His future now seemed drastically uncertain. Without telling Procula, he drew up a last will and testament. Tiberius’s letter implied that one more provocation would cause his recall, and the awful language about “reviewing the full extent of your past relationship with Sejanus” only brought into the open what he had long suspected anyway: Tiberius had not, in fact, forgotten.
After living a week under the precarious new circumstances, Pilate composed a long reply to the emperor. He wrote and rewrote it several times, then tried it out on Procula and finally edited it again. The language had to be perfect, the argumentation flawless. Above all, there could be no double meanings for the suspicious and resentful Tiberius to interpret the wrong way. It was an incredible situation: his very life might depend on the arrangement of ink scratchings on a slip of papyrus!
The letter began by assuring the emperor that the shields had been removed immediately, but it went on to explain why Pilate had originally hung them. Prominent reference was made to Jewish law and to the Alexandrian synagogues. The letter closed with the statement that he had not seen Sejanus for five years prior to his fall, and that he had certainly had no idea of his treacherous conspiracy.
Such a reply was a calculated risk. It was not servile, for that would only have further demeaned him in Tiberius’s estimation while saving his skin. But in defending his conduct, he might hazard immediate recall if Tiberius were in a black mood when he opened the letter. Yet there are times when personal integrity allows no other option. For Pilate, this was one of them.
The next weeks would tell. A quick response from Capri would augur doom even before the seals were broken. No word, on the other hand, would be good word indeed.
The autumn months of 32 brought no further communication from Tiberius. Pilate’s attention now shifted back to Jerusalem. Ever since the shields episode, he had warned the Antonia cohort, under threat of severest military discipline, not to offend the Jews in any way. Many of the Judean riots over the years had been triggered by incidents of friction between soldiers and people. A thumbed nose, a yelled curse, an obscene gesture easily escalated into bloodshed. Pilate simply could not afford another uproar of any kind at this time.
He also asked the tribune of Jerusalem to report on the activities of the puzzling personage who was high priest of the Jews. Joseph Caiaphas had not been part of the delegation which sought the removal of the shields. And so it had been with the other crises between Pilate and the Jews, including the water system and the standards. Caiaphas never openly opposed him. Why?
Reportedly, Caiaphas was a worldly-wise Sadducee, a reasonable pontiff who disliked rioting and disorder as much as Pilate did. In fact, the Zealots and most of the Pharisees thought him too Rome-serving for their blood. Yet if his sympathies were pro-Roman, Pilate wished he would better exercise them in moments of crisis to save him repeated embarrassment. But was Caiaphas truly Romanophile? Pilate doubted. The most obvious reason for the high priest’s failure to move against him publicly was a simple matter of self-preservation. Since Pilate could replace him at the drop of his governor’s staff, he would necessarily remain in the background during any anti-Roman demonstrations, even if his sympathies would naturally be with his fellow Jews—up to a point. If a protest broke into civil disorder or open rebellion, Caiaphas would wash his hands of it. Indeed, he would probably conspire with Pilate to put it down, for such turmoil could invite massive Roman intervention, and then his own position would be lost. Nor would he be apt to agitate for Pilate’s replacement, since a new governor might well mean a new high priest.
The pontiff, then, was another man-in-the-middle between Jerusalem and Rome, Pilate reasoned. What he now feared was that Caiaphas might be tempted by Tiberius’s new Jewish policy to upset the arrangement by which the two had controlled Judea for the past six years and venture into occasional open defiance of himself. This is why Pilate had directed the tribune in Jerusalem to keep the high priest’s activities under surveillance.
But the tribune reported that lately Caiaphas and his ruling coterie had no time for any hostility to Rome, since their attention was claimed by growing domestic turmoil. The people were restless, excited, he wrote, and the Sanhedrin was trying to keep them calm. Probably it would not come to insurrection, but something was in the air. There were anti-Roman elements in the movement, but just as much anti-Sanhedral feeling.
“Cornelius,” Pilate called, “read this note from the Jerusalem commandant and see if you can make any sense out of it.”
The centurion studied the communiqué, then admitted, “Seems like gibberish to me.”
“A good tribune should have ferreted out better information than that. I’m concerned. Maybe something dangerous is developing; maybe it’s only everyone’s nerves. But I can’t afford to be caught off guard. Why not go down to Jerusalem, Cornelius, and sniff out what’s happening?”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Take your time. Don’t come back till you have all the facts.”
Cornelius left for Jerusalem in mid-December, returning to Caesarea in late January of 33. He began his extended report with a curious statement: “The leaven of Messianism is at work throughout Judea.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Pilate scowled.
“This is how my wife’s relatives in Jerusalem explained the present mood. The common people are longing for a patriotic and religious deliverer, who will inaugurate some great era of independence and peace and plenty here in Palestine.”
“The old hope for the Messiah-king. Well, has he shown up yet?”
“There seem to be several candidates. In Samaria, one of the favorites is a charlatan named Simon Magus, a practitioner of black magic who astounds the Samaritans with his tricks and modestly calls himself ‘the Great Power of God.’ But the Jews pay him little heed. Now, the Galilean Zealots have an aspirant called Jesus Bar-Abbas, which means ‘Savior, Son of a Priest,’ but there’s a rabbi’s son who went wrong! He lost his head and raised an insurrection near Jerusalem. He succeeded only in robbing and killing some defenseless Jews. Our Antonia cohort crushed that uprising in short order, and now Bar-Abbas and his gang are in prison awaiting your judgment.”
“Did he have any support from the people?”
“No. The Jews knew he was the falsest of false Messiahs. He only wanted to turn a fast shekel by capitalizing on the popular mood.”
“By the way, whatever became of that other Jesus who supposedly fed that crowd in Galilee but refused a crown?”
“He’s a logical candidate for Messiah.”
“What?”
“Don’t misunderstand—Jesus doesn’t seem to be after political power. You see, there are two schools of thought on the Messiah concept, my relatives told me. One believes that the Messiah will be a political monarch, a conquering king. The other insists he’ll be a spiritual reformer who will rule as ‘king’ only over men’s hearts and minds. Jesus seems more this type.”
“Learn anything more about him in Jerusalem?”
“Quite a bit. Herod Antipas seemed to protect him for a while, but then he wanted to arrest him, so Jesus came down into your territory.”
“Into Judea?”
“Yes, Prefect. And it’s not the first time. He’s been to several Passovers in Jerusalem. And last week I finally caught a glimpse of him myself on the terrace of the temple at the Feast of Dedication.”