Part 2

For a moment he stood above her, silent, and then, bending down quickly, he lifted her from the couch and started toward the still open bedroom door. He was past the fountain when a sudden, loud knocking at the entrance doors shattered the silence.

“Oh, Longinus, put me down!” She swung her legs to the floor. “Bona Dea, who could be coming here at this hour! Of all the damnable luck!” She stared in dismay at her disarrayed and transparent robe. “By all the gods, I can’t go into the atrium dressed like this! Longinus, will you go? Tullia’s probably sound asleep.” With that, Claudia darted into the bedroom, while the pounding grew ever louder and more insistent.

Longinus started toward the door, but before he could reach it, Tullia had appeared from the corridor. She quickly opened the door, then backed away as the robust soldier stepped inside.

“I am seeking the Centurion Longinus. I was told ... ah, there you are!” he cried.

“Cornelius! What are you doing here?”

“Longinus! By Jove! I’ve been searching all Rome for you.”

“But I thought you were still in Palestine.”

“And I thought you were still in Germania!”—Cornelius laughed—“until today.”

“Come, sit down,” Longinus said. “When did you get back?”

“Only a week ago, and most of that time I’ve been out at Baiae with the family. I came into Rome today to report to the Prefect.”

“Jove! Is he going to name you Procurator of Judaea, Cornelius? I hear that Valerius Gratus is being recalled.”

“Me Procurator? Don’t be silly, man. No, but I have an idea it’s something concerned with Palestine that has him calling for you. I’ve got orders to find you and bring you to his palace immediately. So we’d best be going, Longinus.”

“To see Sejanus? At this hour?”

“Yes, he said it was urgent. He’s leaving early tomorrow morning for Capri, and he says he’s got to see you before he goes.”

“By the gods!” Longinus’ countenance was suddenly solemn. “What have _I_ done?”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing to be alarmed about. Probably some special assignment or other. I don’t know. But come, man, you know Sejanus doesn’t like to be kept waiting. Get your toga. I have a sedan chair outside.”

“In a minute, Cornelius. I must tell Claudia.”

“Couldn’t her maid explain...?”

But Longinus already was striding toward the peristylium. “Claudia,” he called through the crack in the doorway, “the Prefect has sent for me. I don’t know what he wants, but I’ve got to be going.”

“Bona Dea!” She was just inside the door. “Sejanus?”

“Yes. Cornelius says he wants to see me tonight, right now. I don’t have any idea what he could want, but tomorrow night, if I may see you then, I’ll explain everything.”

“What could that old devil be wanting with you, Longinus?” The question seemed addressed more to herself than to him. “Yes, of course, you must come. I’ll be anxious to know.”

The sound of his retreating steps echoed along the peristylium and across the mosaic floor of the atrium. Claudia listened until she heard Tullia shut the double doors, and then there was silence. She closed her own door and crossed to her still undisturbed bed; she flung herself upon it.

“Sejanus, the devil! The old devil!” With furious fists she pounded on the bed. “May Pluto’s mallet splatter his evil brains!”

2

“Centurion Longinus, how well do you know Pontius Pilate?”

The Prefect Sejanus sensed that the soldier was hardly prepared for the blunt question. He had only a moment ago entered the ornate chamber. But Sejanus added nothing to qualify the question. Instead, he seemed to enjoy Longinus’ momentary uneasiness. His small eyes reflected the light from the lamps flanking the heavy oak desk behind which he sat, while he waited for the centurion to answer.

“Sir,” Longinus at last began, “during our campaign in Germania he commanded the cohort of which my century was a unit, but I cannot say that I know him well.”

“Then you and Pontius Pilate”—the Prefect paused and smiled blandly—“could hardly be described as devoted friends or intimates?”

“That is true, sir, and I am not sure that Pilate....” He hesitated.

“Please speak frankly, Centurion.” The Prefect’s smile was disarmingly reassuring. “You were about to say, were you not, that you are not sure that Pilate has many intimate friends?”

“I was going to say, sir, that in my opinion Pilate is not the type of soldier who has many intimate friends. I may be doing him an injustice, but I have never considered him a particularly ... ah ... sociable fellow. I have the feeling that he is a very ambitious man, determined to advance his career....”

