Pilate was impressed by ben-Zakkai’s knowledge, even if he himself had not recalled the myth of Numa’s shield when preparing the trophies for his palace. “I applaud your knowledge of our past, learned Rabbi,” he said, “and you are right about Numa and the shields. In fact, the priests of Mars troop through Rome every March, clutching their shields as they sing and dance. But I swear to you by your own god that I was not motivated by the story of Numa. For that matter, I don’t even believe in the myth, or in Mars either—I’m not a very religious person, in fact. And you are wrong in supposing that this style of shield harks back to Numa. His were small oval shields, whereas these are round military shields which we call the clipeus, not the ancile.”
The delegation briefly exchanged thoughts in Hebrew. Then Rabbi Ananias said, “In the context of your previous indiscretions concerning our customs, and in view of the pagan significance of Roman shields in general, however unintended on your part, we must insist that they be removed from Jerusalem.”
Now angry again, Pilate countered, “But one of your own rabbis in Caesarea stated that nothing offensive was engraved on the shields. I took pains—”
“And we would agree. The written message does not offend us; but the shields themselves do.”
Pilate knew it was time to unleash his master stroke. He did not think he would have to use it, but apparently nothing less than such a logical bolt would convince the priests. “Have any of you visited the synagogues in Alexandria?” he inquired. “Do you know how your brothers in the faith honor the emperor in Egypt? They dedicate votive shields to him. And they hang the shields on the very walls of their synagogues! Not in the public basilicas, mind you. Not in their homes. But in their houses of worship. Their synagogues also boast pillars, golden crowns, plaques—all inscribed in Tiberius’s honor! I saw them when I was in Egypt. And now you object when a Roman governor honors his emperor within his own praetorium in a similar fashion! Have you no sense of fair play, no decency? Must your people complain and object, agitate and demonstrate continually, and for no justified cause—just when we had hoped our relations would improve?”
Several of the priests looked somewhat nonplused. But Rabbi Ananias replied in his now-familiar, lofty tone, “So far as our brethren in Alexandria are concerned, we shall pray for them. They erred in ignorance and we shall so inform them.”
Antipas, who had remained aloof from the discussion thus far, gently urged Pilate, “You’d better remove the shields. They have become a pagan symbol, an unnecessary show of Roman dominance in the very heart of the Holy City. You’re doing the same thing my father tried to do: please Rome at the expense of Jewish sensitivities. And the Jews hated him for it.—You won’t be able to convince the people.”
“Well, why don’t you convince them, then, Antipas?” Pilate glared. “As a fellow governor of this troubled territory, you’d do better supporting a colleague than helping to lead a demonstration against him. Does your own record in Galilee show you off as a paragon of Jewish orthodoxy?”
The debate had now reached the level of personalities, and Antipas was quick to reply in kind. “I find it amusing, Prefect, that you should hurry to hang up these shields just at this time. Could it be because of a certain crisis, involving the fall of a certain individual in Rome?”
What nettled Pilate was not so much the verbal thrust, which was true to the mark, but the sneer with which Antipas spilled the words from his mouth. And this new pose as champion of the Sanhedrin was nauseating—brother’s wife-stealing adulterer and prophet-killer now playing hero of the faith.
“My past association with Aelius Sejanus is certainly common knowledge,” Pilate stated with all the dignity he could muster. “And so is yours, Tetrarch.”
The two glowered at each other briefly before Pilate turned to the rest of the delegation and said, “A matter of principle is involved here, gentlemen. If I were to remove the shields, not only would it be a tacit admission that they were in fact religious after all—and they are not—but this would be the supreme insult to Tiberius Caesar. Imagine his learning that six gilded shields were dedicated in his honor at the Jerusalem praetorium, and then discovering that they had to be removed because of popular pressure.”
“Nevertheless,” objected Ananias, “unless you can produce a document from the emperor indicating that our customs are to be subverted, we must categorically insist, as a matter of conscience, that the shields be removed from Jerusalem. Don’t be responsible for destroying the peace, Prefect. You don’t honor the emperor by dishonoring our laws. If you fail to grant our request, we shall have to choose envoys to present our case before Tiberius Caesar.”
The suggestion of going over his head would have been unwelcome to Pilate under any circumstances, but in his present tenuous position it was particularly distasteful. On the other hand, Tiberius’s learning that the sample shield sent to Capri was just a mockery since the originals had been taken down would be even worse. Besides, the priests were probably bluffing. Pilate would meet the test.
“Choose your wisest representatives then, Rabbi Ananias,” he replied, “for their mission will not be a happy one. In essence, they’ll have to ask, ‘O, Emperor, may we please dishonor you by removing trophies inscribed in your honor?’” Pilate paused, then continued, “I repeat: these are harmless, secular mementos, which have nothing to do with religion, and they’re hanging in Roman territory, in a Roman praetorium, and away from any possible glimpse by the public. Therefore the shields will not be disturbed. And so far as that crowd is concerned, I’ll hold all of you personally responsible for dispersing it peacefully. Good day, gentlemen.”
The Herodian brothers and the Sanhedrists left the palace to address the people. Pilate could not hear what was said, but it must have been something placating, since the crowd turned away without incident and dissolved into the city.
There were no subsequent riots in Jerusalem. When Pilate left the city for Caesarea at the close of the Passover celebration, he felt for the first time that he was governor of Judea in fact.
Chapter 15
One day, the centurion Cornelius proposed “a fresh solution to the problem of Jew versus Roman.” Pilate, of course, was more than curious, but all Cornelius suggested was “Intermarriage.” Pilate was sure he had not heard correctly. Then the centurion broke his glad news. He, an imperious Roman, had surrendered to the charms of a Jewish girl from Caesarea, and they planned to be married—with Pilate’s permission, of course. It was quite the only solution to Judeo-Roman antagonisms, Cornelius twitted.
Pilate assumed he was jesting, until the centurion presented his bride-to-be. She was a striking girl of seventeen, whom Pilate already knew well as one of Procula’s palace attendants. Cornelius claimed she would have no trouble lowering the raised eyebrows of Caesareans. The city’s Jewish community frowned on marriages between The Chosen and pagans, while gentiles in the capital were just as convinced that Cornelius would demean himself by “such a misalliance.” Though startled and somewhat skeptical, Pilate would deny nothing to his favorite, and so approved the marriage. He could hardly blame his officer, for he himself had been noticing the girl’s charms.