“Yes, many years!” sighed the old man; “and cursed be the day whereon I succeeded Valerius Gratus in the government of Judea! My name is unlucky; a fatality is attached to all who bear it. One of my ancestors left the stamp of infamy on the name of Roman when he passed under the yoke in the Caudine Forks, after fighting against the Samnites; another perished in Parthia, fighting against Phraates; and I—I—”
The wine remained untasted, while his unbidden tears fell into the cup.
“Well! you—what have you done? Some injustice of Caligula exiles you to Vienne; and for what crime? I read your affair in the tabularium. You were denounced to the emperor by your enemy, Vitellius, the prefect of Syria; you punished a few Hebrew rebels who, after assassinating some noble Samaritans, entrenched themselves on Mount Garizim. You were accused of doing this out of hatred to the Jews.”
“No, no, Albinus; by all the gods! it is not the injustice of Cæsar which afflicts me.”
“What exactions did you impose?”
“None.”
“Did you carry off any Jewish women?”
“Never!”
“Did you gibbet any Roman citizens, as Verres did in Sicily?”
Pilate did not reply.