“And his private fortune?”

Longinus thought carefully before answering. “So far as that is concerned, sir, I really cannot say. I have no information whatever on which to base an opinion. Nor did I intend to indicate in any way that I thought Pilate was seeking advancement in the army in an improper manner.”

Sejanus sat back in his chair. His falcon-like eyes darted back and forth as they measured and appraised the young man. “Centurion,” he said, leaning forward and smiling ingratiatingly, “you are cautious, and you evidence a sense of loyalty to your superiors. Both qualities I admire, particularly in the soldier. This makes me all the more confident that you will be able to carry out the assignment I propose to give you.” He stared unblinkingly into the centurion’s eyes. “Longinus, no doubt you have been wondering why I sent for you, why I insisted you come at this late hour, and why we are closeted here alone.”

“Yes, sir, I have been wondering.”

“It is irregular, of course, even though it is with the son of Senator Marcus Tullius Piso that the Prefect is closeted.” The wry smile was gone now; the Prefect’s countenance was serious. “Longinus, you must be aware of the regard your father and I have for each other. You must know that we also understand each other, that we are colleagues in various enterprises widely scattered about the Empire.”

“I know, sir, that my father has a high regard for the Prefect, and I have known in a vague way of your association in certain business enterprises.”

“Yes, and they have been profitable to both of us, Longinus. Have you ever wondered, for instance, how it happens that whenever your father’s plants in Phoenicia begin to run low on slaves, a government ship always arrives with fresh ones?”

Longinus nodded. “Whenever such a vessel arrived, I always thought I knew why. But I never asked questions or ventured comments, sir. I just put the new slaves to work.”

“Excellent. You are discreet, indeed. There is nothing more valuable to me than an intelligent man who can keep his eyes open and his mouth closed.” Sejanus arose, came around the desk to sit in a chair at arm’s length from the centurion. “Longinus, the assignment I propose to give you is of immense importance. And it is highly confidential in nature.” His expression and voice were grave. “To accomplish it successfully, the man I choose will have to be always on the alert; he will have to have imagination and initiative; he will need to exercise great caution; and above all, he will have to be someone completely loyal to the Prefect.” For a long moment his quickly darting eyes appraised the soldier. “I know that you are intelligent, Longinus, and I am satisfied that you possess these other qualities.” He leaned forward and tapped the centurion on the knee. “I had a purpose in asking you if you knew Pontius Pilate well. Tomorrow Pilate is to see me. If everything goes as I expect, then we shall start for Capri to see the Emperor, and the Emperor will approve officially what I shall have done already.” He paused and smiled cynically. “You understand, of course?”

Longinus smiled. “I believe, sir, that you speak for the Emperor in such matters, do you not?”

“In all matters, Longinus. The Emperor no longer concerns himself with the affairs of the Empire.” His piggish eyes brightened. “He’s too busy with his astrologers and his philosophers and his”—he smiled with contempt—“his friends.” But suddenly the contemptuous smile was gone, and Sejanus sat back in his chair. “Longinus, Pontius Pilate is anxious to succeed Valerius Gratus as Procurator of Judaea.”

The centurion sensed that the Prefect was waiting for his reaction. But he said nothing. Sejanus leaned forward again. “I am speaking in complete frankness, Longinus. We must understand each other; you must likewise speak frankly to me. But what we say must go no further. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now to get back to Pilate. He’s a man well suited to my purpose, I’m confident.” Once more the Prefect hesitated, as if seeking a way to proceed. “Some years ago, before you went out to Phoenicia, the Emperor’s nephew, General Germanicus, was fatally poisoned at Alexandria. It was rumored at the time that the Emperor had ordered it. Pilate, who served in Gaul under Germanicus, came stoutly to the Emperor’s defense with the story that the poisoning had been done by supporters of the Emperor but without his knowledge, because they had learned that the nephew was plotting the uncle’s downfall. Perhaps you heard something about this?”

“I believe I did hear something to that effect, sir. But that was about seven years ago, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, no doubt. Time passes so fast for me, Centurion. But let’s get back to Pontius Pilate. He’s ambitious, as you suggested, and as I said, he wants to be appointed Procurator in Judaea. So he should be amenable to ... ah, suggestions, eh, Centurion? And he should therefore be a perfect counterpart in Judaea to the Tetrarch Antipas in Galilee.” Sejanus suddenly was staring intently at the sober-faced young soldier. “How well, Longinus, do you know Herod Antipas?”

