The Centurion's Wife

by Davis Bunn; Janette Oke

  “He couldn’t be any worse ally for the prelate than Herod is,”

  Dorit said darkly.

  “Pilate questioned the prophet. I was there for the trial, such as it was. Strange, like nothing I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen more than my share.”

  Dorit pressed, “Tell us what happened.”

  “The man was innocent. His every breath said it. Pilate knew it, and so did I. The rabble garrisoned at the Antonia Fortress had their fun with him. He was scourged on Pilate’s order, and still the council demanded his death.”

  “How—what did they do then?” Leah wasn’t sure why she cared.

  “They no doubt crucified him.” Dorit grimaced. “I’m not sorry I missed that.”

  “You have never uttered more true words.” Hugo’s features were carved from decades of wind and sun and weather and war, yet something beyond the forces of nature seemed to have aged him in the days since he left Caesarea. He stared out beyond the kitchen at the rising sun and the lapping waters. His voice dropped and deepened. Both women leaned forward to hear him say, “A storm rose at the moment of his death, and the earth shook.” He looked down at his hands clasped before him on the table. “I was afraid.”

  “You?”

  “Terrified. I thought the gods were attacking. I still have not untangled it. It was as though the whole world lost all hope.”

  “But he’s dead now, and the trouble is behind us.” This from Dorit, the practical one.

  “I hope you are right.” The soldier’s unfocused gaze and slack features left Leah shivering as though she had witnessed the moment herself. He shook his head and unclasped his hands, leaving them palms up in front of him. “But as I rode with only the moonlight to guide my way, I had the feeling that the trouble will be with us forever.”

  Leah entered Procula’s bedchamber, opened the windows to the cool sea breeze, and laid out fresh bed linens in preparation for the woman’s arrival. Using the key attached to her belt, she unlocked the wall chamber and counted out six silver denarii. She noted the amount on a rolled parchment she had placed in the chamber when the prelate’s wife had turned over control of the household treasury to her. No servant before had ever accounted for the flow of money. She knew this because Dorit had held the responsibility before her, and Dorit could neither read nor write. And the one before Dorit had not done any such thing, because that servant had been a thief, taking what he called a tax collector’s percentage with every purchase.

  Leah had no idea if Procula ever opened the scroll, for nothing had been said. But Leah could not afford the risk of an accusation, even if it turned out to be false. Her father had been accused by dishonest partners of being a thief, then disgraced by bankruptcy. Leah wanted absolutely no such scandal attached to herself. She took a moment to count the jewels and the money, checked the tally against her latest entry, then shut and locked it away.

  When she left the palace, the perimeter guards eyed her but did not speak. They could be rough with servant wenches, especially those not already claimed in some fashion by one of their own. But the household knew Leah as Pilate’s niece, which was both true and not true. Her grandfather had been a close associate of Pilate’s father. Leah’s father had been adopted into the clan as an adult, a sign of affection that happened quite often at certain levels of Roman society. But then had come the financial calamity. The tales about Leah’s disgraced father had been told and retold during her three years in Judaea Province. Daily Leah wished she could deny the bitter truth.

  Large for a town of its size, the Caesarea market drew traders from as far afield as Arabia and Alexandria and even Gaul. Merchants displayed the finest goods in permanent stalls around the center plaza. Caesarea’s entire administration was Roman, and most of its population was foreign to the region. Even the Judaean residents took pride in being Roman citizens and spoke Greek, rather than the Aramaic used in the rest of Judaea.

  Leah flew through the market, impatiently ordering and bartering. She exacted the best prices she could, but today time was more important than saving a few denarii. She was in the habit of preparing an evening meal according to what she found fresh—forest mushrooms, smoked eel, newly caught redfish. There would be a soup of sorrel and sage to start, she decided, and to complete the repast the season’s first fruit would be baked with wild honey and cinnamon. She left orders at each stop for the deliveries to arrive within the hour. Her final stop was the apothecary, where she bought a packet of a foul-smelling pollen that was absurdly expensive, looked like tar, and tasted worse. But it was the only medicine that relieved Procula when her headaches struck. Nightmares meant broken sleep, and whenever the mistress did not sleep well she was susceptible to even worse attacks.

