Claudia resented not even being allowed to entertain the officers in the relative comfort of their official residence at Caesarea. No, they had been obliged to accompany reinforcements to this crowded, smelly, provincial backwater of Jerusalem to show the long, muscular arm of Roman authority in the hope of forestalling the civil disorder that invariably accompanied their primitive religion's principal annual festival, this... this.... "What do they call this celebration?" she asked the table in general.

A grizzled, battle-worn officer sitting two places down (a risen ranker from the vulgar slackness of his vowels) offered the information that the locals called this period 'Passover'.

"Passover? And what is that supposed to mean?"

"Damned if I know, ma'am. But it's obvious that these poor bastards were passed overwhen the Gods were handing out homelands worth having."

"Quite," Claudia Procula's clipped diction was meant to remind the ranker of the social distance between them. "But why would they celebrate having been passed over?"

The old soldier shook his head. "Who knows? They're a queer people, ma'am, and that's the truth of it!"

At that very moment, at the far end of the table, I was expressing the same view, albeit with somewhat greater elegance. "As my master knows better than anyone, it is pointless to attempt to understand the Jew in rational terms. For all his cleverness and intelligence, in his deepest essence the Jew is a creature of passion who draws energy from his enthusiasms and his delusions. An example of this is the fact that, although they have been conquered and enslaved by every people who have blundered into this dreary land, they confidently believe they are the chosen people of their god. Despite all evidence, they maintain this ludicrous belief. And they are maintained byit." I smiled to myself, pleased with that turn of phrase.

"Hm-m." Pilatus lifted his chalice, only to find it empty. But when the serving girl stepped forward to refill it, he waved her away with an annoyed gesture. He had been drinking too much of late. Out of boredom, he told himself. "When first I arrived, I sought to understand their beliefs and superstitions. I discovered that in common with other Levantine cults, their god was originally a battle god. In fact, they still call him a 'God of Hosts', despite their many defeats. This war god consumed and replaced the rest of the pantheon to become their sole deity, but although there is no competition, he remains a jealous god, so uncertain of his power that he requires constant reassurance, praise, and glorification. Proof-if additional evidence were needed-that we make our gods in our image!" He chuckled.

I chuckled along, as befits the servant of a master of prickly temperament. "Indeed, sire, their mythology contains a tale that illustrates your point. Once upon a time, their god, being in a particularly grumpy mood, decided to destroy a licentious city and all its inhabitants unless this prophet could find a certain number of good men among the inhabitants. There follows a passage in which the prophet and the god haggle about exactly how many good men would be required to save the city, the old prophet slowly whittling the god down! How delightfully Semitic a god! A god you can negotiate with! God as market stall merchant! But for all his touches of Levantine humanity, the Jewish god is a bloodless confection, compared to the colorful heroes (and rogues!) of our own pantheon."

"Maybe, but he's not bloodless enough for me," Pilatus said. "He's a passionate god. A jealous god. A god of vengeance." He half closed his eyes. "Perhaps that's why I find these people so difficult to deal with. So opaque. So oblique. And so intriguing, too... in an irritating sort of way. Roman to my marrow, more Roman than our beloved emperor, I am a creature of reason and logic."

I diplomatically ignored this reference to the emperor. Descended from the Sabine clan of the Pontii (hence his name), Pontius Pilatus's ancestors had been aristocrats when the forebears of Tiberius were still brawny sharecroppers, a historical fact my master seldom had the tact to conceal.

"I'm a creature of reason, and rational thought is Rome's greatest strength," he insisted.

"And perhaps it's her greatest limitation, as well?" I suggested, with a tentative smile that would let me pretend I was merely playing the fool, should he take offence.

"Yes, a need for the rational can be a limitation as well. I admit to being uncomfortable when faced with illogical passion. I can cope with the aggressive man, the cunning man, the subtle man, the duplicitous man, the stubborn man, the stupid man... but the insane man? No. The madman and the zealot confuse and confound me." And, after a pause: "...and frighten me, as well."

"Certainly Judaea is a difficult post for one who is unable to deal with the zealot," I ventured.

"Perhaps that's why the honor of governing Judaea is always bestowed upon those who are out of favor. We, the expendable ones." His soft chuckle was not without bitterness.

I smiled noncommittally and lowered my eyes. I was familiar with the events that had brought my master to this wretched post. Although his high birth and native capacities should have destined him for power and privilege, he was constitutionally incapable of concealing his scorn for fools and hypocrites, a serious flaw for a politician in any form of government, a disaster in a tyranny. Some wondered why a man who so obviously lacked the thick skin and the accommodating conscience of the successful politician had entered government service in the first place. The answer was deceptively simple: Pontius Pilatus had been brought up to believe that it was a gentleman's duty to serve his country. Oh, he recognized that his view of duty was romantic and old-fashioned in this era of the professional politician with the ethics of a merchant and the tactics of a whore, yet he cleaved to the values of his class.

But being highborn and gifted did not protect him, for when the ambitious mediocrities who had felt the lash of Pilatus's scorn and ridicule managed to sniff and snivel their way into power, they took their revenge by dissuading Tiberius from assigning the haughty Sabine to any posts of importance. Finding all paths to fruitful service closed to him, Pilatus considered retirement to his country villa, a prospect that chilled the heart of Claudia Procula, for her husband's political connections afforded those social and romantic amusements that absorbed her time and energy, and kept her from brooding over the passage of her youth. She persuaded Vitellius, Legatus of Syria, to nominate her husband for the Judaean post. It was rumored that her 'persuasion' involved bargaining from a position of strength: the horizontal. I, of course, dismiss such rumors. It is my duty to do so.

As you might imagine, Tiberius's sycophants did not oppose Pilatus's appointment to Judaea, that garbage pit of lost careers. Serves him right for poking fun at those who are doing their best to serve their beloved emperor! Let the haughty Pilatus sneer at camels for a while! See how he likes that!

My master soon discovered that Judaea was not only the least honored of posts, it could also be difficult and nasty, for these people deeply resented Roman occupation, and they had long ago forged their natural gift for shrill complaint into a formidable weapon for wearing the opposition down with incessant whining and whinging.

Aware of Judaea's reputation as the dullest outpost of the empire, soon after his arrival Pilatus sought out a Greek slave-scholar trained in sophistic sleight-of-mind, hoping that intellectual exercise might serve as an anodyne for boredom. This was my humble entry into the noble household, and I trust that I have been of some small value to my lord Pontius, for I have lived many years among these people and I know not only the Koine dialect but also both Hebrew and Aramaic, the language of the Aramaeans that is widely used throughout the Levant and even appears here and there in Jewish sacred writings, part of their Book of Daniel being written in it, for instance, as is their prayer for the dead, the Qaddish, and also— But there I go, parading my erudition! Shame on me! Please forgive a poor old scholar the sin of intellectual pride, remembering that pride is the only sin the poor can afford, and the only one the old can still manage.