CHAPTER 33
I regretted my decision almost immediately. Word spread quickly in the tongue-wagging city of Rome, and I soon became infamous —a hero to the freedman but a pariah to the senatorial class. Details about Apronius’s snide criticisms of Tiberius had already leaked out. Under their breath, Roman citizens had dubbed the case “The Sponge Trial.”
Nobody in Rome believed that Apronius had a chance at acquittal. The common people loved his audacity. But they also knew there was a reason such courage was in short supply in Rome. Most men who possessed it were already dead.
When I went to the baths, the other aristocrats treated me as if I had a contagious disease, granting me a wide berth. Seneca might have been right that the citizens of Rome were sick of the treason trials. And maybe history would vindicate us. But at this point, none of the aristocrats seemed willing to take that bet.
There was one small benefit from my newfound notoriety. I had been proceeding toward marriage with a woman from a respectable equestrian family who was even-tempered and as intellectually curious as me. But there was no flame in our relationship. Once it became public that I would be representing Apronius, this woman and her family decided we would not be a good match. Rather than being distressed, I found myself relieved. Marrying her in the first place would have been a huge mistake.
During the three weeks leading up to the trial, I might have withdrawn from the case had I truly believed that doing so would unravel the damage to my reputation. But in a moment of empathy and courage, I had made a decision that I could no longer undo. The only choice now was whether to proceed as Seneca had suggested —represent Apronius halfheartedly with an eye toward losing —or do everything within my power to win.
Five days before the trial of Apronius, I found myself sharing a meal with Pontius Pilate and Procula in the Aventine Hill section of the city. Though I couldn’t really afford a night off this close to the trial, I couldn’t bring myself to turn down the invitation from the former prefect of Judea. Since returning to Jerusalem with the malfeasance charges pending against him, Pilate had become a virtual outcast in Roman society. Right now, more than anything else, he needed a friend.
Pilate was a mere shadow of the man I had known two years earlier. He still looked the same —the bald head and oval face, the tanned and weathered skin, the close-set eyes, and the forehead that so quickly furrowed into a show of displeasure. He was still in the same excellent physical shape he maintained in Caesarea. But after spending a few hours with him, I could tell that he was a far different man emotionally.
All of his smug self-assuredness had vanished. He was despondent throughout dinner, despite the best efforts of Procula and me to cheer him up. We tried to get him reminiscing about our time in Judea, but the truth was that Pilate and I were both trying to forget those days.
He had obviously been drinking even before I arrived, and he continued nonstop through the dinner. The more wine he consumed, the more he turned inward, though he did ask a lot of questions about Apronius’s trial. Perhaps he saw it as a preview of his own trial, scheduled to take place a few weeks later.
By the last course, Pilate was slurring his speech. He fell asleep before dinner was over. Procula apologized for her husband and offered to walk me out.
We were standing on the front portico when she asked the question that I sensed she had been waiting to ask all night. “Did you hear about Cornelius?”
“That he became a follower of the Nazarene?”
“Yes.” She looked down for a moment as if trying to judge how far she should take this. “Did you hear how it happened?”
“Not the details.”
“Sure.”
She told the story with a certain sense of awe in her voice. It started when Cornelius had a vision. That led to a meeting with a Jew named Peter, who told Cornelius about Jesus and his miracles. Peter described the crucifixion of Jesus and how he had supposedly come back to life on the third day and been seen by many witnesses.
“Cornelius told me about this himself,” Procula said. “Peter baptized Cornelius and a few of his soldiers, and they became followers of the Way.”
“I heard the talk about Jesus coming back from the dead even before I left Caesarea,” I said. “At the time, I wrote it off as just another Jewish myth. Still do.”
Procula considered the matter. “All I know is that the face of Jesus is the same face I saw in the temple of Aesculapius when I was healed. I know Jesus was innocent of the charges against him, and I warned Pilate not to have him crucified. He didn’t listen, and we’ve had nothing but trouble since.”
“I regretted that decision too,” I admitted. “It’s one of many things I would do differently if I ever had the chance.”
The conversation seemed to have run its course, and we both said our good-byes. I was halfway down the steps when Procula stopped me.
“Theophilus?”
I turned and looked at her.
“My husband really needs help,” she said, her voice brittle. “He doesn’t stand a chance at trial without an advocate who knows what he’s doing. He’s approached a few others but they all have their excuses. . . .” Her voice trailed off.
I sensed where this was going. It was the last thing in the world I needed. Another unwinnable case in front of the Senate. Another stubborn man’s life in my hands.
“Would you take his case, Theophilus?” Procula asked.
I hesitated. “Does he even want me to represent him?” From what I had heard, Pilate planned on representing himself. He had been putting on a brave public face. He had been justified in every one of his actions, he claimed. He would proudly explain himself to the full Senate and take whatever sentence they dished out.
She sighed, her eyes fixed on the pavement. “We talked about it a few nights ago. Pilate said he would never ask you; he doesn’t want to drag you into this. He doesn’t want the claims being made against him to rub off on you.”
I couldn’t tell whether Procula was making this up or not. Truthfully, it didn’t seem like something Pilate would say, at least not the Pilate I knew. He never seemed to worry about anybody but himself. Maybe somehow facing these charges had changed him.
“Tell him I’ll be back to meet with him after I finish the trial of Apronius,” I said. “But, Procula, if he wants me to represent him, he’ll have to ask me himself.”
“I’ll tell him,” Procula promised. “But some people have a harder time asking for help than others.”