“I hardly know him at all, sir. I’ve seen him a few times; I used to go into Galilee and other parts of Palestine for our glassware plants; I tried once, I remember, to sell him glassware for the new palace he was building on the Sea of Galilee. But those were business trips, you see, and I rarely saw him even then. I was usually directed to speak with the Tetrarchess or Herod’s steward.”

“But you were a guest at the banquet he gave this evening, weren’t you?”

“I was, sir.” Longinus wondered, almost admiringly, how the Prefect managed to keep so well-informed of even the most private goings-on in Rome.

“It was a sumptuous feast, no doubt?”

“It was quite lavish, sir.”

“Hmmm. I must remember that.” The Prefect puckered his lips, and his forehead wrinkled into a frown. Leaning across the desk, he drew his lips tightly against his teeth. “Soon, Longinus, you will be having two to watch.” His eyes narrowed to a squint. “Three, in fact.”

“To watch, sir?”

“Yes, that is the assignment I have for you, Longinus. I am sending you out to Palestine, to be my eyes and ears in the land of those pestiferous Jews. At intervals you will report”—he held up his hand, palm out—“but only to me, understand. You will travel about the various areas—Caesarea, Jerusalem, Tiberias, to your father’s plants in Phoenicia, perhaps other places—ostensibly on routine tasks for the army. The details will be worked out later.” He leveled a forefinger at the centurion. “It will be your task, among the various duties you will have, Centurion, to report to me any suspicions that may be aroused in your mind concerning the flow of revenues into the Imperial treasury in accordance with the terms that I shall make with Pontius Pilate, and likewise with the revised schedules I shall”—he paused an instant, and his smile was sardonic—“suggest to the Tetrarch Antipas before he returns to Galilee.” He sat back, and his sharp small eyes studied Longinus.

“Then, sir, as I understand it, you are suspicious that both Pilate and Antipas may withhold for themselves money that should be going to Rome?”

“Let’s put it this way, Longinus.” The Prefect leaned toward the centurion and tapped the desk with the ends of his fingers. “I don’t trust them. I know the Tetrarch has been dipping his fat hand into the treasury, though not too heavily thus far, let us say. That white marble palace at the seaside, for example, and the gorgeous furnishings, including Phoenician glassware, eh?” He shot a quizzical straight glance into the centurion’s eyes, but quickly a smile tempered it. “We don’t object to his buying glass, do we, as long as it comes from your father’s plants?”

But just as quickly the Prefect was serious again. He sat back against the leather and put his hands together, fingertips to fingertips. “Herod Antipas wants to be a Herod the Great,” he declared. “But he hasn’t the character his father had. By character, Centurion, I mean courage, stamina, strength, and ability, yes. Old Herod was a villain, mean, blackhearted, cold-blooded, murderous. But he was an able man, strong, a great administrator, a brave and brilliant soldier, every inch a ruler. Beside him, his son is a weakling. Herodias, on the other hand, is more like her grandfather than Antipas is like his father. She’s ambitious, vain, demanding. She is continually pushing Antipas. She seeks advancement, more power, more of the trappings of royalty.” He lifted a forefinger and shook it before the centurion. “Herodias will likely bring ruin upon both of them.” Then he paused, thoughtful. “But so much for Antipas. Watch him, Longinus. If he”—his expression warmed with a disarming smile—“buys too much of that Phoenician glass, then let me know.”

“I will, sir.” Longinus was smiling, too. Then he was serious. “But, sir, you were speaking also of Pontius Pilate....”

“Yes. I think Pilate is the man I want for Judaea. But I don’t trust him either. I want him watched closely, Longinus. I suspect that his fingers will be itching, likewise, to dip too deeply into the till.”

“But, sir, if you can’t trust him....”

