The Centurion's Wife (16 page)

But it had to be done. Alban desperately needed to confer with the missing legionnaires. He accepted the word of Atticus that the prophet had died upon the cross. Now he needed a Roman soldier’s word that the right body had indeed been buried in that tomb. The longer it took to locate the guards, the more certain he became that they held the key to his own understanding.

Still, he hated asking Joseph’s aid with nothing to offer in return. Yet what could a centurion manning an isolated garrison in the back of beyond offer to one of Judaea’s richest and most powerful men?

Alban dragged his attention back to the sunlit avenue. “What is your opinion of the high priest Caiaphas?”

The grandson shot Alban a warning glance and said in a low voice, “His spies are everywhere. And you are Roman. This conversation is not safe, even here.”

It was all the response Alban needed.

The crowds closed in, pressing Alban against the elder and his grandson. Simon bar Enoch did not seem to mind the jostling, even if it was with a Roman soldier. The elder continued, “Some of the haredi, the true religious, have forsaken Jerusalem entirely. They are called
essenes
, the separate ones, the inviolate. They have formed communities from the Dead Sea north to the Golan. They say they will not return to Jerusalem until Jerusalem has been returned to God.”

His grandson murmured, “Perhaps that time has come.”

Alban glanced from one face to the other. When neither spoke, he pressed, “Are you speaking of the dead prophet?”

“If he is indeed dead,” Simon bar Enoch said in a low voice.

They passed the Pool of Bethesda and entered the warren of streets known as Bezetha, the city’s northernmost quarter. Alban asked, “Do you think the prophet is still—well, does he remain someplace out there?”

“What I think,” the younger man said, “is that your prelate scourged the prophet and then crucified him. What I think—” his tone grew more firm—“is that in speaking like this with you at all we take a great risk for little gain.”

Alban nodded his understanding. “I do not wish to bring any harm on your house.”

The grandson studied him a moment, then acknowledged, “Since you took command of the Capernaum garrison, there has been less trouble than under any other centurion.”

“Indeed so.” The elder smiled. “And it is a great thing you have done for young Jacob. To have rescued him from death, taken him into your service . . .”

“I care deeply for the lad,” Alban confessed.

“Never before have I found a Roman willing to see the world through a Judaean’s eyes.” Simon bar Enoch pointed to a shadowy doorway along the market avenue. “Now let us see if we can convince a member of the Sanhedrin that you are worthy of aid.”

A child loitered in the doorway, playing with a wooden top. When he spotted Alban’s approach, however, he stiffened, poised to raise the alarm.

Simon bar Enoch moved forward and reached out a hand to place on the boy’s head. “The Roman is a God-fearer,” the elder said quietly. “And all is well.”

Even so, the lad watched Alban pass with grave eyes.

The three entered a dusty forecourt ringed by a dozen entrances. Alban had seen countless such places before, and he knew each door led to a humble dwelling where many family members shared cramped quarters. The trapped heat was so fierce Alban found himself recalling the stone-walled valley far north in the Golan hills. He remembered the battle that had followed and wished for his sword.

The elder led him through one of the innocuous entrances and up a set of stairs. At the top Simon bar Enoch knocked on a nail-studded door. A small gate opened at eye level, and a voice growled in a language Alban thought might have been Hebrew. Simon bar Enoch responded in the same tongue. The guard gave Alban a hard stare, and Simon spoke again, more forcefully this time. The guard unbolted the door and stood aside, glaring as Alban passed.

Inside was an astonishment of high-ceilinged alcoves circling a broad hallway. Many of the entrances were blocked by ornate drapes. Those Alban could look into were framed in carved wood and contained low tables and reclining benches. Young lads in white robes scurried about, bearing copper trays of tea and sweets and roasted meats. The boys cast astonished glances Alban’s way as they passed.

