But the emperor ignored his meager effort. “Forty thousand there were, and just before the battle it was your great-granduncle, then, who went from rank to rank shouting: ‘This is the last day for the Romans! These wolves who have ravaged Italian liberty will not be exterminated until we cut down the forest that shelters them.’”
In a low, almost oily tone which contrasted with the emperor’s bellowing, Sejanus interposed, “But Sulla’s forces arrived just in time to save Rome, and the head of Pontius Telesinus was cut off, shoved onto a spear point, and paraded outside the city walls.” He paused for due effect. “And, as you pointed out, Princeps, that was more than a century ago. Now all Samnites are loyal Romans, equal citizens of the Empire.”
“Yes, military history is my weakness,” Tiberius conceded. “But now, Pilate, to the matter at hand. You have a good record so far. Sejanus tells me you’ve also been in touch with Annius Rufus. Fine. But I’m not overly concerned with the details of your preparation for Judea; these you can best learn from Gratus in Caesarea—if, that is, you succeed him. Let’s rather talk about general provincial policy for Judea—and, mind you, don’t try to bluff me. One of my tutors was the eminent Theodore of Gadara, who told me all about Palestine…By the way, where is Gadara?” he asked abruptly, despite his stated disinterest in details.
“A city overlooking the Sea of Galilee, near its southeastern shore.”
Tiberius glared, and in a trice Pilate corrected himself. “Or rather, the Sea of Tiberias.” He flushed at his error in forgetting that the lake had been renamed.
“Now tell me this: just why is little Judea important to Rome?”
“It’s the religious capital of the seven million Jews in the Empire, almost seven per cent of our total population. Judea itself commands trade routes and communications between Asia and Africa. This is particularly important for the defense and integrity of our eastern provinces, Syria and Egypt.”
“And never forget it! If Rome weren’t in charge of Palestine, Parthia would move in to block our access to Egypt, and that would be the end of the Pax Romana. Like it or not, Rome is now the police force of the Mediterranean, and police may not be universally popular, but they’re necessary…How do you propose to handle the Jews?”
“With firmness, Princeps. Weak governors only beget insurrection.”
“True. But what if a general riot did develop? How would you deal with it?”
“Determine the cause. If changes were justified, make them. If not, have the auxiliaries put down the disturbance. If the troops failed, I’d call in the legions from Syria.”
“That’s a standard military answer, Tribune, and it’s correct, of course. But one additional suggestion: why not try a little tact? Without it, you’d never succeed in governing the most ungovernable people on this earth. Pompey discovered the Jews for us, Caesar coddled them, Antony protected them, and Augustus favored them. Sometimes I wonder why. Sejanus has been urging severe measures against the Jewish community in Rome, and you may have to be severe also in Judea…if we send you there. But don’t overdo it.”
“No, Princeps,” replied Pilate. “I have given the matter some thought, and I envision a fresh approach to the problem. Why not make an effort, at least, to Romanize the Jews? For almost a century Judea’s been under Roman control. Other nationalities have been assimilated into Roman culture during this period of time—even in shorter times. Why not also the Jews? Is their culture immune to outside influences? I doubt it. Many of them have been Hellenized, and if a Jew can become half-Greek, we ought to be able to make a half-Roman of him.”
Several advisers in the imperial circle nodded approvingly. Tiberius only shifted in his chair and observed, “Your proposal sounds reasonable, Tribune, but not practical. How would you ever bring it about?”
“Well, I’ve not yet thought this through completely,” Pilate dodged, “but one means might be to educate sons of leading Jewish families in Rome.”
“Pilate, do you hope to grow rich as governor of Judea?” blurted Tiberius.
“Certainly not, sir!” replied Pilate, with what he hoped was just enough pique to indicate what he thought of the insulting query, without antagonizing the princeps in the process.
“A nasty question, I admit. But too many provincial governors have left Rome in an aura of idealism, only to return in disgrace for condemnation by the extortion court. Take ex-Governor Capito, for example, the man who looted Asia Minor. Power corrupts, Tribune, and if appointed, you’d be the most powerful man in Palestine. Take care. Now, suppose you were assigned a tribute quota of two million sesterces from Judea in a given taxing, but you were easily able to collect an extra half million and send it to Rome without the Jews knowing you had raised the surplus. Would you do it?”
Pilate pondered momentarily. Then he replied, “No.”
“What? Not even for the greater financial benefit of the Empire?”
“No. Wouldn’t it be unethical to—”
“You’re absolutely right. Aemilius Rectus, my former prefect of Egypt, once sent in more taxes than his quota and expected commendation. Ha! I wrote him that I want my sheep sheared, not fleeced…Suppose you leave us for now, Tribune, while we confer. Join us for lunch in the grotto.”
With considerable relief, Pilate retired. The interview had drained him.
The grotto area was connected with the upper villa by several steep stairways. Framed by pines, this natural pleasure dome was embellished with pools, fountains, and exquisite statuary, some of it colossal in size. But Pilate barely noticed the beauty as he descended to the grotto in a cloud of exhilaration. The emperor had just formally commissioned him as prefect of Judea, and he was receiving congratulations from members of Tiberius’s entourage.
The dinner party gathered around a table set in the middle of the grotto and then reclined on couches to a half-prone position for the meal, the usual languid pose which, Romans assumed, aided their digestion. While the Greek intellectuals in the imperial circle modestly chose the ends of the table, ranking advisers reclined near Tiberius, Sejanus, and Pilate at the center. Servants fluttered busily about them, serving up delectable viands and the rarest wines.
Pilate was satisfied that this was easily the most exotic place in which he had ever dined. At the mouth of the grotto was a circular fish pond of turquoise sea water, bordered with crystalline marble statues of fauns, satyrs, and demigods of mythology, little cupids and colossal deities, each fancifully executed in Rhodian baroque. But crowning the collection on a pedestal at the center of the pool was a magnificent Laocoön group, the familiar sculptured serpent-monsters strangling the priest of Troy and his two sons for warning against the wooden horse.
Thrasyllus, who was reclining next to Pilate, turned to him and asked bluntly, “When were you born, Prefect? I’d like to cast your horoscope.”
Pilate, who had been mesmerized by the tortured sculpture dominating the pool, wrenched his eyes from the marble Laocoön to the living astrologer of Tiberius and cringed with astonishment. They had the same face!
“Look like him, don’t I?” laughed Thrasyllus. “It’s the beard that does it. But tell me the date of your birth.”
“I…I really don’t hold much stock in astrology,” replied Pilate, with less tact than candor.
“That’s all right. Your attitude won’t affect the reliability of the horoscope. Wouldn’t you like to know in advance what will happen to you, say, in Judea?”
“Perhaps. But your predictions probably have validity only in that they prepare someone to act unknowingly in fulfilling them, while otherwise—”