HEAR
ME,
PILATE!

LeGETTE BLYTHE

HOLT, RINEHART AND WINSTON · NEW YORK

Copyright © 1961 by LeGette Blythe

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

Published simultaneously in Canada by Holt, Rinehart and Winston of Canada, Limited.

First Edition

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 61-11599

Designer: Ernst Reichl

81003-0211

Printed in the United States of America

FOR ANNE AND JULIE

Rome

1

The capricious flame spattered darts of thin yellow light on walls and floor as the doors swung gently closed. Claudia turned from her tall, deeply tanned, uniformed escort to address the servant who had let them in.

“I won’t be needing you tonight, Tullia. You may go now. But wait ... before you leave, we shan’t be wanting all these lamps. Put out all but that one”—she pointed—“and then you may go to bed. Poor thing, I know you’re tired.” She peered beyond the wide archway opening onto the peristylium. “I see you left a lamp burning in my bedroom. Good. Well, then, just put these others out.

“I don’t know what I’d do without her,” Claudia said as the servant snuffed out the flame and, bowing to them, disappeared into the now darkened corridor. “She’s a treasure, Longinus, intelligent, faithful, and, most important, she’s utterly loyal. She would die before betraying me. She’s Phoebe’s daughter, and Phoebe, you know, hanged herself rather than be a witness against my mother. Tullia, I’m sure, would do the same thing for me.” She pointed toward the peristylium. “Let’s sit out there in the moonlight. It seems a little warm in here, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” he answered. “I was hoping you’d suggest that. It would be a shame to waste that moon, and the fountain and flowers.” He was glancing around the luxuriously furnished room. “By the gods, Claudia, you have a handsome place. It’s been a long time since I was here, but it seems more lavish. Did Aemilius have it redecorated?”

“Bona Dea, no. That insipid oaf? What has he ever done for me?” She acted mildly piqued but then smiled. “It has been redecorated, but I had it done. This apartment’s actually an extension of the Imperial Palace, you remember. My beloved stepfather, the great Emperor Tiberius,” she said sarcastically, “had it built for his little girls. When he moved them out to Capri with him—a new group, of course, for several of us were too old by then—he allowed me to stay here. But I moved away when I married Aemilius; we went out to Baiae. After we were divorced, though, I returned here, and that’s when I had it redecorated. But the place was built for the Emperor’s little girls.” She paused, leaned against a high-backed bronze chair. “You understand?”

“I’ve heard stories, yes.”

“Well, when poor Mother sent me to him from Pandateria—you know I was born on that dreadful island soon after Grandfather Augustus banished her there, and I really think she sent me to Tiberius to see that I got away from it. Anyway, he put me in here with the other little girls. This wing connects with his private quarters, or once did. There’s a wing very much like this one on the other side; that’s where he kept his boys.” She shrugged; he sensed that it was more a shudder. “Tiberius, thank the gods, spent more time over on the boys’ side. There’s a small passage-way—few persons probably know about it now—that opened from his quarters into my dressing room. It was all quite convenient. But when the old monster moved out to Capri, I had the door removed and the opening bricked up.”

“I’ve heard stories about the Emperor. Was he ... did he really ... I mean, you know, Claudia, did he actually do ... does he, I mean...?”

She laughed. “Yes, he did. And I presume he still does; they say old men are worse that way than young men. But he no longer bothers me and hasn’t for years. I’m much too old for him; he likes them very young, or did. He’s an old rake, all right, though he can’t be guilty of all the things they’ve charged him with. Out at Capri now I really think he’s more interested in his astrologers and philosophers than in his little girls and his painted pretty boys. But, well”—she shrugged—“there are things I do know about him, experiences I myself have had with him, and although I’m not close blood kin to him, my mother, poor thing, was his wife though she was that only because her father forced her to marry him.” They had crossed into the peristylium, and she paused to face him, smiling. “But let’s talk no more of the Emperor and me, Longinus; by the gods, there are pleasanter subjects.”