An older man rushed over, nervously wiping his hands upon a towel. Simon bar Enoch greeted him formally. The man gestured toward Alban and replied with a few sharp words. Two of the nearest drapes flicked back and forth as whoever was inside cast glances his way. Finally the overseer bowed them fearfully on, avoiding eye contact with Alban. One of the servant lads led them down a hall painted with murals of idyllic desert scenes: an oasis slumbered beneath a quarter-moon, a windswept dune looked down upon a peaceful village, a caravan walked through a high-sided valley. The lad stopped before the last alcove and spoke softly. Someone behind the drapes murmured a reply. The lad drew back the drapes and bowed them inside.

Joseph of Arimathea said in greeting, “Ah, centurion. I had hoped you were the reason for this surreptitious meeting in borrowed quarters. I am pleased we have another opportunity to talk.”

CHAPTER

SEVENTEEN

Jerusalem

“THIS MORNING I HAD a most remarkable experience.” Joseph of Arimathea stood by the window, leaning on one hand in the narrow opening while the other stroked the silver-streaked beard. “We Judaeans are called to pray at certain times each day. We pray at sunrise and again at sunset, and before each meal. We offer prayers before we drink. We will sometimes pray before ritual acts such as washing. But you as a God-fearer must know these things.”

Alban did not respond. Nor was he certain he was expected to. Thus far the meeting had followed the standard Judaean practice. Their conversation had remained at a polite level while tea and sweetmeats were served by the servants of Nicodemus, in whose home they were meeting. Only when Joseph was certain Alban and Simon and the grandson were refreshed with all they desired did he rise and move to the window.

Joseph went on, “This morning, in the midst of my prayers, I had a sudden image. I watched the city come to life as sweetly as a baby shaking off slumber. It burst into activity with a song that I could actually hear. The vendors rushed toward the gates and laid out their wares. The shopkeepers bustled down the lane beneath my balcony, massive keys jangling from their belts. Potters and merchants and money changers, all there to serve the crowds who have descended upon our beloved city. But in my vision something was missing.” He turned and looked at Alban. “There were no Romans.”

The Jerusalem elder stood so he was sliced by the afternoon light. It caught a shimmering thread in his robe as he continued, “I wondered if perhaps it was a message from the one God that our time had perhaps come. Then my vision faded, and outside my window I heard the soldiers riding through the Upper City on their splendid stallions. I could hear their cloaks with the Roman insignia flapping in the wind. Without glancing over the balcony wall I knew what I would see. The soldiers glared from side to side, their chins thrust proudly, hungry for some small crime so they could show off their might and their authority.”

Beyond the alcove’s closed drapes, the establishment bustled and clattered and talked. Inside their alcove, however, the three visitors remained silent, their attention rapt. Joseph of Arimathea mused, “For most of my life, I have hated you Romans. It was one of two forces that bound us Judaeans together. The Sanhedrin, the Pharisees, the Samaritans, the Galileans, the caravan masters and the shopkeepers and the religious and the zealots—all of us quarreling and raging at one another, yet held together by our enormous loathing for all things Roman. And second, by our Temple. For religious Judaeans, the Temple means life. It is the only remaining thing that totally belongs to us. It too holds us together as one.”

He waited then, as though granting Alban a chance to object. When the alcove remained silent, Joseph went on. “I despised your empire with every fiber of my being. You have no right to be here. This is the land of Judaea, of Israel. Promised and given to us by Jehovah himself. You outsiders are brutish tyrants. Because of you, we are nothing more than slaves in our own homeland. We can’t even walk our own streets without stepping aside for your arrogant soldiers. A scourge. A plague.”

But Alban did not hear a man filled with hatred. Instead here was a man confessing. The extraordinary admission was mirrored on the faces of Simon bar Enoch and his grandson, as though they not only shared Joseph’s thoughts but already knew what the Jerusalem elder intended.

After a moment, Alban ventured, “Then you met the prophet Jesus.”

“If he was merely a prophet,” Joseph replied, looking out to the sunlight and the view beyond the window, “you would not be here.”

Alban nodded, though not in understanding, for he did not truly comprehend Joseph’s words. But they now had arrived at the reason for their meeting.

