town, a litter of bits and pieces hung on the walls at random, like dandruff clinging to a flushed scalp.
‘It’s here,’ he said, nervous that it would not strike the girls, for really it was not much, a mere plaque, a mere inscription, a trivial witness from the past. He couldn’t judge children, their mixture of innocence and sophistication, their honesty and their mendacity.
The group shuffled round and looked up to where hepointed. And the word
Pontii
stood out from the epigraphic muddle, some reference to a local family, the
gens
Pontii.
‘So what?’
What, indeed? The only evidence, if evidence it be, for the Italian existence of a lesser colonial administrator with a chip on his shoulder and a pushy wife: Pontius Pilate. The most famous Roman there has ever been. There’s no competition really, is there? Forget Julius Caesar or Tiberius. How many Christians are there in the world? A thousand million? Apart from the Virgin Mary, Pontius Pilate is the only human being mentioned in the creed. So his name is on the lips of every single one of those thousand million Christians, every time he or she goes to church. That’s fame for you.
‘This is where he came from. This was his home town.’ And added ‘possibly’,
sotto voce
, lest it ruin his paltry story.
So Leo told the Brewer family and their friends about Pilate on that early spring day at Sutri, when the wind was colder than it ought to have been and he was eager for Madeleine’s attention. He talked of Pontius Pilate to the girls, to Madeleine, to Jack if he was listening, to Howard and Gemma if they cared. He gave him some kind of appearance – hair cut short, chin shaved clean: a sharp contrast to his bearded subjects – and sketched out a character of sorts – the kind of man who believed in the Republican virtues, in the rule of law, in duty to the state and honour to the ancestors. A man who had made a useful marriage and had now stepped on to the first rung in the ladder of imperial ambition. Pontius Pilatus, a knight of the equestrian class, who might now aspire to one of the greatest prizes of all – Egypt. Pontius Pilate, who gained the favour of the Emperor’s adviser Sejanus and was sentto Judaea in the summer of the twelfth year of the reign of Tiberius.
‘Rather like British India,’ said Jack, who
had
been listening.
‘Exactly like British India,’ Leo agreed. ‘The same fat, idle princelings sending their children to Rome or London for education – Herod’s children all went there. There were the same strange religions, the same holy men with mad expressions and a dangerous role in politics, the same local politicians with their eye on the main chance. And the same kind of blundering colonial administration.’
‘You could use it as a case study at the FCO,’ said Howard.
‘Poor Pilate,’ said Catherine.
‘Why poor?’
‘Because he had no choice,’ she said, with the sudden insight of the young. ‘Jesus had to die, so Pilate had no choice. Neither did Judas.’
‘And what about Mrs Pilate?’ asked Madeleine.
They walked back to the car, back to the tombs and the amphitheatre. ‘The tradition is that she was called Claudia. Claudia Procula. According to Origen she became a Christian and the Greek Orthodox Church even canonised her. Saint Claudia. But legend also has it that she was Sejanus’ mistress and that’s how Pilate got the job.’
‘What’s a mistress?’ asked Claire. ‘I thought it was a teacher.’
The adults laughed. Sisterly duty overcame Catherine’s embarrassment. ‘A mistress is a lady friend,’ she said firmly.
‘Is Mummy Father Leo’s mistress, then?’ the younger girl asked. She wondered, no doubt, why her words brought more laughter. Maybe she wondered why Father Leo reddened. Maybe in later years she would remember thatincident, and see in its small moments of awkwardness and amusement a strange foreboding.
They had returned to the amphitheatre. Jack and the girls and
‘It’s here,’ he said, nervous that it would not strike the girls, for really it was not much, a mere plaque, a mere inscription, a trivial witness from the past. He couldn’t judge children, their mixture of innocence and sophistication, their honesty and their mendacity.
The group shuffled round and looked up to where hepointed. And the word
Pontii
stood out from the epigraphic muddle, some reference to a local family, the
gens
Pontii.
‘So what?’
What, indeed? The only evidence, if evidence it be, for the Italian existence of a lesser colonial administrator with a chip on his shoulder and a pushy wife: Pontius Pilate. The most famous Roman there has ever been. There’s no competition really, is there? Forget Julius Caesar or Tiberius. How many Christians are there in the world? A thousand million? Apart from the Virgin Mary, Pontius Pilate is the only human being mentioned in the creed. So his name is on the lips of every single one of those thousand million Christians, every time he or she goes to church. That’s fame for you.
‘This is where he came from. This was his home town.’ And added ‘possibly’,
sotto voce
, lest it ruin his paltry story.
So Leo told the Brewer family and their friends about Pilate on that early spring day at Sutri, when the wind was colder than it ought to have been and he was eager for Madeleine’s attention. He talked of Pontius Pilate to the girls, to Madeleine, to Jack if he was listening, to Howard and Gemma if they cared. He gave him some kind of appearance – hair cut short, chin shaved clean: a sharp contrast to his bearded subjects – and sketched out a character of sorts – the kind of man who believed in the Republican virtues, in the rule of law, in duty to the state and honour to the ancestors. A man who had made a useful marriage and had now stepped on to the first rung in the ladder of imperial ambition. Pontius Pilatus, a knight of the equestrian class, who might now aspire to one of the greatest prizes of all – Egypt. Pontius Pilate, who gained the favour of the Emperor’s adviser Sejanus and was sentto Judaea in the summer of the twelfth year of the reign of Tiberius.
‘Rather like British India,’ said Jack, who
had
been listening.
‘Exactly like British India,’ Leo agreed. ‘The same fat, idle princelings sending their children to Rome or London for education – Herod’s children all went there. There were the same strange religions, the same holy men with mad expressions and a dangerous role in politics, the same local politicians with their eye on the main chance. And the same kind of blundering colonial administration.’
‘You could use it as a case study at the FCO,’ said Howard.
‘Poor Pilate,’ said Catherine.
‘Why poor?’
‘Because he had no choice,’ she said, with the sudden insight of the young. ‘Jesus had to die, so Pilate had no choice. Neither did Judas.’
‘And what about Mrs Pilate?’ asked Madeleine.
They walked back to the car, back to the tombs and the amphitheatre. ‘The tradition is that she was called Claudia. Claudia Procula. According to Origen she became a Christian and the Greek Orthodox Church even canonised her. Saint Claudia. But legend also has it that she was Sejanus’ mistress and that’s how Pilate got the job.’
‘What’s a mistress?’ asked Claire. ‘I thought it was a teacher.’
The adults laughed. Sisterly duty overcame Catherine’s embarrassment. ‘A mistress is a lady friend,’ she said firmly.
‘Is Mummy Father Leo’s mistress, then?’ the younger girl asked. She wondered, no doubt, why her words brought more laughter. Maybe she wondered why Father Leo reddened. Maybe in later years she would remember thatincident, and see in its small moments of awkwardness and amusement a strange foreboding.
They had returned to the amphitheatre. Jack and the girls and
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