The Centurion's Wife (26 page)

Their dusty road passed along the base of a high hill blanketed by olive trees. The leaves glinted silver in the sunlight. Martha must have noticed where Leah was looking and said, “That was the Master’s favorite place to pray.”

Leah liked how the women felt no need to either pry or waste breath on idle conversation. “Was?”

“Who knows what he does now. Or where.” Martha shrugged, her answer like her walk, direct and swift and blunt. “Does he go to heaven and then come back to meet with his disciples? Does he dwell here in some secret place? My sister and brother love such questions. I have no time for them myself.”

Leah hesitated, then confessed, “I find it easier to speak with you.”

“That’s because we’re doers, you and I. I recognized it the first time we met. You came into the kitchen, and you picked up a knife and began paring vegetables. You knew what needed doing and you did it. My sister is so different from us both. Every time the Lord visited, Mary dropped whatever she was doing and clung to his every word. Her eyes never left him. Once I chided her for not helping with the meal I was preparing, and our Lord rebuked me for it.”

“What did he say?”

“That Mary had chosen to do the best thing, and that it would not be taken from her.” Martha spoke as matter-offactly as she would about the weather. “I saw then that there are many ways to serve our Lord. Some like you and I do it through action. Others like Mary do it through reverence.”

Leah pondered on that for a time, then confessed, “I find your brother to be rather unusual.”

“Yes, he is different from the rest of us,” Martha said briskly.

“Especially since . . .”

It was not typical of Martha to hesitate. Leah prompted, “Yes?”

Martha glanced her way. “Since Jesus raised him from the dead.” Leah stopped in the middle of the road. “Tell me, please,” she implored.

The story of Lazarus and his emerging from the burial tomb, the death garments streaming about his body, took the rest of the journey. Midway through, Martha was joined in the telling by Mary. Leah’s turn came upon the donkey’s back, and the two sisters walked on either side while Mary Magdalene and Lazarus walked on ahead. He said nothing about the experience, though he did not appear uncomfortable with the retelling. In fact, whenever he met Leah’s gaze, he smiled. When a turning in the road and the jostling travelers blocked the pair from view, Leah asked quietly, “What does he say of it?”

“He says he remembers little,” Mary said. Her voice also resembled her brother’s, a soft sibilance carrying a trace of otherworldliness. “It seems what he does recall is not meant for this earth.”

Martha shot a look across the donkey’s neck to her sister.

“You’ve never told me that before.”

“I have no way of knowing whether I am right or not. But I have spent much time thinking on it. Jesus also does not speak of his death, but he tells us what we are to do. He says that all is well. He gives us his love and his wisdom. But no explanations about what actually happened, or what will come next.” She looked ahead toward where her brother walked with Mary Magdalene. “I think our dear Lazarus may have come very close to God. And what earthly words could describe such a moment?”

The village of Bethany had neither central plaza nor market nor even a tavern. They took a heavily rutted lane that meandered up and over a rocky terrace. Backyard corrals were built from whatever rubble was nearest—branches, mud, stones, bits of cloth and furniture and discarded bedding. It was the poorest village Leah had ever seen, midway down a rise and somewhat sheltered from the wind but facing into an empty valley of rock and desert shrub and lengthening shadows. Mary Magdalene saw her expression and said quietly that the name Bethany in the ancient Hebrew tongue meant “a house of affliction.” She also said it was one of their Lord’s favorite places, one he returned to time and again.

The house was of a common design. The lower floor was split into two chambers, a kitchen and a larger communal room. Up an outside stairway were two more rooms, sleeping chambers for the women and the men. Above that was a flat roof, high sided so that the people who slept there on hot summer nights were granted privacy. The simple home was neat and clean. Martha took charge of the meal preparation as Leah joined her in the kitchen. The others began preparing the table and setting a fire.

Leah was shaken to the core by the story of Lazarus. She had been hearing of miracles performed by Jesus for weeks. But this one struck her very hard indeed. She was grateful for Martha’s willingness to leave her in silence, glad also for the normal tasks that occupied her hands and allowed her mind to roam. She finally came to settle upon precisely what had left her world tilted slightly upon its foundations.

Her hands paused in their chopping of vegetables to add to the broth simmering over the coals. She said to Martha, “I feel I can speak frankly with you.”

“I was wondering when you were going to let out what you’ve been chewing on,” the woman said with a little smile.

“I am betrothed . . .” Leah took a breath and started again. “I am betrothed to a Roman centurion.”

Martha stepped over and took the knife from Leah’s trembling hand. “Let’s set this aside before you cut yourself. Here. Sip some water. Better?”

