“I have to see the emperor soon,” Sejanus continued, “so allow me now to be brief. Valerius Gratus, the prefect of Judea, has been in office there eleven years, and the princeps and I think it’s time for a change, an opinion, I’m glad to say, which Gratus also shares. In a word, I plan to suggest you as praefectus Iudaeae to succeed Gratus—if you approve.” He paused. “Now, before you tell me otherwise, let me give you some of the background. At the moment, Judea is an especially important post, since there’s no governor in the province of Syria during the current interim.”
“What about Aelius Lamia?” objected Pilate.
“Lamia!” Sejanus laughed. “He’s legatus of Syria all right—in title, but certainly not in fact. The princeps mistrusts him, and he has to serve his term of office here in Rome as absentee legate. So there’s no brother governor just across the border in Syria to assist the Judean prefect if he runs into difficulty. Therefore we need one of our best men in that post. I thought of you for two reasons: a prefecture would be next in order for your equestrian career; and also your record—it’s excellent; it speaks for itself.”
“Thank you, Prefect! I’m honored that you thought of me in this connection,” he managed to say smoothly.
Actually, Pilate was overwhelmed. A provincial governorship was a dramatic promotion for him, the largest step upward in that sequence of offices which the Romans called “the equestrian career.” In assessing his future, Pilate had hoped eventually for a governorship, but had never anticipated Judea. Gratus had been such an able administrator that one simply never thought of replacing him.
“I’m rather curious, though, as to why you had me in mind for Judea,” Pilate added, stalling for time in which to organize his reactions.
“Your experience in that quarter of the world, of course. You served, I seem to recall, as administrative military tribune with the Twelfth Legion. Correct?”
“Yes, but that was in Syria.”
“Next door to Judea,” said Sejanus, with a wave of his hand. “But perhaps you’re not interested in governing a province?”
“Quite to the contrary! When do I sail?” Smiling, Pilate quickly ascribed his reticence simply to surprise.
“As you know, I’m sure,” continued Sejanus, “your salary will be adequate—100,00 sesterces*—not to mention the perquisites. And if your performance warrants it, your stipend can be increased proportionately. The Jews are difficult to govern, of course, so you’ll be earning your wage. But after your term in Judea, greater honors might await you in the government here, especially if you serve Rome well abroad.”
Pilate was about to pose some questions when he was again interrupted, conversations with the praetorian prefect being notoriously onesided. “But all of this is only conditional at the moment. Tiberius must first approve you, of course, and this afternoon I’ll begin the process of winning that approval. I’ll start by citing the needs of Judea, and then casually mention your name and background. Midway in our discussion I’ll refer to you again, and once more at the close. By then you’ll be something of an old friend to the princeps. This doesn’t mean, of course, that he’ll approve you today. Never. That would look as if he were acceding to me, and he’s sensitive to criticism on that score. Tiberius will ‘decide’ on you in a month or so, and that will be it.”
“Do you think I should plan for the prefecture, or wait for Tiberius’s approval?”
“Plan. I’m not going to suggest any other candidates, and I don’t think the emperor has any in mind.”
With that he escorted Pilate out to the atrium, and prepared for his own visit to the Palatine.
Pilate stepped out into an afternoon that had become unseasonably warm. A southwest wind was pouring down from the Aventine, carrying with it a fresh, wheaty smell from the large state granaries along the Tiber. Soon it would rain, but not till late in the afternoon.
While returning to the Castra, Pilate luxuriated in his transformed prospects. He had come expecting a reprimand, no, a cashiering; he had left with a Roman province. To govern Judea would be more than a challenge, of course. From all reports, it was an enormously complex task to keep the Jews satisfied under Rome’s rule. He knew that Palestine had been restive and turbulent ever since Pompey conquered it nearly ninety years earlier. Rome had tried indirect government under King Herod and direct administration under her prefects, but a growing hostility between Roman and Jew in that sun-saturated land had still given birth to a series of riots and rebellions, each of which was put down in blood.
This was the prospect which troubled Pilate. He tried to analyze Sejanus’s unexpressed motives for selecting him, and it soon became rather clear. Pilate had gained the reputation of being a tough commander ever since he had helped put down a mutiny in the Twelfth Legion by an adroit combination of oratory and force, applied in fairly equal parts. Word of Pilate’s role reached Sejanus, and he had sent him a commendatory letter on that occasion. Maintaining control was the first commandment in Sejanus’s decalog.
Suddenly, Pilate wondered if his prefect had a deeper motive. What about Lamia, the absentee governor-without-a-province? Was it only Tiberius who was suspicious of him and prevented his going to Syria? What about Sejanus? Several years earlier, Lamia had crossed swords with Sejanus in a public trial and since then had gone over to the party of Agrippina. And though quarantined to Rome, eastern affairs did pass over his desk. Someone, therefore, had to represent the party of Sejanus in the East, now that his father, who had been prefect of Egypt, was dead. Someone? Himself!
Well and good. For several years, he had staked his career to the fortunes of Sejanus, his fellow equestrian who was now second only to the emperor, and that calculated decision had paid off handsomely. Judea would be a formidable assignment, but if he succeeded, in Sejanus’s words, “greater honors await you in the government here.” It was a typical Sejanism—hyperbole with a dash of satire—but it gilded Pilate’s prospects.
* About $10,000 at current valuation, though see the Notes for further discussion.
Chapter 2
A few days later, while reviewing the Guard at the praetorian camp, Sejanus told Pilate that the princeps had received his nomination with predicted favor and advised him to start briefing himself on Judean affairs by consulting scholars from the eastern Mediterranean who were teaching in Rome.
Above all else a prudent man, Pilate had not yet told his fiancée, Procula, about his new prospects. He thought it wise to remain silent until he learned how Tiberius had reacted to his candidacy. For a military man trained in the discipline of making quick, iron-clad decisions, Pilate was surprisingly gentle and patient with the young girl who would soon be his bride, and he had wanted to avoid raising hopes that could be dashed by a negative reaction from the emperor. Now he looked forward to that evening, when he would surprise her with news of the appointment.
Officially, their marathon engagement had not yet ripened into marriage, because Pilate needed time to complete the military commitment in his equestrian career. But he was beginning to wonder if that might have been a pretext. Like many of his contemporaries, Pilate had treasured bachelorhood, that blend of sovereign freedom and easy morality which had so captivated the men of Rome that marriage and birth rates were dwindling alarmingly. Pilate’s family-arranged betrothal had formally engaged him to Procula when she was only in her early teens. This had allowed him several years before marriage would normally take place, and he had taken advantage of the custom which allowed him a wide range of freedom.