The Centurion's Wife (7 page)

“Enough.” Though Alban had never ordered anyone crucified, his predecessor was notorious for littering the region with crosses. Road signs to proper behavior, the old centurion had called them on the day Alban had assumed command. Put up enough such road signs, and even the Judaeans will learn to read the Roman message.

Linux went on, “I’ve seen far too many of the dreadful killings. The emporer Tiberius is a great one for crucifying his enemies. But never in my life have I seen one like this, nor the trial which came before it. The Judaean council, the Sanhedrin, you know of it?”

“The name only.”

“But you’ve heard how they fight among themselves, yes? The Sanhedrin is made up of two groups, the Pharisees and the Sadducees. They loathe each other.” Linux shook his head. “Yet on that day they came together and stood in Pilate’s court as one. They shouted the same words echoed in the streets by crowds they paid from their own pockets. The scene was one step away from riot. They all shouted, over and over, ‘Crucify him.’ Pilate had the prophet scourged, hoping that would satisfy their blood thirst. But they threatened the governor with open revolt. He washed his hands of it. The council won. The prophet carried his own cross to Golgotha.”

Linux’s expression had gone dark in the glow from the firelight. “I’d been sent to the south on an errand. I arrived back at the Lion’s Gate just as it happened. A storm rose out of nowhere, the likes of which you can’t imagine. The sky went dark as Procula’s dreams. The wind blasted from all four corners of the globe. And then the earth shook. I’ve known earthquakes before. This one felt like the world was breathing its last.”

Alban felt the same bitter dread he had known upon first hearing the news. “And Atticus was at the center of it all? No wonder he has fallen ill.”

Abruptly Linux rose to his feet. “Sleep well, centurion. Tomorrow will be a momentous day.”

“Wait.” When Linux turned back, Alban asked, “What can you tell me of Pilate?”

“You have never met him?”

“For only a moment upon taking up my command. One of twenty new officers in an overcrowded room.”

Linux inspected him carefully. “He gives nothing freely. Whatever you ask of him, he will exact the highest price you are willing to pay, then demand more besides.” The Roman’s eyes glittered in the firelight, full of warning. “Know well what it is you want, centurion, and be certain your desire is worth the price. Because pay you will. Pay with your booty or your blood. Maybe even your life.”

CHAPTER

SEVEN

Pilate’s Palace, Caesarea

ALBAN HAD NEVER before visited Caesarea. His original troop ship had landed at the far larger port of Tyre. He could have visited the Roman center of power at any time, but he had avoided Caesarea for a very specific reason.

Outlying garrisons such as his were manned by mercenaries. He knew the elite of Caesarea considered them to be nothing more than gristle clinging to Rome’s outer rim, scum who often disgraced their uniform. Alban had vowed he would only travel to Jerusalem or Caesarea when he had established himself, had become strong enough to prevail over such derision, when he would be singled out as a leader of men. Generals had become caesars. Why not a Gaul?

Never had Rome’s might seemed clearer than on the approach to Caesarea. The city occupied nine seaside hills and a narrow stretch of rocky flatlands. The surrounding ridgeline was rimmed by Roman guard towers. Alban and Linux saluted the city’s official watch master and entered Caesarea by the southern passage. The broad colonnaded avenue led them past the city’s coliseum before turning north to flank the sea.

After months in the Galilee, the city’s mix of odors—of camels and donkeys and spices and fires and men—was an assault to the senses. The farther they moved into the city, the more crowded it became. When the lane they traversed opened into a plaza, it was easy to see why visitors called Caesarea a miniature Rome. The hills might be golden sand instead of Roman rock and scrub, but the palaces were as fine as those of the empire’s capital. The freemen he saw were dressed in elegant togas and took their ease at splendid inns or well-stocked market stalls. Their servants wore better clothes than any Alban owned.

To Alban’s eyes, the governor’s palace occupied the finest position in all Judaea Province. South of the port, a ledge of rock and shale extended far into the Mediterranean. The palace grounds occupied this entire peninsula. The guardhouse formed a low perimeter between the compound and the city. The main structure stood upon the highest ground, with an uninterrupted view of both city and sea. The descent to the Mediterranean was a series of polished steps, each as broad as the entire garrison Alban had just left.

As he dismounted, Alban knew a taste of nerves. So much depended upon the next few hours. . . .