“Yes.”

A voice in the doorway said, “It is almost sunset.”

“We’ll be ready on time. We always are.” Martha turned back to Leah. “Tell me.”

“My sisters were imprisoned in terrible marriages with men who saw them only as chattel. I fear the same thing happening to me.” Leah’s voice shook along with her hands. She looked up at Martha. “The betrothal was not of my choosing. Soon after, I was given information that the centurion was going to be assassinated. I thought this was my way out. I almost let him die. But I didn’t.”

Martha reached over and put a hand on her shoulder. The hand was thickly calloused, yet the gesture carried an uncommon gentleness and comfort.

“I’ve hardly ever cried,” Leah said now, her voice low. “It is one of the few things I have taken pride in through this whole impossible experience. I did not weep even through all that happened to me and my family. But now I want to cry all the time.”

“I don’t think you’ve allowed yourself to hope either,” Martha said. “What is the centurion’s name?”

Leah lowered her head, tears forcing their way down her cheeks.

Martha gripped her hand and peered into her face. “Try.”

Leah whispered, “Alban.”

“So your Alban has come into your life. He is no longer merely a name upon a betrothal document. He is a man for whom you have feelings. You hope that there might be a tomorrow for you together.”

Leah grasped the woman’s strong hand with both of hers. “But men fail—even good ones. They break up families. They rage and they wound. And then they leave.”

“Some do. My own father died. My mother too. And finally, Jesus himself did not come when we sent for him, and my brother Lazarus died as well.” Martha spoke in the same calm tone Leah had come to recognize. “Then, when all hope was lost, Jesus did come. Do you know what I think now?”

Leah shook her head.

“Mary and I have spent quite a bit of time with the Master. I saw him teach, I saw him heal, I saw him dine with his disciples, I saw him leave, and I saw him return. And this is what I think: I believe every moment of his entire life has been spent setting an example. Every breath, every act, every word, carries message upon message upon message. His every instant was meant to bring eternity into the moment and hope to this fallen world. The death of my brother, our time of broken mourning, our loss of hope . . .”

It was Martha’s turn to stop and struggle with her emotions. Then she said, “He did this not only for us, but for everyone who witnessed that day. And for those like you who hear of it. He did this to show that even in the darkest hour, when there is no reason to go forward, no possibility of a better tomorrow, he is there to comfort, to guide, to heal. He brings with him the gift of hope. Impossible, glorious, joyful hope.”

CHAPTER

TWENTY-SEVEN

North of Jerusalem a Day’s Journey

ALBAN WALKED DOWN a squalid village lane and thought of the city he had left behind. Despite Jerusalem’s overwhelming crowds, particularly at festival time, the city showed a remarkable tidiness. But this Bedouin village, a day’s ride into the Samaritan desert, held perhaps a thousand souls and prospered because it was located at the point where the Damascus Road separated from the one leading north to Galilee. The village included an underground water system that fed an oasis planted with date palms and olive trees. Broad dirt plazas, every one surrounded by taverns and travelers’ markets, each held a well. The remainder was a haphazard scramble of corrals and vegetable patches and mud-thatched houses. Refuse was piled in the unlikeliest of places, and animals bleating from neighboring pens added their own stench. Alban swatted at the ferocious flies and appreciated Jerusalem anew.

The late afternoon heat had driven everyone indoors. As he returned from the stable to the inn, Alban passed a pair of donkeys huddled beneath an awning, their eyes shut against the flies. Otherwise the lane he walked was empty. He sensed more than saw the men who followed him.

He had spotted trackers twice as he crossed high hills and pretended to inspect his horse’s hoof while discreetly scouting the route behind him.

Now he purposely walked with a distinct limp, as though working out cramps from an overlong day in the saddle. But his body and mind were alert and on guard, thanks to Leah’s warning.

What held his thoughts fast at the moment was his conversation with a bearded Judaean whose gaze and words had rocked his world. Anyone could love their friends, Joseph of Arimathea had told him. Even the Romans could do that. Even a warrior. Jesus had taught his followers to
love one’s enemy
.

Alban stepped into the plaza and surveyed the empty area. But what he was thinking was that no one who taught such lessons could foment an armed revolution. Alban went on to consider the challenge to forgive his own brother—even after he had cruelly sought Alban’s death, banishing him from home. Even to contemplate such a thing left Alban astounded and shaken to the core.

