The Centurion's Wife (8 page)

“Take them, Herod. Inform me of anything you learn.” Pilate then shifted directions with a ruler’s ease. “Centurion, I hear that you are considered an ally by the religious Judaeans of Galilee.”

Alban felt a trickle of sweat maneuver down his spine. “My lord?”

“It is a simple enough question. Are you counted among those they call . . .” Pilate turned to Herod. “What is the term they use?”

Herod seemed to lick the words as they emerged. “They are known as Godfearers, prelate.”

Alban said, “I try to maintain good relations with the local citizens, sire. But I remain loyal to Rome and steadfast in my duty.”

Herod frowned. “That is no answer at all.”

“On the contrary, it is a Roman answer,” Pilate said.

“Ah yes, Rome.” Herod spun the end of his beard between his fingers. “Which brings us to the crux of the matter, doesn’t it? A soldier of Rome and a Judaean woman. Interesting.”

Alban stood in absolute silence. Something was going on between the two men that he did not understand. It seemed that Pontius Pilate, the emperor’s direct representative to Judaea, and Herod Antipas, tetrarch of Galilee and Perea, had been discussing him. And the woman mentioned?
Is it possible that Leah has Judaean blood?
None of this had come up in any of the information about the woman his colleague had gathered for him. The thought was so astounding he nearly missed the next words.

Herod looked rather smug as he turned to Pilate. “Well, are you going to tell him—or shall I?”

Pilate did not respond.

“Under Judaean law, the betrothal ceremony is a legally binding act,” Herod began, as if speaking to a child. “To break off a betrothal requires a formal process of divorce. Yet the couple is not actually wed until the groom has fulfilled a vow. In between the ritual of betrothal and claiming his bride, the groom is required to fulfill a task, part of his dowry, as it were. Usually this means building a house or acquiring pastureland. In this case . . .”

Why was Herod spouting Judaean law? Alban’s face must have revealed his confusion because Pilate said, “To be betrothed under Judaean law would open doors for the man desiring the hand of the maid.”

Herod’s face turned reptilian. “That is assuming the man is brave enough and determined enough to meet the conditions.”

Alban was still at a loss to understand what was passing between the two men. But he knew now it somehow involved Leah and himself.

“May I ask—” Alban dared to begin, but Herod cut the words short.

“Oh, you may ask, centurion. And I’m sure that the honorable Pilate will be happy to explain. I have every confidence that you will be given every detail. Every detail. Isn’t that so, Pilate?”

The prelate merely nodded.

“Then I shall take my leave. When shall my man collect your authorization for the other bandits, sire?”

“What is that?”

“Oh, did I misunderstand? I assumed your approval for custody was for both the officers and their men, particularly since your helpful centurion guesses some of them speak Aramaic. There can often be no better way to obtain answers than to question one while the others watch.”

Alban could tell the prelate disliked the request. Alban was tempted to speak of what he suspected. But he had no evidence, nothing definite enough to risk the vengeful wrath that lurked within the Judaean ruler’s expression.

“Have your aide present himself this afternoon,” Pilate reluctantly replied. “I will have the release ready.”

“I remain your loyal servant, sire.” Even Herod’s bow was a lie. “Good day, centurion. We shall meet again.”

When they were alone, Pilate asked, “Do you wish to be seated?”

“Thank you, prelate, but I am fine as I am.”

Prelate, prefect, legate, governor. Pilate’s position may have carried many titles, but they all translated to the same thing: raw, brutal, Roman power.

Pilate said, “This alliance of yours with the Galilean Judaeans.

Swiftly Alban recounted the problems he faced. One small garrison, the vast territory, the border crossings, the tax collectors, the bandits. Capernaum and Tiberias were the two main cities in his district, and both were dominated by the religious elders.

“Are you indeed what Herod spoke of, a God-fearer?”

The elders of Capernaum had asked him the same thing. Alban had had no answer then either. “I am a soldier of Rome,” he repeated.

Pilate seemed satisfied. “I have yet to find anyone who speaks ill of you. Even among your men.”

Alban was not surprised to hear there were spies in his garrison. “The prelate does me great honor.”

“I suppose you’ve heard of the events in Jerusalem.”

“The death of the prophet Jesus. Yes, sire. I have heard.” Pilate seemed to be alert enough to detect Alban’s unspoken thoughts. “You disapprove of crucifixion?”

Alban shifted uncomfortably. “Sire, I thought I had been summoned to discuss my—my betrothal is it called?—to your niece.”