“Why then am I sending him out there?” The Prefect laughed cynically. Then he sobered. “It’s a proper question, my boy. We must be frank, as I said. I’ve told you that I believe Pilate will be amenable to suggestions. Like Antipas, he, too, is a weakling. He has a good record as a soldier, but always as a subordinate. I question whether he has the courage, the stamina, to lead and rule. He will be looking to Rome, I believe, for direction. And he will always be fearful of displeasing the Prefect. But at the same time, Longinus, I think he will be looking for ways of adding to his personal wealth. So he will bleed those Jews to get all Rome requires and some for his own pocket as well.” He paused, thoughtful for a moment. “Yes, I believe Pontius Pilate is the man I want. Certainly I shall give him a chance to prove himself.” Quickly he raised an emphatic finger. “But I want you to watch him, Longinus. I want you to ascertain whether any diversions are being made in the flow of the tax revenues to the Imperial treasury, and if so, to report it to me. Even if you have no proof, but only strong suspicions to go on, by all means report them too. I’ll work out a plan whereby you can make the reports confidentially and quickly.”

The Prefect paused, leaned back in his chair, and calmly studied the younger man. When Longinus ventured no comment, Sejanus continued with his instructions. “You will be transferred from your present cohort to the Second Italian. Your rank will remain the same; as a centurion you will be more useful to me, since you will be less observed and therefore less suspected in this lower grade. But you will be properly compensated, Longinus, with the extent of the compensation being governed in great part, let us say”—he puckered his lips again—“upon the degree of functioning of your eyes and ears.”

Sejanus arose, and Longinus stood with him. “You have made no comment, Centurion Longinus.”

“Sir, I am at the Prefect’s command. But may I ask when I am to be given further instructions and when I shall be sailing for Palestine?”

“Soon, Centurion, as quickly as I can arrange it. I would like you to go out ahead of Pilate and be there when he arrives at Caesarea. It will be important to observe how he takes over the duties of the post from the outset. I shall summon you when I am ready and give you full instructions.”

The audience with the Prefect was at an end. At the door, as he was about to step into the corridor, Longinus paused. “Sir, a moment ago you said there would be three for me to watch. You spoke of Pilate and Herod Antipas. Who is the third?”

Sejanus smiled blandly and rubbed his hands together. “The third, ah, yes.” His black small eyes danced. “And there will be others also. But you need not concern yourself with any of this detail at the moment. When I have completed my plans, as I’ve said, I shall summon you here and instruct you fully.”

3

Longinus sat up in bed, thrust forth an arm to peel back his side of the covering sheet, pulled up his feet, and twisted around to plant them evenly on the floor.

“Jove!” He craned his neck, blinked his still heavy eyelids, and strained to rub the cramped muscles at his shoulder blades. From the northeast, rolling down through the gentle depression dividing the mansion-studded slopes of the Viminal and Quirinal Hills, came the fading plaintively sweet notes of a trumpet. He glanced toward the window; the light was already beginning to sift through slits in the drawn draperies.

Claudia opened her eyes. She pushed herself up to a sitting position. “Are you going, Longinus? Must you be leaving so early?” She rubbed her eyes and squinted into the slowly brightening window. “Do you have to...?”

“The morning watch at Castra Praetoria,” he explained, nodding in the direction of the window. “It awakened me, luckily. I must be out there before the next call is sounded. Today I’m on early duty.”

“You always have to be going.” Her lips, the rouge smeared but still red, were pouting. “You hardly get here, and then you say you must be leaving.”

“But, by the gods, Claudia, I’ve been here all night, remember.” He pinched her chin. “I had dinner with you, and I haven’t left yet.”

“Oh, all right. But if you must go, you’d best be dressing. Although, really, Longinus, can’t you stay a few minutes longer, just a few? Please.” She slid back to lie in a stretched position, her figure clearly outlined beneath the light covering.

“Temptress! By the gods, I wish I could.” He bent down and kissed her smeared lips. “Well, at least it won’t be like this when we get to Palestine. Out there I’ll be able to arrange my own schedule, and there’ll be no early morning duty then. But by great Jove, I’ve got to be going now.” He stood up and walked to the chair on which his clothing lay. “Today I’ll begin getting preparations made so that we can be ready to sail when Sejanus gives me his final orders. And the preparations will include arrangements for our wedding,” he concluded, grinning.

