The Centurion's Wife (18 page)

She recalled childhood dreams in which her beloved would appear and sweep her away into a palace that would be hers, filled with love and light and song and children. Now she shuddered. Just like her sisters, she would be trapped within the locked cage of marriage for the rest of her wretched life. If only the gods—if there were any gods—had dealt more kindly with her. For the first time in her life Leah was thankful her grandmother was not here to see her now.

Alban arrived at the guard station before Herod’s palace compound with Linux and Jacob in tow. Outfitted in a new linen toga, hair washed and combed and coiled, Alban looked ruddy from a thorough cleansing. The breakfast Linux had forced on him sat in his belly like a stone. He could not decide which he feared most, the meeting with Pilate or the ceremony that was to follow.

He saluted the guard and asked, “Is there someplace my young companion can wait?”

The man waved toward the courtyard wall. “There is the bench used by merchants.”

Alban settled Jacob into the shade and promised, “Linux will come for you as soon as we finish our meeting with Pilate.”

A young officer of Pilate’s contingent was waiting for them and led them through Herod’s grounds toward the adjoining palace. They made their way by large gardens filled with every imaginable flower. Birds Alban had never seen before flitted from branch to branch while fountains splashed and waterfalls emerged from palace walls.

They passed through a newer wall that separated Pilate’s Jerusalem abode from that of the Judaean tetrarch. The prelate’s authority and power were immediately evident. The surroundings were more austere, the military presence far more evident. A trio of officers bearing the standard of the Damascus legion waited on benches shaded by date palms. Linux and Alban saluted them as they proceeded through open double doors. They halted and bowed to the figure seated before them on the low dais.

Pilate finished dictating to his secretary, then rumbled, “Well?”

Alban’s heart squeezed in cold fear before he realized the prelate addressed Linux. The officer replied crisply, “As you ordered, sire, I traveled to the Capernaum garrison. The officer in charge, a man by the name of Horax, insisted that he gave up the captured Parthians only upon receiving your signed command.”

“Herod’s soldiers claim that the Parthians were gone when they arrived.”

Linux responded with military silence.

“Horax. What kind of name is that?”

Alban spoke up for the first time since entering the prefect’s presence. “He is a freeman from Damascus, sire. And a very good officer.”

“You trust him?”

“With my life.”

Alban knew a moment’s dread that Pilate would demand just that. Instead he addressed Linux. “You believe the man?”

“I do.”

Pilate grunted. “What of the Parthian officers?”

During their morning bath, Linux had explained to Alban what had happened after Herod had taken custody of the two bandits. Herod’s men reportedly had been attacked while transporting the Parthian officers from Jerusalem to the infamous prison within Herodion, the walls of the fortress city built by Herod’s father. The tetrarch’s men had been killed, so the report went, and the Parthians had escaped.

Linux now answered the prelate, “I traveled to where the Damascus Road meets the turnoff to Herodion. I found no evidence of a recent battle. I went into the surrounding hills and spoke to the Samaritan elders at both villages overlooking the road. None of them knew of any recent disturbances.”

“None that they saw,” Pilate corrected sternly.

Linux said, “The villagers have been attacked twice in the past year, sire. They keep careful watch over the lowlands. If there had been something to see—”

“Well, centurion? What do you have to say for yourself?” Pilate demanded.

Alban snapped to rigid attention and related his investigations over the past two weeks. Pilate maintained an intent silence after Alban was finished. After a time he asked, “How did you get the centurion at Golgotha to speak with you?”

“I promised him protection in your name, sire.”

Pilate’s frown deepened. “You gave amnesty to an officer who vanished at the height of the festival season?”

“Atticus is a good man, sire.”

“He has an unusual way of showing it!”

Alban felt sweat trickle down his spine. “He is a favorite of the tribune Bruno Aetius, sire. I felt it was more important to obtain the truth than to punish.”

Pilate conceded gruffly, “If he has won the approval of that old warhorse, there must be something to be said for him.”

“I intend to offer the same amnesty to the tomb guards, sire. That is, if I can find them. And of course if the prelate does not object.”

Pilate rubbed his chin, his fingers rasping over the day’s beard. “That was very clever, using the village elder to set up a secret meeting with Joseph of Arimathea.”