Instead of answering, Pilate rose to his feet. Before he crossed halfway to the palace entrance, a servant appeared. Interestingly, the shadow behind the wooden screen had not moved. “Bring tea,” the prelate barked. Then to Alban, “I seek to know your mettle, centurion. I have a pressing issue, and I must know if you are up to the task.”

Still Alban hesitated.

“Speak! Your commander demands it.”

“Sire, when I was but a lad, my father took me to a province northwest of our own, a slender stretch of highland valleys perched between the lowlands and the Alps. The year I was born the region had revolted against Roman law and Roman taxes. They turned each valley into a natural fortress and fought off the Romans for nine years. When the capital was finally taken, the Romans salted the earth and crucified every man and boy who survived the battles. The crosses stretched across the valley, up the far ridge, and off into the distance. My father wanted me to understand the danger of defying Rome. I dream of it still.”

“The Sanhedrin accused this prophet of doing just that, defying Roman rule.”

Pilate waited while the slave brought tea, ordered that Alban be served a cup as well, then continued. “I have been told that you had contact with this Jesus.”

“Not face-to-face, sire.” Alban gave his report in terse bits. He might have never met Pilate before, but he had years of experience in reporting to superior officers. Battlefield reports were all the same, the most information available packed into the smallest amount of space. All the while, his tea remained untouched on the table beside him.

Because Alban had aided in rebuilding the Capernaum synagogue, the local elders treated him as a God-fearer. The elders avoided direct questions that might have challenged their assumptions.

This Jesus had made Capernaum his base. The longer the rabbi taught, the larger grew the crowds. By day the city’s roads became cloaked in clouds of yellow dust, by night the city walls were rimmed with countless campfires. The prophet took to walking with his disciples out into the desert to escape the hordes, but even then the crowds followed him into the dreaded Samarian wasteland, where, according to the stories, they were fed miraculously from his hand.

The Capernaum elders knew Alban had become attached to the lad, two outcasts making the best of the desert garrison. When Jacob was taken down by the wasting illness. The elders had spoken to Alban of the prophet’s healing touch and offered to approach Jesue on his behalf. They explained that by doing so, they would act as a divine emissary—a term so powerful that to another religious Judaean, it might as well be the same person wearing a different skin. An ambassador with divine implications.

The first hint Alban had that the prophet Jesus had agreed to heal his servant lad was when the elders left Capernaum on the garrison road. From his fort’s high position, Alban had seen the crowd start toward them. And he had known a distinct unease. Not because of the crowd’s size, which was enormous, nor because of his own men’s increasing discomfort at the sight of so many strangers headed toward the garrison. He had seen and heard enough to be certain that this man carried no threat with him.

Yet even at this distance, the prophet at the head of the crowd had made Alban unsettled in a way he could not describe, not then and not now while he stood before Pontius Pilate.

On that day, Alban had sent a second message with two friends, Galileans who ran local caravans and supplied the garrison with fresh provisions. He had asked them to tell the prophet that there was no need for him to enter the garrison belonging to soldiers, killers, mercenaries—men considered enemies of all loyal Judaeans. For even at that distance, Alban knew he watched a man of power. Alban had asked the merchants to say that Alban too was a commander of men, and if he told a subordinate to go, the man went.

Alban watched as they met the prophet on the road. And that instant, while Alban had stood on the guard tower and saw his friends converse with the prophet, young Jacob had risen from his sickbed as though he had never been ill, never suffered, never started down the lonely track toward almost certain death.

And when the caravan masters had returned, they had said a curious thing: They reported that the prophet Jesus had praised Alban’s faith.

Which had only left him more uneasy still.

When Alban finished with his report, much more brief than the memories from which he supplied the facts to his superior, Pilate remained silent for a time, toying with his cup. Finally he said, “I ordered this Jesus brought before me. When I recall it now, my strongest impression was that the man was already gone. Though he still lived, he was utterly focused upon the beyond. This Jesus spoke of things I could not fathom. And all the while, the Sanhedrin bayed like hounds in the courtyard.”

Alban ventured, “What did Jesus say to you, prefect?”

“I asked if he was truly the king of the Judaeans. He responded that his kingdom was not of this world.”

“I feel the man was never a threat to Rome, sire.”

“Exactly what I said to the Sanhedrin. But they accused him of blasphemy against their God and demanded his death.” Pilate shook his head. “I have sent dozens of men to the cross. Hundreds, perhaps. But never, I fear, one as undeserving as this man.”

Pilate set down his cup, stood, and began pacing. Alban waited. For what, he had no idea.

Finally Pilate said, “The man has vanished.”

“Sire?”

“From the tomb. The prophet. He is gone.”

“He did not die?”

