The Centurion's Wife (19 page)

CHAPTER

TWENTY

The Celebration

AFTER THE CEREMONY, the guests and bridal couple were ushered into an adjoining chamber. Servants hurried around the ornate room with trays of sweetmeats and honeyed wine. Leah and Alban were seated on a small dais with two chairs. The crowd talked and laughed and swirled around the two, glancing occasionally in their direction.

Leah ate and drank without tasting anything. She simply sought some action that kept her attention off the stranger seated next to her. The tiny seed of hope planted during the signing ceremony remained a mystery. Even so, the feeling was too strong to be dismissed. She felt calmer than she had all day. Could it simply be from hearing that one word,
widow
?

Alban shifted in his seat and cleared his throat. “You have lovely eyes, my lady.”

Leah gave a brief shake of her head. But it was a response for herself, not him. She knew she would never be able to arrange another person’s death, no matter how desperate she might feel.

“Forgive me if I do not speak correctly,” he began again. “This all is very new to me. I have never taken part in, or even observed such a ceremony. . . .”

His voice drifted off. He lifted a platter toward her, the delicacies glistening with syrup. “Will you take another sweetmeat, my lady?”

“I would ask that you not call me by that title.” Her voice sounded metallic to her own ears.

He put down the tray. “I meant no disrespect.”

“I am but a servant in Pilate’s household.”

“You are also Pilate’s niece. That makes you—”

“It makes me nothing but another servant. I survive by assuming no station or airs that are not mine to claim.”

She was astonished that she had spoken thus. She, who went for days without speaking a word beyond the minimum responses required by her duties. Offering up such confessions was unthinkable.

Alban waved a hand, and she saw the creases of war made by the leather straps used to protect his wrists and arm from sword and spear. “You may serve in another’s home this day. But you have the beauty and bearing of a lady of Rome.”

She opened her mouth, intending to silence him with the same haughty retorts she used with household guards who dared cast impertinent comments in her direction. But a servant came just then with another tray, departing with the first one.

Alban picked up where he had left off. “Your gown is most becoming—”

“Nedra, a servant, helped me with the purchase.” She shook her head again, willing him to stop. She did not want to hear these sincere-sounding words. “I have nothing. Not even a second name.”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“My father died disgraced and destitute. My mother dwells in a widow’s hut behind the servants’ quarters of an unwelcoming relative.” She did not want to tell him these things, yet the words continued to emerge, drawn from the simmering cauldron that was her heart. “I sleep in the same chamber as the household slaves. I own nothing. I am dressed at the whim of my mistress and ordered to obey commands I often find loathsome. How could I use the prelate’s name?” Leah stared at him for the first time since entering the salon. “So you see, my ambitious centurion, I have nothing of any use to you. Not position, not title, not even a name to help you scale your way into Rome. And legally I am a Judaean.”

He met her gaze above the veil with unblinking intensity. This close, she saw his eyes held a remarkable contrast. They were not brown, as she had first thought. Their copper depths were flecked with a remarkable mix of gold. The same was true of his hair, which was woven so it fell over one shoulder, the locks bound by a simple gold ring. He wore the formal Roman toga, white save for the lone blue stripe that signified military service.

Alban said quietly, “We hold more in common than you realize.”

Leah caught her breath. She had expected a lashing of anger, bitterness, spite, and disappointment. Instead his voice had returned to that same husky tone she had heard during the ceremony.

Alban rose to his feet, crossed the room, and called, “Linux.” The officer put down his goblet and moved quickly toward the centurion.

Leah knew a disquieting regret that Alban was leaving on such a note. Yet that made no sense at all. She wanted nothing to do with him. How could she possibly care how or when he came or went?

But then two men moved back toward Leah. She heard Linux say to Alban that they needed to leave.

“Soon. Hand me the satchel,” Alban told him.

Linux slid the leather sack from his shoulder. “I remind you we are in Herod’s palace,” he said, his voice low enough that Leah could barely hear the words. “And you are not exactly a royal favorite right now. . . .”

But Alban merely motioned him away and returned to seat himself again across from her. She dropped her gaze, only to find herself staring at his hands as he unfastened the satchel’s straps.

He said, “In my homeland, the clan’s name is a title used only by the eldest son. For all other sons, such as myself, we may use just the one name.” He looked at her a moment, as if to ascertain whether she understood the parallel with her own story. He pulled a rough woven cloth from the satchel, the sort of bundle a shepherd might use for carrying his meal. Alban went on, “Not long ago we captured a band of Parthians who had been attacking the caravan route between Judaea and Syria. Most of my allotment went to Pilate as payment for your hand. All the wealth I had managed to collect before then had gone as a first offering to the prelate, and to reward the man who spoke on my behalf.”

Leah did not want to hear anything further, but she found herself unable to speak.

