Behind her, she heard Dorit pat the marble bench. “Come sit with me.”
Dorit’s lined face never held a frown. She did not raise her voice and rarely spoke an unkind word. She had been born to accept her lot and to smile at whatever her circumstances. But her gaze now was deep and knowing. The woman always seemed to understand Leah’s feelings before words were spoken, which invited confidences. She knew Dorit hid a secret better than a sealed tomb.
The woman did not press her invitation. Leah said, still facing west, “I once knew a young man. He made me laugh. He bought me ices at sunset from the highlands, and we strolled along the river. I was fifteen and thought we were very much in love. After Father . . . after we lost everything, I never saw him again. He eventually sent word that his parents forbade our meeting. Nine months later, after my sisters became prisoners in two dreadful marriages, my father died. Soon after that, I was on a boat bound for Judaea.”
Dorit said softly to Leah’s back, “And you fear you shall never laugh again.”
Leah turned to stare at the plain stone walls now flecked with sunset gold. She did not sigh, nor did her eyes glisten with tears. When she spoke her voice sounded low and flat. “Laughter is for children.”
The sun slipped down beyond the sea’s far horizon, though the colors remained in the evening sky. A lone gull cried out before returning to her nest. It seemed so peaceful in light of the chaos churning within her breast.
After a time Dorit said, “They say this centurion is from the north, from Gaul.”
Leah walked over and seated herself on the bench. “Is that bad?”
Dorit pursed her lips. “It is hard to say with men. Still, he is a foreigner who has managed to rise to the rank of centurion. And he is the son of a chief, though not firstborn, of course. What chief would send his firstborn son to this forgotten corner of the empire? But these foreign chiefs have more offspring than a pomegranate has seeds. What is one more or less?”
They heard laughter drift up from the bathhouse. The sound seemed crude to Leah’s ears. Men!
Dorit went on, “The centurion is said to be both a leader and a fighter. Which means he was likely considered to be a threat to the firstborn brother. It would have been easy to kill him in his sleep. It has happened many times, you know. But he is here. I believe he is only twenty-four years old.”
“What does that matter?” Leah could barely hear her own voice.
“Remember, this is no son of a Roman general. This Alban is enough of a warrior to fight his way up through the ranks. His father must be proud, and his older brother should be terrified.” Dorit cackled delightedly. “No doubt this Gaul plans to use you as a stepping-stone to Rome. He may find he has met his match.”
Leah gripped her arms against her waist but could not entirely stifle the shiver of dread. “I know nothing of his intentions. I do not know him at all. . . .”
“Nor he you. What does that matter?
She whispered, “What of love?”
“Bah. Love is for poets and princes. For the likes of us, we must hope for a tomorrow without pain.”
Dorit must have seen the sorrow shadow Leah’s eyes, for her voice gentled. “My little one, listen carefully to what I say. You must set such futile dreams of love and happiness aside. And you must plan.”
CHAPTER
FOUR
Northern Galilee
Ten Days After Passover
ALBAN WAS AWAKE when the guard changed two hours before dawn. He rose from his pallet, hefted his short sword, and walked out into the darkness. Like many able officers, he did not do well with waiting. Especially when the day ahead held such portent and danger.
He took his time checking the garrison’s perimeter. He commanded a stodgy Roman fortress dominating the highest hill between the Sea of Galilee and the Golan, twelve miles northeast of Capernaum. The central parade ground, rimmed by simple structures of stone and wood, held corrals and barracks and baths and officers’ quarters. As centurion, Alban possessed a rudimentary dwelling of his own. When he returned to his quarters, he found that young Jacob had laid out a soldier’s breakfast on the porch table and vanished back inside. Alban’s two main officers stood by the garrison’s watch fire and pretended not to observe him. They all knew his habits. He insisted upon solitude before battle. They obeyed him, not just because he was their commander, but because he was that rarest of breeds—a Roman centurion who brought his men back alive.
