The Centurion's Wife (6 page)

CHAPTER

SIX

The Capernaum Garrison

THEIR DUSTY PROCESSION arrived back at the garrison under a cold moonlight. Alban let the wounded captives set the pace, though it left the small convoy open to attack. He stretched his men out as flanking guards while he and Horax moved about on their mounts, checking the perimeter. Alban did not realize how tired he was until he saw the fort in the distance. The hilltop glowed from the watch fires. He let Horax lead the cadre with the Parthians in chains through the fortified gates. Alban remained at the rear, watching for an ambush until the last man was safely inside.

He himself passed inside to the cheers of the entire garrison. His men had good reason to celebrate. The caravan masters had rewarded Alban’s work with two sacks full of gold. The garrison had not been paid for almost six months, a common enough problem among the outlying posts. And Alban needed the money as desperately as any of his men. After an initial gift to Pilate, and another to the Jerusalem officer who had presented Alban’s case to the prelate, he was nearly penniless.

Alban grinned at the cavorting men and answered their cheers with an upraised fist. He directed the night guard to use an empty stone enclosure for all the captured bandits. Then he spotted the strangers.

They approached Alban’s horse and the lead officer saluted. “You are the centurion Alban?”

“I am.”

The gentleman was impressive, with waxed hair and gold ornamentation on his uniform. He pointed at the enclosure. “Those are the Parthians, the ones most claim do not exist?”

“They are.”

“How many men did you lose in the battle?”

“None.” The soldier had addressed him in Latin, and Alban responded in kind. Even the few words on his tongue seemed strange. He had not spoken the language in months. He doubted that any of his men spoke more than a few words of Rome’s mother tongue.

“You are to be congratulated, centurion. Your predecessor lost a quarter of his strength to the ghost battalions.” The polished officer paused, then said, “Pilate commands that you attend him immediately.”

Alban slipped from his horse and wearily rubbed the dust from his face. “Does he give a reason?”

“Only that the matter is urgent.”

“Then we leave at first light.”

“Centurion, we were ordered—”

“We will be taking with us the two Parthian leaders so Pilate can see them for himself.” Alban pointed to the darkness beyond the garrison’s main gates. “A mounted band of perhaps thirty more escaped on horseback. Do you wish to open yourself to attack at night from a mounted force? One that is incensed at their humiliating loss today?”

The soldier said doubtfully, “Pilate said nothing about bringing Parthians.”

“Hardly a surprise, since no one knew of our raid.” Alban dismissed the strangers with a weary hand. “We leave at dawn.”

Tired as he was, Alban did not sleep well. He could not understand why Pilate had found it necessary to send an officer of his household guard to summon and accompany him to Caesarea. He tossed for hours, searching for some reason to hope that it all was good news, and came up with nothing that gave him calm.

Alban’s greatest fear was not of death, not even of injury or shame. The dread that struck in the bleakest hours was over a loss of control. So little of his life had been as he had wanted. At the age of six, his own father had ordered him to begin preparing himself for battle. At twelve, his father had banished him to the compound of a retired centurion, where he was intensively schooled in the art of combat. He was permitted home only four times a year, for feast days and his mother’s birthday. His father had visited from time to time, watching his progress as a swordsman, offering no sign of affection or affirmation other than his presence.

Alban lay and stared at ceiling beams that flickered and writhed in the oil lamp, and recalled the last time he had seen his father. The old chief had arrived on Alban’s seventeenth birthday with gifts and orders both. They had ridden east toward the Roman legion garrisoned at Avignon. His father had spoken of great changes in the world, the chance Alban now had to elevate himself and the family name. He had handed him a small pouch of gold and a scroll appointing him adjutant to the garrison’s commandant. Then he had saluted his son and ridden away. The tears Alban had refused to shed that day still burned behind his eyelids.

Alban had harbored no desire to become a soldier, much less a Roman legionnaire. But he had done as he was ordered. He lived a soldier’s life. He strengthened his body and deepened his skills. He studied, and he served his commanders. He asked the wisest of them about lessons that came only through surviving in battle. He had returned home once a year. His last journey home had been for his father’s burial. When he had knelt and promised the new chief, his elder brother, his fealty, Alban had seen the light of resentment and fear in the man’s face. The next morning Alban had been ordered to Judaea Province. His brother could not kill him, so he had arranged for Alban to spend the rest of his days in the most desolate reaches of the Roman empire.

Alban pulled the covers over his eyes and did his best to shut out the bitter memories. He had never once broken a vow. But if he was ever granted leave to travel home, he would make his brother pay.

The officer from the prelate’s household guard proved a good enough sort. His rank was
tesserarius
, a title that could mean any number of things and made him Alban’s subordinate. But Alban knew Romans to be a prickly lot and vindictive if their pride was bent. So Alban treated Pilate’s official messenger as though they were of equal rank. The soldier’s name was Linux, and he hailed from a town in Umbria, a province to the north of Rome. According to Linux, Umbria was good only for growing strong pigs and weak wine. “I thought I’d already seen the nastiest place on earth—been there, seen it, and left immune to the worst. But this province turns out to be harder than iron.”

Since Pilate was waiting for them, they all rode. Alban lashed the Parthian bandits firmly to their saddles and left the garrison accompanied by just one of his men. Jacob had begged to join them, but Alban said a firm no and turned away before his resolve could weaken.

His packhorse was piled with his share of booty from the raid. The Parthian leaders had carried shields of hammered gold, and their sword scabbards and hilts were jewel encrusted. Alban had never met a leader not cheered by a gift of booty.

Hours later, as they passed the small garrison marking the entry into Samaria, a guard called down from his tower, and the main portals opened so that the watch officer might salute Pilate’s standard. Linux answered with a casual wave, then turned back to Alban. “For a Gaul, your Latin isn’t altogether crude.”