Languidly she lay back and watched him as he dressed. “Longinus,” she said, as he finished latching his boots, “do you really believe that your father will be willing to let you marry me?” Her expression indicated concern. “I have no doubt but that my beloved stepfather will be quite willing, quite happy, in fact, because I’m sure he’s already anxious to be freed of the responsibility he has, or thinks he has, for me. But I do wonder about Senator Piso.”

“By the great and little gods, Claudia, it’s not the senator you’re marrying, remember? _I’m_ the one,” he said, thumping his chest with stiffened thumb. “Me, understand?”

“Of course, silly man.” She sat up again and fluffed the pillow behind her. “But the senator might object, Longinus. He’s a proud man, proud of his name, his lineage. He’s not going to like the idea of his son’s marrying a bastard and a divorcee, even though she may be the granddaughter of the Emperor Augustus.”

“He won’t object, Claudia; I’m sure of it. But even if he should, I’d marry you anyway, despite him, despite Sejanus, despite even old Tiberius himself.” He adjusted his tunic, then came over to stand by the bed. “Remember that, Claudia.”

“Even in spite of last night?” She was smiling up at him, and she said it capriciously, but he thought he detected a note of seriousness in her voice. “You don’t think I’m terribly wanton, Longinus?”

“Last night makes me all the more determined.” He studied her for a long moment; her expression was coy, but radiant too, a little wistful and warmly affectionate, he saw. “Wanton? Of course not, my dear.” A mischievous grin slowly crossed his face. “Wanting, maybe. And wanted certainly, wanted by me. The most desirable woman I’ve ever known, the most wanted.” He bent down to her, his eyes aflame, and gently he pushed the outthrust chin to separate slightly the rouge-smudged lips raised hungrily to his. Greedily their lips met and held, and then as the girl lifted a hand to the back of his head to crush his face against hers, he grasped the protecting sheet from her fingers and flung it toward the foot of the bed.

“Oh, you beast!” she shrieked. “By all the silly little gods!”

Roaring, he darted for the peristylium. As he fled past the long mirror near the doorway, he caught in it a glimpse of the laughing Claudia struggling wildly to cover herself with the twisted sheet.

4

The magnificent villa of the Prefect Lucius Aelius Sejanus clung precariously to the precipitous slope high above the blue waters of the bay. The greater part of the mansion had been built some hundred years before in the days of Lucius Licinius Lucullus by one of the general’s fellow patricians. This man’s family had suffered the misfortune of having had the villa confiscated after the pater familias had been beheaded for making the wrong choice in a civil war of that era.

Sejanus had acquired the property—many Romans wondered how, but they were too discreet to inquire—and had added to it extensively, including a spacious peristylium with a great fountain that spouted water piped from higher on the slope and palms and flowers and oriental plants. But most interesting of his improvements was the spreading terrace pushed outward from the peristylium to the very edge of the precipice, paved in ornate mosaic with slabs of marble transported in government barges from quarries far distant—gray and red from Egypt, yellow in various shades and black from Numidia, green cipolin from Euboea—and bordered by a protecting balustrade of white Carrara.

This morning the Prefect and his guest, Pontius Pilate, a cohort commander lately returned from a campaign in Germania, sat on this terrace before a round bronze table whose legs were molded in the size and likeness of a lion’s foreleg. On the table were a pitcher and matching goblets. Pilate, large, broad-framed, with a round head and hair closely cropped, a heavy man and, in his early forties, perhaps a score of years younger than the Prefect, was eying the unusual pitcher. Sejanus motioned to it.

“You may be interested in glassware,” he said, as he reached over and with a fingernail tapped one of the delicate blue, blown goblets. “These pieces came from Phoenicia. No doubt you will have the opportunity while you’re in Judaea to visit the glassworks where they were blown. It’s situated near Tyre, up the coast from Caesarea and not far from Mount Carmel. One of Senator Piso’s enterprises.” He fastened his unblinking small eyes on Pilate’s florid face. “But of course you won’t be concerned with this operation. It’s not in Judaea anyway, and its affairs—so far as Rome is concerned—are being supervised from Rome.”

Pilate nodded. “I understand, sir.”

“Good. It’s important that you do understand fully. There should be no area, for example, in which your duties and responsibilities overlap those of Tetrarch Herod Antipas. I trust that you’ll always bear that in mind.”

“You can depend upon my doing so, sir.”