Above all, under Claudius, Rome no longer seemed to thrust its politics to the center of world attention. Life in the Mediterranean could flow back into normal channels. So could Pilate’s.
Perhaps for the first time in their marriage, Pilate and Procula knew serenity. Two-thirds of their wedded life thus far had been spent under the strain of provincial administration in Judea, the last third in the hell of uncertainty under Caligula. Pilate’s civil pension and the income from his holdings provided them a very comfortable life, particularly since Rome was enjoying increased economic prosperity. There was no expense for rearing children, a blight in their marriage to which they had become reconciled by now.
Yet Pilate had trouble adapting to leisure. With time on his hands, the thought of standing for public office haunted him. There was no upper age limit for Roman magistrates, and he thought himself still in his late prime. He was even tempted to apply to Claudius for a position in his expanding civil service, perhaps in the department governing the provinces. The princeps needed trained officials—he was resorting to freed-men to fill many important posts in his growing bureaucracy—and Pilate could easily dispel any cloud over his record by appealing to the fact that it was Caligula who had retired him. The way from such an appointment into Claudius’s cabinet itself would be short.
But Procula did everything possible to pierce Pilate’s projections. “What if Claudius should suddenly get ill and transform himself into a monster? The inclination seems to run in the family. Then he’d strike out against those nearest him. Have done with the government, Pilate.”
“But Vitellius returned to politics and seems to be doing well.”
“Only by fawning and toadying. That’s not for you. And remember that Agrippa, who is a favorite of Claudius, could still block your career.”
“Why? He’s off in Palestine with all his ambitions fulfilled.”
But Pilate was not really arguing with conviction. He was simply trying to reserve future alternatives for himself. Everyone must live with a few goals, a little hope, some objective for existence.
Procula made it her responsibility to keep their day as full as possible. Aside from gladiatorial shows, which they loathed and avoided, there were the races, the theater, and many social engagements. Of greater interest to Pilate were the lectures of visiting Greek philosophers, or public readings by Roman authors of the Silver Age. He now read more than ever. And he was even able to gratify his political susceptibilities by regular visits to the Senate, where, as an ex-officeholder, he had the perennial privilege of observing. Periodically, various officials in Claudius’s bureaucracy consulted him on Eastern affairs, since Pilate was considered a resource person for questions affecting Syria and Palestine.
Once Claudius himself called Pilate to the Palatine for a conference. It concerned, of all people, King Herod Agrippa. Claudius laid before Pilate a map of Jerusalem and studied it for some moments.
At close range, Pilate found the princeps quite dignified in appearance. He was tall, pleasant featured, and crowned with a luxurious crop of white hair which became him. He had a slight halt to his gait, an occasional tic in his head, but he was hardly the physical and social cripple of popular repute. Rumor, apparently, had exaggerated Claudius’s garden variety of handicaps.
“Now, Pilate, some disturbing information has reached us about Jerusalem,” he said, with only a soft slur in his elocution. “Our friend Herod Agrippa is erecting fortifications along the northern boundary of the city.” He traced his finger along the general path of the new construction which he had marked in on the map lying before them. “You should know the city, Pilate. Does this new wall have any, shall we say, military implications?”
“Possibly, Princeps,” he admitted. “But the question is one of motivation. Which enemy would Agrippa wish to hold off? Certainly not the Rome which gave him his throne. Parthia? Only a remote possibility. And Aretas of Arabia is dead now.” Pilate studied the map further. “So I’d gather that Agrippa is building this new wall merely to enclose the northern suburbs, an area running from the execution hill, Golgotha, here in the west,” he pointed, “to beyond the Tower Antonia in the East.
“Probably that’s his motivation,” Pilate continued. “But from the dimensions of the wall which you cited, there’s no question but that Jerusalem will be much stronger in the event of siege. Should it ever revolt, it would now be harder for Rome to retake the city.”
“That seems a fair estimate of the situation,” said Claudius. “And it corresponds to my thinking. Do you have any recommendations?”
“You know Agrippa far better than I, Princeps. Undoubtedly he’s loyal to Rome. At the same time, it might be well to have the governor of Syria make inquiries.”
“He already has. It was Marsus who first alerted me to the wall. He’s even more concerned than you. At any rate, I’m going to write Agrippa to proceed no further on the north wall. Its present height may stand, but not a foot higher. It was good of you to come, Pilate. We may well need your advice in the future.”
“I’m always at your service, Princeps.”
With that the audience ended and Pilate left the palace. The news about Agrippa was rather interesting, he thought. Was militaristic ambition rearing its grisly head in Palestine? Or was the wall just an innocent example of normal Herodian construction mania? Was Claudius having second thoughts about abandoning Roman control of Judea? Or harboring qualms about his beloved Agrippa? The endless fascination of politics!
But even more striking was the realization that for the first time in years, it was possible for Pontius Pilate to leave the Palatine without extreme depression or gnawing uncertainty. Rome was returning to respectability.
Chapter 26
The Pontius Pilati now spent much of the warmer half of each year at a seaside villa near Antium on sunny Mediterranean coastlands about thirty-five miles south of Rome. The country estate was one of several owned by Procula’s father, who was disposing of his properties before death claimed him in extreme old age.
The salubrious climate and natural beauty around Antium revived Pilate’s spirit and helped inter the morbid memories of Sejanus, Tiberius, and Caligula, who occasionally still haunted his dreams.
He had aged physically. There were fissures setting in on each side of his nose, crow’s-feet flanking his eyes, and a rather well-corrugated brow. His receding hairline now reached across much of his scalp, leaving an island of graying thatch in the center. Pilate ascribed it to Rome’s political terror. Procula called it normal, male-pattern baldness.
She was only in her late thirties—it was not yet a question of aging with her. Procula’s maturing countenance still retained its youthful beauty and formed a progressive contrast with that of her husband. She chuckled at his ire the first time an innkeeper at Antium inquired whether he and his daughter wished to order dinner. Though motherhood was denied her, Procula felt fulfilled and, for the first time in their marriage, a genuinely happy woman. She no longer had to plot to keep her husband out of trouble.
Fulfillment, however, remained a problem for Pilate. After a busy administrative career, retirement freighted too much time to his address. Whenever they went to Antium, he took along a young library of scrolls to read. A deepening interest in philosophy now seized him. He suggested to Procula that they finally take their long-planned, always-interrupted tour of Greece and the Aegean. It would enable him to sit in the lectures of the ranking philosophers of the day and explore with them a question he had once asked—he forgot under what circumstances—and which now seemed of growing significance to him: What is truth?