  Though Leah drove a hard bargain, she had become friends with several of the stallholders. These traders spoke with her this morning of the prophet’s death and mused over the risk of revolt. Though she was not able to tarry long enough to hear more, from one she even heard a rumor that Herod Antipas also was coming to Caesarea from Jerusalem. For Herod to leave Jerusalem at the height of the spring festival season was unheard of. As the stall-holder counted coins into Leah’s hand, he wondered aloud if the sudden departure of both Herod and Pilate could be tied to the prophet’s crucifixion.

  Awareness of such rumors and speculations was how a servant survived in a household of power. Leah tucked away the information with the remaining coins and returned to the palace.

  She was surprised to find Dorit and Hugo still seated at the kitchen worktable. She decided to use the opportunity to seek the soldier’s help. She went to the vat and fished out a cucumber and a pepper from their brine of seawater, then sliced them thinly. She added some flatbread before setting the plate before him. “Will you take anything else?”

  Hugo stared up at her and then dropped his eyes to the plate.

  “You’ve made a home here.”

  “And friends.”

  “Many expected you to try to lord it over the other servants.”

  “Including yourself?”

  Hugo nodded slowly. “True enough. When I heard of your arrival, I said to myself, ‘Here comes trouble.’ ”

  “You’re not often wrong.” She smiled briefly. “Will you ask one of the guards to stoke the fires?”

  “They loathe such slave duty.”

  “The baths won’t be ready otherwise. You know Pilate will demand a bath as soon as he arrives. And I need to start preparations for the evening meal and ready the prelate’s chambers.”

  Dorit said, “I can help with the rooms.”

  “No, you have enough to do here.” Leah turned again to Hugo. “Don’t order one of them to this duty—they’ll only take it as punishment. Ask for a volunteer, and I’ll feed him tonight from Pilate’s provender.”

  “In that case, I’ll do it myself.”

  This was what she had been after all along. As Leah thanked him and turned to the next task, Dorit said, “Sit with us a moment, child.”

  “I have a myriad of things to get done and too few hours.” But something in Dorit’s expression had her seating herself. “What is it?”

  Hugo said, “I have heard Pilate speak of you.” He would not meet her eyes. “The rumors are true.”

  Leah felt like she had turned to stone. Rumors had swirled through the servants’ quarters for weeks, about a centurion who commanded one of the province’s outermost garrisons. This man, Alban was his name, had reportedly approached Pilate through a trusted emissary. The centurion had requested Leah’s hand in marriage. How the centurion had even come to know of her was a mystery, for Leah went nowhere and sought the company of no man. Leah had done her best to ignore the talk, for she hoped with all her might that she would remain unwed all her life long.

  Hugo continued, “Pilate has conferred with several of his officers. They all speak highly of this centurion.”

  “If Pilate wishes for you to wed the centurion, child, that is what you will do.” Dorit reached fo
r Leah’s trembling hand. “Those who have met him say this Alban is most uncommonly handsome—”

  “What do I care for his looks? They only serve to breed pride and arrogance,” Leah retorted, her lips trembling. “Who speaks so of him? The maidservants whose hearts he has broken? Brothel owners? Tavern keepers?”

  “Soldiers who have served with him in battle,” Hugo put in quietly. “As well as men who serve under his command. They claim the commander is fair in his dealings.”

  Dorit spoke in a low tone to Hugo, “I told you she would be against this plan.”

  He shrugged. “A soldier obeys the commands of his officers.”

  “I am not a soldier!” Leah cried out.

  She felt Dorit’s grasp on her hand tighten. “Hugo speaks with you as a friend, child. If you will not hear what he has to say, how can you prepare?”

