Part 3

“Then is there anything else not entirely clear to you concerning your duties, powers, and functions as I’ve outlined them? Do you fully understand that as Procurator you will be required to keep the Jews in your province as quiet and contented as possible—and they are a cantankerous, fanatical, troublesome race, I warn you—even though you will be draining them of their revenues to the limit of their capacities?” He held up an admonishing forefinger. “And do you also understand that it is tremendously important for you, as Procurator of Judaea, to avoid becoming embroiled in any of the turmoils arising out of their foolish but zealously defended one-god system of religion?” Sejanus curled his lower lip to cover the upper and slowly pushed them both out into a rounded tight pucker; his eyes remained firmly fixed on the cohort commander’s face. “It is a difficult post, being Procurator in Judaea, Pilate.”

“It is a difficult assignment, sir, but it’s one that I’ve been hoping to obtain, and I appreciate the appointment. I understand what is required, and I shall make every effort to administer Judaea to the best of my ability and in accordance with your instructions.”

“Then you may consider yourself Procurator, Pilate. When the Emperor gives you your audience tomorrow, he will approve what I have actually already done.” A sly smile overspread the Prefect’s weasel face. “But there is one thing further that you must agree to do, Pilate, if you wish to become Procurator of Judaea.” He stood, and Pilate arose, remaining stiffly erect. Sejanus walked to the marble balustrade and looked down at the blue water far below. “But first, come here. I want to show you something.”

The cohort commander strode quickly to the Prefect’s side. Sejanus pointed toward the north. “Look,” he said, “Misenum there, and just beyond is Baiae. Over there”—he swept his arm in an arc—“is Puteoli. And in this half-moon of shore line fronting on the bay between here and Puteoli’s harbor, in those mansions scrambling up the slopes”—he drew a half circle in the air that ended with his forefinger pointing straight south—“in this lower district of Campania from here to Puteoli and Neapolis and around the rugged rim of the gulf, past Vesuvius and Herculaneum, Pompeii and Surrentum out to the end of Capri is embraced the very cream of the Empire’s aristocracy and wealth.” He turned to face north again. “There. That is the villa for which Lucullus paid ten million sesterces. You can see parts of the roof among the trees and flowering plants. They say that some of the cherry trees he introduced from Pontus are still bearing. Yes, they rightly call this the playground of the Empire. Look down there,” he said, pointing toward the gaily colored barges idling along the shore between Baiae and Puteoli. “There you will find beautiful women, Pilate, gorgeous creatures who are completely uninhibited, delightfully immoral. Beautiful Baiae, where husbands able to afford it can find happy respite from monogamy. Ah, Ovid, how you would sing of Baiae today!”

Silently for a moment now the Prefect contemplated the villa-filled slopes, the pleasure barges, the lazily lifting sulphurous fumes above Lake Avernus in the crater of an extinct volcano to the north, and the sleeping cone of Vesuvius looming magnificently in the west. Then he turned again to face Pilate, and a sly, malevolent smile crossed his narrow face. “You, too, Commander, some day can live in luxury out there on the slope above Baiae ... if you manage affairs in Judaea properly,” he paused, for emphasis, “by following explicitly the instructions you have received and will continue to receive from me.”

“I am ambitious, sir,” Pilate answered, “and I would take great pleasure some day in joining the equestrian class here. But whether I am able to achieve a villa at Baiae or not, I am determined to follow explicitly the Prefect’s instructions and desires.” His hand on the marble balustrade, Pilate studied the movement in the bay. Then he faced the Prefect. “But you said a moment ago, sir, that there was still one more provision?”

“Yes, Pilate.” Sejanus pointed to the chairs beside the lion-legged table. “But let’s sit down and have some more of the Falernian.”

As they took their seats, a slave who all the while had been hovering attentively near-by came forward quickly and filled the goblets. Sejanus sipped slowly. “Surely you have guessed that the Emperor and I confer at times on matters of particular intimacy, such as the problems of his household, even the affairs of members of his own Imperial family?”

“I can see, sir, how the Emperor would wish the Prefect’s counsel in matters of every kind.”