The predawn wind up this high was cold for April. The moon was clear and strong, five days beyond full. Alban studied the horizon, the terrain nearby, and reviewed his plans for the day. A great deal rested upon his getting all the details right.
His thoughts moved over the battle tactics ahead of him, then flitted to the hoped-for reward. Her name was Leah, and she was Pilate’s niece. Though he had never set eyes on her, Alban already knew a great deal about the woman. Leah served in Pilate’s household because her family had been disgraced, their fortunes lost. He knew she was five years younger than his own twenty-four years, quite old for an unwed woman of Roman aristocracy. He had heard she was not considered particularly attractive by Roman standards. Both tall and strong, she was said to be extremely intelligent with a quiet and reserved manner. His informer had gone on to state that her nose was too straight, her lips too full, her gaze too piercing. Alban cared little for such trifles, or at least he cared for them less than the prospects of a union with the governor’s family.
Alban was ambitious. He had asked Pilate for the woman’s hand in marriage to further his goals. He might currently be assigned duty at a half-forgotten garrison in the borderlands between two unimportant Roman provinces, but he was determined to rise much further—maybe even to Rome itself. The woman would serve his purposes well. But only if he succeeded today.
The sentry by the main portal called a quiet challenge to someone Alban could not see. His two officers by the fire rose in unison with his own movements. The sentry drew back the door’s crossbolt and opened it to admit a squad of dusty men. They saluted Alban’s approach, huffing hard. In the torchlight, the road’s dust had turned the soldiers’ legs chalk white.
“Bring them water,” Alban said to the sentry, then asked the squad’s leader, “What news?”
“We waited for confirmation as you ordered,” he answered through his panting breath. “The caravan will arrive at the dangerous region of the Damascus Road by midday.”
Alban gestured to his sergeant. “Rouse the men.”
The squad leader accepted the sentry’s bucket and drank deeply. He handed it on to his men, wiped his mouth, and added, “Pilate has returned to Caesarea.”
Alban frowned. This was unexpected. When the Judaeans celebrated their major religious festivals, Pilate used his presence to proclaim that Rome would allow no unrest. Judaeans traveled from Rome, Babylon, Damascus, Alexandria, even Alban’s own native Gaul. Jerusalem was packed for the entire period, since many of the families who journeyed in for Passover remained there through Shavuot, the Feast of Weeks, fifty days later. The risk of revolt was never higher than during this time.
“The city is quiet, then?”
“There was some talk of revolution. The governor put the entire garrison on alert. The Judaean leaders blamed the problems on the prophet.”
Alban closed the distance between them in two steps. “The one called Jesus?”
“The same. The Sanhedrin threatened a rebellion of their own unless Pilate ordered the man crucified.”
This was a cruel blow. The rabbi had used Capernaum as his base and had even healed Alban’s favored young servant, Jacob.
“So he’s gone?”
“A storm blew out of a clear sky when he breathed his last upon the cross.” The squad leader quickly made the sign against the evil eye.
Alban hid his deep regret. In his opinion, there was never a man less likely to brew trouble and war than the prophet Jesus. But Alban was a Roman soldier, under Pilate’s command. It wou
ld not do to let his men see his dismay. He could not risk his personal feelings getting back to his commander, this one who could decide his own fate. “You’ve done well. You and your men get some rest.”
Alban walked out into the shadows that still clung to morning. So the prophet was dead. He shook his head sorrowfully as his whole being revolted against the news. Surely the Judaean elders knew they had no legitimate reason to crucify the man.
Young Jacob was alive only because of the prophet—of that Alban had no doubt. The lad had been terribly ill. Physicians had done all they could, to no avail, and declared the boy would be dead by nightfall. Alban had been desperate. Many whispered he had been too overwrought about the fate of a mere servant, especially only a Judaean lad taken in battle against bandits. Yes, legally Alban owned the lad. But deep within he knew that, in reality, his heart belonged to Jacob. Alban had no idea why he felt such affection for the orphan. His own family had taught him nothing about love. Yet he knew he would give his life for the boy.
He heard a soft whisper in the darkness, “Master?”