“I agree; there are pleasanter subjects than Tiberius.” They walked around a tall potted plant and sat down. Claudia leaned back against the plush cushions of the couch; she pushed her jewel-studded golden sandals out from beneath the folds of her white silk stola. The moonlight danced in the jeweled clasps that fastened the straps above her shoulders, while the gold mesh of her girdle glittered brightly. For a moment she silently studied the fountain. Then suddenly she sat forward.

“Forgive me, Longinus. Would you like some wine and perhaps a wafer? I have some excellent Campania, both Falernian and Surrentine, in the other room. Or perhaps you’re hungry....”

“No, no, Claudia, thank you. I made a pig of myself at Herod’s dinner tonight.”

“But it was a lavish banquet, wasn’t it?” Her smile indicated a sudden secret amusement. “I wonder what Sejanus will think of it.”

“Sejanus?” Then he smiled with her. “Oh, I see what you mean. He’s going to wonder where Herod got the money. And why Herod gave the dinner for Herodias.”

Claudia laughed. “Well, she’s his favorite niece, isn’t she?”

“She surely must be. But she’s also his half brother’s wife.” Longinus paused thoughtfully. “I hardly think, however, that Sejanus will be greatly concerned with the domestic affairs of the Herods.”

“As long as they keep the money flowing into his treasury, hmm?”

“Exactly. And you’re right. Tonight’s lavish feast may cause the Prefect to suspect that the flow is being partially diverted. Our friend Herod Antipas ought to have given a more modest affair. No doubt he was trying, though, to impress Herodias.”

“No doubt,” Claudia repeated. “But it was hardly necessary. She wants to marry him and be Tetrarchess.”

Longinus looked surprised. “Then you think Antipas will take her away from Philip?”

“I’m sure he will. He already has, in fact.”

“By the gods, that’s odd. That Arabian woman he left in Tiberias is much more beautiful. And so is that Jewish woman he brought along with him to Rome. What did you say her name was?”

“I noticed you had eyes for her all evening.” Claudia’s tone, he thought, was not altogether flippant, and that pleased him. “Her name’s Mary,” she continued, “and she lives at Magdala on the Sea of Galilee just above Tiberias. But of course you know where Tiberias is. And I suspect you might remember Mary.” Her smile was coy and slyly questioning. “Herodias says that this Mary is being pursued by half the wealthy men in Galilee for the artistry with which she performs her bedroom chores.”

“I must confess”—Longinus grinned—“that unfortunately I am numbered among the other half. But what does Herodias think of her beloved uncle’s amours? Isn’t she jealous?”

“Oh, I’m sure she is ... what woman wouldn’t be? But she knows that in such activities she must share him. Antipas, I understand, is a true Herod.”

“Yes, and I have a strong suspicion that in such activities, as you express it, Herodias is a Herod, too.” He sat forward, serious again. “But what puzzles me, Claudia, is how I happened to be one of Antipas’ guests tonight. It must have been entirely through your arranging, but why on earth are you involved in a social way with any of these Jews?”

Claudia laughed. “Herodias and I have long been friends. You see, after her grandfather, old Herod the Great they called him, had her father and her uncle, his own sons, killed”—she involuntarily shuddered—“Herodias and her brother Agrippa were virtually brought up at the Emperor’s court. Agrippa’s a spoiled, arrogant, worthless spendthrift. Old Herod sent his other sons to Rome, too, to be educated—Antipas and Philip, Herodias’ husband now, and still another Philip....” She broke off and gestured to indicate futility. “You see, Longinus, old Herod had ten wives and only the gods know how many children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Do you know much about the Herods? They’re older than we, of course.”

Longinus shook his head. “No, nor do I care to. I think maybe I have seen some of them a few times, including this Philip, but I happily surrender to you any share I may have in any Jew.”

“But, Longinus, the Herods aren’t orthodox Jews. They even say that some of them, including Herodias and her no-good brother, are more Roman than we Romans. They’ve all probably spent more time in Rome than in Palestine. Why, they have about as much regard for the Jewish religion as you and I have for our Roman gods. Actually, Longinus, the Herods are Idumaeans, and they’re quite different from the rest of the Jews. The Jews are strict in their religious observances.” Abruptly she stopped. “But why, Bona Dea, am I telling you about the Jews? You have lived out there in Palestine, and I’ve never set foot near it. Your father has vast properties in that region, while mine....” She lifted a knee to the couch as she twisted her body to face him, her dark eyes deadly serious in the silver brightness of the moon. “Longinus, do you know about my father?”