“Gifted by a centurion from Rome who had retired to a farm near my father’s land. He was a rough sort, but a good fighter and a better teacher.”

“Which explains the hint of gutter in your accent.” Linux revealed an easy grin. “No offense, centurion. We Romans like a bit of the street. And your captives are testimony to your abilities as a fighter and leader both. As a matter of fact, Pilate himself mentioned that your ally in Jerusalem called you a hero in the making. What’s his name?”

“The centurion Atticus. Based at the Antonia Fortress.”

“Another good man, by all accounts.” Linux sobered. “Your friend has known some trouble of his own.”

“Atticus is ill?”

“In a way. You’ve heard about the prophet?”

“You mean the Nazarene, the one they call Jesus? Yes. Word came just yesterday.”

“Your mate was put in charge of the crucifixion. It was hard on him. Extremely hard. And on Pilate. And worst of all on his wife, Procula.”

Despite the desert heat, Alban felt the day chill slightly. “Pilate’s wife?”

“Dreams, she’s had. And is still having, according to some. Fever dreams, so bad she wakes the entire palace with her screams. Which is why we’re traveling to Caesarea. Pilate and the province’s entire administration left Jerusalem eight days ago to return to his seaside palace.”

Caravan traffic converged around them, making further conversation difficult. They were joined at one point by a senior equestrian officer traveling from the Syrian province. Alban accepted the
tribuni
’s grudging congratulations for the successful raid, then backed away and watched Linux ply the crusty gentleman with aristocratic charm until the Syrians turned north toward Tyre.

They made good time and camped that night upon the fields of Armageddon. A large
caravanserai
, a trading outpost, stood at the juncture of the province’s two main roads. To the north were Tiberias and the Galilee, from which they had begun their journey; to the west was the Roman capital of Caesarea. South lay Jerusalem, and farther north was Tyre, the region’s largest port and home to the Roman navy. Where they halted, ruins of a fort from beyond remembrance jutted into the sunset. There local traders sold fresh fruit and bread and fodder for animals at outrageous prices, while their women danced in the firelight for gold.

The Romans camped well apart. As darkness fell the stars formed a gleaming wash overhead, while the surrounding hills glittered with firelight from Samaritan villages. Alban saw to his captives, personally pounding their stakes firmly into the earth, then told his sergeant he would take the second watch.

Their needs were tended by the soldiers who traveled with Linux. Though the pair wore the uniforms and cloaks of Roman legionnaires, Alban suspected they were trusted servants. As they made themselves comfortable by the fire, the officer revealed that his family ruled much of the Umbrian province. “My elder brother has the nerve to complain about it, as though being the most powerful man in Umbria is a burden he carries out of concern for my own weak shoulders.”

“I’ve met such men.”

“Sooner or later I’ll be forced back into the fold. My dear elder brother is obliged to toss me a few crumbs. I’ll be granted some drafty palace with a leaky roof, perched on some lonely cliff. All the servants will come to me suffering from diseases my brother wishes upon me.” Linux motioned at his hovering servants. “Much like this lot, I fear.”

The nearest one accepted the comment as soldier’s humor and grinned as he announced, “Your meal is ready, sir.”

“Well, serve it, man. Serve it.” Linux shook his head and sighed an apology to Alban. “It will be all grit and road dust, I wager. So where is your home?”

“Here, as much as any place.”

“Ah. Bad as that.”

“Worse.”

Linux accepted a plate from the servant and stared at its contents. “Where did you obtain this?”

“A Samaritan herder sold me a haunch of lamb roasted with rosemary and thyme.”

Linux sniffed in appreciation. “Sorry, centurion. You were saying?”

“My father was a chief, my eldest brother a coward who fears my sword.”

“And rightly so, no doubt. If I came upon you in battle I’d hoist my toga and flee like the wind.” He pointed at Alban’s plate.

“Please, enjoy.”

In between mouthfuls Alban felt the need to continue. “The life of a soldier was my father’s desire. My eldest brother’s first act after becoming chief was to have me shipped to Judaea. And you?”

“Military service is a long-standing family tradition. I might have a few generals scattered about my ancestry. One forgets. My brother ordered me to continue the tradition.”

Alban snorted. “Brothers!”

Linux lifted his cup. “May they be plagued by pestilent sores.”

Alban used his belt knife to slice the meat. “Why does a Roman aristocrat travel to an outpost on the Galilee border?”

“I volunteered for the duty. I was so relieved not to be left back in Jerusalem that I would have volunteered for almost anything.” Linux shuddered. “Dreadful place, Jerusalem. Especially now. The city is one step from revolution, and Pilate leaves town because of his wife’s bad dreams.”

“You don’t approve?”

“I don’t approve of the whole province. Nest of vipers, if you ask me. But you, now. You’ve a reputation for making friends among the Judaeans.”

“My region stretches from Tiberias to the Golan border, from Galilee almost to Tyre. I have but one hundred men. I could not rule effectively without making friends and cultivating local allies.”

“I happen to agree with you, even if most of your fellow officers do not. They fear the Judaeans too much to ever form alliances. Especially now.”

Alban read the man’s concern in the firelight. Perhaps there was more depth to the man than he had first assumed. “You’re speaking of the prophet?”

“Be glad you missed that little drama, centurion.” The officer’s careless manner turned serious. “Procula fears it will bring about Pilate’s downfall, which worries the governor like nothing I’ve seen.” He fed the remnants of his meal to the fire. “Dreams and women. Like oil on an open flame.”

“Tell me what happened.”

Linux was silent long enough that Alban assumed the man had politely refused. When he did speak, his voice was so low Alban had to strain to hear him above the sputtering embers. “How many crucifixions have you witnessed?”