The Centurion's Wife

by Davis Bunn; Janette Oke

  Alban felt a faint trace of alarm. But Pilate’s offer so seared his thinking he could scarcely see beyond that. “I accept your offer, sire,” he heard himself saying, wondering if it was all a dream. Or the beginning of a nightmare . . .

  CHAPTER

  NINE

  One Hour Later

  ALBAN AND LINUX left the palace, riding fresh horses from Pilate’s private stable. The prelate had commanded them to make all haste, his imperious tone suggesting that usage of his baths followed by a good meal was all any Roman soldier needed in order to fully recover. And Linux was ordered to accompany Alban and see that the Jerusalem garrison granted whatever aid was required to accomplish his assignment.

  Alban’s mount was the finest horse he had ever set eyes on, a chestnut mare with a gentle nature, enormous strength, and a coat that shone. The horse’s mane and tail were considerably lighter than her coat, and she tossed her head as if well aware of her beauty. Linux must have noticed Alban’s admiring looks, for he said, “I am specifically ordered to return with both mounts.”

  “Horses can get lost,” Alban quipped.

  “Not that one. Not and either of us survive.”

  After Leah served Procula’s early afternoon dose of medicine, she found Dorit in the kitchen in a chair pulled up close to the fire. The old servant watched as Leah cleaned the mixing bowl, pestle, and cup, then said, “It’s true what they said, the centurion captured Parthian bandits?”

  Leah’s sigh came from the depths of her soul. “All I heard was how Pilate and Herod and the centurion have bartered me into a marriage not of my choosing.”

  Dorit remained silent.

  Leah set the items back on the tray to dry and slowly made her way into a chair beside Dorit. “Yes, it’s true.”

  “And he’s as handsome as they say?”

  Leah hesitated a moment. “What I could see of him was favorable enough.”

  “Even a soldier who resents the centurion’s methods calls Alban a true leader of men,” Dorit reminded her.

  The weight of inevitability lay upon Leah like a stone mantle. “Does that make it right for them to chain me to him for the rest of my life?”

  “Of course not.” Dorit hesitated, then continued, “Still, after years of rumors and entire merchant clans disappearing into the sands, the centurion brings two Parthian leaders to Pilate. And saves a caravan. And loses no men in the process.” Admiration colored her tone, and Leah could argue with none of it.

  The two women sat quietly, staring into the flames. Leah recalled how, soon after her arrival at the palace, Dorit had taken her into the town of Caesarea. Beyond the hippodrome, at the border of the portside market, stood a temple dedicated to Mercury, the winged Roman god of prosperity and messengers and merchants. The temple was a squat and orderly affair, built with all the practicality of a counting house. As they passed the side entrance, Dorit had adjusted her shawl as she checked in all directions, then leaned forward as though to place an offering in the temple bowl. Instead she had spat at the god’s statue.

  At that instant Dorit’s calm mask had dropped away, and a bitterness turned her face as stern as death. Then she had carefully hidden her feelings away.

  Only when they were on their way back to the palace did Leah ask about what she had observed. Dorit explained that she had once loved a caravan guard. After Procula had blessed their marriage, the guard went on a journey carrying wares of his own, which he had intended to sell and then buy Dorit’s freedom. Neither the man nor the caravan were ever heard from again.

  Dorit went on, “I would not resign you to the fate of growing old in the service of others, with nothing to look forward to besides lonely nights in front of a fire that refuses to warm away the hollow ache.”

  “Better that,” Leah shot back, “than trapped in the house of a man who uses you to further his own ambitions. A man who views you as just another slave.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I know men.”

  “Oh, is that so?” Dorit scoffed in a voice as soft as Leah’s. “You know men, do you?”

  “I know enough. I know they leave. I know they fail. I know they cannot be trusted.” She held her face in her hands, hating the burning helplessness that filled her entire being. “There is no worse fate than to be chained through marriage to a man whom you do not know, whom you do not wish to know.”

