“Yes, but—”
“The young Herod, I say. There was a man! It was four years after the assassination of Caesar when Herod first came to Rome. He had no army, no money, no real support in Judea. He offered only the loyalty of his house, and that was enough, apparently. Mark Antony took up his cause and presented him to the Senate, citing the services of his father Antipater. The Senate debated briefly, then declared him King of Judea. And, ten years later, Augustus generously reconfirmed that kingship.”
Gratus paused and reflected. “This is all part of Herod’s gratitude—Caesarea,” he said, spreading his open hands out over the city. “And the man never stopped building. He had a regular mania for constructing palaces, fortresses, temples, aqueducts, cities. His greatest project, of course, was the new temple in Jerusalem.”
“Built at the cost of some very heavy taxation, I hear,” Pilate added. “But tell me, where did he go wrong?”
“It’s a tragic history,” Gratus admitted. “The man eventually killed…let’s see…his wife, her grandfather…his mother-in-law…his brother-in-law…and three of his sons. Yes, that’s it. But the real villain in the story was his dear sister Salome. She was so jealous of Herod’s wife that she sowed the seeds of suspicion in that family for years, concocting monstrous lies about everyone in the palace. And her brother believed them all!”
“Your predecessor Rufus told me—”
“Annius Rufus!” Gratus exclaimed. “And how is that son of Bacchus? I hear he’s done quite well for himself in Rome.”
“Rufus is fine. But he told me something so ghastly about Herod it must be a myth. Supposedly, Herod was worried that no one would mourn his death—a justified concern! So he issued orders from his deathbed that leaders from all parts of Judea were to be locked into the hippodrome at Jericho. When he died, archers were to massacre these thousands in cold blood, so there would indeed be universal mourning associated with his death. True?”
“That was the plan, and it did get as far as crowding the Jews into the hippodrome. But when Herod finally did die, sister Salome countermanded his orders and released the Jews, the only good thing she ever did.” Gratus pondered a moment, then continued, “Herod did succeed in committing one public atrocity, though. It was in his final months: a slaughter of babies in Bethlehem, a small village near Jerusalem.”
“You’re joking, of course.”
“No, no. All the male infants in town were murdered. A horrible affair! It seems a caravan of astrologers came to Jerusalem and asked Herod one of the most undiplomatic questions imaginable: ‘Where is the newly born King of the Jews?’ Mind you, not a tactful, ‘Where is the new prince who will one day succeed you?’ but, in effect: ‘Where is the real king, you imposter?’ Imagine what must have gone through Herod’s mind!”
“It’s a wonder Herod didn’t clap them in irons.” Pilate smiled.
“Oh no. Herod was much too smart for that. He had to find his king first. He asked the astrologers how they came by this quest, and they told him they had seen a great, traveling star which led them to Jerusalem.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Shortly before Herod’s death, say, about the twenty-fourth or twenty-fifth year of Augustus’s reign.”
“Precisely, then. Thrasyllus, Tiberius’s pet astrologer, told me to ask about that star when I arrived here. Can you tell me anything more?”
“No. I wasn’t here at the time, of course.”
“Well, how do the babies fit in?”
“Herod consulted the chief priests, and their sacred writings indicated that a Messiah-king would be born in Bethlehem. So he sent them there under the condition that they return to tell him where the regal infant was. But they suspected that the king was up to no good, and they never returned to tell him. Actually, it’s a shame they didn’t, because then only one baby would have died; whereas Herod was so angry at being tricked that he ordered his men to slaughter every last infant in town.”
“So the little ‘Messiah-king’ died too, then?”
“Yes, evidently. At least no ‘King of the Jews’ has shown up in Judea since then. Every so-called Messiah who has turned up so far has been a fake, a rabble rouser, or self-appointed revolutionary who succeeds only in getting himself and his followers executed. But let me warn you of one thing, Pilate. If any impressive leader develops who speaks with authority and commands deep loyalties from a broad base of Jews, another Judas Maccabaeus or better, then prepare for the worst. He may declare a holy war of independence against Rome. In the long run, of course, Rome would merely pick up a swatter and swat the Judean fly. But you and your auxiliary troops would probably be crushed before assisting legions arrived, unless you were flexible and prepared.”
“In such a situation, I’d first call in Pacuvius from Antioch, correct?”
“Yes, he’s acting legate there in place of Aelius Lamia, who never quite made it to Syria.” Gratus smiled. “Pacuvius would probably send down his Legio XII Fulminata, the ‘Thundering Twelfth Legion,’ and, if necessary, Legio VI Ferrata, the ‘Iron-Clad Sixth.’”
“Anything like this ever happen during your term of office?”
“No. And it probably won’t during yours.”
Pilate cupped his chin in his hand and commented, “There’s one thing I don’t understand. Why this desire for independence here? The Jews I saw in Alexandria seemed content, even happy, under Roman rule. They aren’t—”
“You miss the point, Pilate. The Jew in his homeland and the Jew in foreign countries are cousins, not brothers. There’s quite a difference. Here in Judea, the people think it’s heresy not to be ruled by their own priests. Their normal form of government, they insist, is a theocracy, a rule by God. Any foreign control is regarded as a purely temporary arrangement, a divine chastisement which will be suspended when the Messiah comes. This land belongs to the Chosen People, they argue, and they must rule it. A Jewish priest once showed me a passage from their law which clarifies this attitude. It runs something like this: ‘You must not put a foreigner over you who is not your brother.’”
“Gratus, your policies have certainly been successful here in Judea—”
“I doubt that the Judeans would agree.” Gratus chuckled with the attitude of one who failed to regard that prospect as a criterion of failure.
“Rome’s been satisfied, or you wouldn’t have remained here eleven years. Now what quintessence of wisdom can you leave behind to assist a neophyte provincial governor?”
Gratus thought for a moment, then replied, “Let the Judeans know that you are firmly in charge—at all times; that you are here to act, not react; that you will brook no civil discord. Let the Zealot party detect even a hint of irresolution, a solitary act of vacillation, and they will build on it, plan around it, and hound you into concessions. Be firm, Pilate, be firm.”
On Gratus’s final night in Caesarea, a warm evening fanned by fragrant offshore breezes, a state reception was held in the gardens of the Herodian palace. It served the dual purpose of officially introducing the new prefect of Judea and providing Valerius Gratus an appropriate farewell. A banquet would better have suited the occasion, but, it was explained, the orthodox among attending Jewish leaders would not have been able to eat with gentiles. As it was, the reception could not be held inside the palace, because all gentile homes were ritually unclean to Jews. Nor was it proper for women to attend. Procula and Gratus’s wife had to watch the festivities from a balcony.