The Centurion's Wife (10 page)

The wind passed through the fountain’s spray, cooling their shaded corner. Alban realized the fountain’s water was perfumed, the fragrance as sweet as a flowering meadow. “You live well.”

Joseph dismissed the compliment with a thin smile. “My allies in Capernaum speak favorably of you, centurion. And the caravan you saved carried goods of mine.”

Alban took this as an invitation. “What happened leading up to the disappearance of the prophet’s body?”

“How much do you know?”

“Not much at all. Whatever I know has been hearsay at best. I came here first, straight from the road, as you see.”

Joseph turned to stare out over the ancient wall at the Temple crowning the hill above. “The day before our Passover festival, the high priest Caiaphas called together a
beit din
, a council of judgment. Some cases go before the entire Sanhedrin, especially matters where all Israel might be affected. Other cases are tried by such smaller councils, especially civil cases or those related to religious protocol.”

“A prophet whose followers extend the length and breadth of Judaea and beyond would not require the complete Sanhedrin?”

The Pharisee turned and called, “Guard!”

The man reluctantly appeared from the pillar’s shadow.

Joseph said, “You should go to the kitchen for your evening meal.”

“It can wait,” the guard replied, his gaze never leaving Alban’s face.

Joseph firmly waved the man away and waited until he was out of sight. “Did I mention that members of the Sanhedrin are granted personal protection by the Temple guards?”

Alban understood instantly. “These guards are appointed by the high priest?”

“Caiaphas, yes. It is most helpful.”

Alban stared at the point where the guard had disappeared. “A full gathering of the Sanhedrin would grant a voice to anyone who was both a council member and a follower of this Jesus.”

Josephus merely stroked his beard.

“Were you there for the prophet’s trial?”

“Caiaphas was kind enough to permit me to observe.”

“But you were not appointed as one of the judges.”

Joseph quietly repeated, “The high priest allowed me to observe.”

“I see.”

“Yes. The high priest’s home has a private upper section for his family. The lower portion is given over to Temple affairs. There is a guardroom and a holding cell next to the courtyard used for such meetings.”

“So the high priest chose to conduct this trial in his home.”

“That is so.”

“By this smaller group.”

“A beit din. Yes.”

“Filled with his cronies.”

Joseph might have nodded. “Will you take tea?”

“No thank you. What were the charges?”

“Sedition, blasphemy, treason—quite a vast number of crimes. Witnesses came forward against the rabbi. Some had apparently been bribed, and their testimony was conflicting. The judges refused to rule against him.”

“So he was taken to Pilate.”

“To Pilate, then to Herod, then back to Pilate.” Joseph’s polished veneer cracked for the first time. He spoke with a bitterness that twisted his features. “Where he was scourged. Then, when that did not satisfy the crowd gathered by the high priest, Pilate washed his hands of the affair—literally and figuratively—and the crowd demanded that he be crucified.”

“Did the prophet die upon the cross?”

Joseph resumed the gentle rocking that took hold of his entire body. “The man I carried to the tomb was cold and utterly lifeless.”

“Then where is the body?”

“I have told you all I know.”

“You must suspect someone.”

“You might ask Caiaphas.”

Alban leaned forward. “You suspect the high priest of kidnapping the body? Why? To foment further dissension among his people?”

Joseph rocked, his hand sliding down his beard over and over again.

Alban glanced back to where the guard had been. Could the high priest be intending to start a revolt himself? Alban prompted, “You approached Pilate and requested the right to bury Jesus.”

“Which I did. I laid him to rest with my own hands. In a cave prepared for my own family.”

“Alone?”

“I was helped by a friend, another member of the Sanhedrin named Nicodemus.”

Something in the way the gentleman spoke, maybe the look of reverential awe that filled his features, left Alban both confused and unsettled. “May I ask what it is you are not telling me?”

The gaze that fastened upon Alban was luminous. “Tell me, centurion. What will you do if you find the rabbi’s body—”

“
When
I find him.”

