The Centurion's Wife (25 page)

CHAPTER

TWENTY-SIX

Pilate’s Palace, Jerusalem

LATER THAT DAY, Alban presented himself at the entrance leading to Pilate’s residence, saluted the guard, and said, “The centurion Alban. I have business with the governor’s household.”

The guard gave an informal wave for him to proceed inside. Alban was too anxious about what lay ahead to object to the man’s casual air. No battlements, no cave full of Parthians, no menace in the night could cause a greater shiver in his gut than the encounter ahead of him.

At the entrance to the door to the palace itself, a guard he did not recognize demanded, “Your name and purpose?”

“The centurion Alban sends his respects and asks to see Leah, niece of Pilate and servant to the mistress Procula.”

The guard smirked. “Wait here, centurion.”

Alban settled onto the bench closest to the exit. A hummingbird flitted overhead, a feathered jewel that flashed through the sunlight like an arrow. He could not have guessed at the passage of time, but it seemed like hours he waited.

And then she was there before him.

He rose and gave a noble’s bow. “I wish to offer my sincere greetings.”

Leah was followed at a discreet distance by another woman, one with a crone’s face and deeply seamed features. Leah motioned toward her and said, “This is Dorit, my closest friend in Pilate’s household.”

Alban bowed toward the servant as he would a lady of the realm. “An honor, madam.”

Clearly Leah felt close to the woman, for her eyes softened and she said, “Dorit, will you sit please?” The woman took a place on another bench a dozen paces away, her eyes never leaving Alban’s face.

Alban motioned toward the bench he had occupied, and Leah carefully sat at one end of it. He could not take in the fact that this woman was his betrothed. She was both tall and strong yet seemed also weak and broken. Her gaze was intelligent yet fractured with old pain. She was queenly but wore a servant’s robe. He knew most in Roman society would find her too tall, too direct, too strong, too tainted by her family’s tragedy to be interesting or appealing. Yet never had he imagined he might one day come to call someone such as this woman his own. “I thought perhaps I had dreamed you were so beautiful. I find my eyes did see correctly, and my memory has remained true.”

Leah flushed and dropped her gaze to the stone tiles. “I don’t know what you see. I am an ordinary—”

“No, please,” Alban said, stopping her with an outstretched hand. “I cannot accept that word to describe you.”

Leah was silent a long moment, then said quietly, “I had just been wondering how I might send word to you. I don’t even know where you are staying.”

He sat down on the other end of the bench. “Above the Antonia Fortress stables, across from the main portals.”

“I have just learned that the disciples left yesterday for Galilee. They were told to meet Jesus upon a mountain there where he taught. The women among his followers tell me it is just north of Tiberias.”

“I know it well.” He inspected her closely, wishing he knew how to take away the veil of sorrow across her eyes, far more concealing than the end of her shawl. “Once more I find myself in your debt, my lady. I must thank you again for what you told me at the prophet’s tomb. I understand what it took for you to warn me.”

Leah whispered, “If you tell anyone, I will not last the night.”

They were in plain view of the old woman and the guard, though both kept their distance. Alban kept his voice low. “I have not told a soul, and it will remain so.” Alban leaned close enough to catch a trace of her fragrance, a mixture of soap and lavender and a long day’s toil. “We have both been battered by life’s unfairness. But this does not diminish us.”

“How can you say such things of a woman you do not know?”

“Because I see in you what I am not yet able to describe in words.”

Leah’s chin quivered. She took a long breath and seemed to regain her composure. Alban watched the action and was so moved by her fortitude he wished he could disregard the watching eyes and take her in his arms. Instead he settled a bound bundle in her hands where they rested in her lap. “I would be very grateful if you would accept this token of my gratitude and my very warm regard for you.”

Leah made no response, but her hands fumbled with the tie. She opened the packet and breathed out a long sigh.

The robe was made from a fabric as soft as any Alban had ever felt. It was simple enough, nothing that might attract any jealous attention of others within the prelate’s household. Yet a freedwoman of station might wear such as this. Alban supposed a lady of stature would be at ease crossing the central plaza of Jupiter in this garment. “I saw this and knew it was made for you.”

“I cannot accept such a gift.”

“Please, Leah, I cannot now imagine it gracing any other woman but you.”

Her gaze and her hands remained upon the robe. “It is the most beautiful gift anyone has ever given me.”

“You will keep it, then.”

She hesitated for enough time to stroke the robe again, then gave a simple nod.

“You make me very glad.”

Then she did something that astonished him. This woman who was able to mask her interior world, this woman of such immense inner strength she humbled him, this woman wept a single tear.

Alban resisted the urge to ask her why she wept. To probe would only cause her further distress. There would be time for both of them to share their most sorrowful secrets. Time as well, hopefully, to find solace in each other. He said merely, “If Pilate is to be believed, he has offered me a position on his staff once I complete this quest.”

She blinked fiercely and took a determined breath. “My mistress speaks of this as though it has already happened.”

“The other officers on his staff are both Roman and wealthy. I am from Gaul. And I am hardly a man of means.”

She tried to give him back the robe. “Oh, Alban, you must return this.”

He settled the gift and her hands back in her lap, his heart warmed by hearing her speak his name. “I confess my poverty only because I can’t give you the home you deserve.”

“During the past three years, I have slept on a pallet in the servants’ quarters. I share the chamber with slaves.” She was silent a long moment, her hands stroking the robe. “You give me something I do not dare even name.”

Alban felt his heart swell with an unfamiliar emotion. His connection to this remarkable woman was no longer about vindication of his name, nor career advancement, nor wealth and power. What he felt was beyond any desires he had ever held, beyond anything he had ever known for another human being.