  “There’s no need to prepare for anything because it will not . . .” But the fire had gone out of her, and her shoulders slumped forward in defeat.

  Hugo asked gently, “Why did your family send you to serve in Pilate’s household? Did you think you could remain hidden in the servant quarters for the rest of your life?”

  Dorit reached for Leah’s face to turn it toward her own. “You must listen, and listen well.”

  “I have served Pilate since he was still using a child’s sword,” Hugo went on. “I know him as few do. The man gives nothing away without an assured return. He will barter you for an advantage.”

  Leah’s being was so filled with bitterness she could not speak. Barter whirled through her mind. Her last months at home had been overshadowed by her two older sisters begging and weeping and pleading not to be bartered into loveless marriages. But ultimately one had been sent to the bed of a man eleven years older than Leah’s own father. The other sister had been wed to a man so stout he had not seen his own feet since childhood.

  Hugo was saying, “I tried to find out what this centurion has to offer Pilate and came up with nothing save booty.”

  Dorit argued, “Pilate is already immensely rich.”

  “A man like Pilate never has enough of anything. I think the only reason this has not happened more swiftly is because Pilate needs time to decide what he wants to extract from this man.” Hugo plodded forward with a soldier’s relentless tread. “The day we left Jerusalem, Pilate sent his aide Linux off on the eastern road toward Galilee. My guess is Pilate is deciding what it is your man is going to provide to win your hand. And I suspect it will be something to do with the crucified prophet.”

  Leah dropped her face into her hands.

  “Like it or not, your time is approaching.” Hugo leaned forward until she raised her eyes to his. “We all know how your father was disgraced and died penniless.”

  “He was . . . he was cheated.” The last word came out on a sob.

  The soldier waved that aside. “He is dead and his debts remain unsettled. Where is your mother?”

  When Leah did not respond, Dorit answered, “Rome. Residing in a widow’s hut at the back of her sister’s compound. Living like a pauper—”

  “Stop.” Leah covered her face.

  Hugo continued nonetheless, sounding more friend than soldier. “So there is no voice from your own family to influence your fate. Pilate can do with you as he pleases. Mark my words, sooner or later you will be given to the centurion.” He waited until Leah could bring herself to again lift her gaze. “You have a chance to make this marriage work to your own advantage.”

  The man leaned closer still and said, “You must decide what you want from this union. Then prepare yourself to fight for it.”

  Leah attempted to lose herself in the day’s tasks. By habit more than conscious thought she set the joint to roasting and put the soup to boil. When a maid brought flowers picked from the palace grounds, Dorit arranged some at the table while Leah distributed them through the main rooms, one vase at a time. She forced her mind to other subjects, concentrating now on Dorit. The woman had been Procula’s maid for years. Had come with her mistress from Rome. Service was the only life she knew, and she had continued the work long after most women her age would have settled for an easier routine.

  Soon after Leah had arrived in the household, Dorit had broken her hip. The pain aged her as work never had. Leah had acted as Dorit’s maidservant, doing what was needed before the woman was required to ask. It had been most difficult to see to Procula’s demands while attempting to lighten Dorit’s load. Leah had done so because something in the woman’s eyes reminded Leah of her own mother. The silent sorrow in her gaze was the expression in her mother’s the last days Leah had spent with her. What would be worse? To never have wealth, position, or honor, or to know it all and have it wrested from you? Whatever the answer, the eyes of both women had reflected the same pain and defeat.

  But otherwise Leah and Dorit had little in common. Dorit had known nothing but the hard life of servanthood. Leah’s grandmother, her mother’s mother, had been a Judaean married to the chief official in Verona, Italy. Leah’s mother, having been born into wealth and power, considered herself a Roman by birth and a Greek by culture and dismissed anything to do with her Judaean heritage.

  So Leah had spent her first days in Judaea serving a slave in hopes that someone was offering her mother the same kindness. As a result, Leah had earned a friend who watched out for her in a house full of intrigue and hidden daggers.