The Pharisee’s smile was otherworldly. “
If
you find him, what if the finding causes your entire world to be shaken to its very core? What if you indeed find the answers you seek, and everything you held as important, everything that shaped your world, all comes crashing down?”

“I don’t understand your—”

“What if you do discover the truth, and the truth shatters your life?” Joseph leaned closer, until all Alban could see was the fire at the center of the Judaean’s dark eyes. “And what if it forces you to leave behind all your ambitions and your desires? What then, centurion? What will you do then?”

CHAPTER

ELEVEN

Late Friday Afternoon

THE JERUSALEM STALLHOLDERS no doubt found it extremely peculiar to have a lone centurion in dusty battle dress ask the way to the house of the high priest. But Alban was too conflicted by his conversation with Joseph to pay them any mind. His body ached from the road. He was hungry and yearned for the baths. Yet his instinct told him he needed to speak with Caiaphas before word of his meeting with Joseph arrived there ahead of him.

The house of Caiaphas occupied a promontory south of the Temple Mount. The house spilled down the cliff face and was fronted by four graceful patios. Caiaphas received Alban in a courtyard fringed by Lebanese cedars. Below them, a lane was jammed so tightly with penitents headed for the Temple that Alban could not see the cobblestones. Their voices, a constant drone, drifted upward on the hot afternoon wind.

The contrasts between Caiaphas and Joseph of Arimathea could not have been greater. The high priest wore robes of Greek design, his hair cut like an Aristotelian scholar. His every motion seemed planned for its effect, and his gaze held the same carefully disguised deadliness as that of Herod Antipas. He looked Alban up and down from his gilded chair. “My guard tells me you bear Pilate’s insignia.”

“Indeed, my lord.” It was an inappropriate title for the man, and most Romans would have considered it insulting to address a Judaean in such a lofty manner. But Alban had found the Capernaum elders to be sticklers about matters of honor. He could only assume the Jerusalem leaders would be even more so. He handed over the scroll.

Caiaphas could not fully disguise his respect for the gilded eagle. “You may be seated, centurion,” he said as he unrolled the scroll.

“My lord does me great honor. But I have been riding since before dawn. I would prefer to stand, if I may.”

“You came straight here from Caesarea?”

“At Pilate’s command, my lord, I went first to see Joseph of Arimathea. From there I immediately came here.”

The man’s face showed a flash of disapproval. “You are here regarding the pestilent prophet.”

“Indeed, sir.”

The high priest pretended to inspect the scroll. “What did Joseph tell you?”

“That the man was dead when they took him down from the cross.”

“Well, of course he was. A Roman guard pierced his side with his spear.”

Alban blinked his surprise. This was news.

“There were three crucifixions that day. The business had to be concluded before the Passover began. When they went to break the legs of the criminals, they discovered the imposter was already dead. One of the guards pierced his side to be certain.” Caiaphas impatiently rolled the document shut and handed it back. “What else did Joseph tell you?”

“That I needed to speak with you, my lord.”

“He did, did he?” Caiaphas did a poor job of masking his pleasure. “Most astute of him. I suppose he told you he was a follower of this rabble-rouser, Jesus.”

“No, my lord. He did not indicate anything like that—”

“Of course it means nothing now. And Joseph never stated it outright. But surely you must have assumed as much, since he had the audacity to approach the prelate and request permission to bury the man.”

Alban asked, “Can you tell me what happened to the body, my lord?”

“The man’s disciples stole it away. The tomb was guarded by Roman soldiers. They reported it.”

“Reported to whom?”

“To me, of course. The Sanhedrin was responsible for this affair.” Caiaphas flicked his hand as though to rid himself of a pesky fly. “Really, centurion. Why Pilate should bother himself over such a trivial matter is beyond me.”

“It is not for me to question my prelate’s orders.”

