The Centurion's Wife (24 page)

Pilate snorted. “The prophet told me himself that his kingdom was not of this world. Your report is as bewildering as that of your betrothed.”

Procula murmured, “Which suggests they might be speaking the truth.”

“What? A man was scourged and then crucified. His side was pierced by a soldier’s spear. He died and was entombed. And now he has risen from the dead and is threatening the might of Rome?” Pilate’s laugh was savage. “A dozen new crucifixes will end this once and for all.”

Procula sat straight in her backless chair. “I would counsel you to have nothing more to do with this group, my lord.”

Even Pilate’s most trusted advisors knew when to remain silent. Yet Pilate did not lash out at his wife, as Leah might have expected. He simply stared at her.

“You remember my first dream and our discussion that day—what I said to you then.”

“I did what I could. I washed my hands of the entire affair.”

“Just as you should now.”

“But if they are threatening revolution . . .”

“You have heard two reports, that from the centurion and now from your niece. She has been in your household for three years. In all that time, have you once known her to speak an untruth?” Procula gave her husband a chance to counter, then turned to Leah and said, “What now?”

“Mistress, I was invited by the one known as Martha to accompany her to Bethany, a village a short walk from here.”

“I know of it,” Pilate said dismissively. “It is a place of poverty and ne’er-do-wells.”

“She wishes for me to spend a Sabbath with her and friends. They want me to remain there for a few days longer, so that we can study together. She says another man will join us, someone named Cleopas, who met Jesus along a road—”

Pilate leaned forward, cutting off her remarks. “You are to go, and you are to return and report everything you hear and see to my wife. Perhaps we will finally learn something of importance, something that can be
proved
.”

Procula asked her husband, “You will not act against the disciples?”

“I will stay my hand for the moment. But I want this matter resolved.” His eyes burned into Leah’s. “Either you and the centurion find answers that make sense, or I will end this once and for all.”

Thus it was that Leah found herself once again on her way to the compound of the prophet’s followers. Today, however, Leah felt anticipation rather than her previous dread. Gradually she was sensing a genuine kinship with the women she met there. It was the closest thing to family that Leah had known for several years. Procula had insisted she take more gold, and the coins jingled softly. Clearly Procula thought she might bribe her way into the inner circle. Leah was certain this was utterly impossible. Perhaps she could stop at the market and purchase something for the day’s cooking pot. She had shared many a meal and had so far contributed nothing. In light of her assignment, surely Procula’s coins could be put to good use.

In spite of the storm clouds, the morning felt hot and smothering. Her step quickened as she thought ahead to time spent with these women. She learned so much from them. They all seemed to have a special sensitivity toward spiritual matters, even the younger ones such as Abigail and Hannah. Leah longed to understand their faith in the face of such immense uncertainties, their trust in God, despite those, like Pilate and Herod, who saw them as great a threat as their crucified leader.

Gradually Martha had become Leah’s mentor. In some unexplained way they were so alike. But it was Abigail, with her winsome ways and youthful enthusiasm, who drew Leah most of all. Though the lovely young woman spent her days bent over tubs of soiled clothing, Abigail remained joyous. Leah could no more understand her than she could ever hope to be like her. But it was so inspiring to be in her presence for at least part of the day.

After stopping at the market, Leah arrived at the compound and found Abigail at the washtubs, pouring water over garments strewn across stones. Leah quietly watched as her new friend pounded the clothing to cleanse away the ground-in dirt, then doused them in water before twisting and thumping each piece. It was backbreaking toil. Leah saw the sweat-covered brow, the long tapered fingers dipping again and again into the water. It was easy to imagine the beautiful girl residing in some luxurious palace. She did not belong here, surrounded by muddy ground and beating soil from roughly made garments.

Abigail must have sensed a presence and glanced up. When she saw Leah, she flashed a smile, then quickly adopted an exaggerated grimace. “I have only a few more thousand to do. I will be with you shortly.”