“Thank you, sire.”

“But Caiaphas will already have heard of it, you mark my words. Nothing that happens in this city escapes the high priest’s notice. Be prepared. He will call for you to give an account.”

“I am grateful for the prefect’s counsel.”

“Now, centurion.” The hand formed a fist and dropped to the gold-covered chair arm. “Tell me what you have concluded from your search thus far.”

Alban was ready for this. “There are three issues you commanded me to resolve, sire. First, did the prophet die? Second, where is his body? And finally, is the disappearance tied to a revolt?” Alban resisted the urge to wipe perspiration from his face. “I have two firsthand reports that the prophet Jesus of Nazareth was indeed crucified and breathed his last upon the cross. His side was pierced by a Roman spear. He was brought down by trusted Roman soldiers who are certain the man was dead. Then Joseph of Arimathea and a friend took the body and wrapped it in burial garments, and he set it in his own tomb. Joseph has confirmed that the body was lifeless and cold.”

When Alban hesitated, Pilate barked, “Proceed!”

“Sire, some of his followers are certain the man now lives.”

Pilate said, “You mean the man’s disciples believe he did not die?”

“No, sire. They acknowledge that Jesus of Nazareth did indeed die upon the cross. They say he has now risen from the dead.” Alban swallowed hard and stared at a point just above the prelate’s head.

“They accept this as fact.”

“This makes no sense.”

“No, sire. Even so, not just his close disciples believe this. It is a story I am finding throughout the city and beyond. The Capernaum elders discuss it with utter certainty.”

Linux broke his rigid stance to turn and stare at Alban.

Alban went on, “They do not quarrel over whether the prophet has risen from the dead. They argue over what it
means
.” Alban related Jacob’s report, adding, “I have heard similar discussions around Jerusalem’s plazas. They have begun using terms that I have never heard before. The most common one is
Messiah
.”

“This is a military term?”

“It is from the ancient Hebrew tongue, sire. It has been explained to me as meaning the Anointed One of the Judaean God.”

Pilate’s closed fist now beat softly upon the armrest. “What of your final task, that of discovering whether they plan revolt?”

Alban took a breath. “Sire, the followers of Jesus are waiting for him to tell them.”

Both men gaped at him. “They seek guidance from a dead man?”

“Yes, sire.”

“Not from his—what is the term they use for those chosen?” “His disciples. I have not yet met any of their leaders, sire. But from what I have heard, it appears they too are waiting. For what, I have no idea.”

CHAPTER

NINTEEN

The Betrothal

THE ONLY POINT when Leah nearly wept was upon her departure from Pilate’s house. She would be returning later that day and remain until the bridegroom fulfilled his obligations to Pilate and Herod. Yet as Leah passed through the gate for the second time that morning, her entire being was filled with an appalling sense of finality. She had known a similar sensation twice before—on the day her family learned her father had lost everything, and the day she left Italy for Judaea.

One of Pilate’s maids held her elbow as Leah walked the cobblestone lane toward Herod’s palace. Some turned her way and smiled.
How do they know
? she wondered. She was very glad indeed for the shawl’s protection.

Herod’s palace had never seemed more outlandish, more overdone. The overwhelming combination of coverings and drapes and mosaics and fragrances had never seemed stronger. The incense burners were filled and smoldering. Every surface she passed held vases filled with flowers. Leah knew the decorations were not for her benefit. Herod Antipas was in residence, and he demanded the immediate satisfaction of his every desire. Leah had known this about him since her first year in Judaea. Just as she had known that no matter how his eyes might track her movements through a room, she was safe. Herod would not dare make unseemly overtures to Pilate’s niece.

She was led into a small antechamber and seated on an ornately carved ivory bench. Enos appeared a moment later, followed by a young maidservant. He snapped his fingers and pointed at the table by Leah’s bench. “Set the tray there.”

The maid’s hands trembled as she attempted to put it down without spilling its contents. “Now, straighten up, child,” he ordered. “You’re not a limp vine. No one wants to see you all bent over like that.”

Although the words were intended for the maid, Leah straightened as well. She tried to ignore the tears welling up in the young woman’s eyes.

Enos said, “All right, slave, you may return to your duties. And what will you do if Herod chooses to notice you?”

“I-I will bow, master.”

