rode to his father-in-law’s country villa in Samnia. Proculus Porcius was gone way on business, but his daughter was there, sitting down to breakfast as Pilate arrived.
She greeted him with an affectionate but proper Roman kiss. “Greetings, husband,” she said. “It pleases me to see you well again.”
“I am feeling much better,” Pilate said. He returned her kiss with enthusiasm and walked her outside, away from the ears of her father’s servants. “Does anyone suspect that I have been away?”
Porcia smiled. “No!” she said. “I had your young slave Democles take your place, and brought him soup twice a day. His groans from the sickroom were very convincing! I told everyone you had the spotted pox.”
Pilate beamed at her. “Very clever,” he said. “That would definitely keep visitors away! But how shall we explain the absence of sores?”
She looked at him shrewdly. “Sometimes the malady only afflicts certain parts of the body,” she said. “I told them that you were mainly broken out on your lower torso, with just a few small spots on your face. We may have to—well, do something to create those spots, though.”
Pilate winced. “I suppose you are right. Two or three pokes with a burning taper should generate pretty convincing blisters on my face, and perhaps one or two on my shoulder, where my toga leaves it bare. I shall ask double reward of Tiberius for this!”
She kissed him again. “Fear not, my dear,” she said. “I will not mar your manly beauty!” With that, they retired to their bedchamber, and did not emerge until the next day.
CHAPTER SIX
“By the gods, man, what happened to your face?” Tiberius asked in horror.
Pilate smiled instinctively, and then winced. His face was marked with a half dozen or so angry red blisters, with several more on his shoulder, where his toga left it bare. “We needed a convenient reason why I have not been seen in public for the last month,” he said. “A case of the spotted pox seemed as likely an excuse as any.”
The Emperor looked at him and shuddered. “How on earth did you . . .” he began.
“A lit taper, and the steady hand of my wife,” said Pilate. “She assures me they will heal with minimal scarring.”
The Emperor looked at Pilate again, and slowly broke into a rare smile. “I shudder to think what my accursed wife would do if I let her get a lit taper anywhere near my face! Now, tell me—what of your errand?”
“Piso is dead,” Pilate said. “By his own hand, leaving a note full of remorse for the death of Germanicus and the grief he caused the Imperial family.”
“Well done, sir!” Tiberius said. “I shall see you elected Consul for this!”
Pilate bowed. “It is my pleasure to serve Rome,” he said.
The Emperor nodded. “And serve you have,” he said. “Tomorrow I shall greet Germanicus’ wife and children and conduct them to the funeral games that are being held in his honor. I should ask you and your wife to be part of the official entourage for the day. I shall remain in the city for at least another month or so, until I am sure that the public unrest is quieted. Then I shall return to Capri. The consular elections are a ways off, but I shall have Sejanus begin quietly lobbying my clients in your favor—the fool needs to be put to work, to atone for his dreadful error in judgment!”
Pilate’s mind was racing. Consul of Rome! In the days of the Republic, the consuls had been chief executives, leading the Senate, conducting foreign policy, and commanding the armies in time of war. Since Augustus had ended the Republic, all the old offices were still in place, but much reduced in power and authority. But still, being consul ennobled his family for life, and guaranteed him the governance of a nice, profitable province when his yearlong tenure was up. His years of diligent service to Tiberius had finally paid off—Pilate would no longer be a minor noble from an honorable but obscure plebeian
She greeted him with an affectionate but proper Roman kiss. “Greetings, husband,” she said. “It pleases me to see you well again.”
“I am feeling much better,” Pilate said. He returned her kiss with enthusiasm and walked her outside, away from the ears of her father’s servants. “Does anyone suspect that I have been away?”
Porcia smiled. “No!” she said. “I had your young slave Democles take your place, and brought him soup twice a day. His groans from the sickroom were very convincing! I told everyone you had the spotted pox.”
Pilate beamed at her. “Very clever,” he said. “That would definitely keep visitors away! But how shall we explain the absence of sores?”
She looked at him shrewdly. “Sometimes the malady only afflicts certain parts of the body,” she said. “I told them that you were mainly broken out on your lower torso, with just a few small spots on your face. We may have to—well, do something to create those spots, though.”
Pilate winced. “I suppose you are right. Two or three pokes with a burning taper should generate pretty convincing blisters on my face, and perhaps one or two on my shoulder, where my toga leaves it bare. I shall ask double reward of Tiberius for this!”
She kissed him again. “Fear not, my dear,” she said. “I will not mar your manly beauty!” With that, they retired to their bedchamber, and did not emerge until the next day.
CHAPTER SIX
“By the gods, man, what happened to your face?” Tiberius asked in horror.
Pilate smiled instinctively, and then winced. His face was marked with a half dozen or so angry red blisters, with several more on his shoulder, where his toga left it bare. “We needed a convenient reason why I have not been seen in public for the last month,” he said. “A case of the spotted pox seemed as likely an excuse as any.”
The Emperor looked at him and shuddered. “How on earth did you . . .” he began.
“A lit taper, and the steady hand of my wife,” said Pilate. “She assures me they will heal with minimal scarring.”
The Emperor looked at Pilate again, and slowly broke into a rare smile. “I shudder to think what my accursed wife would do if I let her get a lit taper anywhere near my face! Now, tell me—what of your errand?”
“Piso is dead,” Pilate said. “By his own hand, leaving a note full of remorse for the death of Germanicus and the grief he caused the Imperial family.”
“Well done, sir!” Tiberius said. “I shall see you elected Consul for this!”
Pilate bowed. “It is my pleasure to serve Rome,” he said.
The Emperor nodded. “And serve you have,” he said. “Tomorrow I shall greet Germanicus’ wife and children and conduct them to the funeral games that are being held in his honor. I should ask you and your wife to be part of the official entourage for the day. I shall remain in the city for at least another month or so, until I am sure that the public unrest is quieted. Then I shall return to Capri. The consular elections are a ways off, but I shall have Sejanus begin quietly lobbying my clients in your favor—the fool needs to be put to work, to atone for his dreadful error in judgment!”
Pilate’s mind was racing. Consul of Rome! In the days of the Republic, the consuls had been chief executives, leading the Senate, conducting foreign policy, and commanding the armies in time of war. Since Augustus had ended the Republic, all the old offices were still in place, but much reduced in power and authority. But still, being consul ennobled his family for life, and guaranteed him the governance of a nice, profitable province when his yearlong tenure was up. His years of diligent service to Tiberius had finally paid off—Pilate would no longer be a minor noble from an honorable but obscure plebeian
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