“No, Claudia, nothing.”

“Of course you don’t.” She smiled bitterly. “That was a silly question. I don’t even know myself. I’ve often wondered if Mother did. But haven’t you heard stories, Longinus?”

“I was rather young, remember, when you were born.” But immediately he was serious. “Gossip, Claudia, yes. I’ve heard people talk. But gossip has never interested me.” A sly grin lightened his expression. “I’m more interested in your father’s handiwork than in who he was.”

“Prettily said, Centurion.” She patted the back of his bronzed hand. “But surely you must have heard that my father was the son of Mark Antony and Cleopatra?”

“Well, yes, I believe I have. But why...?”

“And that my other grandfather, the Emperor Augustus, had him killed when he got Mother pregnant with me and then banished her to that damnably barren Pandateria?”

“I may have heard something about it, Claudia, but what of it? What difference does it make?”

“Do you mean to tell me that it makes no difference to you that I’m a bastard, Longinus, and the discarded plaything of a lecherous old man, even though that lecherous old man happens to be the second Emperor of Rome? Does it make no difference to a son of the distinguished Tullius clan...?”

“And isn’t your slave maid, too, a member of this distinguished Tullius clan?”

His quick parrying of the question amused her. “It’s funny,” she said, “I hadn’t thought of Tullia that way. Her grandfather belonged to one of the Tullii, no doubt. But Tullia is actually not Roman; she’s Jewish. Her grandfather was one of those Jews brought as slaves from Jerusalem by Pompey. Tullia is even faithful to the Jewish religion. But that’s her only fault, and it’s one I’m glad to overlook. Sometimes I allow her to go to one of the synagogues over in the Janiculum Hill section.”

Longinus reached for her hand. “Nevertheless, Claudia, you must know that many so-called distinguished Romans are legitimate only because their mothers happened to be married, though not to their fathers, when they were conceived?”

“Yes, I suppose so. No doubt you’ve heard the story of what Mother said to a friend who asked her one day how all five of the children she had during the time she was married to General Agrippa happened to look so much like him.”

“If I have, I don’t recall it. What was her answer?”

“‘I never take on a passenger unless the vessel is already full.’”

“I can see how that would be effective,” the centurion observed dryly. “But then how do you explain ... well, yourself?”

“After General Agrippa died, Augustus made Tiberius divorce his wife and marry Mother. But they were totally incompatible, and I can see how, under the circumstances, things turned out the way they did. Tiberius left Rome and went out to Rhodes to live. That pleased Mother; she was young and beautiful, and she was still the most sought-after of her set in Rome. So, after Tiberius hadn’t been near her bed for years and a succession of more interesting men had, it was discovered, to the horror of my conventional and publicly pious grandfather and the delight of Rome’s gossips, that I was expected. So the Emperor had the man who was supposed to be my father”—she smiled—“you know, I’ve always rather hoped he was—he had him executed, and he sent Mother off to Pandateria.” She threw out her hands, palms up. “That’s the story of Mother’s misfortune, me. But you must have heard about all this years ago?”

He ignored her question. “You her misfortune? Don’t be silly. You were rather, I’d say, her gift to Rome.”

“You do put things prettily, Longinus. Nevertheless, my mother was banished because of me.”

“But, by the gods, how could you help it, Claudia?” He caught her chin and turned her face around so that the moon shone full upon it. “Aren’t you still the granddaughter of the first Emperor of Rome on one side and a queen and triumvir on the other? Aren’t you still the stepdaughter of the Emperor Tiberius? Those are distinguished bloodlines, by Jove! What nobler heritage could anyone have? And aren’t you the most beautiful woman in Rome? What, by mighty Jupiter, Claudia, do you lack?”

“At the moment,” she answered, her serious air suddenly vanished, “a husband.”

“A situation you could quickly remedy.”