“And what else?”

The young girl’s swallow was as choked as her voice. “I will smile.”

“Go. Go.” When they were alone, Enos sighed. “How I deplore the task of training new slaves.”

Leah moved over in compliance with his motioning hand. Enos settled down beside her on the bench. “So this is your betrothal day. Might this unworthy servant be permitted to have a glimpse behind your veil?”

Without speaking she raised the shawl so that it framed her face. Enos inspected her gravely. “You are as beautiful as you are sad. And you are very sad indeed.”

Silently Leah settled the covering back in place.

He gazed into her eyes, then reached over, filled a goblet from the carafe, and placed it in her hand. “Drink. It will help you to concentrate on what is ahead.”

But that was precisely what she did not want to do. Even so, Enos watched her with an expression that allowed no argument, so Leah took a small swallow.

“You’ll be wasted on the centurion, no matter how fine the fellow may look.”

It was not like Enos to offer an opinion on such matters. Surprise caused her to ask, “What makes you say that?”

“Because he’s a Gaul.” Enos spat out the word as he might a rotten seed. “None of them can be trusted. Herod has hired enough as guards for me to know. And now your young Gaul is making us wait.” Enos crossed his arms and snorted. “The best of them are scum.”

“His men call him a true leader.” Leah could not understand why she was defending him. “One of his sergeants told me the centurion was born to rule. Procula called him a hero.”

Enos blinked slowly. “What else did she say?”

Leah paused to remember what she had heard. “His father was a chief, and his grandfather swore fealty to Rome. His eldest brother rules the province now. The centurion has risen up the ranks through merit.” It was little enough to know about a man with whom she was to live the rest of her life. She sighed. “He keeps the peace in Capernaum.”

Enos did not seem impressed. “The Galilee is a long ride from civilization. You’ll be stuck in the back of beyond, grubbing out your garrison existence, a lovely flower among brutes and mercenaries.”

“He is said to be ambitious. Perhaps we will not stay there long.”

“Do you actually think this Gaul has any hope of advancement?”

“He’s been promised a promotion to tribune.”

Enos could not hide his astonishment. “Pilate has offered to take this Gaul into his personal staff?”

“I . . . I heard him speak the words myself.” Leah was sure she should not be saying all this to Enos. She clamped her lips together, determined to offer no more.

Enos stared at her for a moment, then allowed, “The young man will find you to be a great asset.”

A silver bell chimed in the distance. Enos leapt to his feet. “Herod calls. For all our sakes, I hope it’s to say your centurion has arrived.”

The air condensed until Leah could scarcely catch her next breath. Then a remarkable thing happened. One moment, she could think of nothing more appealing than turning away from life itself. The next she had the distinct impression that she was no longer alone.

Leah was sure she could feel the prayers, even the presence, of the women who called themselves followers of the prophet. Her mouth opened, as though she could call to them and they would hear. They were that close. Her breath slowly released from its iron grip of terror. She shut her eyes and tried to sense their voices as they spoke her name. Women who were a universe removed from her world of intrigue and tragedy. They spoke not to her, but rather to a God she did not know. In her very soul she felt sure that, just as they had promised, they prayed to him about her in this most difficult moment, and she knew the same peace she had felt in their kitchen facing the inner courtyard.

Leah had no idea how long she remained like that, resting in a sea of impossible calm. Then a sound drew her back. She heard sandals scrape across a marble floor. She opened her eyes. A wooden screen divided the chamber where she sat. On the screen’s other side loomed a shadow with a warrior’s form.

Leah felt herself back in the grim reality of the moment.

Enos stepped back into the chamber and announced formally, “We are ready to begin.”

The rabbi was a slender man with pointed features and a wispy beard. He made grand gestures and droned so loudly the walls echoed with his strange speech. The Judaean tetrarch sat on a padded chair with gilded arms and a high back topped by a golden eagle, a miniature version of the emperor’s traveling throne. Herod was attended by two maidens, one of them the young woman with ancient eyes who had summoned Leah eons ago, the other the new maid who had nearly dropped the tray earlier.

