The Centurion's Wife

by Davis Bunn; Janette Oke

  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.”

  “Take them, Herod. Inform me of anything you learn.” Pilate then shifted directions with a ruler’s ease. “Centurion, I hear that you are considered an ally by the religious Judaeans of Galilee.”

  Alban felt a trickle of sweat maneuver down his spine. “My lord?”

  “It is a simple enough question. Are you counted among those they call . . .” Pilate turned to Herod. “What is the term they use?”

  Herod seemed to lick the words as they emerged. “They are known as Godfearers, prelate.”

  Alban said, “I try to maintain good relations with the local citizens, sire. But I remain loyal to Rome and steadfast in my duty.”

  Herod frowned. “That is no answer at all.”

  “On the contrary, it is a Roman answer,” Pilate said.

  “Ah yes, Rome.” Herod spun the end of his beard between his fingers. “Which brings us to the crux of the matter, doesn’t it? A soldier of Rome and a Judaean woman. Interesting.”

  Alban stood in absolute silence. Something was going on between the two men that he did not understand. It seemed that Pontius Pilate, the emperor’s direct representative to Judaea, and Herod Antipas, tetrarch of Galilee and Perea, had been discussing him. And the woman mentioned? Is it possible that Leah has Judaean blood? None of this had come up in any of the information about the woman his colleague had gathered for him. The thought was so astounding he nearly missed the next words.

  Herod looked rather smug as he turned to Pilate. “Well, are you going to tell him—or shall I?”

  Pilate did not respond.

  “Under Judaean law, the betrothal ceremony is a legally binding act,” Herod began, as if speaking to a child. “To break off a betrothal requires a formal process of divorce. Yet the couple is not actually wed until the groom has fulfilled a vow. In between the ritual of betrothal and claiming his bride, the groom is required to fulfill a task, part of his dowry, as it were. Usually this means building a house or acquiring pastureland. In this case . . .”

  Why was Herod spouting Judaean law? Alban’s face must have revealed his confusion because Pilate said, “To be betrothed under Judaean law would open doors for the man desiring the hand of the maid.”

  Herod’s face turned reptilian. “That is assuming the man is brave enough and determined enough to meet the conditions.”

  Alban was still at a loss to understand what was passing between the two men. But he knew now it somehow involved Leah and himself.

  “May I ask—” Alban dared to begin, but Herod cut the words short.

  “Oh, you may ask, centurion. And I’m sure that the honorable Pilate will be happy to explain. I have every confidence that you will be given every detail. Every detail. Isn’t that so, Pilate?”

  The prelate merely nodded.

  “Then I shall take my leave. When shall my man collect your authorization for the other bandits, sire?”

  “What is that?”

 
“Oh, did I misunderstand? I assumed your approval for custody was for both the officers and their men, particularly since your helpful centurion guesses some of them speak Aramaic. There can often be no better way to obtain answers than to question one while the others watch.”

  Alban could tell the prelate disliked the request. Alban was tempted to speak of what he suspected. But he had no evidence, nothing definite enough to risk the vengeful wrath that lurked within the Judaean ruler’s expression.

  “Have your aide present himself this afternoon,” Pilate reluctantly replied. “I will have the release ready.”

  “I remain your loyal servant, sire.” Even Herod’s bow was a lie. “Good day, centurion. We shall meet again.”

  When they were alone, Pilate asked, “Do you wish to be seated?”

  “Thank you, prelate, but I am fine as I am.”

  Prelate, prefect, legate, governor. Pilate’s position may have carried many titles, but they all translated to the same thing: raw, brutal, Roman power.

  Pilate said, “This alliance of yours with the Galilean Judaeans.

  Swiftly Alban recounted the problems he faced. One small garrison, the vast territory, the border crossings, the tax collectors, the bandits. Capernaum and Tiberias were the two main cities in his district, and both were dominated by the religious elders.

  “Are you indeed what Herod spoke of, a God-fearer?”

  The elders of Capernaum had asked him the same thing. Alban had had no answer then either. “I am a soldier of Rome,” he repeated.

  Pilate seemed satisfied. “I have yet to find anyone who speaks ill of you. Even among your men.”

  Alban was not surprised to hear there were spies in his garrison. “The prelate does me great honor.”

  “I suppose you’ve heard of the events in Jerusalem.”

  “The death of the prophet Jesus. Yes, sire. I have heard.” Pilate seemed to be alert enough to detect Alban’s unspoken thoughts. “You disapprove of crucifixion?”

  Alban shifted uncomfortably. “Sire, I thought I had been summoned to discuss my—my betrothal is it called?—to your niece.”

  Instead of answering, Pilate rose to his feet. Before he crossed halfway to the palace entrance, a servant appeared. Interestingly, the shadow behind the wooden screen had not moved. “Bring tea,” the prelate barked. Then to Alban, “I seek to know your mettle, centurion. I have a pressing issue, and I must know if you are up to the task.”

  Still Alban hesitated.

  “Speak! Your commander demands it.”

  “Sire, when I was but a lad, my father took me to a province northwest of our own, a slender stretch of highland valleys perched between the lowlands and the Alps. The year I was born the region had revolted against Roman law and Roman taxes. They turned each valley into a natural fortress and fought off the Romans for nine years. When the capital was finally taken, the Romans salted the earth and crucified every man and boy who survived the battles. The crosses stretched across the valley, up the far ridge, and off into the distance. My father wanted me to understand the danger of defying Rome. I dream of it still.”

  “The Sanhedrin accused this prophet of doing just that, defying Roman rule.”

  Pilate waited while the slave brought tea, ordered that Alban be served a cup as well, then continued. “I have been told that you had contact with this Jesus.”