“The Sanhedrin claim his disciples stole away his body. Does that make sense to you, centurion?”

Alban thought hard. “Weren’t guards posted there?”

“Indeed they were.”

“What do they say?”

“They reported to the high priest, who informed me they too claim the disciples stole the prophet’s body.”

Alban squinted at the floor by his feet. The statement made no sense. A soldier on guard duty who permitted such a thing was doomed to his own slow and painful death. Then a new thought came to Alban. “If the Judaeans planned revolt, if they wished to suggest—”

“That this man led them still.” Pilate nodded his approval. “They could steal the body away and then make whatever preposterous claims they wished.”

Alban’s mind raced forward. “Or perhaps the Sanhedrin did it themselves and wish to disguise the fact by blaming the disciples while they foment their own revolt.”

“Indeed.” Pilate came to an abrupt halt. “You wish to marry my niece Leah.”

Alban came to rigid attention. “Yes, sire.”

“You seek advancement beyond the desert garrison.”

“I do, sire.”

“Here are my terms. You will be bound to my niece following the Judaean betrothal customs. Discover the truths behind the prophet’s disappearance. Determine whether there is a threat against me or against Rome. If I am satisfied with your work, the wedding will take place.”

As simple as that. Alban could not believe the words. “Thank you, sire.”

But the prelate was not finished. “The position of
tribuni angusticlavus
on my staff is unfilled. Are you up to the challenge?”

Alban blinked away a sudden spinning of his world. Each senior legate could appoint as many as five tribuni, the personal knights who carried his seal and acted in his name. “I am honored you would think of it, sire.”

“I have need of a man who can handle himself among the Judaeans. Serve me well, centurion, and I shall reward you better.”

He hesitated for a brief moment, then continued grudgingly. “Herod is of the opinion that Leah can be of use to you as your espoused wife. The fact that she is Judaean is to be widely circulated. This will allow her access into the Judaean community. Women talk. She might discover something that you would never learn on your own. You understand?”

Alban felt a faint trace of alarm. But Pilate’s offer so seared his thinking he could scarcely see beyond that. “I accept your offer, sire,” he heard himself saying, wondering if it was all a dream. Or the beginning of a nightmare . . .

CHAPTER

NINE

One Hour Later

ALBAN AND LINUX left the palace, riding fresh horses from Pilate’s private stable. The prelate had commanded them to make all haste, his imperious tone suggesting that usage of his baths followed by a good meal was all any Roman soldier needed in order to fully recover. And Linux was ordered to accompany Alban and see that the Jerusalem garrison granted whatever aid was required to accomplish his assignment.

Alban’s mount was the finest horse he had ever set eyes on, a chestnut mare with a gentle nature, enormous strength, and a coat that shone. The horse’s mane and tail were considerably lighter than her coat, and she tossed her head as if well aware of her beauty. Linux must have noticed Alban’s admiring looks, for he said, “I am specifically ordered to return with both mounts.”

“Horses can get lost,” Alban quipped.

“Not that one. Not and either of us survive.”

After Leah served Procula’s early afternoon dose of medicine, she found Dorit in the kitchen in a chair pulled up close to the fire. The old servant watched as Leah cleaned the mixing bowl, pestle, and cup, then said, “It’s true what they said, the centurion captured Parthian bandits?”

Leah’s sigh came from the depths of her soul. “All I heard was how Pilate and Herod and the centurion have bartered me into a marriage not of my choosing.”

Dorit remained silent.

Leah set the items back on the tray to dry and slowly made her way into a chair beside Dorit. “Yes, it’s true.”

“And he’s as handsome as they say?”

Leah hesitated a moment. “What I could see of him was favorable enough.”

“Even a soldier who resents the centurion’s methods calls Alban a true leader of men,” Dorit reminded her.

The weight of inevitability lay upon Leah like a stone mantle. “Does that make it right for them to chain me to him for the rest of my life?”

“Of course not.” Dorit hesitated, then continued, “Still, after years of rumors and entire merchant clans disappearing into the sands, the centurion brings two Parthian leaders to Pilate. And saves a caravan. And loses no men in the process.” Admiration colored her tone, and Leah could argue with none of it.

The two women sat quietly, staring into the flames. Leah recalled how, soon after her arrival at the palace, Dorit had taken her into the town of Caesarea. Beyond the hippodrome, at the border of the portside market, stood a temple dedicated to Mercury, the winged Roman god of prosperity and messengers and merchants. The temple was a squat and orderly affair, built with all the practicality of a counting house. As they passed the side entrance, Dorit had adjusted her shawl as she checked in all directions, then leaned forward as though to place an offering in the temple bowl. Instead she had spat at the god’s statue.