Alban saw their chaperone shifting around on the bench and knew their time had come to an end. He rose to his feet and moved to where he blocked the woman’s view of Leah.

“Leah, I sense something is happening with you,” he said quietly.

She almost wept the words, “How do you know these things?”

“Because I believe I am going through something similar. Can you tell me?”

“I don’t know if I can find the words to explain it. The people I have met who follow this Jesus. They . . .”

When she didn’t finish Alban said, “Though you do not understand, still you are convicted. As am I.”

She rose to her feet, clasping the robe to herself with both arms. “Who
is
this Jesus?”

Once more Alban gave her a courtier’s bow, more for the benefit of the watchers than for Leah. “That is what I intend to find out.”

With a trembling smile, Leah echoed, “And I as well.”

On the day they were to travel to Bethany, Leah left the palace before daybreak to head to the now-familiar plaza. She found herself anticipating these visits more and more, though they troubled her long after she returned to the palace. She was surprised at how often the words and actions of her grandmother now became part of her whirl of thoughts. Things she had easily dismissed as a child returned unbidden to mind, and with them came an understanding of their meaning. To her dying day, the woman had cherished her Judaean roots, the faith of her fathers. Leah longed for the chance to have discussed her recent experiences with her. Now, though, it was her responsibility to ferret out the truth on her own.

When she reached the courtyard and entered the kitchens, she found Martha and Mary busy making preparations for the journey ahead. Mary came up beside her and put a hand on her shoulder. “I’m afraid we have some bad news,” she said gently. “Abigail has had an accident with the washtubs. She spilled boiling water on herself.”

Leah felt her throat constrict. “Oh no—where is she?”

“Resting in her room.”

“Is she . . .” But Leah could not finish her question.

Martha said, “She is in pain. We are doing all we can.”

Mary said, “One leg is badly burned. The other was only splashed a bit. It will heal quickly.” She squeezed Leah’s arm. “I will take you there.”

Abigail lay on a cot in her simple upstairs room. The injured leg lay atop the cover, wrapped in a cloth that oozed some kind of dark liquid. She smiled wanly as Leah came through the door. The pain was clear in her face.

“Oh, Abigail. What have you done?”

Abigail watched as Leah pulled a stool over close to the bed.

“I was lying here thinking of the Master.”

Leah seated herself and reached to take the girl’s hand. The bond between them was growing strong. Abigail murmured, “I remember his eyes when he passed, the way my heart was instantly healed. I know it sounds silly, talking about sorrows being lifted.”

“It doesn’t sound silly at all.”

“It brings me comfort right now, remembering him in that moment. I feel as though my pain makes the memory clearer.”

Leah stared at the girl’s slender fingers, felt the callouses from her work, the strength even in pain. “You remind me so much of my sister. Her name was Portia.”

“You say ‘was.’ . . . What happened to her?”

“She’s . . . gone.” It was strange to be speaking of this, especially now. But the words rose unbidden from her heart, as though seeing Abigail in pain had heightened her own loss. “Portia was born to sing, to laugh, to shower everyone around her with joy. Just like you.”

“I felt that way as a child. My mother said I was born to make her smile. I thought I lost that ability forever.” Abigail searched Leah’s face. “You miss your sister.”

She swallowed hard. “So much.”

“There is pain in you. And much strength. You are stronger than I could ever be.”

“I don’t feel strong just now.”

“You have handled your distress alone. I could never do that.”

Leah stared into the beautiful face and for once saw beyond the shadows of pain. “I wish . . .”

“What?”

If only your Master were here now
, thought Leah, surprising herself. Then she found herself asking Abigail the most astonishing question. “Is there any chance that . . . that Jesus might come . . . ”

“We never know,” Abigail responded. “He comes at unexpected times. Suddenly he is here. Then he leaves us again. We do not know.”

The answer did not satisfy Leah. “Isn’t there some way he can be—well, summoned?”

Abigail smiled in spite of her obvious pain. “He is not our servant, Leah. He is our Master. Even when he is not visible, we know he knows and cares about us. He is as close as a prayer.”

Prayer!
Of course. They all prayed. They believed. And their God had answered. Abigail’s quiet faith in the face of scalding injuries was a mystery beyond Leah’s understanding. “I was invited to visit Bethany. Perhaps I should stay with you instead.”

“Oh, Leah, you must go. There is so much you will learn. Please.

Please don’t let this keep you here. I have many to help me.”

Leah reached a hand to Abigail’s shoulder. “If that is what you wish—I will go.”

Abigail relaxed against her pillow. “And I will pray,” she said simply.

The little group left for Bethany as soon as Leah came from her visit with Abigail, the four women taking turns riding a single donkey. It was a practice Leah had seen often enough upon the local roads. Families walking long distances would, one by one, take their turn resting their weary bodies. The road was jammed long before the sun strengthened into the full light of day. Travelers hastened in both directions, departing Jerusalem in hopes of celebrating the Sabbath with their families, or hurrying to arrive within the city walls before the Temple trumpet sounded the evening prayers.

Leah, Mary Magdalene, Mary, and Martha were accompanied by the sisters’ brother Lazarus. He was a small man, standing scarcely as tall as his energetic older sister. He carried an expression that greeted every sight with quiet wonder.

Leah could see how Mary was very much like her brother, small-boned and quiet. They both had a gentle smile and demeanor that Leah found almost otherworldly. She was more at home around Martha, who bustled as though the day moved at too slow a pace to suit her. Leah liked her no-nonsense manner and the direct way she met gazes and conversation alike. When Mary Magdalene settled upon the donkey for her turn to ride, Leah left Lazarus and Mary and moved forward to walk alongside Martha.