He unknotted the bundle and opened the cloth to reveal a wreath of woven gold. The circlet had been damaged and was misshapen. Even so, it was clearly a prize of great value.

Included with the circlet were five jewels. Leah recognized three of them as emeralds. The other two were rubies, she knew, from her dealings with her mistress’s jewelry.

“I was planning to have these made into a necklace, my betrothal gift to you.” Alban fastened up the bundle again as he spoke. “But I want you to have them now, if they will help you look beyond—”

“Please, no.” Her throat felt constricted, as though hands were throttling her neck. “I cannot accept this.”

“I will hold them in trust for you.” Alban quickly retied the bundle and rose to his feet.

She sat numbly. His gaze seemed to pin her to the chair.

“My lady,” he said, his voice a husky burr that drew a shiver from her. “Please forgive me, but I cannot call you by any other title at this time. I have never regretted my lack of fine words until this moment. I know that I stumble over my own tongue. But I wish you to know this: I shall do all in my power to restore to you the place and position you rightfully deserve.”

Leah’s breath again caught in her throat. She could only stare as he turned to follow Linux out of the room.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-ONE

After the Ceremony

ALBAN HAD NOT EXPECTED Leah to be so regal in bearing, or to have such an honest and intelligent manner. She held none of the haughtiness of other Roman ladies he had known. Alban had crossed paths with enough of them to know they wore too much scent. They drew their mouths into pouts as though the expression could hide the avarice in their eyes. They wore elegant robes belted by ropes of gold, their clothes simply another opportunity to flaunt their wealth and position.

This Leah was clearly someone else entirely. She was surprisingly tall and held herself so erect as to appear queenly. Yet she moved as though wishing to go utterly unnoticed, disturbing not even the air.

Alban recalled the way she had looked at him, with emerald eyes darkened by loss and splintered by pain.

He looked to his side and noticed Jacob was speaking. “What did you say?”

“I have seen her before, master.”

“Who?”

“The lady. The one beside you at your betrothal.”

Linux scowled. “Did you not hear anything the lad has been saying?”

“Apparently not.”

“She was at the plaza, sire.”

“Leah?” Alban stopped to look directly at Jacob. “With the disciples? Why?”

“I do not know, sire. But she was there. And she spoke with someone who came from inside the compound.”

“She met one of the disciples?”

“No, sire. She spoke with a woman.”

Linux must have read the concern on Alban’s face. “Perhaps the lad mistook her for another.”

“It was the same lady as came from the governor’s chambers just now,” Jacob insisted. “And she talked with one of the women from inside the disciples’ quarters. They talked for a long time. I know—I was watching them.”

Never had Leah’s bed seemed such an enemy as that night. Never had the dark held so many conflicting voices. Every time she began to drift off, she was startled back to wakefulness by the memory of two unblinking eyes the color of copper at sunrise. Alban had seemed immensely still, a man so secure in his abilities that he needed no adornment or even motion to establish who he was. He did not merely sit in a room, he took charge of the space around him.

Leah hugged her pillow to her chest and tried to tell herself that such a man as this would thrive on domination—brutally, if need be. That it was only a matter of time before her own laments joined the grief of her two sisters.

Then she remembered the centurion’s final words to her and shivered anew.

When dawn finally stole through her window, Leah rose almost in relief that she no longer had to struggle to sleep. She began her duties. Procula’s tray was ready long before her mistress awoke. Procula took the same breakfast every morning. Her instructions were very precise and came from the emperor’s own doctor. A handful of special leaves were to be twisted and clenched but not broken. The water was to be poured over them only after it had reached a hard boil. This was prescribed against the night humors, which the doctor was convinced were behind Procula’s headaches. Bread from the previous night was warmed along the edge of the morning fire until it became as hard as small bricks. Procula ate these spread with clotted cream and a sweet confection made from rose petals. One small orange when it was in season. A second mug of the tea.

In preparation for Leah’s departure, Procula had a new maid, Katurah, a silent wraith from Samaritan heritage. Katurah found mornings difficult, which meant Leah could maintain at least this small portion of her familiar duties. She balanced the tray on one hip, knocked on the door, and at the sound of Procula’s voice, entered the bedchamber. “Good morning, mistress. I hope you slept well.”

“There was neither headache nor pain.” And indeed, the woman did look refreshed. She inspected her servant closely as Leah set the tray on the dressing table. “But I see you have not slept at all.”

Leah adopted the formal pose, hands folded before her, head bent. “What clothes shall I lay out for you, mistress?”

“One of the formal gowns. Pilate expects me to attend an audience of visitors from Damascus today.”

Leah began brushing Procula’s remarkably thick hair while the woman held a small polished mirror before her. The dark tresses were accented with henna, as with most Roman matrons. But the hair was all hers. She wove in no plaits of others’ locks, a common practice among wealthy women.