Linux ordered the household guards to lock away the two bandits, then turned to Alban. “You and your man can wait inside, if you like. I’ll go make my report.”

“You’re leaving me here?”

Linux saluted the approaching duty officer and lowered his voice. “You’ll take counsel?”

“Always,” Alban replied.

“No commanding officer likes to be caught off guard. The last thing Pilate expects is for a summoned officer to arrive bringing treasures and captives.”

Alban knew a fleeting fear that Linux intended to poison Pilate’s first impression, or steal credit. He pushed the concerns aside. “I am grateful for your wisdom.”

The guard motioned Alban toward a room with a window overlooking the city’s northern hills. But Alban chose to remain with his sergeant in the shade of the guardhouse roof. Between them and the port stretched the city’s magnificent hippodrome, its oval track floored with fine white sand. The stadium had seats along three sides, with the fourth left open so that the fans could enjoy the azure waters.

His sergeant wiped a dusty face. “I do believe I smell roasting lamb.”

Alban nodded. From the palace kitchen in the building just beyond the guardhouse he heard women’s voices and wondered if one belonged to Leah.

“Mind you, they probably feed the ranks swill here, same as everywhere else,” the sergeant complained.

“I’ll make sure you eat what I am served. Then you’re free until later.” When the man did not respond, Alban asked, “Is there something that’s bothering you?”

“Them Parthians. They’re too calm.”

“They are desert trained,” Alban replied. “They have learned to mask their sentiments well.”

“Not like this. Not the way they’ve been talking.”

“You understand their tongue?”

“No need. I listened to them last night when they thought the camp slept. I was standing guard on the other perimeter. They were laughing like they were already freed.”

Alban left his man and sauntered about the guardhouse. It was a substantial structure, holding barracks, cookhouse, baths, sleeping quarters, and one windowless cell. Prisoners were not held here long, of course. The chamber was intended only for those awaiting Pilate’s judgment. The sentries displayed the bored alertness of guards everywhere. “I’d like to see my prisoners,” he told them.

“They are Pilate’s now,” the duty officer replied with a trace of a sneer, but he rose and reached for the keys. He kept his movements just slow enough to show what he thought of orders from a back-country centurion.

The two Parthians sprawled upon wooden benches against the inner walls. A single oil lamp granted the room’s only illumination. The prisoners looked dusty and weary but far too composed. Only one of them bothered to glance over at him. The other remained as he was, stroking a beard with one manacled hand, staring at the ceiling and humming tunelessly.

When Alban returned outside, he found Linux waiting for him. The officer announced, “You’re invited to enjoy Pilate’s bath.”

Alban leaned in close and muttered, “The prisoners are behaving as though they knew they have been granted a reprieve. Last night my sergeant heard them talking and laughing, like they were waiting for someone to slip them the keys.”

Linux casually turned his back to the duty officer before replying, “From now on, you must assume everything you say and do will be observed and reported.”

“Understood.” Alban raised his voice and said, “My man needs a proper meal. And our horses need stabling.”

Linux turned to the duty officer. “See to it.” Linux left Alban, entered the guardhouse himself, and returned a few moments later wearing a thoughtful air. “Come with me.” He led Alban around the kitchen and through a side door into the bath’s changing room.

“What did you think of the Parthians?” asked Alban.

“Worth investigating.” Linux motioned Alban to one of the changing cubicles, where they both removed their clothing.

The rooms were too well appointed for a simple soldier. Towels and robes were stacked upon trays of onyx and soapstone. Flowers sprouted from solid gold vases. The floor mosaics were adorned with semi-precious stones, and the utensils in the washroom were all hand-carved ivory. Alban was sure that the man who ruled Judaea from such a home as this had little use for a rough-cut Gaul.

A bath slave offered soaps and unguents in silver vials. There was an unending stream of fresh water, and new silver-backed razors for his face. They stepped into the first of three baths, the
caldarium
, the heated pool. Steam drifted in the languid air, causing the murals along the walls to spring to life and dance for him. They moved from there into the
frigidarium,
which was set in a chamber with only three walls, the far end open to the crystal blue sea. Two steps down led to a patio containing a third bath filled with heated seawater. A half-dozen figures lolled about the space. Alban felt eyes on him from every quarter.

