Just off the palace grounds was one of many Roman-influenced bathhouses. This one was especially large, with the steaming water piped in from the subterranean hot springs, therefore requiring no manmade heating. A small number of legionaries were gathered on the steps gambling and playing dice games. They all quickly stood as Artorius walked up the steps.
“Centurion, sir,” one of the soldiers said.
“At ease, men,” Artorius replied. “How are the waters?”
“Fantastic!” another legionary spoke up. “I don’t know what it is that permeates from the springs here, but it gets out the perpetual grime of this place.” These soldiers were from the grassy plains and forested regions of Gaul and Belgica, so it was no surprise that they viewed the more arid east as ‘dirty’.
Inside, a slave took his clothes and the centurion stepped into a steam room for a few minutes before deciding to take in the famous hot baths. No sooner had Artorius plunged into the heated waters than a man he recognized as Herod’s chamberlain entered abruptly. As he was the only person within that was clothed, the centurion guessed that he was not there to enjoy the steaming mineral waters.
“Ah, Centurion Artorius!” he said excitedly. “Forgive my interruption.”
“Let me guess,” Artorius sighed as he ran his hands through is soaked hair, “Herod is requesting my presence at once.”
“That he is,” the chamberlain replied, bowing slightly and extending his hands in a show of resignation.
“Very well,” the centurion said. “Tell him I will see him in half an hour.”
“But…” the chamberlain started to protest, though he cut himself short at Artorius’ glare. “But, of course.”
Artorius felt a trace of pity for the man, knowing that he would be severely chastised for not bringing him before Herod immediately. However, it was also a subtle ploy on Artorius’ part. The Jewish king may have been able to make him wait a day, but by coming on his own terms, Artorius made it clear that he was not answerable to Herod. He would, of course, give him all manner of respect due to his person, though he would not cower, grovel, or in any way show subservience.
It was closer to a full hour before Artorius made his way into Herod’s audience chamber. He had been unable to find Valens, and so he rounded up two squads of legionaries, had them get into full kit, with each man carrying a pot or jar of spices and incense that Pilate had sent.
“Centurion Pilus Prior Titus Artorius Justus, Emissary of his Excellency, Gaius Pontius Pilate!” The chamberlain’s voice sounded both frayed and relieved that Artorius had finally arrived.
Herod’s hall was dark, lit only by a series of oil lamps that made the room smell of smoke. Brightly colored rugs adorned both the walls, as well as the floor. The hall was full of people, various Judean officials, priests, members of the Sanhedrin, as well as a number of young women and slaves. Seated at the far end on a raised step was Herod himself, along with his queen, Herodias. Agrippa lounged on a couch and appeared to be trying to remain inconspicuous. Artorius was surprised that he did not see Herod’s stepdaughter, Salome. Remembering that he had been unable to find Valens earlier, he cringed at the thought of his optio creating a diplomatic disaster.
“I bid you welcome, noble centurion,” the Judean king said. He was perhaps in his early fifties, though his hair was surprisingly still dark and thick. It was naturally curly, and hung in great locks from the sides and back and was parted down the middle. His moustache and beard were very thin and trimmed short. His robes were a variety of patterns of mostly black and blue, the edges laced with gold. “What is it you bring us from your master?”
The word ‘master’ was meant to demean Artorius, though he kept his expression one of cordial respect. It was clear the two would be playing a game of veiled insults with each attempting to mentally dominate the other.
“Various spices, as well as some fresh incense,” the centurion replied. “The procurator even sends a jar of rare scented soap that I am sure Your Excellency will appreciate.” He then waved his legionaries forward, each man setting his jar or pot at the foot of the raised step.
“Does Pilate suggest that either I or my people smell vile?” Herod asked, leaning back in his chair and resting his chin in his hand.
“I think you will be able to judge for yourself after you make use of his generous gifts,” the centurion replied.
This created a stir amongst the throng within the hall, though Herod actually gave an appreciative chuckle as Artorius produced a scroll.
“I also bring a formal message from the procurator.”
Herod signaled to Agrippa, who reluctantly rose from his couch and walked over to Artorius, his eyes fixed on him the entire time. As he got closer, Artorius could see they were bloodshot, and he stank of wine, though he appeared to, at least, be mostly sober at the moment. He gave a knowing grin as he read the contents of the scroll.
“To his Excellency, Herod Antipas,” Agrippa read. “It is with the spirit of friendship and cooperation that my centurion and his men bring these gifts to you. I trust you will put them to good use. I also thank you for your continued assistance in maintaining good order within the province and that this will give you continued patronage of the divine Emperor Tiberius Julius Caesar, by whose grace we both owe our positions.” Agrippa deliberately paused for a moment, and Herod looked as if he regretted having Pilate’s message read publicly. His nephew continued, “I expect I will see you in Jerusalem when I make my annual stay during your people’s Passover celebrations. Yours faithfully, Gaius Pontius Pilate, Procurator.”
The letter was respectful enough, though with emphasis on certain words, Pilate made plain that Herod was his subordinate, as well as the emperor’s. And though he was respectful enough in his invite to join him in Jerusalem at the next Passover, it was clearly an order and not a request. The simple offering of gifts and a single letter made it very clear to Herod Antipas that he was not the supreme ruler of his lands that he pretended to be.
“You can thank the procurator for his gifts and words of friendship,” Herod said to Artorius curtly, dismissing him.
The centurion gave a quick nod and signaled for his men to follow him out of the hall.
“After reading Pilate’s letter, the tension became thicker than that wretched smoke,” Sergeant Cicero said as soon as they were in the outer atrium.
“Did you know what the message said before it was read, sir?” a legionary asked.
“That’s being rather presumptuous as to how much you think I am in the procurator’s confidence,” Artorius replied, though his grin told the soldiers all they needed to know. “And now to rally our lads and make ready to leave this place. I suspect by the time we find Valens we will have worn out our welcome here.”
“Centurion Artorius!” It was Agrippa, coming from the hall, where many voices could now be heard talking.
Artorius nodded for his men to leave them. “I thank you for your hospitality last night,” he replied as the Jewish prince walked next to him. “I do think, though, that it is time for us to leave soon.”
“And I will likely be joining you,” Agrippa replied, causing Artorius to raise an eyebrow. “Trust me, my own welcome has become well-worn. I think it is only a matter of time before my uncle tires of me or gets word of one of my loose-tongued rants before throwing me in the dungeon. My company is no longer wanted here.”