“A situation that Tiberius or Sejanus could quickly remedy, you mean, and may attempt to do soon, and not to my liking, I suspect. They may even pick another Aemilius for me, the gods forbid. Seriously, Longinus, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn right now that Sejanus has already arranged it. He and the Emperor are desperately afraid, I suspect, that I may scandalize Rome, as Mother did, if they don’t get me married quickly before I have a baby and no husband to blame it on.”

“But, Claudia....”

“By the Bountiful Mother, Longinus,” she laughed, “I’m not expecting, if that’s what you think. And what’s more, I don’t expect to be expecting ... any time soon. But I know Sejanus, and I know Tiberius. It’s all politics, Centurion. And politics must be served, just as it was served in my grandfather’s day and at every other time since man first knew the taste of power. The same hypocritical public behavior, the same affected virtues propped right alongside the same winked-at corruption.” She swung her legs around and stood up. “But enough of this speech-making. I’m going to bring us some of the Campania.”

She returned with the wine on a silver tray and handed him one of the two slender goblets. He held the glass up to the light and slowly revolved its gracefully thin stem between his thumb and forefinger.

“Don’t you like Campania?”

“Very much,” he answered. “But it’s the glass that interests me. This goblet comes from my father’s plant near Tyre.”

“Oh, really?” She smiled. “I’m glad. I knew they were made in Phoenicia, but I didn’t know they came from Senator Piso’s glassworks. Herodias gave me several pieces from a set Antipas brought her. They are lovely.” She lifted her own goblet and admired it in the moonlight. “Such beautiful craftsmanship. You know, I’ve never understood how they can be blown so perfectly. And I love the delicate coloring. Now that I know they come from your father’s factory, they’re all the more interesting to me, and valued.” She set the goblet down and sat quietly for a moment studying the resplendent full moon. “Longinus, I’m so glad you’re back in Rome,” she said at last. “It seems you’ve been away in Germania, and before that in Palestine, for such a long time. Did you ever think of me while you were away?”

“Yes. And did you ... of me?”

“Oh, yes, often, and very much. In spite of Aemilius.” She picked up the goblet, then set it down again on the tripod and leaned against his shoulder. “By the Bountiful Mother Ceres”—she bent forward, slipping her feet out of the sandals—“I can’t get comfortable, Longinus. I’m too warm. This stola’s heavy, and I’m so ... so laced.” She stood up. “Wait here; I’ll only be a minute.”

Diagonally across from them a thin sliver of lamplight shone through a crack in the doorway to Claudia’s bedroom. She stepped into her sandals, walked around the spraying fountain, and entered the room. “I won’t close the door entirely,” she called back, as she swung it three-fourths shut. “That way we can talk while I’m getting into something more comfortable.”

“I really should be going,” Longinus said. “I have early duty tomorrow.”

“Oh, not yet, please. Do wait. I’ll be out in a moment. Pour yourself some wine.”

He poured another glass, sipped from it, then set the goblet on the tray and settled back against the cushions. His gaze returned to the widened rectangle of light in her doorway. In the center of it there was a sudden movement. Surely, he thought, she isn’t going to change directly in front of the open door. Then he realized that he was looking into a long mirror on the wall at right angles to the doorway; he was seeing her image in the polished bronze. In stepping back from the door she had taken a position in the corner of the room just at the spot where the angle was right for the mirror to reflect her image to anyone seated on the couch outside.

“By all the gods!” Longinus sat forward.

But now she had disappeared. The mirror showed only a corner of her dressing table with its profusion of containers—vials of perfumes, oils, ointments, jars of creams—and scissors, tweezers, strigils, razors, he presumed them to be, though because of the distance from them and the table’s disarray he could not see them clearly. Now they were suddenly hidden behind the brightness of the stola as the young woman again came into view. She dropped a garment across a chair, then turned to face the dressing table and the mirror above it. The light shone full upon her back. Both stola and girdle behind were cut low, and the cold shimmering whiteness of the gown accentuated the smooth warmth of her flesh tones. Now her fingers were busy at the jeweled fastenings of the girdle; the light flashed in the stones of her rings. Quickly the girdle came off, and her hands went to one shoulder as her bracelets, their stones glimmering, slipped along her arms. The clasp gave; the strap fell to reveal warm flesh to her waist. She unfastened the other strap, and the stola slipped to the floor. Bending quickly, she picked up the voluminous garment and, turning, laid it with the girdle across the chair.