She shook the water from her hands, pushed aside her long dark braid, and straightened, one hand on her back. She groaned and pretended to limp her way out of the mud that had formed around the rocks where she worked.

“Shall I bring you a drink from the well?” Leah offered, laughing in spite of herself.

“I will come with you. It is past time for a rest.” Abigail’s eyes shifted to the darkening skies. “I was hurrying to beat the storm. But I don’t think I will make it.”

Leah nodded at the laundered garments stretched out on the rocks to dry in the sun. “Can’t you bring the wash into the courtyard and string it about on the walls? I can help you.”

“The rain will rinse them further. They will dry when the sun shines again. It doesn’t take very long in this heat.”

They walked together to the well, and Leah drew the water to fill the drinking cup. When they both were refreshed, they moved to a bench in a shaded area and settled against the stone wall.

“I was hoping you’d be able to come today,” said Abigail.

“I’ve had other duties.”

“So what do you do at the palace?”

“I mostly was maid to Pilate’s wife, Procula. The mistress is now served by a new maid, but I still assist wherever I am needed. I often take her the first meal of the day. I help in the kitchen. I used to go to the market every morning.”

“It sounds as if you have had many duties.”

“I’m not as busy as you with your washtubs. And I do not have nearly the responsibilities I had . . . until recently. Some days I feel quite useless. Especially seeing how hard you labor.”

“Oh, I don’t mind the work. Someone has to do it—and they have all been so good to me.”

“Have . . . have you no family?”

Abigail’s eyes held an unusual shadow. “Not any longer. Three years ago, I lost my entire family.” Her eyes filled with tears.

“I am so sorry,” Leah said, reaching out a hand.

“Thanks to the followers . . . the goodness of our Lord, I have a place to serve and to sleep.” Abigail made a visible effort to push aside her sorrow. “And what about you? Have you always been with the prelate? We do not know much about his staff.”

“No, I have been with his household for coming on three years.” Leah had no desire to say more about her own background.

“I’m sure you serve well. That was one of the lessons our Lord taught us. ‘Servants, serve well your masters. For this is right. And in so doing, you do it as to the Lord.’ ”

“You knew him? The prophet?”

Abigail’s eyes still shone with unshed tears. “I was one of those he healed,” she said simply. “A friend brought me to hear him speak. Afterward we got close enough that he saw me. . . . He had the kindest eyes I have ever seen. I never thought such joy or peace would have been mine to claim, especially after my loss. The healing of my heart is a miracle I live with every day.”

Leah thought of the prelate’s command to obtain helpful information, not just observations and guesses. It didn’t seem right to pry, but her master was getting more and more impatient. “Will you tell me about what happened?”

Abigail nodded. “Our village is three valleys west of here. After my family died, I was taken in by a local shepherd and his family. They cared for me well enough, but I had lost the will to live. Months passed, but my sorrow remained a burden that never left me. I did not eat, I rarely left my bed. And then one day they heard the Lord was coming to Jerusalem. They put me on their own donkey and brought me here. He was healing people outside the Temple. I was one that he touched.”

She hesitated. Leah wondered if that was the end of the story.

“I was taken in by believers here in the city. I worked in their household.” Her voice lowered. “Then they crucified our Lord. Our world changed.”

Another silence. Leah heard thunder rumble in the distance. The air smelled of rain.

Abigail seemed oblivious to the approaching storm. “I still see the shepherd family who took me in, but I’m happy here. It’s the most content I have been since . . . since I lost my family.”

She shared with Leah a most radiant smile and added, “And now we wait.”

Leah’s hidden motives caused her to flush. “And just what are you waiting for?”

“We aren’t certain. But we are sure he will let us know at the right time.”

“Do you mean his kingdom?” pressed Leah.

“His kingdom is not one like we have understood. But he will reign from a throne. And when he does, it will be with the power of love.”

“Love? Not revolution?”