He ate with Linux in one of the side alcoves. Across from them, a slave pummeled a large man on the massage table. Others ate plums and drank sweet wine, their talk of Rome and money and power.

When the chamber next to theirs emptied, Linux murmured, “If you want to survive in these waters, you enter every meeting well prepared. I left you at the guardhouse so I could speak with allies.” Linux hefted the towel’s edge and rubbed his face, mashing the quiet words so they were nearly indistinct. “Procula remains very ill from her dreams. After our return from Jerusalem, Herod paid a visit to Pilate, and now the prelate has sent a messenger to Herod’s palace on the other hill above the hippodrome. They have been at odds for some time, but this prophet’s death has brought them together in a way I cannot explain. I mistrust what I cannot understand.”

In the distance, a voice called Alban’s name. Linux responded, “Here!” To Alban he said softly, “Enter Pilate’s presence as you would a battle.”

Alban found a formal toga laid out for him in the dressing chamber. The cotton and linen weave was more refined than anything he had ever worn. On the side wall was the greatest astonishment he had seen yet in this house of wonders, a mirror with a polished surface that stretched from the floor to above his head. Despite the servant’s impatience, he took time for a long look. This was the first time he had ever seen his own full image.

The man staring back at him was far more seasoned than the one who had entered Judaea’s borderlands four years earlier. The cleft in his chin was matched by a scar that ran from his left temple to his hairline, compliments of an arrow that had almost robbed him of half his vision. His hair, originally a shade between brown and russet, was now more gold in color, and his skin was as dark as saddle leather. But what held him most were his eyes. He knew himself to have always been cautious, measuring, reserved. What caught him now was the hint of fear in his gaze.

CHAPTER

EIGHT

Caesarea, That Same Day

FOR THE TWO NIGHTS since Herod’s latest visit, Procula had wakened most of the household with her screams. Once awake she was again seized by the headache. Leah took to spending her nights at the foot of her mistress’s bed. As soon as the whimpers began, Leah rose to give the governor’s wife another measure of the medicine. Procula continued her weak protests, speaking in broken tones about the prophet now lost to the grave.

The other servants made no comment when Leah stumbled back to the women’s sleeping quarters after serving Procula her breakfast and morning dose. The senior cook, a bitter woman who normally never had a kind word for anyone, gently awakened Leah personally in time to serve Procula her other meals. When Leah did sleep, it was in scattered snatches, starting awake from dreams in which she thought she heard the mistress calling to her.

This day, it seemed as though Leah had scarcely laid her head upon the pillow before the cook was touching her shoulder. “You must come now.”

“The mistress calls for me?”

But the cook was already headed back through the door. “To the kitchen. Quickly!”

When Leah arrived, she found a newcomer seated at the center table. The soldier’s beard was still wet from the baths. He plucked at the simple house robe and grumbled, “I prefer to wear my uniform.”

Dorit was seated at the table’s far end, peeling onions. “The prelate forbids uniforms and weapons inside his compound.”

“And my lamb is not to be served in the guardhouse,” the cook added firmly. She motioned Leah toward the fire. “Stir that soup, if you will.”

Dorit said to the man, “You must be a trusted confidant to travel with the centurion.”

Leah managed not to drop her ladle. She froze in place, then began stirring vigorously as the soldier replied, “We were in battle. This journey with him was my reward.”

Leah kept her back to the room and its guest. The cook must have served him a plate because he rumbled what could be taken as his gratitude. From the corner of her eye, Leah saw the cook glance her direction, then said, “The prisoners you brought are bandits?”

“Parthians,” he replied around a mouthful.

Dorit commented, “Some say the Parthians do not exist.”

“Which is why Centurion Alban brought the two officers with us. To show the world how wrong those rumors are.” The soldier continued to talk through his food. “Out in the borderlands we’ve known of them for years. But they’ve slipped past us until now.”

Leah resisted the urge to turn and stare at Dorit. She knew the old woman had her own reasons to hate the Parthians. She heard Dorit ask, “You know this centurion of yours?”

“Well enough.”

“Tell me of him.”

“He’s a good soldier. Brave. Looks after his men.”

Leah heard the grudging tone. As Dorit must have, because she said, “But you dislike him?”

“I have no call to answer a question like that.”

“I mean no disrespect, soldier.” Dorit used her most persuasive tone. “It’s just that the woman he seeks to wed is a friend.”