“Jove!” he exclaimed. “By all the great gods!” In the strong but flickering light of the wall lamp, Claudia stood divested now of all her clothing except for the sheer black silk of her scant undergarments.

“Are you still there, Longinus?” she called out. “And did I hear you say something?”

“I’m here,” he answered. “But really, Claudia, I should be going.” He hoped his voice did not betray his suddenly mounting tension.

“No, not yet. Just a minute. I’m coming now.”

She reached for a dressing robe and hurriedly swept it around her. Fastening the belt loosely about her waist, she turned toward the doorway and stepped quickly back into the peristylium. He stood up to meet her. Gently she pushed him to the couch and sat beside him.

“Please don’t go yet, Longinus. You’ve been away in Germania so long, and I couldn’t have you to myself at the banquet. There’s so much to talk about, to ask you about.” She leaned back and snuggled against him. Then she looked down at her knees, round and pink under the sheerness of the pale rose robe. “Bona Dea!” She clamped her knees together and doubled the robe over them. “I didn’t realize this robe was so transparent, Longinus. But it is comfortable, and there is only the moonlight out here.” She reached out, caught his hand, squeezed it, and released it. “And you can lean back and look only at the moon.”

“But in Germania we had the moon.”

“Yes, and women. I’ve heard much about the women of Germania, and seen them, too. Women with yellow hair and complexions like the bloom of the apricot or the skin of the pomegranate. And women free for the asking, eh, Centurion?”

“Not often for the asking. Sometimes for the taking.” He pulled her close and felt through his tunic the quick surge of her warmth against him. “But tonight is not Germania and women whose hair is the color of ripening grain, Claudia. Tonight is Rome and a woman with hair as black as a raven’s wing and skin fair and smooth and warm and greatly tempting.”

“A woman maybe for the asking, or the taking?” Quickly she twisted out from the arm about her waist, and her gay, impish laughter broke upon the fountain’s sleepy murmuring. “I didn’t know you were also a poet, Longinus.” She reached for the pitcher. “Wine to toast the weaver of beautiful words,” she said, filling the goblets; she handed him his, then held hers aloft. “I drink to the new Catullus. ‘Let us live, Lesbia mine, and love.’

“How did he say it...?

“And all the mumbling of harsh old men

“We shall reckon as a pennyworth.

“And then, well....

“Give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred,

“Then another thousand, then a second hundred,

“And still another thousand, then a hundred.

“It goes on,” she added, “but that’s all I can repeat. Now drink with me to your own pretty words.”

Longinus laughed and sipped the wine. “Were his words quoted by you for me ... from you? Remember that Catullus later wrote of his Lesbia:

“A woman’s words to hungry lover said

“Should be upon the flowing winds inscribed,

“Upon swift streams engraved.”

She leaned out from the shadow into which the retreating moon had pushed them. “Maybe they were quoted to spur your asking, Longinus, or”—she paused and smiled demurely—“your taking.” Then quickly she sank back against him. “You think I’m a blatantly bold hussy, don’t you?”

“No, Claudia,” he smiled, “just experienced. And beautiful, and ... and very tempting.”

“Experienced, yes, but believe me, not promiscuous, Longinus. By the Bountiful Mother, I’m not that way, in spite of my experience.” The teasing was gone from her eyes. “In spite of everything, not that.”

She snuggled against his arm outstretched along the back of the couch, and gently he half turned her to let her head down upon his lap. Her eyes were wide, and in each he saw a luminous and trembling small, round moon; her mouth was open, and against his thigh he felt the quickened pounding of her heart. As he bent over her, she reached up and drew him, her hot palm cupping the back of his cropped head, down hard upon her lips tasting sweet of the Campania and desperately eager and burning.