Procula asked, “When do you leave for the disciples’ gathering place?”

“You wish me to return?”

“Of course I wish it. What kind of question is that? Did you expect your betrothal would change my wishes? Or a few nights without my dreams?”

“Mistress, forgive me, no. It is just, I fear I am learning nothing of real value to you.”

“Nonsense.” Procula’s tone held an implacable force. “In this short space of time you have moved from being just another outsider to someone they trust within their inner keep.”

“In the kitchen,” Leah corrected.

“Where better to learn what threat they pose to my husband’s rule?”

“Mistress, I confess that I have found no sign of threat whatsoever.”

Procula watched Leah’s reflection in the mirror, her eyes dark and unfathomable. “Then why,” she demanded, “was I so plagued by dreams of this prophet?”

To that Leah had no reply.

Leah was donning her cloak and preparing to carry out her mistress’s continuing assignment when Herod’s maid arrived to announce, “My master wishes to speak with you.”

“Herod orders me to appear?”

The eyes gleamed with the pleasure of knowing more than Leah. “The tetrarch has already departed for Herodion. My master Enos says you must come now.”

Leah followed the maid back through the gardens and into the smallest of the formal chambers, where Enos greeted her. “Ah. Do come in, my dear. How good of you to join me.” Enos sat in the thronelike chair used the previous day by Procula. Herod’s chair was placed against the side wall, awaiting the ruler’s return. Even Enos would not have risked one of the servants informing Herod that he had usurped his master’s seat. “Will you take tea?”

“Thank you, no.”

He motioned her to a backless chair with arms curved like an open vase. “How is your dear mistress this morning?”

“She has rested well, I am glad to say.”

“Please do remember me to her, and tell her how grateful Herod Antipas was that she could stand in for the governor yesterday.”

Leah folded her hands into her lap, her senses on full alert. “I shall do as you command.”

“ ‘Request,’ my dear. It is hardly my place to order you to do anything.” Enos toyed with an oversized ring. “Especially now that you are wed to a centurion in Pilate’s favor.”

Leah held herself stiffly erect. “Betrothed,” she murmured.

“Quite right.” His eyes were narrowed in what might have been humor. “I was merely looking ahead to that splendid day when your marriage is fully consummated.”

Leah gripped the chair arms to hold herself steady and moved to rise. “Forgive me, but my mistress has ordered me to other duties, which—”

“Of course, a servant holding Procula’s confidence could hardly have time for pleasantries with the likes of this poor servant.” He sighed theatrically. “How fortunate you are to find yourself in a position to grant favors to those who care for you and your mistress.”

Leah now understood. She slipped the pouch carrying the remainder of Procula’s gold from her cloak. She balanced it on the arm of the chair closest to Enos. “My mistress has ordered me to be generous with all who assist her.”

Enos rose to his feet, flipping his robe’s trailing end about his arm, and as he did so he made the pouch vanish. “Come, my dear. The courtyard is particularly attractive this time of day.”

He said nothing more until they were well inside the central gardens. Herod’s interior plaza covered a space as large as the portside market in Caesarea. A dozen servants did nothing but tend the tropical growth. Enos led her to the back wall, where a bench rested against flowering vines and faced the smallest of the courtyard’s six fountains. Enos indicated she should be seated, then leaned over to murmur, “I have news. But to reveal it places my life in your hands.”

She inspected his face but found no reason in his expression to disbelieve him. “I am known to be a safe haven for all secrets.”

“Which is the only reason I speak with you at all.” He leaned close enough for her to smell the balm coating his skin. “Herod is in league with the Parthians.”

A pair of hummingbirds flitted about the perfumed air. “Forgive me. I don’t know—”

“Your centurion captured bandits attacking a caravan. A caravan, I might add, financed by Herod’s brother in Damascus. Do you understand what I am saying?”

“I . . . I believe so. Herod is using an alliance with the Parthians to attack his brother, who in turn, seeks to depose him.”

Enos nodded and lowered his voice further. “Herod has secretly released the Parthian leaders captured by your centurion. He asked only one thing in return.”

Leah said nothing, but she thought she knew what was coming.

Enos continued, “Alban’s victory means both the Parthians and Herod have reason to hate him. They are conspiring to kill your centurion.”

When Leah did not respond, Enos said, “The Parthians have vowed he will not return to Capernaum. They will seek a moment when he is removed from the city and its crowds and the Roman guards. One murderous moment is all they will need.” His expression held something slightly sinister. “Such news is worth far more than half a pouch of your mistress’s gold.”

Somehow she managed to keep her voice as steady as her gaze.

“I am in your debt.”

“I knew I could count on you.”

“I must go and warn my betrothed.”

The glimmer of mirth returned to his face. “Of course, my dear,” he murmured. “Of course.”