The cook offered her own invitation. “Tell us about your officer, and I’ll serve you another portion of lamb.”

Leah heard the soldier drum his fingers on the table. “The centurion Alban is enamored by change and new ways. I’m for tradition. Old guard, old ways, old gods. They’ve served us well enough up to now.”

The cook sliced more lamb and carried the platter to the table. “What can you say of the centurion’s character?”

“The man is trustworthy.”

“Even though you dislike his methods.”

“He cares for his men. They do not die under him. He shares booty. He does not hold back when pay finally comes.”

Leah could not resist any longer. She turned in time to watch the soldier drain his cup. He set it down on the table, wiped his mouth with an arm, and declared, “The centurion was born to rule.”

To Leah’s surprise, when she took the midday meal to Procula, she found the governor’s wife waiting for her. Procula announced, “Your centurion is here.”

Leah did not need to ask how Procula knew. Pilate’s wife had eyes everywhere. Leah wanted to insist that the centurion referred to was not
hers
. Instead she said simply, “I saw his aide in the kitchen. How are you feeling, my lady?”

“Help me sit up.” Procula allowed Leah to take much of her weight and held her breath tightly as her head moved upward.

Leah arranged another cushion behind her head and asked, “Shall I prepare another draught?”

“Later.” Procula breathed out long and slowly as she settled back. The lines remained etched into the skin about her eyes and forehead. “Your centurion goes before Pilate now.”

Leah felt her own breath catch in her throat. “I don’t want to marry,” she dared to say, her voice hardly above a whisper. “I would willingly serve you for the rest of my life, my lady.”

Procula’s head lifted away from the cushions. “Herod is there as well. I must know what is happening.”

“Mistress, I have served you well. I have never asked you for anything. But I am asking you now. Please do not force me to wed this man.”

Even wracked by pain, Procula possessed a queenly demeanor, dark and sharp and unreadable. “They say he is most handsome. And a fine soldier. Even Pilate refers to him as a hero.”

“Mistress, I beg you. Do not force me to marry
anyone
.”

“You are young and intelligent. You have fire. Others might not see it, for you mask your inner power well. You were not born for such a life as this. Do not bind yourself with fear over what may never come.” She halted Leah’s protest with an upraised hand. “You must learn to accept what the gods offer. I have learned the consequences of going against them. The Judaean God, in particular. Nothing is worth . . .” Her voice drifted away and she slowly turned her head to stare out the window. When she turned back, she finished quietly, “Believe me, it is not worth it. Now, go and observe and remember everything you see and hear. I will wait for your return.”

Alban was aware that Pontius Pilate held several official titles, and the most commonly used was prelate. But the provincial governor preferred to be known as prefect. The title was held by a commander of the emperor’s cavalry, someone known for grasp of military strategy. Pilate considered himself a warrior first, which was why he had been appointed to this troublesome province. In a calmer region, a prelate’s first responsibility was taxation. But not in Judaea.

Pontius Pilate, prefect of Judaea, and his lone guest received Alban in a north-facing courtyard ringed by columns. The terrace had a fine view both of the sea and the hippodrome. White linen canopies stretched over the columns, offering shade where Pilate and his guest were seated. The palace doorways were hidden behind intricately carved wooden screens. A light wind off the sea caused the fabric to billow softly. On a table at the courtyard’s other side was spread Alban’s gift of bandit loot. Compared with the palace and its polished ambiance, the bejeweled sword hilts and shields seemed garish.

The courtyard’s three divans, two chairs, two lampstands, and incense burner were all ornately carved and chased in gold. As were the cups and bowls and plates and utensils. Even the writing implements used to anchor the scrolls against the wind were gold. An empire’s wealth was spread about the patio on casual display.

Only the two seats were occupied, low thrones set side-by-side upon an elevated dais.

Alban knew some of the prelate’s history because he had made it his business to find out all he could. Pontius Pilate was born in Rome of Samnite heritage. The mountains south of Rome had bred a race of proud and stubborn people, whose men fought with brutal intelligence and ruled the same way. Pilate’s father had been an
eques
, a member of the Roman knightly class. Pilate served in the emperor’s personal bodyguard, then fought with the victorious legions in the Germanic wars. The newly appointed emperor Tiberius had decided Pontius Pilate was the ideal man to rule the troublesome province of Judaea.

