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I Fourth day before the Kalends of Martius. Second hour of the night. [Monday, February 26, 31 A.D., c. 7:00 p.m.]I awakened in the hour before dawn, possessed by the thought that I must go out on the pavilion. Outside my door Florentina was curled on her cot. The single lamp that remained lit in the hall made her face the color of amber. The doors to the pavilion opened without the usual protest, as soundlessly as if in a dream. At that moment I could not be certain I was awake. The night was so brilliant it drew my breath, the columns lit as if by the sun. The froth on the waves might have been countless floating pearls. For a good measure of the hour I stayed at the balustrade and watched the full moon set into the sea. It vanished as the sun rose from the mountains. Not a moment after, a gull appeared before me. Its wings were motionless, as though it were an apparition rather than a living thing, drifting so near that I might have touched it. This creature's eyes fixed on mine with an unsettling keenness, like a small child with a gaze too piercing for her years. Perhaps this agent informed me that someone was at my back. I turned. I was more surprised to see nothing than I would have been to confront a face. The columns of the portico had turned gray in the dawn. Yet after a time I observed among them a tunic, strangely white, as though the illumination of the moon remained woven into it. "Who is that?" I asked. I could see her start to go and then consider that I would come after her. So she stayed in the portico as I approached. Almost at once I could see that the girl there was Sperata. She wore only her nightdress, her feet bare and her hair uncombed. I said to her, "There are men in this household who would regard your undress as an invitation. And the rest require no invitation." She looked at me as though I had spoken to her in an obscure language. "I am not afraid, mistress." Her words illuminated the merest fragment of a memory -- a single tile of a dark mosaic. But this recollection was so acute that I could feel the motion of a boat on another sea. The sun seen like a lantern through a silk canopy. The scent of rose oil on my skin. I was the same age Sperata is now. I sent her away to dress. I do not much credit omens given by birds. Yet I believe we must watch Sperata more carefully.
At the second hour Atimetus told me that a lawyer from Jerusalem wished to see me. "He is one Marcellus Vibius. He insists you have seen his letter." "I have. He's the High Priest's new lawyer. I understand he's established himself keeping Jews out of trouble in Alexandria. Now we will suffer from his industry. Inform him that Pilate is at Narbata and won't return until tomorrow at the earliest." "He has already been so informed. He insists his business is entirely with you." Although neither prospect was desirable, I decided I would find myself in greater difficulty if I sent M. Vibius away than if I saw him. I told Atimetus, "Bring two notaries in on his heels and bring your own tablets as well, and make certain not a word is missed." M. Vibius appears more youthful than his reputation would suggest. He has the posture of a gymnasium creature and the forearms of a chariot driver. He might be a pretty man, but that his chin and jaw come forward almost like claws. His toga had been at the fuller's yesterday, still smelling of the vat, the chalk rising in faint clouds as he moved. No doubt Caiaphas himself insisted on this attire. If he is going to employ a Roman lawyer, he will not have anyone mistake him for a Greek schoolteacher. I endured the usual obsequies and saw M. Vibius seated. That done, he waited to speak, as though he expected I would ask the notaries to leave. I said, "The High Priest has commended you to us. We had his letter a month ago. Now we have you." He bowed his head slightly, perhaps with some irony. "The High Priest has the most profound respect for the Prefect. And for the Prefect's wife." "As we respect Josephus Caiaphas, his family, and his office. I see you have done business with Iberus in Alexandria." "Yes. Always cordially. As you know, the Jews are eager to extend their hands to the Senate and to Caesar. My experience has been that whenever difficulties arise, they are due solely to misunderstanding and rumor. I'm certain I will find that true here as well." I regarded this as an invitation to discuss the difficulties of last year's Pesah. So I said, "Perhaps I have led you to misunderstand. I have no business separate from my husband." "Yes. The High Priest cautioned me that you would not." "I see. And you have come to me regardless." He nodded slightly. His eyes remained fixed on me. Certainly I was not foolish in presuming that this was a request for a private hearing. Scarcely requiring a moment to think of a dozen ways in which M. Vibius would use such a clandestine meeting to his employer's advantage, I said, "Very well. What is your business?" Not unexpectedly, M. Vibius made a subtle motion of his eyes and an almost indistinguishable movement of his head to the notaries seated beside us. He said nothing. So we silently observed one another for a time. At last he stood up, collecting his toga about his arm with a gesture that perhaps betrayed his anger. He bowed. "You have my apologies, excellent lady. I understand now. You have no business separate from your husband." I believe he was surprised that I offered him my hand.
Mater did not come out of her rooms today. But after dinner Atimetus told me that her secretary approached him regarding my visitor this morning. No doubt there will be more questions when Pilate returns. So I did well to avoid a conversation with M. Vibius.
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What was Pilate's wife writing?Pilate's wife wrote in a form the Romans knew as commentarii
diurni, a daily journal or diary. The entries are dated
from February 26 to April 16 of the year 31 A.D. Her primary motivation
for keeping a record of events was most likely to protect both
herself
and her husband in the event he was charged with extortion (repetundae) or treason (maiestas),
an occupational hazard for Roman provincial officials.
Where was Pilate's wife when she wrote this entry?Pilate's wife begins her narrative at Caesarea Maritima, the
official capital of Roman Judea. Most of this port city had
been recently constructed by Herod the Great, "King of the
Jews" from 37 B.C. until his death in 4 B.C. (often confused
with his considerably less significant son Herod Antipas, who executed
John the Baptist). As a ruler, Herod was a paranoid tyrant;
as a builder he was inspired. At Caesarea he constructed one
of the ancient world's engineering wonders, an artificial harbor
more than a half mile in total length, constructed of enormous concrete
blocks, some as much as fifty feet long, poured into wooden forms
more than a hundred feet beneath the surface of the Mediterranean.
Pilate and his wife resided in another Herodian monument,
the Promontory Palace about a quarter-mile south of the harbor.
Entirely occupying a narrow finger of land extending due west
into the sea, the palace was wrapped around a 115-foot-long, freshwater
indoor pool. At the western end of the building a semi-circular
colonnaded pavilion rode above the waves like the prow of an enormous
ship. More Why is Pilate's wife's tone so terse and reserved? Despite the personal nature of these commentarii, we will search them in vain for the gushing, confessional tone that in our age commands so much public as well as private discourse. For all the Romans' sensual excesses, their self-indulgence was only skin-deep; the psychological demands of the self went unheeded, deferred to family, social, and civic obligations. It is a measure of that self-denial that Pilate's wife never gives us her name: She is usually addressed as "mistress" (domina) by her slaves and "lady" (matrona) by everyone else. Her economical writing style is perhaps more sophisticated than
it seems at first take; while Cicero might have been the contemporary model of
literary elegance, Pilate's wife's lean, punchy, sentences suggest the brevity
and
unpredictable rhythms of the anti-Ciceronian style known as inconcinnitas,
a taste she shared with such notable adherents as the historians
Sallust and Tacitus.
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