At that instant Dorit’s calm mask had dropped away, and a bitterness turned her face as stern as death. Then she had carefully hidden her feelings away.

Only when they were on their way back to the palace did Leah ask about what she had observed. Dorit explained that she had once loved a caravan guard. After Procula had blessed their marriage, the guard went on a journey carrying wares of his own, which he had intended to sell and then buy Dorit’s freedom. Neither the man nor the caravan were ever heard from again.

Dorit went on, “I would not resign you to the fate of growing old in the service of others, with nothing to look forward to besides lonely nights in front of a fire that refuses to warm away the hollow ache.”

“Better that,” Leah shot back, “than trapped in the house of a man who uses you to further his own ambitions. A man who views you as just another slave.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know men.”

“Oh, is that so?” Dorit scoffed in a voice as soft as Leah’s. “You know men, do you?”

“I know enough. I know they leave. I know they fail. I know they cannot be trusted.” She held her face in her hands, hating the burning helplessness that filled her entire being. “There is no worse fate than to be chained through marriage to a man whom you do not know, whom you do not wish to know.”

The afternoon found Procula much improved, enough so that she sought to speak with her husband. Leah’s duties took her several times through the lady’s private chambers, and she could overhear their voices from Pilate’s apartment next door. They were not exactly arguing. But whatever topic occupied them must not have been a particularly pleasant one. Something told her they discussed her own future, and twice Leah was tempted to reach for the door.

Procula finally emerged just before midafternoon and announced, “We leave for Jerusalem.”

Leah’s expression conveyed her surprise.

“You and I shall travel in the first group.” In the background, Pilate was bellowing for his secretary. “My husband will follow with the rest of the household when his work here is done.”

“But, mistress, so soon? Your health—”

“The headaches have been as bad here as there. And my dreams are worse. Besides, I yearn to be on horseback and in the fresh air.”

Procula made the household race by simply declaring she intended to leave within the hour, and whatever was not ready would be left behind. Pilate surveyed the ensuing panic with a severe expression but said nothing. He seemed to watch Leah as much as his wife, which only heightened Leah’s dread.

Her anxiety was magnified when Procula declared, “Choose a gown for yourself.”

“Thank you, but I have no need of such finery, my lady.” Procula showed a rare sharpness. “You have two choices: You can obey me, or you can arrive for your betrothal in a gown of my choosing.”

The words hung in the air between them, as sharp as a blade. Leah knew instantly she had overstepped the invisible boundaries, and risked far more than her wedding garments. She spoke the first words that came to mind. “Please do not be angry with me, mistress. But if I am to be betrothed as a Judaean, perhaps I should be dressed as one. Not as a citizen of Rome or Greece.”

Procula’s frown deepened, but at length she said, “Very well. You may select something suitable from a merchant in the market when we get to Jerusalem. Now go! And tell the guards to bring my horse around front.”

They left in haste, Leah and Procula accompanied by two other servants and nine guards led by Hugo. Leah found none of her customary comfort in the old soldier’s presence. Nor did the sunlit vista or the open road fill her with any sense of adventure. For up ahead, beyond the road’s next bend, lay only a hopeless future filled with foreboding.

Alban and Linux followed the road bordering Pilate’s new aqueduct and headed south. The clouds piled up, threatening a late spring squall, and the wind threw fistfuls of grit in their faces. They came upon a trail leading to a ruined hillside village and took shelter, just as the storm started in earnest, in the only hovel that still possessed a roof. Other travelers must have done the same, for there was a square of smooth-faced stones blackened by fires, and beside it a scattering of kindling. Linux gathered more wood and started a blaze. “It always seems to rain harder in Judaea. Or perhaps it’s only the contrast with the desert.”

“No.” Alban dumped the saddles and hung the blankets from a roof beam to dry. “All the seasons are fiercer here.”

“I remember the rains of Umbria. Gentle as a maiden’s kiss. When they passed, the world was washed so clean I could almost see Rome.”

At a crack of thunder Alban’s horse stamped nervously. He patted a flank and felt the muscles tremble. “It rained like this in Gaul. Every spring and autumn. Flash floods that sometimes carried away whole villages.”

“Do you ever miss home?”

“I told you before, I have no home to miss.” For once Alban did not mind the truth.

“Italia sings to me sometimes in my sleep,” Linux mused. “Or I hear laughter, and I remember Rome. There always seems to be laughing in my memories of Rome. Or singing.”

