As Pilate mostly visited the Judean capitol only during the Passover week in spring, he had left the day-to-day running of the city to the Jewish city council, the Roman-appointed high priest, as well as the auxiliary garrison. He had summoned his garrison commander in part to reprimand him for lapses of discipline within his men, but also to seek his input on the message he had just sent to Sejanus.
“You disapprove of my requesting legionary support,” Pilate observed after allowing for an awkward silence.
“If I may be blunt, sir,” the auxilia centurion began, “my men are able to control the streets of Jerusalem. I fail to see why we must be usurped by the legions.”
“Your men can scarcely police themselves,” Pilate replied coldly. “They are undisciplined, cannot follow simple instructions, and have damn near provoked rebellion on numerous occasions.”
“The Jews are a hard people to control,” Abenader persisted. “Sometimes unorthodox methods are necessary.”
“I’m not arguing that,” Pilate said. “However, they disobeyed a direct order to not use lethal force against an unruly crowd, only to fall upon them with their swords. Were they threatened or if the people had turned exceedingly violent, I would not have faulted them for their actions. As it was, there was no escalation of force at all; they simply drew their gladii and started killing! It was also not the first time such gross lapses in discipline have occurred and it is inexcusable.”
Though he would not say so openly, Pilate sympathized with Abenader. He had served for over twenty-five years and was by no means incompetent as an officer. However, the procurator also knew the quality of men that the auxilia centurion had to deal with. Were they citizens, they would have been rejected for service in the legions. Discipline was practically nonexistent, and while Abenader may have been a capable officer, his subordinate leaders were just as unruly as their men. The problem was that there was little he could do in terms of discipline. Even if he were to remove one from his leadership position, there were few viable candidates to replace him. No Jew would consent to serve in the ranks of the Roman army in any capacity. Conversely, the Samaritans, with whom the Jews shared a mutual antipathy, were all too eager to enlist.
“The stability of this province is constantly on the edge of a knife,” Pilate continued. “The Jews, Samaritans, and other races of this region are in a constant state of tension.”
“Tensions could be eased if the emperor would simply crack down on Jewish monotheism,” Abenader lamented. Though a Roman citizen, he was ethnically a Samaritan and carried the same inborn bias and racism. “Seventy-million in the empire from every nation, ethnicity, and culture in the known world, and yet this one insignificant sect is alone given an exemption when it comes to paying homage to the Roman pantheon.”
“You forget, Tiberius is a close personal friend of the Jewish king’s nephew, Herod Agrippa,” Pilate explained. “Agrippa was raised in the imperial household and was like a brother to the emperor’s son, Drusus Caesar. Even with Drusus gone, Tiberius still views Agrippa like a son. It would not surprise me if he is eventually installed as a client king of the entire province.”
“And because of Agrippa, Tiberius feels compelled to allow the Jews to openly worship their lone deity,” the centurion observed. “What should have been viewed as a show of clemency has instead given rise to sedition and arrogance amongst the Jews.”
“I’m not arguing the volatility of the Jewish people,” Pilate said. “However, neither you nor I can convince the emperor to alter his policy towards them. It is already too late. Most peoples within the empire are able to contentedly worship their own gods and pay respect to those of Rome simultaneously. Not the Jews. They are truly monotheistic, and if Tiberius were to make any attempt at forcing the statues of our gods upon them now, there would be open rebellion. Let us not forget that he would not even allow me to carry his own image through the streets, as it offended the people.”
“They should be exterminated like we did to Carthage,” Abenader growled.
Pilate’s face twitched at the thought. Carthage was Rome’s arch nemesis for hundreds of years before its final destruction. That had been two-hundred years prior, when the Roman Republic was still going through its expansion and quest for supremacy in the Mediterranean.
“Hardly a fitting comparison,” he retorted, “comparing a tiny province of zealous theocrats to the most powerful nation Rome ever faced. Whatever your personal feelings are towards the Jews, we have an obligation to extend the rule of Rome, enforcing justice through stern temperance. Your auxiliaries are the first line of that enforcement within the most populous city of the entire region, and in the concept of order and justice they have failed. They need the influence of professional soldiers who will lead by their example. It is time Judea was placed under the discipline of the legions.”
Pilate sat and brooded after he dismissed Abenader. Despite all the research and preparations he’d made before even coming to Judea, the province had proven far more difficult to govern than he’d imagined. A previous governor named Rufus, who’d held the posting a decade prior to Pilate, had warned him that he’d be understaffed, underfunded, and that the quality of the troops under his command would be deplorable even under ideal conditions. In all of these Rufus had proven correct. The number of clerks, administrators, and other officials needed to effectively run the province was substantially greater than the allotment given to him to fund these positions. Pilate’s own salary was quite substantial, perhaps as a means of pacifying him. And while he’d hoped to fill his coffers even further during his tenure, he had wisely elected to use some of his own funds to shore up some of his critical staffing shortages. He had also taken on numerous tasks himself that would normally be delegated to subordinates. As such, the stress of governance took its toll on him far more than if he’d been given one of the far larger provinces such as Gaul or Hispania. However, given that he was an equite, there were very few postings he could take; the large, well-funded provisional governorships reserved for those of the senatorial class.
What had been particularly maddening was the lack of staff personnel who had experience within Judea. It was impossible for Pilate to learn all there was to know about the people he was to govern within the few months between when he was notified of his assignment until he arrived to relieve his predecessor, Valerius Gratus. Though Pilate had spent time in Syria with the Twelfth Legion, he had never been to neighboring Judea and, in fact, had never dealt with the Jews at all during his previous time in the east. Most of the experienced bureaucrats had departed with Gratus, leaving his successor with an untrained staff ignorant of the customs and intricacies of the Jews.
During his eleven-year prefecture, Gratus had kept the Jewish opposition disorganized by making frequent changes as to who held the high priesthood. It was an unusual cultural crossover, with the most influential man within the Judaic hierarchy appointed by the pagan Roman magistrate. As such, those within the Sanhedrin were forced to placate both their people as well as their hated Roman overlords if they wished to advance politically. No less than five men had held the posting during Gratus’ tenure; the last, a man named Joseph Caiaphas, being the only one to last more than a year. Pilate’s rapport with Caiaphas was tenuous at best. Over the past five years the two had quarreled more often than not, yet Pilate did not dare replace him, as any viable candidates within the Sanhedrin were even more volatile than Caiaphas. Pilate made a mental note to himself that the next time the two met, he needed to make certain his Jewish high priest was reminded as to who really controlled the province.
The flames of the funeral pyre bit into the damp wood, causing billowing clouds of black smoke. Artorius had made certain that proper respects were made for his fallen soldier, though he lamented that given the extremely short tenure the young man had served in the ranks, most would scarcely remember his name. The body was slowly being fully consumed by the now roaring flames, the stench of burning flesh nearly causing Artorius to retch. Those who spoke of the nobility of a valiant man’s funeral pyre had never dealt with the pungent smell of a burning corpse. The oratory had been conducted prior to the burning, with Artorius calling the slain legionary’s name three times, in a tradition that went back further than any could recall. Satisfied that all had been done to honor the fallen, he turned to face his men, who were stoically standing in a large column, decanii on their right, the signifier in front, and Optio Praxus in the back.