The Redemption of Pontius Pilate by Lewis Ben Smith

usefulness,” he said.
    Tiberius shook his head. “I have a feeling, Lucius Pontius, that you have not begun to reach the limits of your usefulness to me! But more importantly, I think that you shall prove to be of great use to Rome. In the end, that is the standard by which I will judge you, and all my other clients. My father is handing down to me the greatest Empire the world has ever known. I intend to preserve it, to improve it, and to hand it down better than I found it! If you can help me do that, then you will rise high indeed!”
    Those words were still ringing in Pilate’s ears when he donned his uniform and decorations the morning of the Triumph. It was the first time he had actually worn the Civic Crown since he won it in Germania. With the golden torc on his arm and his medals riding over his gleaming breastplate, he donned his crimson cape and mounted his horse feeling like Julius Caesar himself.
    Tiberius waited in the ancient chariot that had carried every triumphator for the last four centuries, and the legions formed up neatly behind their centurions as all prepared to enter Rome through the ancient triumphal arch. The general’s face was painted a deep red, and a golden crown of leaves was held over his head by a slave. For this day, the triumphator became the living incarnation of Mars, the Roman god of war, and all Rome congregated in the streets to pay homage to him.
    Tiberius looked at Pilate and the other legates and spoke softly, moving his lips as little as possible to avoid causing the thick make-up to crack and flake off. “Enjoy this, my friends, because this is the one event that many Romans of great rank and prestige never get to take part in!” he said. “This chariot carried Scipio Africanus, Gaius Marius, and Julius Caesar. Today it is my turn to ride in it, but someday it may be yours. For now, enjoy the day!”
    He turned and took his position, standing straight upright in the chariot, one hand on the rail, the other raised to salute the crowd. The slave held the crown of golden leaves above his head, and then leaned forward to whisper the ancient warning in his ear: “ Recordare, tu quoque sunt mortalia! ” Remember, you, too, are mortal!
    The procession wound through the ancient streets of the city one district at a time before ending at the Forum. In the Suburba, thousands of people from every corner of the Empire stood in the streets, cheering themselves hoarse as the parade wound by. The legionaries smiled, waved, and winked at the pretty girls, while the officers rode straight and proud, glancing left and right, but making no gestures of greeting, as befitted their rank. The crowds were not so restrained—they howled, whistled, cheered, and gestured at the soldiers. The captive kings and princes were jeered and hissed at, but their escort of seasoned troops protected them from any violence. The rank-and-file captives had it worse—they were pelted with fruit and mud, and occasionally jostled or shoved. But that was all; everyone knew that these unfortunates would be showing up in the slave markets soon, and deliberately damaging them would be harming another person’s property.
    It took the better part of the morning for the procession to arrive at the great Roman Forum, and once there, Tiberius stepped up onto the platform to receive the adulation of the Senate. Then he sat in the high triumphator’s chair, and his legates took their positions on either side of him. One by one, the captive kings and officers came and made their obeisance, then were hustled off to the Temple of Mars. After that, the legions marched by, saluting their general as they passed, and then breaking into the usual ribald and vulgar marching songs. For once they refrained from lyrics that would have slandered Tiberius himself—whether out of respect or fear of him, or simply from the fact that Tiberius had no known vices which made for funny rhymes, only the troopers knew.
    Once the sacrifices to