Alban said, “Please, would you tell me about him?”

Joseph continued to stroke his beard, seemingly an unconscious gesture as natural to him as breathing. But the silence was comfortable now, shared by men drawn together by a common desire for the truth. Finally Joseph said, “When he looked at me, I saw my own soul. His gaze broke through all my assumptions, all my barriers. I was stripped to the very essence of my being. He saw all my lies and my failures and all my sinful ways. And yet he loved me still.”

Beside Alban, Simon bar Enoch drew a tremulous breath. His grandson sat as still as stone.

Joseph continued, “When he spoke, he illuminated a truth I had always yearned for and yet always run from. I am known as an authority on the holy texts, and yet when he spoke, I realized I knew nothing. And what I did know, I had cloaked in my own selfish interpretations. In so doing, I had turned the truth into lies.”

Alban now found himself able to voice the question that had awakened him during recent nights, a question that rocked him with the fear that to know its answer would shatter his world. He asked, “Is Jesus alive?”

Joseph turned and looked at him, his features bright with far more than the sunlight streaming through the narrow window. He said, “The first time I met Jesus, I was part of a crowd coming to condemn him. We sought a reason to denounce him as just another false prophet. We have known so many, you see. Our land has suffered beneath the heel of one conqueror after another. Our people are in need of a leader who will free them from these harsh times. We await a Messiah, the Anointed One of God, who will lead us to freedom. We seek him and fear him in equal measure. Because when Rome falls, so too will the Sanhedrin. So many people have come to see us as an extension of Roman rule, surely we will be cast aside as well. I did not see this then. But I see it now, with the clarity of one whose own lies have been exposed.”

Simon bar Enoch coughed and sipped noisily from his cup. Alban wished he could trust his own hand to lift his own cup, for his throat was locked tight.

Joseph continued, “Jesus told us that anyone can love a friend. Even the unbelievers do so, even the Romans. But we as believers are called to love our enemies.” He paused and stared down at the floor. “I left that meeting a broken man.”

Alban did not recognize his own voice. “And does he live?”

“If so,” Joseph replied, looking directly at Alban, “he would be far more than a prophet. You yourself know that to be true. I see in your face that you accept the fact that Jesus died. You heard me say it, and you believe me. It is true, yes? You acknowledge that the body I laid in the tomb was cold and without breath. So if he lives, it would mean that he has done the impossible. He has conquered death. The Messiah walks among us. The Anointed One of God is here. Do you understand what I am saying, Roman?” He paused again to stare into Alban’s eyes. “It means we are called to worship him as the living God. It would mean that four thousand years of prayers have been answered.”

Joseph turned once more to gaze out the window. “But how did we respond to this gift? We crucified him. We all stand convicted, guilty of a crime so horrendous the very heavens shook. I was there that day, Roman. I witnessed an astonishing event. The curtain between the Temple’s inner chambers and the Holy of Holies, where our Lord God is said to dwell, was split from the top to the bottom. Do you hear what I am saying?
From top to bottom
. This is impossible, for no man can reach that high. Yet it happened, without anyone touching it. Why is this important? Because it means the division between God and man has been abolished. Vanished. How? Because the great Jehovah, the One whose name may only be whispered once each year by the anointed high priest, had sent—yes,
sent—
his Son to be crucified. Why? How could the eternal Lord of all do such a thing?”

Beside him, Simon bar Enoch covered his eyes. Joseph moved across the room to settle his hand upon the old man’s arm. Simon cleared his throat and drew an unsteady breath. He answered the question. “Because we could not save ourselves.”

Joseph of Arimathea nodded his agreement. “So, Roman. Here we sit. Sinners bound together by the impossible command to love our enemies.”

Alban felt the light pour from the Jerusalem elder’s gaze. Impossible that he should feel so moved by the man’s words. He was a Gaul, trained from birth for war. He was a Roman soldier upon the brink of realizing his lifelong goals. He was a man of reason, not to be influenced by outlandish stories.