“That is true.” Sejanus toyed with the wine glass, then abruptly set it down. “This is the provision, Pilate, and I think it not unreasonable. In fact, I might explain that it was at my suggestion that Tiberius has included it. And were I in your position, Pilate”—his eyes brightened, and he flattened his lips against his teeth—“I would be delighted that such a provision had been made. She is a beautiful woman, young, possessed of every feminine appeal, and a woman to be earnestly desired and sought, at least in the opinion of one old man who”—he smiled—“can still look, appreciate, and imagine.”

“A woman?”

“Yes, Pilate. The Emperor expects you to marry his stepdaughter.”

“Claudia!” Pilate said in amazement. “The granddaughter of Augustus?”

“Indeed.” Sejanus was eying him intently. “And of Antony, too, and Cleopatra, I’ve always understood.” A sly smile again crossed his face. “And, if I’m a capable judge, a woman possessed of everything Cleopatra had.”

Pilate seemed oblivious to the Prefect’s description. “But why should he want me, the son of a Spanish...?”

“But you will be Procurator of Judaea,” Sejanus interrupted. “Look, Pilate,” he went on, his face all seriousness now, “I’m sure you’ve heard the story of Claudia’s mother, the wife of Tiberius. Augustus was forced to banish her when her adulteries became notorious. It’s one of those paradoxes, Pilate, of Imperial life. The Emperor may indulge in any of the ordinarily forbidden delights, adultery, pederasty”—he smiled again, but this time his smile was a scarcely concealed sneer—“but his stepdaughter may not. Or she may not publicly, at any rate. And now that Claudia is divorced from Aemilius and has no husband to point to in the event that....” He paused and laid his hand on Pilate’s arm. “I dislike putting the matter so bluntly, Pilate, but there is no other way to explain the situation. The Emperor wishes to forestall any scandal. The best way to do so, he thinks, is to have his stepdaughter married and sent as far away as possible from Rome.”

“But, sir, doesn’t custom forbid the wives of generals and legates and procurators from journeying with them to their provincial posts?”

“Custom, yes. But custom is not always followed. Agrippina, for example, accompanied Germanicus on his campaign in the north. Caligula was born while she was away with the general.” He was watching Pilate closely. “But you have not said whether you accept the Emperor’s final provision.”

“Sir, I would be greatly honored and highly pleased to be the husband of the granddaughter of the great Augustus.”

Sejanus beamed. “Then, Pilate, you may consider yourself the Procurator of Judaea.”

“But....”

The Prefect held up his hand to interrupt. “The Emperor will speak to you about the necessity of your keeping your wife under firm authority. But I would like to emphasize something more important, Commander, and that is this: keep her happy, and keep her satisfied, in Judaea. I want no reports coming to me that the Emperor’s stepdaughter is being kept virtually a prisoner, that she is suffering banishment from Rome.” His eyes flamed again, and he licked his sensuous lips. “Do you understand, Pilate? Claudia is a modern woman. She’s accustomed to the ways of Rome’s equestrians. Keep her contented, Pilate; do nothing to add to her burden of living in a land that to her, no doubt, will be dull and even loathsome. If sometimes she strays into indiscretions, overlook them. Don’t attempt to make of her a Caesar’s wife.” His stern expression relaxed into a grin. “Besides, I believe it’s too late for anyone to accomplish that.” Then as quickly as it had come, the levity was gone. “But I interrupted you. You were going to ask something?”

“Yes.” Pilate stared thoughtfully at his hands. “I was wondering, sir, if Claudia has been apprised of the Emperor’s and your wishes. What has she to say about all this?”

“Say?” Sejanus smiled and rubbed his palms together. “My dear Procurator, Claudia has nothing to say in matters such as this. Tiberius speaks for his stepdaughter. And _I_ speak for Tiberius.”

5

The next morning one of the fastest triremes of the Roman navy carried the Prefect Sejanus and Pontius Pilate from the harbor below the Prefect’s villa straight southward across the gulf toward the island of Capri.

When Sejanus finished discussing certain other matters of business with the Emperor, he had his aide summon Pilate into the Imperial chamber. The cohort commander was nervous as he entered the great hall. It was his first sight of Tiberius since the Emperor had allowed his crafty minister to bring all nine of the Praetorian Guard’s cohorts into the camp near the Viminal Gate, from which, on a moment’s notice, they could sally forth to enforce the Prefect’s will, even to giving orders to the Senate itself. A year ago the Emperor, melancholy, embittered, tired of rule, had left Rome and journeyed southward to Capri to seek on that island the privacy he had long craved. Since then, with the exception of the wily Prefect and a few others—the Emperor’s young girls and, according to Roman gossip, his powdered, painted, and perfumed young boys and the growing circle of poets and philosophers—Tiberius Claudius Nero Caesar had seen few visitors. Gradually he had relinquished affairs of state to the scheming Prefect Sejanus.