“No. Quite so.” From the residence’s main patio, a servant called down toward them. Caiaphas waved his acknowledgment. “Well, if that is all, I really must take my leave. Although I am not on duty at the Temple this day, I must make my Sabbath preparations.”

Alban blinked. He had entirely forgotten today was Friday. “I am indeed grateful that you would take the time to speak with me, my lord. Could you tell me where I might find the tomb guards?”

Caiaphas froze in the process of rising. “Why, pray tell, would you wish to speak with them? I have told you what happened.”

“Forgive me, my lord. But Roman soldiers on such guard duty would not give up the body lightly. How many disciples attacked them? Were the soldiers wounded? How were they defeated?”

“I’m sure I neither know nor care.” Caiaphas motioned Alban toward the main doors. He obviously was accustomed to using his authority as a lever against any opposing force. “If you insist, we can speak another time. But now you really must depart.”

Lengthening shadows painted the road as Leah and Procula’s small group arrived at the outskirts of Jerusalem. Procula wisely insisted they wait out the Sabbath evening prayers at a hillside inn beyond the city walls.

The inn was run by Greeks who catered to non-Judaean guests. Situated on the same hill as the hippodrome, it was a pleasant enough stopping place. Leah was hot and tired and her body ached. She could ride well, but seldom was she required to travel such distances on horseback. Servants from several households were lounging at a long table by the inn’s entrance, close enough to the main terrace to keep within sight of their patrons. Leah sat with her back against the inn’s front wall, facing into the sunset and easing her throat with a drink of watered curds with honey. She had been to Jerusalem seven times in the years she had served in Pilate’s household. The city unsettled her and magnified her sense of being an outsider in Judaea.

Between them and the city was another valley with a spring, where Pilate had permitted the Sanhedrin to set up a camp for the festival season. The Judaeans paid the Temple priests a rental fee, the priests gave a portion to the Roman tax collectors, and they in turn passed a tax on to Pilate. The prelate received his share of everything, including the Temple treasury.

The valley was overflowing with tents and makeshift hovels built of branches. A few cooking fires sent lonely pillars rising into the still air. A dog stalked the dusty lane leading down from their hillside. Otherwise the camp was deserted.

A servant Leah did not know muttered, “Where is everyone?” Another of the household’s personal guards replied, “Inside the city.”

“Everyone? Doesn’t that make Jerusalem very crowded?” The servants all laughed at that, and the guard asked, “This is your first visit to Jerusalem?”

“We arrived from Rome only last week.”

“Rome,” another servant murmured. “What I wouldn’t give to return there.”

The guard explained, “Every week at this time, they go for their Temple ritual. It’s all the worse during this festival season.”

Leah, who listened silently, suddenly recalled the voice of her grandmother describing just such a scene. The yearly sacrifice, the trip to their Holy City, Jerusalem, the need for cleansing, for renewed commitment to a deep-seated faith that stayed with her grandmother even as a foreign culture pressed her to become another woman.
Why am I remembering this now
? Leah wondered. She had assumed those memories were buried so deep they would never surface again. Yet suddenly they were pushing to be released, relived. She wished she had listened more intently to her grandmother’s recollections, her explanations of the Judaean ways, of their faith.

She forced her attention back to the conversation, putting aside her troubling memories.

“And in the autumn too,” another voice was saying. “The same every year.”

“But why?” The young woman clearly liked using her questions to remain the center of attention.

Leah did not know why she now answered. She seldom spoke in such gatherings. But today her thoughts made for uncomfortable companions. “The Judaeans’ holy day begins on Friday night. Everyone is called to prayer. During the festival season they come from all over the empire. They like to gather as close to the Temple Mount as they can. Their prayers are supposed to mean more if they are inside the city walls.”

All the servants were watching her now. The young woman asked, “Are you one of them?”

Leah stared into the golden valley. “My mother’s mother.” The young woman pointed to the city walls fired a brilliant gold by the setting sun. “Why do they all come here?”

“The laws of their religion say Judaeans must come to Jerusalem three times each year and make sacrifices during certain festivals.