  The afternoon found Procula much improved, enough so that she sought to speak with her husband. Leah’s duties took her several times through the lady’s private chambers, and she could overhear their voices from Pilate’s apartment next door. They were not exactly arguing. But whatever topic occupied them must not have been a particularly pleasant one. Something told her they discussed her own future, and twice Leah was tempted to reach for the door.

  Procula finally emerged just before midafternoon and announced, “We leave for Jerusalem.”

  Leah’s expression conveyed her surprise.

  “You and I shall travel in the first group.” In the background, Pilate was bellowing for his secretary. “My husband will follow with the rest of the household when his work here is done.”

  “But, mistress, so soon? Your health—”

  “The headaches have been as bad here as there. And my dreams are worse. Besides, I yearn to be on horseback and in the fresh air.”

  Procula made the household race by simply declaring she intended to leave within the hour, and whatever was not ready would be left behind. Pilate surveyed the ensuing panic with a severe expression but said nothing. He seemed to watch Leah as much as his wife, which only heightened Leah’s dread.

  Her anxiety was magnified when Procula declared, “Choose a gown for yourself.”

  “Thank you, but I have no need of such finery, my lady.” Procula showed a rare sharpness. “You have two choices: You can obey me, or you can arrive for your betrothal in a gown of my choosing.”

  The words hung in the air between them, as sharp as a blade. Leah knew instantly she had overstepped the invisible boundaries, and risked far more than her wedding garments. She spoke the first words that came to mind. “Please do not be angry with me, mistress. But if I am to be betrothed as a Judaean, perhaps I should be dressed as one. Not as a citizen of Rome or Greece.”

  Procula’s frown deepened, but at length she said, “Very well. You may select something suitable from a merchant in the market when we get to Jerusalem. Now go! And tell the guards to bring my horse around front.”

  They left in haste, Leah and Procula accompanied by two other servants and nine guards led by Hugo. Leah found none of her customary comfort in the old soldier’s presence. Nor did the sunlit vista or the open road fill her with any sense of adventure. For up ahead, beyond the road’s next bend, lay only a hopeless future filled with foreboding.

  Alban and Linux followed the road bordering Pilate’s new aqueduct and headed south. The clouds piled up, threatening a late spring squall, and the wind threw fistfuls of grit in their faces. They came upon a trail leading to a ruined hillside village and took shelter, just as the storm started in earnest, in the only hovel that still possessed a roof. Other travelers must have done the same, for there was a square of smooth-faced stones blackened by fires, and beside it a scattering of kindling. Linux gathered more wood and started a blaze. “It always seems to rain harder in Judaea. Or perhaps it’s only the contrast with the desert.”

  “No.” Alban dumped the saddles and hung the blankets from a roof beam to dry. “All the seasons are fiercer here.”

  “I remember the rains of Umbria. Gentle as a maiden’s kiss. When they passed, the world was washed so clean I could almost see Rome.”

  At a crack of thunder Alban’s horse stamped nervously. He patted a flank and felt the muscles tremble. “It rained like this in Gaul. Every spring and autumn. Flash floods that sometimes carried away whole villages.”

  “Do you ever miss home?”

  “I told you before, I have no home to miss.” For
once Alban did not mind the truth.

  “Italia sings to me sometimes in my sleep,” Linux mused. “Or I hear laughter, and I remember Rome. There always seems to be laughing in my memories of Rome. Or singing.”

  “I would like to have the chance to miss Rome.” Alban crouched beside the fire, feeling in rare good spirits. Lightning struck in the distance and the rain fell harder still. He was warm, the hut where they sheltered dry enough, and he traveled with a likeable man for company on a mount he could kill to own. What was more, he carried Pilate’s scroll in the pouch slung from his shoulder. Alban touched the document through the soft leather. It seemed to him the parchment was still warm where the prelate had melted wax and stamped it with his royal seal bearing the name and authority of not less than Tiberius, emperor of Rome. The cylinder was bound to a gilded staff crowned by the imperial eagle, and the text named Alban as Pilate’s personal emissary, ordering all in Judaea to do his bidding.

  Alban noted, his voice low, “I did not have a chance to see Leah. I’ve never even met the woman whom I am to wed.”

