“How cruel that would have been—to separate people in that fashion. Barbarous!”
“Well, you know who was behind the idea? Tiberius! It was actually his opening shot against Agrippina. When she was off in Syria with Germanicus and continually interfered with his gov—”
“That’s your version of it,” Procula glowered in reply. “Poor Agrippina is one of the most misunderstood, most slandered—”
“Don’t ever say that in public, especially not in front of Sejanus,” he snapped.
Until now, their bantering had been lighthearted, floating along on top of their joy, and Pilate tried to restore the mood. “Please, little one, let’s not go over this again. Whatever you may think of Agrippina, just remember that her party is now regarded as hostile by both the emperor and his praetorian prefect, the two men on whom my future depends. So don’t court disaster.”
“Well, if Tiberius dislikes governors taking their wives along to provinces, do you still want to take me to Judea?”
“Of course! The princeps was only trying to embarrass Agrippina. But when he saw how unfavorably the Senate reacted to the ‘Wives Bill,’ he quickly reversed tack, and the original motion was roundly defeated.”
“All right…But I still don’t understand why you get so snappish whenever I have a kind word for Agrippina.”
“Procula, I’m not a consul, presiding over the Senate in ‘The Case of Tiberius and Sejanus versus Agrippina.’ For better or worse I’m in politics, and whether Agrippina is ultimately right or wrong isn’t for me to decide. I have to honor loyalties that affect me directly. Now, Sejanus has treated me handsomely; I can only reciprocate. His enemies are my enemies. The only question I should ask myself is this: am I morally justified in following Sejanus? I think yes. The emperor himself reposes full confidence in him.”
“But what if—”
“Did you know that images of Sejanus are honored among the standards of our legions? You’ve seen his bust next to that of Tiberius in the Forum…and his statue in the Theater of Pompey.”
“But what if all of you are wrong and Agrippina is right?” Procula objected. Then she surrendered, “Oh, let’s stop all this. That’s why I hate politics—it’s too difficult to know good from evil in your affairs of state.” She looked at him with a new brightness. “But now, my ambitious Roman statesman, when are we to be married?”
“As soon as the calendar will allow.” He laughed. “Tomorrow, if that were possible.” Excitedly they returned inside for a family counsel with the rest of the Proculeii, who would have as much to say as they about setting the date.
Choosing a wedding day in ancient Rome was a very intricate matter. The object was to select a religiously favorable day to please the gods, but a non-holiday to favor relatives and friends, who would likely have other commitments during festival times. But since rituals, public games, and holidays had by this time reserved no less that 150 days of the calendar, nearly half the year was barred. Besides this, two days at the calends (1st), nones (5th or 7th), and ides (13th or 15th) of each month were deemed unlucky, as was the first half of March, all of May, and the first half of June. Since the remainder of April would not allow enough time to prepare for the wedding, the Proculeii decided on the fourth day after the ides of June (June 17).
The intervening weeks saw Procula shopping for their indeterminate stay in Judea, and preparing for the nuptials. Pilate was occupied with grooming his successor at the Castra Praetoria, consulting with Sejanus on Roman provincial policy, and learning as much as he could about Jews and Judea. Annius Rufus proved helpful here. He had been prefect of Judea from 12 to 15 A.D., just before the present incumbent, Valerius Gratus, and was now living in retirement at Rome.
“Three years was too short a time for me to accomplish much in Judea,” Rufus apologized to Pilate, “but I don’t think Gratus has done very much more in his eleven.” The tone was that regularly used by predecessors who evaluate the work of successors.
“No, those were fairly quiet years—for Judea,” he continued. “There had been a rebellion at the time the census was taken, but nothing much since then.”
“So the people aren’t really that hostile to Rome?” Pilate ventured.
“I didn’t say that. They’re always looking for a chance to shatter what they call the ‘Roman yoke,’ but don’t give them that chance. First requirement for any governor of Judea will have to be firmness. Only after that comes justice and good government.”
Rufus continued with a run-down on who supported Rome in Palestine: generally, some of the educated and ruling establishment, including priests. The common people could swing either way, while a group Rufus identified as the Zealots might, he happily assured Pilate, slip a knife between his ribs some dark night.
The former prefect alerted Pilate to other difficulties. “You’ll be understaffed, undermanned, and undersupplied out there. Rome really should station a legion in Judea instead of those cursed local cohorts. Which is probably the reason you got the appointment, Pilate. The prefect of Judea must know his military tactics.”
“Why not a legion, then? I could suggest it to Sejanus.”
“No,” the canny Rufus corrected him, “I doubt if Tiberius would spare a legion. Besides, legions are usually commanded by senatorial legates rather than equestrian prefects like yourself, so let things rest as they are. And I don’t think Tiberius would like another senatorial legate in the East. Do you know why, young man?”
“Probably because he fears the Senate will interfere in foreign policy. Even now the legate Lamia is detained in Rome instead of governing Syria.”
“Exactly.”
All Roman provinces beyond Italy were of two kinds: senatorial provinces, the older, pacified areas administered by the Senate, such as Sicily or Greece; and imperial provinces, lands which Rome had acquired comparatively recently, and which might require special military intervention, such as Egypt and smaller border territories like Judea. The latter were under the direct control of the emperor, who often sent equestrian rather than senatorial officials to govern them in order to balance the two upper classes off against each other. A senatorial legate governing Syria, for example, would find something of a modest counterpoise in the neighboring equestrian prefect of Judea. If one stepped out of line, the other would surely report it to the emperor.
“But any advice I give you is bound to be a little outdated by this time,” Rufus admitted. “It’s more than a decade since I was in Judea. Hardly seems possible…Gratus will give you a full briefing in Caesarea when you take command.”
“Yes,” Pilate acknowledged. “But one thing still worries me, Rufus. I served in Syria, so I know something of the country, and a little of the Near Eastern mind. But I’ve had hardly any contact with my future subjects—Jews. Well, I’ve run across them here in Rome—who hasn’t?—but I have no friends of that persuasion.”
“Naturally,” snickered Rufus, with typical Roman prejudice.
“But if I went over to the Trans-Tiber, I could find some of the leaders of the Jewish community there. Do you think I’d gain anything by talking with them?”
“Not really, for several reasons. While the Roman Jew is related to the Jew of Judea, he may also be very different, depending on which faction he follows. Just an example: one of their synagogues here in Rome is called Congregation of the Herodians, in which they teach that King Herod was the Messiah promised in their scriptures. Messiah indeed!” He laughed. “Most Judeans would be revolted by such a thought. But don’t worry, Pilate, you’ll learn your Jews very quickly after you set foot in Judea.”