But now Pilate saw confronting him a man vastly changed from the tall, powerful, and thoroughly able general he had known earlier. The Emperor was noticeably stooped; his once broad forehead and now almost naked pate seemed to have shriveled into a narrowing expanse of wrinkled skull. Acne had inflamed and pocked his face, and the skin lay in folds around the stem of his neck like that of a vulture’s.

Tiberius greeted Pilate perfunctorily. “The Prefect tells me you’re petitioning us for appointment to the post of Procurator in Judaea. Is that true?”

“Sire, if it is the will of the Emperor that I serve in that capacity, I shall be happy to undertake the assignment and serve the Emperor and the Empire to the full extent of my ability.”

“That I would expect and demand,” Tiberius harshly replied. “It is a difficult post. The Jews are a stubborn and intractable people. They are fanatically religious, and they resent bitterly and will oppose even to the sacrifice of their lives all actions they consider offensive to their strange one-god religion. Their priests are diabolically clever, and they are determined to rule the people in accordance with the ancient religious laws and traditions of the land.” His cold eyes fastened upon the cohort commander’s countenance. “Pilate, I shall expect you to govern in that province. Foremost among your functions of office, in addition to maintaining at all times Roman law and order, will be the levying and collecting of ample taxes. That, in itself, will be a burdensome duty. In addition, I charge you to see to it that Rome is not embroiled in any great difficulty with these Jews. I warn you, it will be difficult. Do you think you are equal to such a task?”

“I am bold enough, Sire, to think so. Certainly I shall do everything within my power to demonstrate to the Emperor and his Prefect that I am.”

“We shall see.” The Emperor’s cold eyes bored into those of the officer standing before him. Suddenly his grimness relaxed into a thin smile. “Sejanus tells me also that you have ambitions to marry my stepdaughter Claudia.”

“To marry your stepdaughter, Sire, should it be the Emperor’s will, would bestow on me the highest honor and afford me the greatest happiness.”

“Evidently he knows little about her,” Tiberius observed wryly to Sejanus, “else he would not consider himself so fortunate.” But quickly his eyes were on Pilate again, and the malevolent smile was gone. “I grant my permission, Pilate. The dowry will be arranged, and I assure you it will be adequate. Sejanus will settle the details. Unfortunately I shall not be able to attend the festivities of the wedding.” Now he twisted his head to face the Prefect. “If there is nothing further, Sejanus?” He did not wait for an answer but arose. The Prefect and Pontius Pilate, bowing, were backing toward the doorway when Tiberius suddenly stopped them. “Wait. I wish to tell Pilate a story.

“Once a traveler stopped to aid a man lying wounded beside the road,” he began. “He started to brush away the flies clustered about the wound, when the injured man spoke out. ‘No, don’t drive away the flies,’ he said. ‘They have fed on me until now they are satisfied and no longer hurt me. But if you brush these off, then other, more hungry ones will come and feed on me until I am sucked dry of blood.’” A mirthless smile crinkled the corners of his mouth. “Pilate, I want no new thirsty fly settling after Valerius Gratus upon the Jews in Judaea. Nevertheless, from them I must be sent a sufficiency of blood. Do you understand?”

Pilate swallowed. “Sire, I understand.” He licked his heavy red lips.

As they were at the door, Tiberius raised his hand to stop them again. A sly grin, leering and sadistic, spread across his face. “Take Claudia with you to Judaea, Procurator. And rule her, man! Rule her!”

6

Languidly the Princess Herodias of the Maccabean branch of the Herod dynasty lay back in the warm, scented water so that only her head, framed in black hair held dry by a finely woven silk net, was exposed.

“More hot water, Neaera,” she commanded. “But be careful. I don’t want to look cooked for the Tetrarch.”

Quickly the slave maid turned the tap, and steaming water gushed from the ornate eagle’s-head faucet.

“That’s enough!” shouted Herodias after a minute. “By the gods, shut it off!” She sat upright in the tiled tub, and the water ran down from her neck and shoulders, leaving little islands of suds clinging to her glistening white body. “Now hand me the mirror.”