“No. Jesus never taught revolution, the kind with swords and battles and bloodshed. He talked about a revolution of love. Love your neighbor. Love your enemy.”

Leah was stunned. “How can the man expect that?”

Abigail thought for a moment. “I think that’s what his revolution is about—one that changes a person to be able to do something even that impossible.”

“Do the others . . . do they believe as you do?”

“Oh yes. The new kingdom will be one of restoration. Of peace. We will no longer have need for instruments of war.”

A sharp flash of lightning ripped at the clouds overhead and was followed by a crack of thunder that shook the ground beneath them. Abigail laughed as she lifted her face to the rain. “We’d better head for the kitchens if we don’t want to be drenched,” she said. “Although it would be fun to stay out and play in the rain. I loved to do that when I was a child. My mother was always dragging me in. . . .”

Leah noticed the shadow in Abigail’s eyes again, but then the girl sprang to her feet. “Come!”

Leah felt a sudden urge to tell Abigail about her own mother and the burdens she carried. As though this younger woman might hold the answer to healing her own heavy spirit. But she remained silent as Abigail pulled Leah toward the door and shelter.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-FIVE

In the Presence of Caiaphas
Two Days Later

AS ALBAN CROSSED the Antonia Fortress central courtyard, he found himself filled with a feeling so subtle he could not even give it a name. Yet this new awareness was powerful enough that he felt as if he could observe diverse experiences being forged together toward something new. He could not identify a reason for this change in perspective. Progress toward answering Pilate’s pressing demands remained slow. And he had heard nothing from Leah for eight days. Yet despite all this, gradually his search and his world seemed bound with something that defied his warrior’s pursuit of cold, hard facts.

As he passed from the courtyard’s sunlight into the shadows of the gates, a legionnaire on duty at the fortress entrance said, “A moment, centurion.”

Alban took an instant to bring the day back into focus. “Yes?”

“One of the Temple guards brought this for you.”

Alban made no move to accept the parchment. “You’re certain this is for me?”

“He asked for you by name,” the soldier replied.

With Leah’s warning at the forefront of his awareness, he accepted the parchment and stepped back into the shadows.

The document was of woven linen, and held but one word.
Come.
Beneath it was the Temple seal, used by Caiaphas, the high priest of Jerusalem. Alban had seen the seal often enough, stamped upon documents nailed to the synagogue door in Capernaum.

Alban returned to the sunlight. As he expected, a young lad stepped from across the cobblestoned lane, making it instantly clear he had been posted there, waiting for Alban. “You are the centurion?”

“I am.” Alban held up the parchment. “And I am ready.”

The youngster led Alban through streets and winding lanes to the shop of a famed seller of perfumes, a man who brought expensive wares to the elite and wealthy of Judaea. Alban had not been in the place himself but had passed it several times and heard of its renown in the Roman baths. Customers came from as far away as Damascus for flasks of the celebrated aromas. Alban had never thought of perfume for Leah. Perhaps it was a worthy gift to consider the next time he found himself with gold coins—whenever that might be.

His guide looked like a Judaean slave and probably worked for the shop owner. The lad cast a glance at Alban, then turned into the dark passage beside the perfumery.

Alban wondered why he was not being shown to the front entrance. Was this surreptitious entry for his anonymity—or that of Caiaphas? The sweet fragrances followed them down the otherwise foul-smelling alley. The boy stopped and lifted a hand to indicate a low-curtained doorway. The stout wooden door was propped open to let in a bit of air, Alban assumed, and to accommodate those who knew of this hidden entrance.

A servant waited on the other side, clearly alerted to his approach. The servant shut and locked the heavy door behind him. The room’s only light came from a trio of oil lamps hung by chains from the high ceiling. Alban’s eyes took a moment to adjust to the chamber’s dimness.

He then spotted Caiaphas standing by the back wall. The high priest wore formal robes and an air of stern dignity as he lifted his chin defiantly. Here was a man who would never bow to Caesar or any other Roman.