Pilate’s chair was empty. Procula had offered formal apologies, saying her husband had been called away by the Sanhedrin. Leah’s mistress sat on a throne only slightly smaller than Herod’s. Behind the trio of gilded chairs stood an officer and a young lad with a wide grin. Leah had seen the officer often enough, as he served in Pilate’s household guard, but she could not remember his name. He was handsome in the manner of one born to wealth and position. The officer observed the proceedings with a languid smile.

Farther back stood Enos, surrounded by other members of the two households.

Leah did not look at the man standing at her side, but she could feel his eyes upon her. For a moment, the chamber was so silent she could hear his even breathing. He stood a full head taller than Leah, which was uncommon, for she was taller than all of the women and some of the men in Pilate’s household. The centurion radiated a sense of raw power, like some young lion whose strength and speed and claws threatened even when the beast was still.

Alban was still looking at her when the rabbi addressed him.

“I asked, centurion, if you are a God-fearer.”

“The elders of Capernaum have called me thus.” His voice was far deeper than when she had overheard him speaking with Pilate. The sound pushed through Leah’s benumbed distance, drawing up her gaze to his against her will. Alban stared at her with eyes that held an unsettling intensity. Quickly Leah looked away.

She saw that the rabbi was frowning over the centurion’s response. But Herod waved a hand and declared, “I say the word of the Galilean elders is all we need.”

Leah watched Herod’s rabbi start to protest, then shrug his acceptance. He asked Leah, “And you are Judaean?”

She touched her tongue to her lips and whispered, “My mother’s mother. Yes.”

“Then by the laws set down by Moses, I am able to perform the betrothal ceremony.” With a ritual flourish he produced the parchment bearing the royal seals of both Pilate and Herod Antipas. He read the document, halting at several points to explain the details. Leah knew she should be paying careful attention. But the words spilled about her like rain.

She knew some of the maidservants were jealous. They noted the centurion’s good looks and saw her marriage as an enviable chance to escape servitude. Leah clenched her teeth and dug her nails into her palms.

The rabbi leaned over until his face filled her vision. “I said, do you understand the terms of the betrothal?”

She breathed a sigh. “Yes.”

“The bridegroom may recite his pledge.”

Leah had not been prepared to hear vows made by Alban.
Please
, she inwardly pleaded,
please don’t make me say anything
.

But the rabbi’s eyes were on Alban. Something deep within Leah made her feel it was only fair that she look at him while he recited the promises, though another part of her wished to stare straight ahead.

Instead she lifted her shoulders and turned to meet his gaze. She would not shrink before this man.

“I, Alban, take you, Leah, as my bride. I will depart. But upon the fulfillment of the pledges I have made, I will come for you and receive you to myself and into my household. That where I am, you may dwell also.”

It was most unsettling. His eyes seemed to suggest that the day, however quickly it transpired, would not come soon enough. Leah felt a shiver pass through her body and was once again glad for the shawl veiling her face. She let her eyes drop and turned ever so slightly to hide the chaos of her bewildered thoughts.

The rabbi invoked a flowery blessing on them in what Leah assumed was Hebrew, a language of which she knew not a word. He produced a stylus, inked the tip, then passed it to Leah. “When you sign this document, in the eyes of the Law you are wed to this man,” the rabbi announced in sonorous tones. “If Alban were to die before your marriage is consummated, by the Law you would be treated as his widow.”

The words penetrated her numbness. Her fingers were so stiff she almost dropped the pen. “Pardon me? I don’t—”

“A widow,” the rabbi confirmed with a nod. “Your betrothed must fulfill the terms set in the betrothal document. But the Law now considers you married to him.”

She took a deeper breath. “How long?”

The rabbi was obviously nonplussed, clearly expecting nothing but a subservient silence from the bride. “You are asking, how long before what?”

Alban, misreading her question, answered in a husky voice, “My task should be completed in a few weeks.”

“Sign the document,” Herod instructed brusquely. Leah signed.

She waited as Alban added his signature next to her own. The rabbi invoked another prayer. He held out bread on a silver plate to Alban. He took it and turned to Leah. She moved her shawl just enough to allow him to slip a small portion between her lips. It rested in her mouth, a lump as tasteless as mortar. She fed him a bite of the bread, making sure her fingers did not touch his mouth. The goblet was offered, and Leah took one small sip before settling her covering back into place. The rabbi prayed once more, then, “
Mazel tov
.”

It was done.