Alban stepped forward and bowed low. As he did so, he noted a shadow behind the carved wooden screen. He forced himself to ignore the unseen watcher. “Greetings, my lord.” He attempted to strike the proper note of subservience yet confidence. He would wait for Pilate’s cue to acknowledge the other man.

Leah’s first impression upon seeing Alban through the wooden screen was of the moment eight days earlier when she had risen from her bed, utterly free from the fever that had gripped her for nine long days.

Drawn from her bed by the sound of a man’s voice calling her name.

Alban spoke for the first time. His voice was strong, clear, calm. She shivered, half relieved to know it was not his voice she had heard. Then she impatiently brushed the thought aside. She was not one for dreams and portents. Life was what it was.

And there was no place in her world for a man. She neither needed nor wanted one in her life—not now, not ever.

Leah knew soldiers. Her father had been a merchant to the local legate. Soldiers had been in and out of her house all her life. Many Roman officers used their brute force like a battering ram. She had learned to mark those who menaced others for pleasure.

She had also known a few who seemed like this man, the rare officer who was a true leader. Officers who could stand before men like Pontius Pilate and Herod Antipas and speak with the calmness of knowing precisely who they were. Not many, but a few.

His hair was neither brown nor red nor gold, but a color that combined all three shades. His eyes looked to be the copper color of a burnished shield. His shoulders were almost too broad for such a tall, slender man. She could not pretend to be blind to the fact that Alban was rather handsome—what she could see of him between the woven slats of the screen.

She held her breath and her trembling body as still as she could while she listened to others determine her fate.

“Greetings, Centurion Alban.” Pontius Pilate made a vague gesture toward the nearest divan. Alban pretended not to notice. He had no intention of relaxing in these circumstances.

To his eye, Pilate was an aging commander who had possessed power for so long he wore it like a second skin. He was strongly built, particularly for a man in his forties. His gaze was level, measuring, and utterly ruthless.

The prelate motioned toward his guest. “You know of course the Judaean tetrarch, Herod Antipas.”

Alban bowed a second time. “Sire.”

Herod Antipas was a hyena in human form. His every gesture appeared to be a lie. His supposed ease, his smile, his quiet way of saying, “So this is your man.”

“He brought us two Parthian captives. Is that not so, centurion?”

“Indeed, sire. With another eighteen kept at our garrison, awaiting your orders.”

But it was Herod who responded. “Eighteen more, how fascinating.” His narrow moustache slipped into a beard that was waxed to a shiny point. “And why, pray tell, are they not already dead?”

Alban directed his answer to the prelate. “No one but the caravan masters have believed the Parthians raid as far north as the Damascus Road. I thought you might wish to question them and determine whether they are gathering forces for a larger strike.”

The silence was broken only by the waves far below and the flapping linen screen overhead.

At length Herod asked, “How can you be certain they are Parthians?”

“The leaders speak neither Aramaic nor Latin, or at least claim so. But several of their men have been more revealing. And their dress, their swords, their style of battle are as the war scrolls describe.”

“The scrolls—ah, the scrolls.” Herod wore a robe of midnight blue and embroidered gold threads. His every gesture glimmered and flashed. “Tell me, centurion. These are Parthian scrolls?”

Alban fastened his gaze at an invisible point between the two men and did not respond. Early on Alban had learned that there was safety in silence, especially with a monarch who sought trouble.

“But of course, they could not be Parthian scrolls. You don’t speak Parthian, do you, centurion? Not a word, I warrant.” His oily smile made Alban’s hands go rigid at his sides. “So why could not simple Bedouin bandits merely dress up in Parthian style, after reading the same scrolls as you?”

The leather straps on Pilate’s chair creaked as he shifted impatiently. “That would hardly make them simple, would it?”

“How astute of you to think thus.” Herod moved his viper’s leer to Pilate. “I would ask that these so-called Parthians be handed over to my custody. If they are truly bringing war to our borders, I must know about it.”

“My men can ask such questions,” Pilate replied.

“Indeed. But my own efforts are much more, shall we say, subtle.” Herod leaned closer to Pilate. “And I must determine whether my brothers might have any hand in this.”

Pilate finally nodded. “Any objections, centurion?”

Alban recalled the Parthians’ languid ease in their cell. But he knew enough to reply, “They are your prisoners, sire, to do with as you please.”