She extended a dripping arm and accepted the polished bronze. For a long moment she studied her image. “Neaera, tell me truthfully, am I showing my age too dreadfully?”

“But, Mistress, you are not old,” the maid protested.

“You’re a flatterer, Neaera. Salome, remember, is fourteen.”

“But you were married very young, Mistress.”

“And I was married a long time ago, too.” She peered again into the mirror. “Look. Already I can see tiny crow’s-foot lines around my eyes.”

“But unguents and a little eye shadowing....”

“More flattery.” Herodias shook a wet finger at the young woman’s nose. “But I love it; so don’t ever stop. But now”—she grasped the sides of the tub—“help me out. I mustn’t lie in this hot water any longer, or I’ll be as pink as a roast by the time the Tetrarch comes.” She grasped the maid’s arm to steady herself as she stepped from the tub to the tufted mat, and Neaera began to rub her down with a heavy towel. When the slave maid had finished drying her, Herodias turned to face the full-length minor, her body flushed and glowing from the brisk robbing. Palms on hips, she studied her own straight, still lithe frame. “Really, Neaera,” she asked, “how do I look?” With fingers spread she caressed the gently rounded smooth plane of her stomach and then lifted cupped palms to her firm, finely shaped breasts. “I haven’t lost my figure too badly, have I?”

“You haven’t lost it at all, Mistress,” the maid assured her, as she picked up a filmy undergarment from the bench. “It’s still youthful and still beautiful.” Herodias braced herself as the girl bent low to assist her into the black silk garment. Neaera leaned back and studied the older woman again. “You have the figure of a young woman, indeed, Mistress,” she said, “though fully matured and....”

“And what, Neaera? What were you going to say?”

“Well, Mistress, a figure to me more beautiful because of maturity, and more interesting.”

“And more alluring, more seductive, maybe?” Her smile was lightly wanton. “To the Tetrarch, perhaps? But the Herods, Neaera, and old Tiberius, too, I hear, like their women very young.” Her expression sobered. “I’m almost afraid he’ll be having eyes for Salome rather than for me. The child has matured remarkably, you know, in the last year.”

“I should think, though, Mistress, that the Tetrarch....”

A sharp knocking on the door interrupted her.

“By the gods, Neaera, it must be the Tetrarch, and I’m not ready. Tell Strabo to seat him in the peristylium and pour him wine and say that I shall be ready soon.”

But the visitor was not the Tetrarch of Galilee. Strabo announced that the Emperor’s stepdaughter was in the atrium.

“Claudia! How wonderful! Show her into the solarium, and tell her I’ll join her in a minute. Neaera, hurry and fetch me my robe. We can sit and talk while you do my hair.”

“I can’t stay for more than a few minutes,” the Emperor’s stepdaughter announced when, a moment later, Herodias greeted her in the solarium. “Longinus is going to take me out to the chariot races, and he may be waiting for me right now. But I wanted to tell you, Herodias....” She paused, her expression suddenly questioning. “Bona Dea, I’ll bet that the Tetrarch is taking you there, too, and I’ve caught you in the middle of getting dressed.”

“Yes, you’re right, but there’s no hurry, Claudia. I can finish quickly. And if I’m not ready when he comes, he can wait.”

“So,” Claudia laughed, “you already have the Tetrarch so entranced that he will wait patiently while you dress.”

“Not patiently, perhaps, but he’ll wait ... without protesting.”

“Then it won’t be long before you’ll be marrying him and leaving for Palestine.” She said it teasingly, but immediately her expression changed to reveal concern. “But, Herodias, when you do, what will his present wife say; how will she take it? And his subjects in Galilee? Doesn’t the Jewish religion forbid a man’s having more than one living wife?”

“The daughter of King Aretas will resent his bringing another wife to Tiberias, no doubt”—Herodias smiled coyly—“if I do marry him. And as for the religion of the Jews, well, my dear, you must know that neither Antipas nor I follow its tenets too closely.”

“Of course. But I wasn’t thinking of you or the Tetrarch as much as I was of how his present wife would react. And the people of Galilee, too, how will they feel about his having two living wives, one of whom is his niece. Won’t it offend them?”

