The Redemption of Pontius Pilate Read Free Page B

miniature city, with streets and gates and tents that came to resemble small houses more and more as the soldiers added wood floors and walls. Of course, such long-term camps usually meant the army was going into winter quarters, and would be in the area for an extended stay. No chance of that until they had come to grips with the enemy, Pilate thought.
    But the enemy was seemingly reluctant to put in an appearance that winter. Once the army arrived along the border with Germania, a strange quiet descended over the region. Less than six months had passed since the Germans had destroyed Varus’ legions and captured their standards, but now that Tiberius and his legions were on their doorstep, they withdrew into the dark forests of Germania and bided their time. The four legions marched up and down the border for over a month, and then went into winter camp along the east bank of the Rhine in December.
    Not long after that, Flavius Sixtus died in his sleep one night, and Pilate found himself in sole command of the legion. Tiberius, grown increasingly dour and glum in the bitter cold, nonetheless spoke encouragingly to the assembled legions at Sixtus’ funeral pyre.
    “Flavius Sixtus was a Roman of the Romans, a man of courage and skill, whose love for his legionaries was matched only by his skill in commanding them,” Tiberius said. “He died as he lived—in a military encampment, defending the honor of Rome against her enemies. Do you think such a noble soul would depart for Elysium without leaving his beloved boys in the most capable of hands? Sixtus would not have felt content to abandon this world unless he was certain that Lucius Pontius Pilate would lead his legion with the same skill and care that he always displayed. So even as we mourn the passing of our beloved general and friend, let us take courage in the skill and leadership of the successor he leaves to take his place!” The men cheered, and even though Pilate knew that they were cheering the memory of the beloved general, he felt his chest swell with pride all the same.
    Six weeks later, the Cheruscii—the same tribe that had destroyed Varus’ army the previous year—came screaming down from the forests and launched themselves at the Roman defenses. Sixty thousand Germans—tall, their blond hair stiffened into fantastic spikes, and wielding iron-tipped spears—stormed the palisades as the Roman legionaries used all their ingenuity to keep the camp from falling. Scorpions and ballistae were fired into the howling masses as fast as they could be reloaded, and the fighting on the wall grew furious.
    Tiberius was in the thick of it from the start, grimly stalking the walls and barking orders to his centurions. As the fighting grew more intense, each of the senior legates took one side of the encampment, staying on the wall constantly. Pilate discovered that he enjoyed battle very much—the fear of death was like a drug that kept his nerves on a razor edge, intensifying every sensation. Near the climax of the fighting, a particularly persistent band of Germans got over the wall Pilate was guarding, and into the Roman camp. Sextus Dividicus, Pilate’s primus pilus centurion, was borne to the ground by the crush and disarmed. A huge German warrior stood over him, about to skewer the hapless officer with a spear, when Pilate launched himself at the barbarian and drove his gladius deep into the man’s belly. The German gave a howl of pain, and Pilate yanked the sword free and stabbed him again through the throat, ending the howls abruptly. Three more Germans hurled themselves at him, and Pilate slashed and parried like a madman. In a matter of moments, all three of them lay dead, and Sextus was back on his feet and fighting by his side. The demoralized troops rallied around their general, driving the Germans back across the palisade. Pilate ordered the scorpions brought up and began pelting the German ranks with stinging stone missiles.
    The huge barbarians