He raised his face from hers and lifted her slightly to relieve the pressure of her body on his arm. She drew up her feet and, with knees bent, braced them against the end of the short couch. Her robe slipped open, and she lay still, her eyes closed, her lips apart.

His throat tightened, and he felt a prickling sensation moving up and down his spine, coursing outward to his arms and past tingling palms to his fingertips. Deftly he eased his legs from beneath her; lowering her head to the couch, he stood up.

“Oh, Longinus, please, not now,” she pleaded, her voice tense, her tone entreating. “Please don’t leave me now.”

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.”

“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?”

“That’s why I came to see you, Herodias. I wanted to thank you for a most enjoyable evening too, but mainly I wanted to tell you that Longinus and I have—how did you express it—reached an understanding.”

“Wonderful!” Herodias beamed. “Are you going to marry him, Claudia, or are you...?” She hesitated, grinning.

“Am I going to marry him, or will we just continue as we are without the formality of marriage vows?” She laughed. “Yes, I’m planning to marry him. But this is what I wanted to tell you, Herodias. I’m going out with him to Palestine. He’s being sent there on some sort of special mission by the Prefect Sejanus.”

“By all the gods, that is wonderful, Claudia! Then we’ll be able to see each other out there. Where will you be stationed? At Caesarea? Jerusalem? Maybe even Tiberias?”

“He hasn’t received his detailed orders yet. But I’ll be able to visit you at the palace anyway. I hear it’s a magnificent place.”

“It must be. I’m anxious to see it myself; you know, I haven’t been near the place since it was finished. And it will be wonderful to have you and Longinus to visit us.” But suddenly her expression sobered. “Claudia, has the Emperor given his permission for you to marry Longinus? And does the Prefect approve?”

“Neither of them knows about it yet. But I’m sure they’ll both be glad to see me married and away from Rome. Longinus is going to speak to Sejanus about us.”

They heard voices in the atrium. Claudia stood up quickly. “That must be the Tetrarch. By Bona Dea, I didn’t realize I was staying this long; I must be going. Longinus will be waiting for me. Herodias, surely we’ll see one another again before either of us sails for Palestine?”

“Yes, we must. And when we do, we’ll both know more about our plans.”

Neaera entered. “Has the Tetrarch come?” Herodias asked.

“No, Mistress, it’s a soldier sent by the Prefect. He seeks the Lady Claudia. He awaits her in the atrium.”

The soldier, one of the Praetorian Guardsmen, announced that the Prefect Sejanus was at that moment waiting for Claudia in her own apartment at the Imperial Palace. He added that he hoped they might start immediately; he feared the Prefect might be getting impatient.

But when they reached her house and she entered the atrium to greet the Prefect of the Praetorian Guard, Sejanus bowed low and smiled reassuringly. “I come from an audience with your beloved stepfather, the Emperor, at Capri,” he said. “He commanded me to bear to you his esteem and fatherly love and to offer his congratulations upon the most excellent plans he has projected—with my warm approval, let me hasten to assure you—for your forthcoming marriage.”

“For my marriage? But, Prefect Sejanus....” Claudia paused, striving to maintain outward composure.

“I know it comes as quite a surprise to you. But the arrangements have been completed, and I’ve come here to tell you immediately on my return from Capri. You and your future husband are the only ones who are being informed now of the Emperor’s plans. But you will be married soon, even before you and your husband leave for his tour of duty in Palestine.”

“In Palestine!”

How could the Emperor have known about Longinus and me? The Prefect? Of course, that’s how. Sejanus knew that Longinus was with me at the banquet Antipas gave for Herodias; he knew that Longinus was at my house later that evening when he sent Cornelius out to fetch him, or he learned of it when they came afterward to his palace. Old Sejanus must not be so bad, after all. Nor is the Emperor, either. Perhaps I have been too severe in judging them. Perhaps they both have their good moments, their generous impulses....

“Yes, to Palestine.” The Prefect was speaking. “He has promised your hand in marriage to a Roman army officer who, if he follows my orders implicitly and remains completely loyal to me, may shortly be not only a man of wealth but also a leader of influence in the affairs of the Empire.”