“Why aren’t you over there with them?”

“Because she’s doing her duty, the same as us,” the guard seated next to Leah put in, then pointed to the table by the balcony. “Your mistress is calling you.”

Leah hurried over to Procula, sitting alone in a simple robe of grey felt. On the table before her rested a silver goblet holding the inn’s best wine. Leah knew this because she had poured it for her mistress. Procula had not touched it.

Though Procula was approaching forty years of age, her hair remained dark and thick. Her face was smoothed in the lingering traces of sunlight. “Sit with me, please.”

“Mistress, it is not proper—”

“I instruct you to take this chair.”

Claudia Procula was true Roman royalty. Leah knew the family had been part of the emperor’s court for three generations. Procula’s mother, Augusta, had been married twice. First to Tiberius, who had divorced her for adultery. Augustus had then married a Roman knight, Procula’s father, who controlled the island of Sardinia.

As Leah reluctantly seated herself across from her mistress, she reflected that the woman had never looked so regal. Or so lonely.

Procula said, “Once we arrive tomorrow, I want you to go directly to Herod’s palace. You know Enos, do you not?”

“Indeed, mistress.” Enos was Herod’s chief servant in Jerusalem. “But don’t you want me to help you settle—”

“We are not here for me to
settle.
We are here to
learn.
” Though the words had been softly spoken, Leah was certain the entire group saw and heard the tone and assumed she was being criticized for some great failing. “Yes, mistress.”

“You are to be my eyes and ears. Starting immediately. We have no idea how much time we have.”

Leah blanched at the sudden chill that struck her bones. “Before what?”

But Procula had leaned forward and missed the change in Leah’s expression. “Help me with this clasp.”

Leah realized what Procula intended and did not move. “Mistress?”

“Never mind, I have it.” Procula lifted the gold chain holding the royal insignia from her neck, a replica of Pilate’s official seal in miniature. She placed it in Leah’s hand and said, “If anyone questions your right to inquire, show them this and say you speak on my behalf.”

If Leah had any doubt about the importance Procula set upon this task, it was now gone. “I don’t even know where to begin—”

“Someone in Herod’s palace must know where the prophet’s disciples are gathered,” Procula said briskly. “For once, the festival is working in our favor.”

Leah nodded. At any other time of year, the disciples most likely would have fled the city, dispersing throughout the province and beyond to escape any repercussions from their master’s death. But these disciples were all clearly religious Judaeans. She understood they would remain within the city walls, bound by their ancient laws to a cycle of time they accepted as handed down by their God.

Procula now reached into the folds of her traveling robe and drew out a pouch. It clinked softly as she set it on the table between them. “This is the only language Herod’s people understand.”

Leah slipped the purse into a secret pocket sewn into the folds of her own robe. As she did so, the patio’s chatter was silenced by a trumpet’s piercing note, and Leah looked toward Jerusalem. The sound came from the blowing of the
shofar
, the Temple horn, and announced the arrival of another festival Sabbath eve. Leah shivered, struck by the sudden conviction that the trumpet had blown for her as well, announcing an unknown fate and future over which she had no control.

When Alban emerged from the high priest’s house, he discovered that all the markets had closed and everyone in sight was headed in one direction. He finally reached a point where the way became impassable. The people around him seemed to accept this; in fact, they appeared enthralled with something he could not fathom
.
Alban inspected the surrounding faces and saw them gripped by a pleasure that bordered on ecstasy. Even young boys seemed caught up in something that remained invisible to Alban.

Invisible was precisely how he felt. None of the throng showed any interest in Alban. Even when he began pushing forward, the mass of people, mostly men, glanced at him, saw he was Roman, and turned away. As far as these people were concerned, this Roman simply did not exist, nothing more than a wayward thought. They focused completely upon something else, something so vital they could spare him no notice.

In the distance, beyond the towering Temple walls, a trumpet sounded. The crowd stopped pressing forward, and their fervor became even more intense.