The Centurion's Wife (9 page)

That night it was Leah who dreamed.

She stood in some flame-lit hall, dressed in finery not her own. In the murky distance a voice droned low and sonorous, the words reverberating with the beat of a gallows drums. She knew it was her betrothal ceremony, just as she knew without looking down that she was chained to the floor. Leah stood alone, but she felt eyes on her from every quarter. A mist clung to the floor and the walls, making it impossible to see anything clearly. The voice stopped, and the silence that replaced it seemed more oppressive still.

Then she heard another noise. Something breathed upon the back of her neck.

In her dream, Leah twisted about to face a huge beast leering down at her. He wore the centurion’s skin, but the true creature lurking within the man was now revealed. The beast possessed a demon’s face and fangs as long as knives. He growled his intent and lunged toward her.

Leah shot upright and rose from her pallet at the end of Proc-ula’s bed. Her heart pounded in her chest and her limbs were so shaky she was forced to support herself on the edge of the bed. Moonlight turned the room silver and revealed that her mistress was both awake and watching her. “Was it that man?”

Leah could only shake her head numbly.

Procula rose to a seated position and motioned Leah down to sit beside her. “Did the prophet speak to you from beyond the grave?”

Leah sighed over the confusion and defeat that had chased her from her slumber. “No, mistress, my dream was not about the prophet.”

Procula slumped back against the pillows. It was doubtful she had even heard Leah. “I begged Pilate to have nothing to do with that man. But the whole Sanhedrin was on my husband like vipers, hissing and threatening to strike.” Procula wrung her hands. “I fear for Pilate. I fear for us all.”

Leah used the hem of her gown to wipe the sweat from her face. “I dreamed of . . . the centurion.”

Procula’s sat forward once more. Her gaze sharpened with her tone and her features. “I want you to listen to me. Your fate was sealed the moment you set foot in Pilate’s household. What you want means nothing. Your betrothal to the centurion will take place according to my husband’s timing.”

Leah had heard Procula use such a tone only a few times before. It was the voice of a woman who held the power of life and death, as cold as the moonlight that etched shadows into everything Leah saw.

Procula said, “Look at me.” When Leah lifted her chin, the woman continued, “I want you to do my bidding.”

“It is all I have done for nearly three years, mistress.”

“I am speaking about
now.
Our fate is tied up with the prophet’s.”

Leah blinked slowly, dragged from her dark well by the insistence in Procula’s words. “But . . . this man Jesus is now
dead
.”

“You heard what Pilate told your centurion. His body has vanished. The Jerusalem council claims it has been stolen by his disciples. Which makes sense, if they are planning to use his death as a rallying cry for revolution.” Procula’s head made a soft thump against the wall behind her pillow. “You do not know what it is like to face a provincial revolt,” she continued. “You cannot imagine. The Roman legions reveal an unspeakable brutality. Regardless of how the uprising ends, Pilate would be ruined. He is charged to keep the peace, and in the Roman senate’s eyes he would have failed. He would return to the emperor in disgrace. That is, if they permit him to return at all. More than likely, we would be banished.”

“But what can I do?”

“My family’s safety depends upon you and me. Pilate is at a loss as to how to find answers. I must know what is happening within this group. For the sake of us all, I
must know
. I want you to infiltrate the band of his disciples.”

“Mistress, you cannot mean this.”

“You are Judaean.”

“My grandmother, yes, but my mother scorned the religious Judaeans of her ancestry. I know nothing about them. Nothing!”

“You are Judaean,” Procula insisted. “You cannot be the only woman untrained in the old ways who seeks to know whatever it is they teach. Go to them. See what you can learn. And then you will report only to me. Do you hear? You will speak of what you learn only to me.”

Procula leaned back against her pillow and closed her eyes tightly against the pain. She murmured, “And then I shall do whatever is required to protect us.”

CHAPTER

TEN

Jerusalem

ALBAN AND LINUX left the ruined village before dawn. At midday they began the long climb into the Judaean hills. When they crested the final rise, Jerusalem spread out before them, adorning the highest hill like a polished stone crown. The city wall was burnished by the afternoon sun so its reflection hurt the eyes. The scene struck Alban as belonging to some higher world, beyond the touch of mortals.

Linux reined in beside him, gave him a long look, and snorted. “Wait until you’ve been there a few days. Then you’ll know this place for the snake pit it is.”

Linux’s cynicism could not quench Alban’s wonder. They turned into the Kidron Valley, the city wall towering high to the left. They passed an assortment of structures so ancient they appeared to have grown naturally from the dust and the stone, as large as temples yet with neither door nor inner sanctum. “What are these?”

Linux did not bother to glance over. “Tombs. Kings and prophets and such. From the time when Judaea ruled itself.”

An alert sentry saluted them through the Lion’s Gate. The ancient portal opened into a lane that was nearly empty of life. The only people who walked this cobblestoned lane were soldiers, a few merchants, and women who smiled invitingly as they passed. But up ahead they could see a cross street teeming with people and animals.

Linux halted at stables across from the main portal to Antonia Fortress. “The city is so crowded during the festival season we will make better time by foot.”