Alban acknowledged the high priest with a simple nod and waited. He would not be the first to speak. The priest had called this meeting. Let him declare its purpose.

There were no reclining couches or even benches in the dim, still room. The servant placed a single wooden stool on which the priest could seat himself and began fluttering a fan above him in the hot, overly scented air. Caiaphas lowered himself with a sigh. Alban knew the priest intended this all to be insulting, forcing the Roman to remain standing. Yet a curious emotional distance kept him calm.

Alban had long made it a habit to observe and learn from human nature. Clearly this religious ruler considered Alban to be beneath him in every way. Yet in the presence of this powerful and devious man, Alban found himself looking
beyond
the moment and their conflict to something else, something just out of reach. He was still searching for whatever that might be when Caiaphas demanded, “Has your mission proved to be successful?”

“Somewhat.” Alban turned to the servant and asked, “May I please trouble you for another seat?”

The servant glanced at his master, who nodded. He swiftly left and returned with a matching stool. Alban eased himself down.

“My thanks.”

Caiaphas asked, “The young lady to whom you have been betrothed. What is her name?”

“Leah.”

Caiaphas lifted his chin once more. “Unless you are indeed a God-fearer, the ceremony is worthless and more. It is a sacrilege.”

Alban found himself searching past the man’s belligerent tone. The high priest was so consumed by the maneuvering required to stay in power that he could not take a single easy breath. Caiaphas had eyes that burned with authority, yet his gaze was forever restless, constantly searching for hidden enemies, unknown threats. Here was a man Alban would normally have both feared and detested, for a suspicious man was liable to attack without warning. Yet now, in this strangest of moments, Alban felt what he could only describe as a twinge of sympathy.

He had come to trust his instincts enough to make a decision that he would not even have considered previously. Alban decided to treat this foe as a friend.

He replied, “It has never been my desire to cause any Judaean offense. Especially in matters related to religion.”

“I am hearing reports of your investigation that disturb me. I demand to know precisely what you have learned.”

“Sire?” Alban cocked his head. “Surely a man in your position would understand that a centurion takes his commands only from Rome.”

Caiaphas made a process of adjusting his robes. He muttered, “It was a request, nothing more.”

“In that case, I would gladly answer any question you might have, sire.”

“There is continued talk about the dead prophet. You have heard it?”

“I have.”

“They are saying he has been seen—again.”

Alban nodded. “I have heard this as well.”

The high priest’s voice rose once more. “Who is behind these absurd claims?”

“Word comes from many directions. People speak of it in the markets. I have heard it in the streets.”

“As have I. But they all trace back to the leaders of the dead man’s group, yes?”

“I have never met one of the prophet’s disciples, sire.”

“I forbid you to refer to that man as a prophet!”

Even the man’s sudden wrath did not touch Alban. He felt a calm that did not seem like his own. “I search for the same answers as you, sire.”

“I need no answers!” The high priest bounded to his feet. “I need nothing except for this problem to be gone! I need nothing save for you Romans to stop meddling in business that is none of your concern!”

“My apologies, sire, but Pilate has a different assessment of the situation. And it
is
his concern.”

“The prelate fears revolution? Have him retreat back to Caesarea and leave Jerusalem to the Sanhedrin! We of the Council know what is the best course of action.” Caiaphas stalked the room’s narrow confines. “All this poking and prodding only stokes the same fires your so-called ‘prophet’ fueled. He fed the masses
and
their discontent.”

“What are you referring to when you say ‘fed’?”

Caiaphas stopped and stared at Alban. “Eh?”

“You said the prophet fed them.”

“I said no such thing!” The fact that Alban remained composed only heightened the priest’s ire. “You want to know what happened? Fine! I will tell you! A rabble-rousing Galilean upstart bribed the poorest of the poor with food, gathered the hordes with a charlatan’s promises of healing and revolution until they could no longer be ignored. He was finally tried and condemned in the court of Pilate himself.”