  “Not face-to-face, sire.” Alban gave his report in terse bits. He might have never met Pilate before, but he had years of experience in reporting to superior officers. Battlefield reports were all the same, the most information available packed into the smallest amount of space. All the while, his tea remained untouched on the table beside him.

  Because Alban had aided in rebuilding the Capernaum synagogue, the local elders treated him as a God-fearer. The elders avoided direct questions that might have challenged their assumptions.

  This Jesus had made Capernaum his base. The longer the rabbi taught, the larger grew the crowds. By day the city’s roads became cloaked in clouds of yellow dust, by night the city walls were rimmed with countless campfires. The prophet took to walking with his disciples out into the desert to escape the hordes, but even then the crowds followed him into the dreaded Samarian wasteland, where, according to the stories, they were fed miraculously from his hand.

  The Capernaum elders knew Alban had become attached to the lad, two outcasts making the best of the desert garrison. When Jacob was taken down by the wasting illness. The elders had spoken to Alban of the prophet’s healing touch and offered to approach Jesue on his behalf. They explained that by doing so, they would act as a divine emissary—a term so powerful that to another religious Judaean, it might as well be the same person wearing a different skin. An ambassador with divine implications.

  The first hint Alban had that the prophet Jesus had agreed to heal his servant lad was when the elders left Capernaum on the garrison road. From his fort’s high position, Alban had seen the crowd start toward them. And he had known a distinct unease. Not because of the crowd’s size, which was enormous, nor because of his own men’s increasing discomfort at the sight of so many strangers headed toward the garrison. He had seen and heard enough to be certain that this man carried no threat with him.

  Yet even at this distance, the prophet at the head of the crowd had made Alban unsettled in a way he could not describe, not then and not now while he stood before Pontius Pilate.

  On that day, Alban had sent a second message with two friends, Galileans who ran local caravans and supplied the garrison with fresh provisions. He had asked them to tell the prophet that there was no need for him to enter the garrison belonging to soldiers, killers, mercenaries—men considered enemies of all loyal Judaeans. For even at that distance, Alban knew he watched a man of power. Alban had asked the merchants to say that Alban too was a commander of men, and if he told a subordinate to go, the man went.

  Alban watched as they met the prophet on the road. And that instant, while Alban had stood on the guard tower and saw his friends converse with the prophet, young Jacob had risen from his sickbed as though he had never been ill, never suffered, never started down the lonely track toward almost certain death.

  And when the caravan masters had returned, they had said a curious thing: They reported that the prophet Jesus had praised Alban’s faith.

  Which had only left him more uneasy still.

  When Alban finished with his report, much more brief than the memories from which he supplied the facts to his superior, Pilate remained silent for a time, toying with his cup. Finally he said, “I ordered this Jesus brought before me. When I recall it now, my strongest impression was that the man was already gone. Though he still lived, he was utterly focused upon the beyond. This Jesus spoke of things I could not fathom. And all the while, the Sanhedrin bayed like hounds in the courtyard.”

  Alban ventured, “What did Jesus say to you, prefect?”

  “I asked if he was truly the king of the Judaeans. He responded that his kingdom was not of this world.”

  “I feel the man was never a threat to Rome, sire.”

  “Exactly what I said to the Sanhedrin. But they accused him of blasphemy against their God and demanded his death.” Pilate shook his head. “I have sent dozens of men to the cross. Hundreds, perhaps. But never, I fear, one as undeserving as this man.”

  Pilate set down his cup, stood, and began pacing. Alban waited. For what, he had no idea.

  Finally Pilate said, “The man has vanished.”

  “Sire?”

  “From the tomb. The prophet. He is gone.”

  “He did not die?”

  “The Sanhedrin claim his disciples stole away his body. Does that make sense to you, centurion?”

  Alban thought hard. “Weren’t guards posted there?”

  “Indeed they were.”

  “What do they say?”

  “They reported to the high priest, who informed me they too claim the disciples stole the prophet’s body.”


  Alban squinted at the floor by his feet. The statement made no sense. A soldier on guard duty who permitted such a thing was doomed to his own slow and painful death. Then a new thought came to Alban. “If the Judaeans planned revolt, if they wished to suggest—”

  “That this man led them still.” Pilate nodded his approval. “They could steal the body away and then make whatever preposterous claims they wished.”

  Alban’s mind raced forward. “Or perhaps the Sanhedrin did it themselves and wish to disguise the fact by blaming the disciples while they foment their own revolt.”

  “Indeed.” Pilate came to an abrupt halt. “You wish to marry my niece Leah.”

  Alban came to rigid attention. “Yes, sire.”

  “You seek advancement beyond the desert garrison.”

  “I do, sire.”

  “Here are my terms. You will be bound to my niece following the Judaean betrothal customs. Discover the truths behind the prophet’s disappearance. Determine whether there is a threat against me or against Rome. If I am satisfied with your work, the wedding will take place.”

  As simple as that. Alban could not believe the words. “Thank you, sire.”

  But the prelate was not finished. “The position of tribuni angusticlavus on my staff is unfilled. Are you up to the challenge?”

  Alban blinked away a sudden spinning of his world. Each senior legate could appoint as many as five tribuni, the personal knights who carried his seal and acted in his name. “I am honored you would think of it, sire.”

  “I have need of a man who can handle himself among the Judaeans. Serve me well, centurion, and I shall reward you better.”

  He hesitated for a brief moment, then continued grudgingly. “Herod is of the opinion that Leah can be of use to you as your espoused wife. The fact that she is Judaean is to be widely circulated. This will allow her access into the Judaean community. Women talk. She might discover something that you would never learn on your own. You understand?”