“But this street is quiet.”

“You’ll see.” Linux greeted the stable master by name and made certain the man understood these mounts belonged to Pilate himself. The man assured Linux he would care for them personally. Linux turned to Alban. “Baths or business?”

“I want to see this Joseph without delay.”

“It may be wise. No doubt the Sanhedrin has spies in Pilate’s household, and they could reach him first.”

He and Linux left their saddlebags and set off. The closer they came to the first juncture of roads, the louder grew the din. To Alban’s eye, it appeared they approached a solid wall of humanity. He turned to Linux to question him again about the contrast between the activity ahead and the quiet lane they were traversing.

Linux pointed to a set of polished double doors. “These lead to Pilate’s new baths,” he said, raising his voice to be heard, “dedicated to the emperor Tiberius. The Sanhedrin were outraged. Called them a desecration of their holy city. For once Pilate stood firm.

Would not relent. No self-respecting Judaean will even set foot on this lane.” When they turned the corner the two were instantly trapped in a seething mass. Alban understood why Linux had left the horses at the fortress stables. Neither horse nor cart could have maneuvered through this throng. Their Roman uniforms granted them a tight ring of space, however, though the people they passed never looked their way. The Judaeans did their best to pretend the Romans did not even exist.

Linux led them up one hill and down another, turning to the right and left until Alban wondered if he was back in the Golan caverns. The city itself seemed astonishingly clean, and the normal stench he associated with packed humanity did not assault him here. Almost everyone he passed seemed remarkably unsoiled, their garments tidy, their faces clean. When Alban mentioned it to Linux, his companion remained unimpressed. “These Judaeans are as fanatical about washing as they are about everything else. Which makes their complaints about our own baths even more absurd.”

“Ritual baths are part of the Judaeans’ religion,” Alban mentioned. “They disapprove of our habit of opening the baths to men and women alike.” This information was based on his interactions with the Capernaum leaders up north. Alban endured Linux’s odd look and changed the subject. “I’ve never known crowds like this.”

“It’s always like this during the festival season. Seven weeks in the spring and one in the fall.” Linux kicked at a loose pebble. “I loathe this place most of all during the festivals. It’s hard to draw a decent breath.”

Alban did not respond, though in truth he felt overwhelmed by this city, as though its ancient might and splendor conspired against him. Against all things Roman.

He spent the remainder of their journey trying to formulate an approach to the Judaean and the meeting ahead of him. The previous night, as he lay in the hut and listened to the storm, it had all seemed rather simple. He’d assumed he would seek out the various parties, ask a few questions, and make his report. The issues were straightforward enough. Was the prophet dead, where was the body, and was there a threat of revolt? It was only now, as they left the market lanes behind and the city brooded down over him, that he wondered what threat might lie buried within his questions. And within the answers . . .

The house of Joseph of Arimathea was in the Upper City, which Linux said contained the finest residences. A stallholder directed them to an unmarked portal down an unnamed lane. The square doorway was tall enough to admit a royal chariot and framed by stone carved like a flowering vine. Yet there was none of the adornment that would announce the presence of a Roman villa behind its protective walls. Instead the Jerusalem dust so stained the ancient wooden door it appeared not to have been used in years.

Alban used his sword hilt to hammer on the portal. He waited, then hammered again.

A small door set into the larger portal opened to reveal a solidly built guard. He simply stared out at them.

“Is this the residence of Joseph of Arimathea?” Linux demanded.

“Who’s asking?”

Alban stilled Linux’s protest with a warning hand. “We come at the request of Pontius Pilate.”

“Name?”

“The centurion Alban and his aide, Linux.”

The guard slammed the door in Alban’s face.

Linux glared at the portal in genuine outrage. Alban said, “Wait.”

A few moments later, the portal opened again and the guard demanded, “You are the centurion of the Capernaum garrison?”

“I am.”

“My master asks, are you a God-fearer as they say?”

Linux could hold his outrage no longer. “Are you aware who it is you are addressing, guard? This man carries the personal seal of Pontius Pilate!”

The surly guard kept his focus square upon Alban’s face. Alban replied, “The elders of Capernaum called me one. In truth, I do not know.”

Oddly, the guard gave Alban’s response a nod of grudging approval. The man bore no rank or insignia, yet clearly he had been given the power to decide whether Alban should be granted an audience. “You may enter, Roman. You and you alone.”

Linux hissed at the insult. Alban murmured to his companion, “Return to the Antonia Fortress. Find the centurion Atticus.”

“This man should be flayed!”

Alban stepped around to where his companion could not see him and the guard at the same time. “Find Atticus,” Alban calmly repeated. “You said he was in charge of the crucifixion. If anyone can tell us whether the prophet actually died, it is he. Ask him to meet us. . . . I don’t know the city. I need a location where he will speak freely.”

Linux muttered, still indignant, “The public baths at the end of the lane fronting the fortress.”

“Tell him to meet us there later tonight. Then find the guards assigned to the prophet’s tomb. I want to see them before that, in a different location.”

“There is a tavern on the main market avenue that welcomes us, just south of the lane leading to the fortress.”