Alban turned toward the small form behind him in the shadows. “Yes, Jacob.”
The lad stepped into the light. “I heard the soldiers speak about the prophet. Is he truly dead?”
Alban’s voice sounded gruff to his own ears. “So they say.”
“This is the Jesus who healed me?”
“He is.”
“But why? Did he do something wrong?”
“I do not know the reasons. But of this I am sure: He did only good. Look at you. You are well and strong.”
“Then why . . .” The voice trembled to a stop.
Alban reached out to touch the boy’s shoulder. He felt a shudder go through Jacob’s slender frame. Alban had no idea what to say to bring comfort. Alban released the lad, and became the commander once again. “You must prepare. We leave soon on our mission.”
They moved out in fading moonlight, an hour before dawn. Alban led his troops from horseback. His second in command, Horax, was the only other mounted soldier. Horax led the rear guard. Jacob trotted at Alban’s side, one hand resting upon Alban’s right stirrup. The lad was only twelve and far too young to take part in the operation. Yet this day’s success depended upon the lad’s knowledge and connections.
They moved in silent haste and entered the mouth of the first Golan valley. The night air carried the vague scent of date palms and olive trees. To their right, a field of new barley trembled in the wind.
Alban looked around with a practiced eye. Eons of wind-driven dust had carved these narrow gorges into bizarre shapes. Most of the vales were virtual prisons that twisted and turned and led nowhere except back upon themselves. Only a few traced their way through to the province of Syria. South of them, within the straightest and broadest of these valleys, ran the Damascus Road. Parthian bandits had become increasingly bold of late, attacking along this barren stretch, then slipping into these secret vales and vanishing.
The squad turned south into a gulley that Alban knew ultimately led nowhere. Far on the horizon, dawn painted a tight sliver of sky. Down below, the wind moaned and fretted. As the rock walls closed in ever more tightly, Alban asked the lad, “You’re certain he said to meet him here?”
“This is the chasm,” Jacob confirmed with a quick nod. Alban’s horse shied with a startled neigh as a man suddenly appeared on a ledge overhead. The shepherd grinned at the soldiers’ surprise. Alban inspected the ledge and realized that what he had taken for just another morning shadow in fact held a cave. His soldier immediately behind muttered, “This place is made for ambush and death.”
Jacob turned his face upward to Alban and said, “This is the man I told you about, master.”
Alban saluted the shepherd. “Your name?”
“Samuel, son of Ishmael. And yours?”
“I am Alban.”
“That is a Roman name?”
“No. From Gaul.”
“I know not Gaul.”
“Far to the north and west, beyond Rome.”
“Yet you fight for Rome.”
“We have been a Roman province for three generations.”
The shepherd sniffed his disdain for all conquered folk. Alban hid a grin. The man might be dressed in dust and rough weave, but he carried himself like a prince. It was a trait he had seen among many Judaeans who lived at distances from cities. And it was one of the qualities the Romans most despised. How dare these uncouth peasants flaunt their independence before an empire that had conquered nearly all the known world!
The shepherd, leathery skinned and broad shouldered, showed a few strands of silver against his dark beard. “Parthian bandits are stealing my sheep.”
“Then we have a common enemy.”
Alban watched Samuel take his time inspecting the Roman band, his gaze lingering upon Jacob’s hand and how it rested easily upon Alban’s stirrup. Alban’s men remained still because he did. The shepherd apparently found what he sought, because he said, “Leave your horses here.”
Horax argued hoarsely from the rear, “But this gorge leads nowhere!”
The shepherd’s dark eyes glinted with desert humor. “Just as the ledge held only shadows, yes?”
Alban raised his hand in signal and slipped from the saddle. He said to Jacob, “Stay close, lad.”
The shepherd led them ever farther into the deep chasm.
The gorge twisted and turned and finally split into three fissures. The wind did not penetrate there, and the sun was visible only for a few moments each day, so the stone walls remained cool. Even so, Alban sweated heavily. This was perfect territory for an ambush. Stones or arrows from above would leave none alive. Without hesitating, the shepherd took the right-hand fissure, so narrow the men had to pass single file.