  “I’ve seen her about. She serves as Procula’s personal maid.”

  “What is she like?”

  Linux feigned blindness to Alban’s heightened interest. “She’s not overly fat, I suppose.”

  “Oh, and thank you for that most welcome news.”

  Linux fed more wood to the fire. “Other than a rather astonishing mole on her chin and the wandering eye, neither is she altogether plain.”

  “You are aware you’re joking with a superior officer.”

  “I am indeed.” Linux lay flatbread on the stones to warm. His tone changed. “She’s unusually intelligent, your lady. The servants in any household are jealous of their own positions. A newcomer, particularly one both lovely and of superior heritage, could expect to be savaged.”

  Alban tried to keep his voice level. “She is lovely?”

  “She is intelligent,” he repeated. “Soon after she arrived, Proc-ula’s elderly maid became very ill. Without anyone assigning the duty, Leah began taking personal care of her. Imagine, Pilate’s niece acting as servant to a slave. But this slave is a favorite to many of the servants and the guards alike. Leah’s actions earned her friends throughout the household.”

  Alban mulled that over. “Have you spoken with her?”

  “Nothing more than a greeting. She says little. I have heard she talks with no one save the old slave.”

  “An intelligent woman who is also private,” Alban mused.

  “She also is quite easy on the eyes,” Linux finally added with a grin. “Too strong and direct and intelligent for my taste.”

  “But attractive.”

  “Indeed.” Linux grinned again and shrugged. “Shame about that wandering eye.”

  Alban studied the other man. Linux had a good face. The firelight hardened the edges about his jaw and turned his gaze flinty sharp. Alban said, “Pilate suggested I contact one of the Sanhedrin. He said this Joseph of Arimathea would be a good starting point.”

  Linux slipped a cloth packet from the saddlebag. He laid out the rest of their meal on the flagstone between them—salt meat, dried fruit, cakes of honeycomb. “I’ve met several members of the Judaean council, but not that one. He’s rich enough to barricade himself away from the likes of me. Not that I’ve any great desire to meet another Judaean. He’s a Pharisee. You understand what that means?”

  “I’ve known a few.” Unlike the Sadducees, the dominant group on the Sanhedrin, some Pharisees traveled out to the provinces and visited religious communities like Capernaum, speaking in the synagogues, passing on Temple edicts to the priests and local elders. The Pharisees were well known for their distinct dress and the way they avoided even speaking to a Roman. A strict Pharisee would consider himself unclean after crossing so much as a Roman’s shadow.

  Linux asked the question that had hung between them since Alban had emerged from the palace. “How was your audience with Pilate?”

  “So intense I am still sorting through the fray.” He grinned crookedly at his companion. “Like after a battle, just as you said.”

  Linux stirred the fire. “You know what is an officer’s best friend in battle?”

  “Cunning.”

  It was a good answer, but Linux flicked his head in disagreement. “Cunning alone can trap you. Get a soldier into a pinch and allow him a way to escape, cunning gives him reasons to turn from warrior to coward. And too often he’ll fall into the trap his enemies have set.”

  Alban picked up one of the flatbreads and tossed it from hand to hand until it cooled enough to eat. “What is it, then?”

  “Cunning bonded to a secret rage. A good warrior lets the fury take hold only when the heat of war surrounds him. Then he lets loose, and cunning guides his aim.” Linux inspected him gravely. “You have that rage, and you have that control, and you have that cunning. That is what I think Pilate found as well.”

  Alban rolled a slice of the meat and a bit of the dried fruit into his bread. He found himself silenced by Linux’s observations. It was not often that a man read him as well as this one had.

  The soldier continued to study him. “I for one wouldn’t want to come up against you in a fight, centurion.”

  Leah and Procula were traveling light and made good time. They arrived at a simple inn on the road between Caesarea and Jerusalem with a few minutes of daylight to spare. Procula dined alone, served by Leah and the innkeeper’s wife. Twice the woman started to speak with Leah, but whatever she saw in Leah’s expression caused her to shrug, shake her head, and remain silent.

  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.”