“I’ll meet you there before sundown.” He turned to the guard, who continued to bar the portal with his body. “Let us proceed.”

Alban had been in such dwellings before. The wealthy Judaeans of Tiberias and Capernaum lived thus, in houses where all signs of affluence were hidden behind dusty masks. The major differences in this case were the residence’s size and its guards, who were both numerous and extremely alert.

“Wait here,” his guard told him.

Alban nodded and looked around. The central courtyard was a full thirty paces across. The large house itself was carefully understated and completely unadorned. Not a single mosaic framed the central fountain. Yet palace it was, with a colonnaded alcove framing three sides of the courtyard and opening into a multitude of chambers. The square’s fourth side fronted an ancient city wall—not the massive fortress battlements which had been rebuilt by Herod the Great but something far older. This wall had been smoothed by eons to a dusky gold. Beyond the wall, Alban could see a massive structure standing upon a gigantic hilltop plaza, its angled roof reflecting the afternoon sun. Though he had never seen it before, he was certain he glimpsed the Temple to the Judaean God.

“This way.” The guard had returned and now led Alban into the west-facing portico. The tall doors were fashioned of wood that had been polished until they gleamed. Inside, the chamber was also unadorned and vast. Simple, severe, serene.

A man was seated behind a table so long it could have accommodated thirty. Its surface was covered with scrolls and tablets. The man held a scroll as if he was beginning to unroll it. Light spilled through tall windows and gauzelike drapes. A male secretary stood behind the seated man, holding a sheaf of vellum pages.

Alban’s Judaean host was dressed in the robes of a Pharisee, black and severe yet fashioned from some fabric as light as the drapes. “You have journeyed from Capernaum?” he asked, his tone well modulated, full of authority.

“From Caesarea.”

“So our governor wished to interview you first. Very wise.” He gestured with the scroll to the guard. “Our guest still wears the dust from the road. Have a servant bring water and a towel.”

The instructions no doubt startled the guard as much as they did Alban. The Pharisees were extremely strict about religious protocol. Everyone in this household would be religious. To order a servant to bathe a Roman’s feet would be approaching blasphemy.

Yet when the guard did not move swiftly enough, the man lifted his eyes to stare directly at the man. His silence was command enough for the guard to spring into action.

When a young woman brought a ceramic basin, her trembling hands sloshed water on the polished marble floor. Alban saved her from further dishonor by taking the towel and the basin and washing his own feet. When he looked up, he found his host observing him with quiet approval.

Joseph of Arimathea was not a large man, but his presence was such that the chamber seemed filled with his aura. “What is it you want from me, centurion?”

“I believe you know the answer to that question, my lord.”

His gaze was piercing. “When my manservant asked if you were a God-fearer, you gave a curious response.”

“The elders of Capernaum say the Pharisees hold great store by the truth. I am giving as I hope to receive.”

Joseph nodded slightly. “You may be interested to know that your response follows a passage from our teachings.” He dismissed the guard and servant with a wave, turned to the secretary, and said, “Leave us.”

When they were alone, the Pharisee repeated his query in different words. “Why are you here?”

“Pilate seeks three answers: First, is the prophet truly dead? Second, what happened to his body? And third, are his disciples threatening revolt against Rome?”

“The last question is the easiest to answer. Let Rome leave our borders and there will be no threat, not from any Judaean, not ever again.”

Alban stood quietly and waited.

Joseph stroked his long beard. “As to the second question, the answer is, I have no idea where the rabbi is.”

“Yet you approached Pilate and requested the body. You took it to your family tomb. You buried him, I have heard, with your own hands.”

“All of this is as you say.”

“And now his body is gone.”

“I inspected the tomb myself. The day after the Sabbath, and every day since then. The body has indeed vanished.”

Alban listened carefully but heard nothing to suggest the man had a hand in the theft. “Do you suspect someone?”

“The Almighty, perhaps?” His expression remained unreadable. His fingers again traced down a beard laced with silver, flattening out the curves. A gesture so often repeated he might not have been aware of what he was doing. “Certainly not I.”

“You’re suggesting the Judaean God came down from—”

“Heaven?” Joseph supplied, turning the word into a question.

“Your heaven.”

“His heaven, centurion. Not mine.”

“And stole away the prophet’s body.”

The Judaean began to sway slightly. Back and forth, as though intoning thoughts he now uttered very softly. “If our God did so, then the man now missing was not merely a prophet.”

Alban noted dryly, “I will convey your opinions to Pilate.” Joseph of Arimathea then did a curious thing. He rose from his chair, walked around the table, and reached out his hand as though to touch Alban’s arm. He did not quite make contact, for to do so would have rendered him unclean. “Come. We will be more comfortable out here.”

He led Alban through the great doors and into the colonnaded plaza. The secretary, the guard, and the womanservant holding the basin all clustered nearby. Clearly they had been talking of their master and his guest, for when Alban appeared with Joseph, they gaped and stepped back. Joseph motioned them away with a gesture and pointed Alban to a pair of chairs set in the shade. “Please, you are my guest.”