  How little all that matters now. Leah set the last vase in its niche. No one could protect her from her fate.

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  Nightfall

  PONTIUS PILATE AND HIS ENTOURAGE approached the Caesarea palace just as the sun touched the edge of the western seas. Some three dozen officials—servants, slaves, and soldiers, coated with dust from the road—climbed the last incline to the gates. Despite the hour and their travel-weary state, they moved efficiently through the entrance and scattered to their familiar roles. Because of Leah’s efforts, the servants found all was ready without the usual turmoil of the household’s return. The cooks discovered a meal already filling the house with welcome fragrance. The governor’s senior staff went straight to the baths, where they found the waters heated, fresh towels laid out, incense burners adding their own heady scent, and garden flowers adorning the changing rooms. The formal chambers were aired, the table set, and the sleeping accommodations were ready for the night. Leah received soft greetings from fellow servants able to breathe easy because she had organized and accomplished the work of a dozen.

  Pilate remained by his wife’s palanquin as Leah assisted Proc-ula’s descent from the conveyance in careful stages. Leah had seen the governor’s wife in this state a few times before. Procula was not a complainer, even when she suffered the most dreadful of her headaches, and the worse the pain the quieter she became. Now she did not speak at all. She moved slowly with her eyes closed as Leah guided her through the formal chambers and into her bedroom. Pilate stood in the doorway as Procula was settled onto the bed. Leah noticed his normally severe features were softened with concern.

  The prelate was by nature a stern man with a soldier’s brusqueness, accustomed to being immediately obeyed. Most of the servants and guards were frightened of him and the power he held. Leah’s interactions with him had been few and brief, but she had always found him a fair man. Yet she knew he could be deadly when crossed. He has decided my future. . . .

  She shook her head and turned her full attention to her mistress. She bathed Procula’s face with cool, scented water, then prepared a dose of the apothecary’s draught. “Drink, my lady.”

  “I cannot.” Procula barely breathed the words.

  “You must, mistress.”

  Procula moaned. “If I drink it, I sleep. If I sleep, I dream.”

  “We both know the pain only passes in sleep.” Leah kept her voice low and soothing.

  Procula shook her head, then winced at the motion. “This pain shall never end.”

  Leah did not bo
ther to ask what her mistress meant. There would be time enough for such discussions when the woman felt better. Leah lifted Procula’s head and held the cup to her lips.

  “Drink.”

  Procula’s breathing finally eased and she drifted into slumber as Leah gently stroked her forehead. Only then did Leah realize Pilate was no longer in the doorway. His presence lingered, however, like the biting odor in the air after a lightning strike. Or maybe it was just that Leah was thinking ahead to the confrontation that surely would occur at some point soon.

  She shook her head again, gathered the used linens, and passed through to the servants’ quarters. She was greeted in the kitchen by a few quiet words and a rare smile, her only rewards for her day’s frenetic efforts.

  With a sigh, Leah hurried out through the side door and deposited the armload of laundry near the large washing vats. She found Dorit seated on the ancient bench, staring out to sea and the sun floating on the western horizon.

  The servants’ quarters and the guardhouse formed a triangle with the kitchen’s side wall, creating a narrow courtyard tiled in a dusty mosaic. Under cover of darkness, some guards and serving wenches used it as a trysting place. Leah preferred it now, when the walls radiated the day’s heat and the setting sun turned the sea to bronze.

  With no reference to their emotion-filled discussion earlier in the day, Dorit now said, “These moments have been the only times this spring when my bones have felt truly warm.”

  Leah leaned on the still-warm balustrade and listened to the waves lap against the stone foundations. Men’s voices drifted from the sea-filled cold bath beyond the wooden screens. It should have been a peaceful and private moment, yet even here Pilate’s power cast its pall and troubled her thoughts. “I would give anything not to wed,” she murmured toward the sea.