Alban forced himself to concentrate upon the danger at hand. He limped awkwardly toward the pair of lanes opening ahead. He lowered his head and shielded his eyes as though the sunlight was almost too much to bear. He selected the narrower lane, the one most completely enshrouded in gloom. Every town had such places as this, dark even at high noon, with high walls protecting family compounds on both sides. Alban took his time down the narrow alley, wondering if he might have unwittingly lost them. Then he heard the soft pad of footsteps behind him.

He arrived at a corner and leaned hard upon the stone, squinting and searching the various turnings as though uncertain which way to proceed. Alban pretended at deep weariness and walked slower still. But the harsh breath that hissed through his teeth was real enough.

Then he heard a soft
twang.

Instantly he dropped and rolled. The arrow thrummed the air over his head and shot into the wall opposite, its feathers trembling at the force.

Alban came up with sword in his hand. One of his earliest lessons had been how to combine a series of actions into one smooth motion, how to change a moment of perceived defeat into unexpected strength.

Clearly his assailants had not expected the feint. The man in front faltered slightly, for Alban was neither screaming from the arrow nor open to a final strike. The second man tumbled into the first, forcing them both off balance.

Alban quickly stepped forward and used his sword hilt to hammer the first attacker between his eyes. The man remained on his feet, but his eyes fluttered and his hand dropped his blade.

When Alban saw the bowman raise his bow and take aim again, he took a half step to his right, placing the stunned foe between himself and the next arrow. The second man thrust at Alban with a wickedly curved sword. But he risked hitting his mate and the force was halfhearted. Alban parried the thrust easily and slid his own blade down the attacker’s sword, slipping around its guard and digging his point into the attacker’s hand. The man shouted and released his own blade in a clatter on the stones.

A voice shouted, “Behind you!”

Alban flattened to the earth in an instant. The air over his head whistled, and a metal-tipped mallet aimed for his head struck the wounded assailant, who howled in further pain. This third attacker again spun the hammer over his head and struck downward. But Alban was already rolling away and felt the earth near his head tremble from the strike. He jabbed his sword at the attacker’s leg, but the man scrambled out of reach. Alban spun and leapt back to his feet. He yelled, “Take out the bowman!”

The third assailant snarled and closed and took a vicious swipe.

Alban parried the blow, his sword catching the mallet’s metal face and breaking clean off, leaving only its hilt in Alban’s hand.

Then he saw the fourth assailant. He shouted, “Toss me your sword!”

The answer was the clash of steel upon steel. He realized Linux was occupied with his own struggle and unable to help him.

Alban did the only thing that came to mind. He ran—upward.

He dropped his sword hilt and used a hitching rail to make an impossible leap and land upon the top of a wall. The two remaining attackers roared their anger. Alban sprinted down the wall as the stone behind him rang with the sound of metal upon stone.

Two steps ahead, the narrow wall made a right-hand turn. Alban knew his speed would not allow him to make the angle, so he accelerated and raced out into the air. All limbs windmilled, seeking a hold that was not there.

He landed in the dust, rolling and coming up against a cart’s wheel. Alban scrambled under the cart just as one of the assassins raced within range and swung his hammer once more. The blow was so savage it broke the wheel. The cart tumbled over, nearly crushing Alban in the process. The load of bricks poured out, forcing the assailant to retreat.

Alban knew now was his best chance. He scrambled out, grabbing two bricks along the way. Even before he was fully on his feet, he loosed the first brick. He missed, but the throw halted the attacker for a moment. Alban took more careful aim and threw the second brick with all his might, striking one foe directly above his heart. The man’s breath rushed out and he sat down hard, a look of stunned disbelief upon his scarred and bearded features.

Alban ducked the hammer’s next swing and reached for more bricks. His attacker was grunting with each breath, the hammer’s weight slowing his actions. Alban stepped in and clapped the bricks to either side of the attacker’s helmet. The steel rang like a gong. Alban extended his arms out as far as they would go and struck again.

The man dropped like a sack.

Alban plucked the sword from the man’s fingers. He swirled and thrust the blade at the neck of the stunned assailant. The man froze in the process of rising from the dust.

“It’s over,” Alban said.

“Explain to me again why we must go through all this nonsense,” Linux said.

They were seated in an open-fronted inn on the plaza’s western side, deep inside the awning’s shade. The five attackers were lashed to a hitching post by the well, kneeling in the dust with their wrists bound level with their heads. The square was filled with villagers now, talking in low voices.

“Have you noticed,” Alban asked, “how the village has suddenly sprung to life? As though they might have been aware of the attack before it occurred?”

“Of course I have,” Linux said, sounding peevish. “And that is no answer at all.”

