the stars to intuit what had happened. He knew that Sejanus had succeeded in his gentle campaign to lure Tiberius away from the city, perhaps to the isle of Capri. Not only would this provide the princeps a long-deserved vacation; just incidentally, it would also leave Sejanus in charge of Rome as Tiberius’s deputy.
However, Sejanus’s success in arranging the emperor’s vacation apparently spelled Pilate’s failure, since provincial offices were usually changed about the first of July, and unless his formal appointment came soon he might have to linger in Rome another year. Could Sejanus have forgotten to remind the princeps? It would all be a profound political embarrassment, also a social one for Procula, who had been busy shopping for items from a list provided by the wife of Annius Rufus.
Pilate could not contact Sejanus, since he had accompanied Tiberius to Campania, and their precise whereabouts were unknown at the moment. But in the second week of July, a praetorian messenger from the imperial party delivered a tablet sealed with Sejanus’s unmistakable stamp. Pilate sliced through it with his dagger and read the following:
L. Aelius Sejanus to Pontius Pilatus, greeting. I wish I could report that the princeps has confirmed you as praefectus Iudaeae, but he insists he must first have a further interview with you. I had hoped that the time I presented you to him on the Palatine would have sufficed, but you recall how preoccupied he was that day with the Thracian insurrection.
After dedicating a temple to the Divine Augustus at Nola, we plan to go on to Capri. This week and the next we will be at the emperor’s villa called “The Grotto.” Tiberius requests that you see him here before we move on to Campania. Take the Appian Way till you reach the sea at Tarracina, then follow the shore road. Come the second day after you receive this, if possible. Farewell.
It took Pilate and his driver about twelve hours to reach the Mediterranean as they clattered away from Rome in their open cisium, a two-wheeled, two-horse carriage used for rapid trips. The morning had been magnificent, and the scenery just south of Rome never failed to inspire. Almost washing the highway was the jewel-shaped Alban Lake; just beyond it towered the proud summit of Mount Albanus, which dominated the countryside. A millennium earlier it had been a grumbling volcano which kept the area uninhabited, but then it cooled, allowing people to settle beneath its slopes.
That afternoon, however, grew hostile. A smoldering Italian sun hung in the sky, untempered by any breezes from the sea. But what made the journey finally unbearable was the notorious Pontine Marsh, a vast, fever-breeding swamp which now bordered the highway. Caesar had planned to reclaim it for agricultural land, a project cut short by the daggers of the Ides of March.
A night in coastal Tarracina restored Pilate for his conference the next day, and he arrived at The Grotto by mid-morning. The imperial villa was perched on a palisade above the Mediterranean coast. Below it lay the grotto proper, a huge natural cavern opening onto the seashore, which was used to good advantage as an outdoor dining room and recreation area. The coastline south of Tarracina was perforated with large caves, and it was in the most spectacular of these that Tiberius had fashioned his grotto.
Praetorian comrades at the entrance to the rambling villa smiled and saluted as Pilate climbed down from his carriage and brushed the dust off his tunic. Sejanus appeared in the vestibule. “A timely arrival, Pilate,” he said. “We’ve been discussing the eastern provinces. Refresh yourself and then join us in the peristyle over there.”
Entering the room a bit self-consciously a short time later, Pilate found Tiberius sitting among the friends who had accompanied him on the journey to Campania. They served also as his advisers, a kind of unofficial imperial cabinet.
“Gentlemen,” announced Sejanus, “I present to you Pontius Pilatus, Tribune of the First Praetorian Cohort.” Turning to Pilate, he continued, “I trust you recognize the distinguished former consul, Cocceius Nerva.” He nodded toward a silver-haired patrician who was one of Rome’s finest jurists.
“And the eloquent Curtius Atticus—”
“The Atticus, who was such a close friend of Ovid?” inquired Pilate.
“The same,” smiled Atticus a little nervously, pleased at the recognition but embarrassed at the association, since Augustus had banished the poet Ovid to the shores of the Black Sea for his role in corrupting Julia. Too late Pilate recognized his blunder.
“And Thrasyllus of Rhodes,” Sejanus resumed, “scholar, philosopher—”
“Court astrologer he is!” Tiberius interjected with a chuckle, acknowledging the public paradox that, although he had banished astrologers from Italy, he had kept one for himself. Several Greek literati were then introduced.
But the focus of interest in the room remained Emperor Tiberius, a tall, gaunt figure, dressed no more ostentatiously than a senator. His was the head that virtually ruled the world, and yet Pilate found it disappointingly, imperially, and totally bald across its entire crown. The face, hollow-cheeked and triangular in its flare downward from wide temples, was rather pimpled and pockmarked from acne, two of the larger eruptions covered with plasters. One rumor had it that Tiberius left Rome because he was becoming sensitive to his physical appearance. Pilate stared at the princeps—his first time at this close a range—and thought the stories of the ulcerous and festering face somewhat exaggerated. Determination still showed in the broad jaw and pressed mouth, though Tiberius did look every month of his sixty-six years.
“Now Tribune,” Tiberius shook Pilate out of his contemplation, “tell us why Rome should appoint one of its ‘Samnite enemies’ as prefect of Judea. Give us your background. Where were you born?”
“In Caudium, Princeps, a town again as far south on the Via Appia as Tarracina.”
“Caudium! You don’t have to remind us where Caudium is. It was at the narrow pass just west of your home town that our Roman forces were trapped by your Samnite mountaineers and forced to surrender. Who was the Samnite general? Pontius…yes, Gaius Pontius. Any relation?”
“My great ancestor,” Pilate admitted, with a little ill-disguised pride. “But that was three and a half centuries ago.”
“No apologies needed! Pontius was a great general. He made our armies loosen up and learn mountain fighting.”
Pilate chose to accept the compliment in silence. He was fiercely proud of his ancestors’ military record, but also knew that Tiberius liked to think of himself as a serious student of military history, and the last thing he wanted to do was engage the emperor in a contest of historical recall.
“But wait a moment—you Pontii weren’t always so lucky,” Tiberius persisted. “Does the name Pontius Telesinus mean anything to you?”
“The brother of my great-grandfather, from Telesia. I applaud your command of history, Princeps.”
“Another brave and brilliant general who had the misfortune of being on the wrong side…Do you realize that you Samnites almost conquered Rome just a century ago?” Tiberius suddenly turned on Pilate with what seemed a snarl. “Telesinus staged a surprise night attack on Rome, which was all but unguarded. Never since Hannibal was the city in such danger.”
“But Princeps, the Samnites only wanted Roman citizenship,” Pilate interjected, hoping to dislodge Tiberius’s apparently swelling animosity.