“This talk of a Messiah…What’s it about?”
“Messiah is Hebrew for ‘the Anointed One,’ who is to be a kind of religio-political Deliverer of his people—sent by their god, no less—to liberate the Jews from oppressions of every kind…and oppressors, by which they mean us. A new world monarchy under the Messiah-king is to replace the Roman Empire, and an era of peace and prosperity will descend on the earth. So if their Messiah appears, I suppose Rome would be obliged to disappear.”
“I’ll keep an eye out for him!” chuckled Pilate. “But a last question, Rufus. When you were in Jerusalem, did you ever get a glimpse into the forbidden recess of their temple?”
“You mean their Holy of Holies?”
“I think that’s what they call it.”
“No, and don’t you try either. It would spark instant rebellion.”
“Of course. I was only wondering if it were true—the rumor that there’s a statue of a wild ass in there, or an ass’s head, which supposedly represents their deity. Weren’t the Hebrews fleeing from Egypt and dying of thirst in a desert when a herd of wild asses guided them to a spring of fresh water, and so they worship the ass image in their temple?”
“I’ve heard that story, but it must be false. At least there’s no statue of an ass in the Holy of Holies. Pompey was the last Roman to look inside that sanctuary, after his conquest of Jerusalem, and he found it stark empty. And that does go along with Jewish belief that their god can’t be represented in sculpture or painting of any kind.”
Pilate took leave of Rufus with due thanks, even though he was under no delusions that his knowledge of Judea had been much enhanced by their discussion.
The month of May was a paradox. Though Italy was fragrant and bursting with spring, this was the time in the religious calendar for gloomy exorcisms of ghosts. But, like most Romans, Pilate and Procula gladly left this task to the priests while they made final preparations for their wedding. It would be one of the prominent equestrian events of the spring social season at Rome. In deference to the memory of the senior Gaius Proeuleius, noted senatorial and patrician families had indicated they would attend. Sejanus and his numerous satellites promised to grace the occasion, along with the praetorian officers’ staff, and even Pilate’s relatives from Samnium would converge on the Proculeius mansion that June.
Pilate’s father, a retired civil service official named Pontius, had shrewdly advised his son not to be timid when discussing dowry with Procula’s father. This was a sticky point in Roman matrimony; weddings had actually been canceled when prospective in-laws could not come to terms on the size of the dowry. But such distasteful haggling proved unnecessary in Pilate’s case, since Proculeius had vast holdings and the nuptial contract that he offered proved him a generous father-in-law-to-be.
On the day of the wedding, a chain of ceremonial was meticulously observed, some of it dating from the dawn of Rome. The night before, Procula had dedicated her childhood trinkets to the household lares, those good spirits of her old home whose protection she would abandon the next day. To ensure good fortune, she slept that night in a tunica recta, an expensive ivory-colored bridal tunic woven in one piece from the top down.
At early dawn, the same tunic was now secured to her waist by a girdle of wool, fastened with the “Knot of Hercules,” a complicated hitch named for the guardian of wedded life. Only the new husband might untie it.
Dressing the bride was a mother’s prerogative, and Procula knew that hers would make a ritual of it, since she was an only child. For weeks the mistress of the Proculeius household had been planning this wedding, but now that the day arrived, her well-chiseled features were drawn with worry that some important item had been overlooked. With exquisite care she applied several strands of silver jewelry, and finally took a spear to her daughter’s head. Ancient custom, betraying the violence of tribal marriage by capture, demanded that the bride’s hair be parted by a spear into six locks. A flowing gossamer veil of red-orange silk completed the ensemble, held in place by garlands of flowers. While her mother brushed aside a tear or two, Procula looked at herself in a mirror of highly polished metal and was frankly pleased.
Meanwhile, dressed in a gleaming new toga, Pilate was surrounded by comrades who crowned his head with a floral wreath. Then a glad troop of Pontii and their friends accompanied him for the short walk over to the Proculeius residence, which they found surrounded with rows of parked litters and waiting slaves. Wreathed with boughs of greenery and fairly sprouting with flowers, the mansion seemed more an arboretum. Incense and exotic perfumes hovered about the house, since the warm, breezeless June morning provided little diffusion.
Inside, Pilate was heralded with a glad shout from the great throng of guests, but all eyes quickly returned to the robed auspex who was busy taking the omens. He was an honored friend of the Proculeii who, acting as unofficial priestly augur, had a messy but necessary task to perform.
“Bring forth the consecrated ewe!” he sonorously intoned, for the ancient rite which inaugurated all public functions in Rome was about to begin.
The assembly of guests hushed with anticipation as a beribboned sheep was led to an altar set up in the center of the atrium. It was important that the animal seem to approach willingly, so a little fodder had been strewn below the altar. The sheep saw it, bleated approvingly, and hurried in to its fate. The augur sprinkled a little incense, meal, and salt on the victim’s forehead, offering a prayer in what was supposed to be Etruscan, a nearly dead language. Then he took a sacred mallet, cradled the head of the sheep in his arm, and smashed its skull with one blow. After cutting the throat of the dead creature, he caught the blood in a basin and sprinkled it on the altar. Finally, he carefully slit open its belly to inspect the liver, intestines, and gall bladder, which still quivered and twitched with departing life.
Absolute silence commanded the hall. If the entrails were in any way abnormal in such rites, armies could not go out to fight, the Senate would suspend its business, and certainly weddings would have to be postponed.
Since this was a dismal prospect after so much planning, Roman nuptials habitually had a second ewe in reserve in case the first ungenerously presented bad entrails. This gave way to an even more logical custom: the auspex at weddings was never to look too closely for abnormalities, and he never did.
After further probing and hesitation for due effect, the augur finally looked up. “Exta…bona!” he cried, with a smirk. “The viscera are good!”
“Bene! Bene!” shouted the guests. It was now proper for Procula, who never suspected anything could go wrong, to give a glad sigh of relief: the wedding could proceed after all. She and Pilate solemnly entered the atrium.
As a bachelor of long standing and a man of experience, Pilate had always assumed he would face his wedding ceremony with a certain cool detachment, if not resignation. But now, watching his bride approach him, he was quite unexpectedly overtaken by a flood of complex emotions. Initially, but thankfully for only one terrifying instant, the girl appeared to be a total stranger and Pilate could not imagine what this young, rather silly-looking girl had to do with him. Next, he was convinced that the whole ceremony would degenerate into a long series of disastrous social blunders, making himself and his bride the laughingstock of Rome. First, he, or worse, Procula, would be unable to remember the few simple procedures of the wedding ceremony. Then, instead of proposing the graceful toasts at which he had had so much practice in his public career, he would find himself tongue-tied at the crucial moment and blurt out only a few incomprehensible words.