CHAPTER 39

The day after the trial, I woke with a blazing headache, a sore jaw, a dry mouth, and a stomach that was in full-scale revolt. My head felt swollen and full of pressure; loud noises were like a hammer to my skull.

I rallied enough to offer sacrifices in the temples with the hope that somehow Tiberius would intervene and spare Apronius.

In the meantime, Seneca had learned about my drunken rant and summoned me to his house. We might now be friends, but he was still the teacher and I was still the headstrong pupil. He was fuming mad and lectured me for nearly ten minutes. I had been taught better than that, he said. “Are you trying to get yourself killed? Because if you are, you’re doing an excellent job.”

A good advocate knows when to defend himself and when to simply grovel and ask for forgiveness. After I had said I was sorry about a dozen times, Seneca’s anger finally burned itself out. He lowered his voice, and the throbbing in my head subsided a little.

But Seneca was the least of my problems. If Seneca had found out about my drunken exploits, who else might know? I fretted that word had somehow leaked back to Macro or Cato.

Seneca’s sources on the island of Capri no longer seemed to be in favor with the emperor, so he didn’t know if Tiberius would commute Apronius’s sentence or not. “In some ways,” Seneca said, “it might be better if he doesn’t. You saw how the people love Apronius. His execution would only fuel the anti-Tiberius sentiment.”

It seemed like a heartless comment to me. Apronius was a decent man, honest and courageous. How could his execution be good for Rome? Nevertheless, I was in no position to argue with Seneca. Actually, I was in no state of mind to argue with anyone.

Before he dismissed me, Seneca let me know that he was working on a backup plan to save Apronius. In a final dig at my wine-fueled conduct the night before, he said he couldn’t share the details with me. “Loose lips could get us all condemned,” he said.

Out of everything he said that day, this last comment was the one that hurt the most. He no longer trusted me with confidential information. It wasn’t bad enough that I had alienated most of the Senate or that my client was scheduled to be executed in eight days. On top of all that, I now had to rebuild trust with the one man who had believed in me when nobody else had.

That night I met with Pontius Pilate at his estate and agreed, at his request, to represent him in his upcoming malfeasance trial. We talked about the charges against him —the way he had used sacred tithes from the Jewish Temple to pay for the aqueduct, the slaughter of the Jews by his soldiers who had hidden daggers in their cloaks, the impertinent display of the shields in the Praetorium, and the slaughter of the Samaritans when they tried to worship. He was also being charged with releasing the notorious Barabbas and not reporting that release to Caesar. I felt personally responsible for that one, though Pilate was kind enough not to remind me whose idea it had been.

Ironically, my greatest regret from my time in Judea, the trial where we had sentenced Jesus of Nazareth to die, was not listed among Pilate’s charges. Yet somehow, like Procula, I couldn’t help but think that all these calamities we were experiencing were tied to that one event.

“We have no chance of winning, do we?” Pilate asked. The conviction of Apronius was hanging heavy in the room. If the senators were so quick to convict one of their own, what would they do with an outsider like Pilate?

My research wasn’t encouraging. A man named Gaius Junius Silanus, a prefect in Asia, had been recalled and tried on remarkably similar charges. Extortion. Brutality. General offenses against the divinity and majesty of Caesar.

I described the trial of Silanus for Pilate. The man’s lawyer had brought in revenue scrolls and account books to defend against the extortion charges. But the other offenses were murky and open to interpretation. Former members of his staff testified against him. His slaves were tortured until they confirmed the allegations. That trial had been held before Tiberius retreated to Capri, and Tiberius himself had presided. Silanus was found guilty.

Pilate listened intently and took another drink from the wineglass that seemed to be perpetually in his hand. “What happens if I lose?” he asked.

I explained the consequences in the same straightforward manner that Pilate had always appreciated. He would probably be exiled. His will would be invalidated. His possessions and wealth would be confiscated and divided among those who had prosecuted him.

“I spent my entire life trying to appease Caesar,” Pilate muttered. “And look where it got me.”

We spent several hours that night talking about our defense —witnesses we would call at trial, accomplishments that could offset some of the charges, and senators who could be counted on to help argue our case. But I could tell that Pilate’s heart wasn’t in it.

It occurred to me that night how thoroughly the tables had turned. The prefect was now the defendant, facing his own unjust tribunal. The charges against him were as vague and politically motivated as they had been against some of the Jewish defendants whom Pilate had sentenced to death. I hoped that my friend could muster half the courage I had seen displayed by Jesus of Nazareth.

Pilate would soon be judged by six hundred senators, most of whom were not willing to stick their necks out for an innocent man. Unbidden, the sight of Pilate washing his hands at the trial of Jesus flashed before me. It was exactly what the senators, other than Marcus Lepidus, had symbolically done at the trial of Apronius. In a few weeks, it would probably happen again, and we both knew it. The only thing that would be missing at the trial of Pontius Pilate would be the bowl of water.

The news came the next day, and it hit me hard. I tried to re-create my prior night’s conversation with Pilate, second-guessing everything I had said and beating myself up for not extending my client more hope. My own despondency at losing the trial of Apronius had affected my view of Pilate’s chances. I desperately wanted to talk with him again and put a better spin on it. I would promise him victory. I would tell him that we needed to keep on fighting. I would remind him that true Romans faced their accusers with the courage of Apronius. Romans were willing to die for the truth.

I would never have a chance to tell him any of those things. After our meeting, Pilate had donned his armor from his days as a Praetorian Guard. He had polished his breastplate and sword. He had put on his helmet and sandals and belt.

He had written a new will, leaving enough to Tiberius that the will wouldn’t be invalidated. He had left everything else to Procula. He had ended the will with a profession of his virtuous service as prefect of Judea and a declaration of his love for his wife and children.

He had sealed the will, left it on his desk, and marched into his gardens. There, like a good soldier, he had removed his breastplate and placed it on the ground. He had taken out his sword, grabbed the hilt, and pressed the point up under his ribs so that when he lunged, it would go straight into his heart.

I learned these things from Procula, who was beside herself with grief. She had found the lifeless body of her husband, his sword rammed into his chest, lying in a pool of his own blood. She sobbed as she told me the news, her words anguished and broken. There was nothing I could do to console her.