“Yes. That makes sense,” he said slowly. “At last you’ve come to your wits. Guards…dismissed. But don’t leave Rome, Pilate. The day my statue is dedicated in Jerusalem, I’ll want you at a corresponding ceremony in my temple here at Rome. There you will deliver a public testimony about your error and my divine omniscience.”
“I look forward to that day, Excellency,” Pilate lied, as he bowed deeply and left the palace.
It was the first time in his life that he had been driven to absolute sycophancy. It was nauseating, dishonest, and humiliating; but necessary in humoring a madman. Small wonder Vitellius had stooped to the same expedient. Probably only Agrippa might yet stop the insane plan of the princeps, and even he might not succeed. The gods knew, Pilate had tried.
But Caligula did not bother consulting Agrippa. The tribune Chaerea kept Pilate very closely informed of the emperor’s next moves, since he might be involved again at any time. Caligula now commanded Publius Petronius, the new governor of Syria, to make and erect his statue. It was to be larger than life-size and plated with gold. He was to use the Syrian legions to overcome any Jewish resistance.
Disgusted that the Roman military should be used for such purposes, Petronius nevertheless complied. He ordered the statue constructed at Sidon and then advanced with two legions to the borders of Palestine.
Cornelius wrote Pilate what happened next. Understandably frantic at the projected monstrosity of sacrilege, the Jewish populace went on an agricultural strike in protest. A delegation of Jewish leaders met with Petronius, respectfully imploring him not to execute Caligula’s plan. They would sooner die, all of them, than tolerate idolatry and blasphemy on this scale. Petronius agreed to temporize. His troops would spend the winter in camp before proceeding, and he planned to write the artisans in Sidon to take their time on the statue.
After additional conferences with the Jews, Petronius realized the impossibility of Caligula’s scheme, so he did a very heroic thing. At the risk of his life, he wrote the emperor of the enormous difficulties which would be caused by execution of his orders and wondered if they might not be rescinded.
Caligula, meanwhile, was unable to keep the joyful news to himself. Like a boy anxious to open a gift before his birthday, he could not resist telling his dear Agrippa about the object lesson he was planning for Jerusalem. When he heard the staggering news, Agrippa actually fainted and had to be carried home in a litter.
Later, Agrippa consulted with Philo, the famed Jewish philosopher who was in Rome at the time to represent the Jewish case in race riots which had broken out in Alexandria. Together they sent a long memorandum to Caligula which explained Hebrew theology in relation to the emperor’s plan. Included was a prominent reference to Pontius Pilate, pointing out that if the Jews had objected to Pilate’s shields, which had only his and Tiberius’s names inscribed on them, how much greater would be their protest against an idol.
But the memorandum was long and philosophical. Apparently it failed to impress Caligula. King Agrippa got much further by entertaining the princeps at one of the most lavish banquets even he had ever attended. Tongues wagged about its courses, its sumptuousness, above all, its wines. Cassius Chaerea was on duty with his guards that night, so he could give Pilate an eyewitness account.
When Caligula had drunk well and Agrippa had toasted him to proper excess, the emperor countered graciously by suggesting that the king ask a favor of him.
“No, Magnificent Friend,” Agrippa replied modestly. “I seek no personal advantage. You’ve already conferred on me far more honors than I deserve.”
“No, Esteemed King and Colleague, but you must request something…anything which will contribute to your happiness.”
His imperial quarry properly cornered, Agrippa sprang his very risky trap. He pleaded with the emperor to countermand his orders about the statue.
Pilate quickly saw it as a reiteration of Salome requesting the head of John the Baptizer from Herod Antipas. Like the tetrarch, Caligula was embarrassed and sorry he had left himself open. Like the tetrarch, the emperor could not go back on his word before the friends who were banqueting with him. Like the tetrarch, he granted the wish. The statue project was allowed to lapse.
Shortly afterward, Petronius’s letter arrived with the identical request. It could not have come at a worse time. Caligula was pouting over Agrippa’s trick and Petronius seemed a convenient scapegoat. He sent him orders to commit suicide. He also secretly arranged that another statue for Jerusalem be constructed in Rome.
Gaius Caligula planned to visit Egypt, the only land which really understood how a ruler could be god incarnate. But before making the trip, he wanted to be sure no conspiracy developed in Rome behind his back. In two secret notebooks entitled “The Sword” and “The Dagger,” signifying public execution or private assassination, he began listing names of the chief patricians and equestrians who were to be slain before he sailed. Chaerea found out about them; how, he would not tell his friend Pilate.
But the princeps did so need a change of scene. An insomniac for much of his life, he rarely slept more than three hours in twenty-four. A typical night would find him wandering among the colonnades of his palace, calling for Dawn to show herself. Once he summoned three ex-consuls to the Palatine at midnight. Arriving in mortal fear of their lives, they were seated below a stage on which Caligula suddenly burst out in a solo dance, accompanied by flutes and clogs.
Nor were theatrics limited to evenings. In the daytime he sometimes dressed in lion’s skin and carried a club to indicate that his versatile deity was that day incarnated as Hercules. By dusk he might be clutching a trident to reveal himself as Neptune. Wigged and dressed as a maiden set for the hunt, the divine transvestite was now Diana. But his favorite pose was with golden beard and wooden thunderbolt in his right hand. Who but Jupiter? He had even contrived a “thunder-and-lightning machine” which would rumble and flash in competition with Jupiter’s own natural reverberations, of which he was terrified.
Rome could tolerate this farce no longer, for the humor in it had been lost in the general atmosphere of terror. Romans of every class were being exterminated like so many pests. Each magistrate now considered himself a doomed man, and wondered only when the tyrant would cut him down. A well-knit conspiracy was launched. The praetorian prefects—Caligula had created two of them in hopes of diluting their power—their staff of tribunes, and some in the imperial court were part of it. But the principal role was claimed by Pilate’s old-school, no-nonsense comrade, Cassius Chaerea, who was a republican at heart. The praetorian tribune cut so masculine a figure that the puny and effeminate Caligula, begrudging him his physique, loved to taunt him with womanliness. Whenever Chaerea asked for the day’s password, Caligula would suggest: “Venus,” or “Love,” or “Fertility,” and the like. And when an amenity required him to kiss the princeps’ hand, Caligula would extend it, but then draw back all fingers except the middle one, an obscene gesture which has stood the test of time.
On the night of January 23 in the year A.D. 41, Chaerea paid Pilate a hasty visit. “This is absolutely secret,” he whispered, “but do you want to see history being made before your eyes?”
“Certainly. But what do you mean?” He noticed that Chaerea was very nervous and continually looked around to see if he were being overheard.
“Come with me to the Palatine tomorrow morning,” he murmured.
“To the Palatine? Too dangerous for me.”
“Don’t worry. The praetorians will keep you out of sight and we control the whole palace security.”