Alban and Linux had planned carefully, then made as much noise as possible to announce their departure from Jerusalem. Their hardest task had been dealing with Jacob’s insistence on coming also. Alban had to become rather stern, finally convincing the boy that his presence would put Alban’s life in greater danger.

Alban had left Jerusalem alone. Linux had left at the same time but on the road toward Caesarea, which departed from the city’s opposite side. Once beyond the hippodrome, Linux had made his way overland, circling back around the camps beyond the walls.

“The village could well be a hiding place for the bandits,” Alban now said patiently to his partner. “Or at least a point for information to be exchanged. Think of it: The bandits pay for a safe haven at the juncture of the two most important roads east of Jerusalem.”

Linux waited as the nervous tavern keeper placed food and mugs of something hot before them, then scurried away. “I still don’t understand why you won’t let me lash these fellows behind my horse and drag them back to Pilate.”

Alban rose to his feet without responding. He carried his empty mug out into the waning sunlight. The villagers backed away as he approached the five bandits. Alban ignored the surrounding peasants and reached for the rope attached to the well’s overhang. He pulled up the leather bucket, set it on the well’s ledge, and filled his mug. He walked to the closest attacker, who flinched at his approach. Alban held the mug to the man’s cracked and dusty lips and said, “Drink.”

“You’re wasting perfectly good water,” Linux called over to him.

“Be a friend and fetch my sack.” Alban let the man drain the mug. He filled it again and gave it to the next bandit. He continued until all had drunk. He then exchanged the sack from Linux for the mug, opened its neck, and pulled out the scroll. He said to the bandits, “I am going to assume at least one of you speaks Aramaic. No band would dare enter this far into Judaea without at least one to speak for you.” He held it so the golden eagle caught the sunlight. “This scroll bears the Imperial Eagle and the governor’s seal. It grants me full powers within Judaea.”

Alban motioned with the scroll to Linux. “My friend serves on the prelate’s personal staff. He wants to take you back with him to Pilate. You know what will happen then. You will be questioned in the Roman fashion.”

A moan could be heard from one of them.

“And then,” Alban continued, “you will be crucified.”

He settled the scroll back into the sack and cinched the top shut. Alban handed the sack back to Linux. And he waited.

Finally one of the men muttered, “What do you want?”

The attacker who had wielded the hammer barked out a guttural command. Linux’s blade flashed in the sunlight and came to rest upon the attacker’s neck. The man went silent.

Alban said, “I am going to give you a choice. I have fought the Parthians. I know they are men of valor and fierce warriors. So I offer you this: Tell me what I want to know, and my friend will transport you to Tyre. There you will serve upon the galleys for five years.”

“It is the same death,” one of them scoffed. But his voice trembled. “Only slower.”

“Nothing is the same as an interrogation and crucifixion,” another shot back.

“We don’t know if we can trust him,” put in a third.

“Five years,” Alban repeated. “And then you will be freed. You have attacked a Roman officer upon a Roman road. You deserve far worse, as you are well aware.”

The hammer wielder started to speak but was silenced as Linux pressed the sword more firmly.

The first attacker said, “What guarantee do you offer?”

“My word as you hear it now. Answer my questions, and I will put everything in writing.”

“We do not read—”

“I do,” Linux said. “I will confirm what is said, upon my oath as an officer. Though I say it would be far better to hang you on a Golgotha tree.”

“Three questions,” Alban said. “First, you are Parthians, yes?”

“We are.”

This time Linux pressed the blade before the one with the mallet could even open his mouth.

“The Parthians are responsible for the attacks upon the Damascus Road?”

“Not all,” another muttered. “But most.”

“This village is your point of contact?” When he received a grudging nod from one attacker, he went on, “You have watchers in place who report when caravans are passing, and which route they take.”

“We have spies everywhere,” the hammer wielder reported, pride in his voice in spite of the knife in his neck. “Even in the palaces of Caesarea.”

Alban said to Linux, “You will tell Pilate?”

“His questioners would have obtained this same information.”

“Perhaps. But with me they did not have fear and pain staining their answers.”

Linux lowered his blade and eyed Alban with new respect. “Pilate was right in what he said. You have the makings of a hero about you.”

Alban obtained parchment and a writing implement from the innkeeper. He wrote carefully, invoking Pilate’s name and his own authority. “You will ensure the admiral is aware of my agreement?” he asked Linux.

“My own document will travel with yours, and I will personally select trustworthy guards for the journey. Though I still feel—”

“We obtained all we needed.”

Linux thumped his fists upon the table. “I ask again, why do you not want to hand these men over to Pilate?”