“I would like to have the chance to miss Rome.” Alban crouched beside the fire, feeling in rare good spirits. Lightning struck in the distance and the rain fell harder still. He was warm, the hut where they sheltered dry enough, and he traveled with a likeable man for company on a mount he could kill to own. What was more, he carried Pilate’s scroll in the pouch slung from his shoulder. Alban touched the document through the soft leather. It seemed to him the parchment was still warm where the prelate had melted wax and stamped it with his royal seal bearing the name and authority of not less than Tiberius, emperor of Rome. The cylinder was bound to a gilded staff crowned by the imperial eagle, and the text named Alban as Pilate’s personal emissary, ordering all in Judaea to do his bidding.

Alban noted, his voice low, “I did not have a chance to see Leah. I’ve never even met the woman whom I am to wed.”

“I’ve seen her about. She serves as Procula’s personal maid.”

“What is she like?”

Linux feigned blindness to Alban’s heightened interest. “She’s not overly fat, I suppose.”

“Oh, and thank you for
that
most welcome news.”

Linux fed more wood to the fire. “Other than a rather astonishing mole on her chin and the wandering eye, neither is she altogether plain.”

“You are aware you’re joking with a superior officer.”

“I am indeed.” Linux lay flatbread on the stones to warm. His tone changed. “She’s unusually intelligent, your lady. The servants in any household are jealous of their own positions. A newcomer, particularly one both lovely and of superior heritage, could expect to be savaged.”

Alban tried to keep his voice level. “She is lovely?”

“She is intelligent,” he repeated. “Soon after she arrived, Proc-ula’s elderly maid became very ill. Without anyone assigning the duty, Leah began taking personal care of her. Imagine, Pilate’s niece acting as servant to a slave. But this slave is a favorite to many of the servants and the guards alike. Leah’s actions earned her friends throughout the household.”

Alban mulled that over. “Have you spoken with her?”

“Nothing more than a greeting. She says little. I have heard she talks with no one save the old slave.”

“An intelligent woman who is also private,” Alban mused.

“She also is quite easy on the eyes,” Linux finally added with a grin. “Too strong and direct and intelligent for my taste.”

“But attractive.”

“Indeed.” Linux grinned again and shrugged. “Shame about that wandering eye.”

Alban studied the other man. Linux had a good face. The firelight hardened the edges about his jaw and turned his gaze flinty sharp. Alban said, “Pilate suggested I contact one of the Sanhedrin. He said this Joseph of Arimathea would be a good starting point.”

Linux slipped a cloth packet from the saddlebag. He laid out the rest of their meal on the flagstone between them—salt meat, dried fruit, cakes of honeycomb. “I’ve met several members of the Judaean council, but not that one. He’s rich enough to barricade himself away from the likes of me. Not that I’ve any great desire to meet another Judaean. He’s a Pharisee. You understand what that means?”

“I’ve known a few.” Unlike the Sadducees, the dominant group on the Sanhedrin, some Pharisees traveled out to the provinces and visited religious communities like Capernaum, speaking in the synagogues, passing on Temple edicts to the priests and local elders. The Pharisees were well known for their distinct dress and the way they avoided even speaking to a Roman. A strict Pharisee would consider himself unclean after crossing so much as a Roman’s shadow.

Linux asked the question that had hung between them since Alban had emerged from the palace. “How was your audience with Pilate?”

“So intense I am still sorting through the fray.” He grinned crookedly at his companion. “Like after a battle, just as you said.”

Linux stirred the fire. “You know what is an officer’s best friend in battle?”

“Cunning.”

It was a good answer, but Linux flicked his head in disagreement. “Cunning alone can trap you. Get a soldier into a pinch and allow him a way to escape, cunning gives him reasons to turn from warrior to coward. And too often he’ll fall into the trap his enemies have set.”

Alban picked up one of the flatbreads and tossed it from hand to hand until it cooled enough to eat. “What is it, then?”

“Cunning bonded to a secret rage. A good warrior lets the fury take hold only when the heat of war surrounds him. Then he lets loose, and cunning guides his aim.” Linux inspected him gravely. “You have that rage, and you have that control, and you have that cunning. That is what I think Pilate found as well.”

Alban rolled a slice of the meat and a bit of the dried fruit into his bread. He found himself silenced by Linux’s observations. It was not often that a man read him as well as this one had.

The soldier continued to study him. “I for one wouldn’t want to come up against you in a fight, centurion.”

Leah and Procula were traveling light and made good time. They arrived at a simple inn on the road between Caesarea and Jerusalem with a few minutes of daylight to spare. Procula dined alone, served by Leah and the innkeeper’s wife. Twice the woman started to speak with Leah, but whatever she saw in Leah’s expression caused her to shrug, shake her head, and remain silent.