“After a court of your Sanhedrin failed to do so,” Alban inserted mildly, “when it was clear that the witnesses against the prophet had been bribed.”

“Lies!” Caiaphas slammed a fist into his other hand as if to strike out the words. “He had a just trial. He was convicted. He was crucified. Your soldiers gambled for his garments. He died. He was taken down and laid in a tomb. And it was from this tomb that his disciples stole away his body!”

“And that is where the mystery begins.”

“And I tell you there is only one mystery!” The man was shouting. “Why you Romans insist upon stirring up more trouble over a man who was never a prophet and who is now dead!”

“I find it all very strange,” Alban said. “The man is crucified and laid in a tomb after one of the Sanhedrin wrapped him in proper burial fashion. He was cold in the bonds of death by the testimony of two witnesses who carried him to the tomb. Guards were set in place and the tomb was sealed.”

Alban looked directly at Caiaphas. “Yet when those unsuspecting followers who thought they would find the dead man there arrived at the tomb, they found it empty and the linen cloth carefully folded and left in full view. I understand this would have been the prayer shawl used by all religious Judaeans, and it is your custom to use this as the face covering at burial. My question is this: Who, stealing a dead body, with Roman guards nearby, would stop to fold a cloth and leave it behind? Thieves are always in a hurry, even when not being pressed for time by guards of Rome. Yet someone did this. . . . Unusual, don’t you think? It puzzles me.”

Caiaphas revealed a glimmer of surprise, a flash of doubt that darkened to concern. Many of the Judaeans who lived in the larger cities of Judaea and the Galilee were men like Caiaphas, educated and sleek and powerful. The man’s robes swinging behind him were a study in two rich cultures, Greek and Judaean. His internal state seemed to reflect this duality, this conflict. Clearly Caiaphas was a man who considered himself religious—after all, he served as the Temple’s high priest, just like his father before him. Yet Caiaphas was also a sophisticated man, used to dealing with worldly power. The ruling council derived their power from the Romans, the same people they clearly detested and wished out of their homeland. Of course they were conflicted.

Caiaphas resumed his pacing. “We were right to insist upon the criminal’s death. His crowd of followers grew every day. Soon Rome would have been blaming us for the troubles. There would have been a price to pay had Caesar smelled a rebellion.”

“Did he preach rebellion, this Jesus?”

“The Galilean announced himself as ‘the Promised One’! Absurd! How could this be when Israel is ruled by Rome? Dangerously absurd! Yet the riffraff was deceived by his silky speeches. They even started calling him
Messiah
.” The word seemed to lodge in the high priest’s throat like a bone. “So now the Galilean is dead. That much I know. I watched the imposter die, I received the report that he had been buried and the tomb sealed, and I and the priesthood went through the purification rites, though none of us had touched the body. But we all felt a need to separate ourselves from this pretender before starting our Passover. And I deeply resent the fact that you insist upon raising the issue again!”

Alban rose slowly to his feet. “I appreciate your concern, sire. But I regret that I cannot end my search. I am a soldier, and I must continue to obey the prelate’s command. And the prelate is not yet satisfied with the information he has received thus far.”

“There are no further answers required! The matter is settled!”

“Respectfully, sire, there are questions for which I must have answers. Two of which I had hoped you might assist me with.” Alban waited until the high priest lifted his gaze. “First, why did you order the tomb’s guards to insist the disciples had stolen the body, and give them a large sum of money for their silence? I request that you please do not deny it, sire. I have found the guards and retain their sworn statements.”

The quiet was so complete Alban could hear the priest’s breaths, sharp jabbing intakes. The servant stood as if carved from stone.

“And second, how would you describe a man who has risen from the dead? I know it sounds absurd—I can scarcely believe those words have come from my own mouth. But I am increasingly drawn to wonder if this might—just might—have happened. What would you call such a man? A prophet? Or something more?”