CHAPTER 17

As assessore, I stood behind Pilate’s seat when Herod Antipas, who ruled the neighboring region of Galilee, presented his petition along with his brother and two other Jewish leaders. Their long beards were carefully trimmed, their flowing robes dutifully pressed. They brought more servants than necessary in a regal display designed to remind Pilate that their ancestor, Herod the Great, was the one who had built the very palace where Pilate was now holding court. Herod the Great had been a true friend of Caesar, they reminded Pilate. And he would never have attempted to desecrate the Holy City.

“Do not arouse sedition; do not destroy the peace,” they pleaded. “You do not honor the emperor by dishonoring the ancient laws. Tiberius does not want our customs to be overthrown. If you say he does, produce a letter so that we can stop pestering you and start petitioning him.”

Pilate didn’t respond, but I could tell he was boiling. He stared at the ground in front of him, denying Herod even the courtesy of eye contact. The back of Pilate’s neck was red, and I prepared myself for an eruption of his infamous temper.

Instead, when Herod finished, Pilate showed no emotion whatsoever. “Finished?” he asked, looking at Herod for the first time.

“If there is no such letter, we will appeal to Caesar ourselves,” Herod threatened.

“Do as you must,” Pilate responded. He rose abruptly, pivoted, and turned his back to them. He marched into the palace, and I followed, leaving the Jewish leaders staring into space.

Despite Pilate’s bluster, the threat was not lost on him. We labored that night to draft a preemptive report, alternating between presenting the incident as a small annoyance on the one hand and making it seem like an affront to Tiberius himself on the other. Perhaps, Pilate said, if we played our cards right, Tiberius would award Pilate the neighboring territory of Herod Antipas in addition to Judea.

We ultimately decided to downplay the incident. Tiberius didn’t like prefects who couldn’t handle their own provinces. And this time Sejanus wasn’t around to provide cover.

The shields weren’t coming down. Pilate just wanted Tiberius to know that the delicate sensitivities of his Jewish subjects had been offended once again. But Tiberius was the son of the divine Augustus, and nothing was going to stop Pilate from worshiping him in his own quarters.

Pilate sealed the letter, stared at it for a very long time, and sent it off.

Even a military man like Pilate —no, especially a military man like Pilate —could not easily shrug off the sting of a sharp rebuke. And this rebuke, having been sealed by the signet ring of Tiberius Caesar, cut particularly deep, creating a sense of despondency that made Pilate nearly suicidal.

The letter from Caesar contained none of the usual formalities and perfunctory words of flattery. Instead, Tiberius cut straight to the point. He had read the report from Pilate and had received correspondence from the Jewish delegation. He was not pleased. Pilate’s job, Tiberius reminded him, was to govern Judea, not start a provincial war.

Each of your predecessors was wise enough to respect the peculiar customs and practices of the Jewish people while at the same time firmly enforcing Roman law. I was told you had the wisdom and courage to do the same. Perhaps I was misinformed.

Tiberias ended the letter with an order that left no room for interpretation.

Take down the shields. Send them to the temple of Augustus in Caesarea.

Pilate hardly spoke a word all day. Even Procula couldn’t console him.

That night he showed up at the baths at the normal time. We lifted our weights in silence while other staff members spoke in hushed tones.

“Put on the gloves,” Pilate demanded partway through our regimen.

It wasn’t an unusual request. Greco-style boxing, using gloves of padded leather that we wrapped around our hands, was part of our routine. Pilate was strong as a bull but not well trained. I could parlay his thrusts with quickness, stamina, and a three-inch reach advantage.

We normally started slow, circling, measuring each other, before Pilate would invariably plunge straight ahead. Tonight he didn’t wait. He attacked me with a viciousness I had never before seen. I backpedaled and jabbed, but he just kept coming, grunting as he landed blows, sweat spraying from his body. His right fist caught the bridge of my nose, and blood spurted. A left felt like it cracked my ribs. I held up my hands and gave him a quizzical look, but the bull just attacked again.

I blocked a few of his punches, and he stopped to catch his breath. Blood was dripping down my face.

“I’m twenty years older, Theophilus,” Pilate said, huffing. “I thought you knew how to fight.”

When we reengaged, I no longer treated him as the prefect. I caught him with a fist just above his left eye and opened a gash. People gathered around, halting their own exercises to watch. For the next twenty minutes, we put on a show nearly worthy of the arena, attacking each other with anger, grimaces, and cursing until we were both covered in blood and sweat.

Finally, with Pilate too tired to raise his hands for another blow, he took a couple steps back. Blood dripped down his face and dropped from his chin to the marble. He bent over, his chest heaving. I was holding my nose, trying to stanch the bleeding.

Those who had gathered around started clapping, politely at first and then louder. I unwrapped my hands and began to clap myself.

Pilate caught his breath, stood, and unwrapped his gloves. He nodded brusquely at those clapping and brushed past me. “Come on,” he said. “You bleed like a pig.”

After the slaves dabbed the wounds and stopped the bleeding, we took our turn in the cold bath, the warm chamber, and ultimately the hot marble tub. Afterward, the servants rubbed our bodies, closing the pores of our skin against the cold before they scraped us with a bronze blade.

“Feel better?” I asked.

Pilate thought about the question for a long moment. “Every time I look at those damnable shields in the temple, every time I offer incense or sacrifices to Tiberius, I will hear his words of condemnation.”

I didn’t press the point or dare remind him that I had recommended against the shields. If he hadn’t learned this time, I reasoned, he would never learn.