Yet his entire being felt the ashes of lies and misdeeds, of selfishness and cruelty.

Joseph smiled once more, as if Alban’s confused silence was the finest answer he might ever give. “So, Roman. Tell me. What is it I can do for you?”

Nedra did not seem the least surprised, either by Leah’s appearance in Herod’s palace or her request. The slave did not speak until they reentered the familiar plaza, and then it was only to say, “Wait here.”

When she disappeared inside the doorway, Leah settled herself down at the same spot, upon the southern wall, where the shade was strongest. The plaza was hemmed in on all sides by buildings scarcely more than hovels. The shutters and doors fronting the plaza were all weather-beaten and in various stages of disrepair. A woman passed leading an overburdened donkey laden with firewood. Sparrows pecked at the stones and drank from the central fountain. Glances were cast Leah’s way but did not linger. The conversations that surrounded her were as constant and soft as the fountain’s trickling water. A rooster crowed from some unseen garden. She smelled peppers being cooked in oil. But what she noticed most of all was the sense of calm. She leaned her back against the wall and drifted into memories.

Leah rarely indulged in recollections. They were so painful and led to nothing save bitterness and regret. Especially now, when she was facing yet another upheaval, yet another bitter event, on the morrow. Yet here she sat, images rushing through her mind for the second time in days. First the market and now here, both times leaving her helpless to stem the flow.

Her father had shown the world a gentle face. He affected a slight stoop, though he could walk for miles in the hills above Verona and not tire. When meeting people for the first time he often turned his head and cupped his ear, though in truth his hearing was very keen, as sharp as his mind. He had liked to smile and sing, and he filled their home with good friends. The quality of their table had been known throughout the province. He had often noted they made stronger allies over dinner than most nations did through decades of negotiation.

Yet none of this had helped them, not when his two partners had fed him to the wolves. In one season they had lost everything. Their house, her mother’s inheritance, the family titles, her father’s wonderful smile, all gone. Her sisters had been shunted off into marriages that had turned out to be nothing more than slavery. Leah had sensed her father’s desperation, made sharper by the knowledge that any attempt to restore their former life was utterly futile. He had turned a deaf ear again, ignoring her sisters’ tears and entreaties, leaving them to fester and grow bitter within the peculiar loneliness that only the unloved and ill-used wife will ever know.

Leah realized someone was speaking her name.

She opened her eyes to find Nedra standing in front of her, and beside Nedra was Mary Magdalene. Leah hardly realized she spoke the words welling up inside her. “I am so afraid, and I don’t know what to do.”

Leah followed the women toward the doors at the plaza’s other side. The torment her words unleashed now swept about her in a whirlwind of heat and dismay.

The double doors were the height and width of a loaded cart. Inside was a traditional craftsman’s residence, or that of a small merchant. They went through into a narrow alcove, fronted by a second set of doors that could be barred at night. They stepped into a narrow courtyard, perhaps twenty paces long and ten wide. The small patio was surrounded by stone pillars supporting the second floor. The shadowy lower floor was divided by chest-high walls into chambers the size of animal stalls, perhaps their original use. Or possibly the craftsman’s apprentices had worked their trade here, or the merchant had stored his wares. Whatever their previous purpose, it was lost now to the tide of people gathered in them.

There was little difference between the people here and those outside. Leah saw the same clusters speaking in low tones. Perhaps there were more women in here, some seated and talking, others busy with chores. She was startled to recognize the young woman from the market, the one who had reminded Leah of her sister, tending a cooking fire. But swiftly she turned away, and Leah decided their chance meeting would go unmentioned.

A bearded man in a shepherd’s robe rose from his group and walked over. “Who is this you have brought inside?”

“Her name is Leah.”

“She is the one you spoke about?” The man was not so much unfriendly as concerned. “The servant in Pilate’s household?”

“Yes, she is—”

“You allow a possible spy into our midst?”

“What do we have to hide?”

The man blinked quickly. “I do not think—”