A hundred paces farther, the fissure opened into a shallow bowl. The sand floor was colored a sunset red and still very cool beneath Alban’s sandals. Nothing lived there. Nothing grew. Far overhead, the dawn wind moaned.
“This is as far as any outsider has ever come.” The shepherd pointed to Jacob. “He says I should trust you. But he is your slave and can be forced into saying anything.”
“You have asked about me in the markets?”
Reluctantly the shepherd replied, “My wife.”
“What was she told?”
“That you were a friend to the Judaeans.” The shepherd’s tone suggested he found this very hard to believe.
“You were promised a reward if we found the Parthians, yes?” Alban kept his focus on the shepherd’s face.
“Five denarii.”
A small fortune. “Horax.”
“Sir?”
“Pay the man.”
Alban’s adjutant moved through the soldiers grouped closely about the shepherd. He looked at Alban as if he would argue, but Alban motioned his intention. When the coins rested in the man’s gnarled hand, Alban said, “Now we must trust one another.”
Samuel slipped the money into a leather pouch, turned, and proceeded to walk up the seemingly featureless wall. Up close, Alban saw how narrow ledges extended from the wall, hidden by shadows and the stone’s pastel shading. Another motion, and the troops were moving upward behind their commander.
The climb did not end upon the Golan plateau as Alban had expected. Instead they gathered upon a broad stone ledge, remaining well hidden from anyone moving through the valley. From below, their shelf melded into the surrounding ridges. This was an ideal encampment for men who wished to keep their location a secret.
Samuel traversed the broad stone block and started along yet another ledge carved into the cliff, only this path took them gently down. As they swept around a gradual curve, Alban heard the bleat of sheep. Another turn, a second set of steps, and they arrived inside an even more secluded world.
Samuel spoke for the first time since accepting Alban’s coins. “This has been the haven of my clan for generations beyond count.” He looked hard at the man whom he was trusting o
nly on the word of a boy.
Alban met his stare full on. “Your secret will go on no report or map of mine.”
And secret it was. Alban had heard rumors of such places yet had not believed they existed until now. They stood in a small valley, really no more than a depression between two hills, perhaps fifty paces wide and twice as long. Instead of cool sand its floor was covered in grass. A herd of black-faced sheep grazed the lush undergrowth. From the middle of the south-facing wall poured a small stream, enough water to stain the rock and form a pool as broad as a man was tall. A grove of stunted date palms clustered against the cliff face.
A young shepherd boy watched them with solemn eyes but made no attempt to approach. Alban’s men took the opportunity to break out a breakfast of flatbread and goat cheese. After a time, Horax shifted over and squatted beside Alban. “I am amazed the shepherd trusts us with his secret.”
“My guess is that the Parthians spotted his flock up on the plateau. They demanded sheep, tracked the shepherd, and now threaten to take everything. At least he has a chance with us.” Alban spotted the man at the cliff’s edge and rose to his feet.
“Here he comes.”
The shepherd signaled once and disappeared. Alban and his men again began a climb up the rocky path.
They were greeted up top by the best of an area spring. The wind was strong enough to cool the day’s mounting heat and ruffled the knee-deep grass that still smelled fresh from recent rains. A second flock of sheep grazed contentedly. In a month’s time, Alban knew, the grass would wither and the sheep would be reduced to eating thorns.
Alban turned to his young servant. “Wait for us here.”
Jacob had not looked so distressed since his illness two years past. Or so vulnerable. He drew himself up as tall as possible. “I can help, master.”
“You already have. I give you my word that the loss of your family will be avenged. The Parthians will pay for the death of your parents, your sister.” Jacob did not respond. He simply looked a long moment at Alban and turned away.
The shepherd also watched as the despondent lad walked over to join his son with the flock. Jacob picked up a stick of his own along the way and gave the grass a frustrated whack. “He has personal reasons to loathe the bandits?”
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