“Yes, if we marry, it will offend a great many of them. But my grandfather, old King Herod, father of Philip and Antipas, had ten wives, remember, nine of them at the same time. The Jews didn’t like that, but what could they do? No, we aren’t too concerned about what the Jews will think. But Aretas’ daughter probably will try to cause trouble. Not because Antipas will be having a new bedfellow, but because she won’t any longer be Tetrarchess. Being replaced will make her furious. She cares not a fig for the Tetrarch’s bedding with other women; she even gave him a harem of Arabian women, Antipas told me.” She paused, smiling. “Claudia, you remember that black-haired woman at the banquet the other night, the one called Mary of Magdala?” Claudia nodded. “Well, Antipas told me that his wife not only knew that Mary was coming with him to Rome but actually suggested that he bring her. He said his wife and Mary were good friends even though the Tetrarchess knew quite well what the relationship was between him and Mary.”

“Maybe the Tetrarchess sent this Mary with Antipas to keep his eyes from straying to other women, like you, for example.”

“Keeping his eyes from straying would be an impossible task.”

“Do you think Mary is jealous of you now?”

“That woman!” Herodias tossed her head. “Of course not. Nor am I jealous of her. I really don’t care if he spends an occasional night in her bed. All I want is to be Tetrarchess. If he marries me, I shall insist, though, that he divorce that Arabian woman. No, our concern, Claudia”—she lowered her voice and glanced cautiously around the room, but Neaera had left the solarium—“is not what the Jews in Galilee, or his present wife, or this woman from Magdala will think, but rather what the Prefect himself will think. Sejanus could cause us much trouble. But now everything seems to be all right. Antipas assures me that we needn’t worry about it any longer. He says that he and Sejanus have reached an understanding.”

“And I have a good idea of what that understanding is based upon,” Claudia said. “But what about your husband, Herodias? What will Philip think?”

“Philip! Hah!” She sneered. “What Philip thinks is of no concern. I’ve never really cared for him anyway. It’s a little hard to feel romantic toward a man who’s your half uncle, you know.”

“But Antipas, too, is your half uncle, isn’t he? And he’s Philip’s half brother as well. Hmm.” She smiled mischievously. “That makes him both Salome’s half uncle and half great-uncle, doesn’t it? That is, if Philip’s her father.”

“Well, yes,” Herodias admitted. “I suppose he’s her father. Anyway, he thinks so. But he’s also an old man, a generation older than I.” She said it with evident sarcasm. “Antipas is old too, of course, but remember, my dear, he’s the Tetrarch of Galilee, while Philip is only a tiresome, fast aging, disowned son of a dead king, dependent for his very existence on the favor of a crotchety Emperor and a conniving Prefect. Antipas is old and fat, Claudia, but he has power and an opulence far in excess of Philip’s, and a title, too. And some day, perhaps not too far away, with my pushing him, who knows, he may be a king like his father was.” She shrugged. “As for romance, the world’s filled with younger men.”

Claudia studied the face of her Idumaean friend. “Herodias, you worship power, don’t you?”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Herodias replied tartly. “Power and wealth, you forget, are rightfully mine. I am the granddaughter of Mariamne, King Herod’s royal wife, daughter of the Maccabeans, while Philip’s mother was only a high priest’s daughter and the mother of Antipas was a Samaritan woman. I am descended from the true royalty in Israel.” Her irritation faded as quickly as it had come. “You say I worship power. What else, pray, is there for one to worship? Your pale, anemic Roman gods? Bah! You don’t worship them yourself. Why then should I? I’m not even a Roman. Silly superstition, your Roman gods, and well you know it, Claudia. And the gods of the Greeks are no better. Nor the Egyptians. If I had to embrace the superstition of any religion I would be inclined to worship the Yahweh of the Jews. He’s the only god who makes any sense at all to me, but even he is too fire-breathing and vindictive for my liking. But I’m not a Jew, Claudia, even though I am descended on one side from the royal Maccabeans. I’m a Herod, and the Herods are Idumaeans. The Jews call them pagans, and by the Jews’ standards, pagans we are.” For a moment she was thoughtful, and Claudia said nothing to break the silence. “But I suppose you’re right, Claudia,” she said at last. “If I have any god at all, he’s the two-headed god of power and money. And if the Tetrarch were your Longinus, well, my god would have a third head, pleasure. I envy you, Claudia! By the way,” she added, as she poured wine for her guest and herself, “may I be so bold, my dear, as to inquire how things between you and the centurion stand just now?”