The Centurion's Wife

by Davis Bunn; Janette Oke

  “When I find him.”

  The Pharisee’s smile was otherworldly. “If you find him, what if the finding causes your entire world to be shaken to its very core? What if you indeed find the answers you seek, and everything you held as important, everything that shaped your world, all comes crashing down?”

  “I don’t understand your—”

  “What if you do discover the truth, and the truth shatters your life?” Joseph leaned closer, until all Alban could see was the fire at the center of the Judaean’s dark eyes. “And what if it forces you to leave behind all your ambitions and your desires? What then, centurion? What will you do then?”

  CHAPTER

  ELEVEN

  Late Friday Afternoon

  THE JERUSALEM STALLHOLDERS no doubt found it extremely peculiar to have a lone centurion in dusty battle dress ask the way to the house of the high priest. But Alban was too conflicted by his conversation with Joseph to pay them any mind. His body ached from the road. He was hungry and yearned for the baths. Yet his instinct told him he needed to speak with Caiaphas before word of his meeting with Joseph arrived there ahead of him.

  The house of Caiaphas occupied a promontory south of the Temple Mount. The house spilled down the cliff face and was fronted by four graceful patios. Caiaphas received Alban in a courtyard fringed by Lebanese cedars. Below them, a lane was jammed so tightly with penitents headed for the Temple that Alban could not see the cobblestones. Their voices, a constant drone, drifted upward on the hot afternoon wind.

  The contrasts between Caiaphas and Joseph of Arimathea could not have been greater. The high priest wore robes of Greek design, his hair cut like an Aristotelian scholar. His every motion seemed planned for its effect, and his gaze held the same carefully disguised deadliness as that of Herod Antipas. He looked Alban up and down from his gilded chair. “My guard tells me you bear Pilate’s insignia.”

  “Indeed, my lord.” It was an inappropriate title for the man, and most Romans would have considered it insulting to address a Judaean in such a lofty manner. But Alban had found the Capernaum elders to be sticklers about matters of honor. He could only assume the Jerusalem leaders would be even more so. He handed over the scroll.

  Caiaphas could not fully disguise his respect for the gilded eagle. “You may be seated, centurion,” he said as he unrolled the scroll.

  “My lord does me great honor. But I have been riding since before dawn. I would prefer to stand, if I may.”

  “You came straight here from Caesarea?”

  “At Pilate’s command, my lord, I went first to see Joseph of Arimathea. From there I immediately came here.”

  The man’s face showed a flash of disapproval. “You are here regarding the pestilent prophet.”

  “Indeed, sir.”

  The high priest pretended to inspect the scroll. “What did Joseph tell you?”

  “That the man was dead when they took him down from the cross.”

  “Well, of course he was. A Roman guard pierced his side with his spear.”

  Alban blinked his surprise. This was news.

  “There were three crucifixions that day. The business had to be concluded before the Passover began. When they went to break the legs of the criminals, they discovered the imposter was already dead. One of the guards pierced his side to be certain.” Caiaphas impatiently rolled the document shut and handed it back. “What else did Joseph tell you?”

  “That I needed to speak with you, my lord.”

  “He did, did he?” Caiaphas did a poor job of masking his pleasure. “Most astute of him. I suppose he told you he was a follower of this rabble-rouser, Jesus.”

  “No, my lord. He did not indicate anything like that—”

  “Of course it means nothing now. And Joseph never stated it outright. But surely you must have assumed as much, since he had the audacity to approach the prelate and request permission to bury the man.”

  Alban asked, “Can you tell me what happened to the body, my lord?”

  “The man’s disciples stole it away. The tomb was guarded by Roman soldiers. They reported it.”

  “Reported to whom?”

  “To me, of course. The Sanhedrin was responsible for this affair.” Caiaphas flicked his hand as though to rid himself of a pesky fly. “Really, centurion. Why Pilate should bother himself over such a trivial matter is beyond me.”

  “It is not for me to question my prelate’s orders.”

  “No. Quite so.” From the residence’s main patio, a servant called down toward them. Caiaphas waved his acknowledgment. “Well, if that is all, I really must take my leave. Although I am not on duty at the Temple this day, I must make my Sabbath preparations.”

  Alban blinked. He had entirely forgotten today was Friday. “I am indeed grateful that you would take the time to speak with me, my lord. Could you tell me where I might find the tomb guards?”

  Caiaphas froze in the process of rising. “Why, pray tell, would you wish to speak with them? I have told you what happened.”

  “Forgive me, my lord. But Roman soldiers on such guard duty would not give up the body lightly. How many disciples attacked them? Were the soldiers wounded? How were they defeated?”

  “I’m sure I neither know nor care.” Caiaphas motioned Alban toward the main doors. He obviously was accustomed to using his authority as a lever against any opposing force. “If you insist, we can speak another time. But now you really must depart.”

  Lengthening shadows painted the road as Leah and Procula’s small group arrived at the outskirts of Jerusalem. Procula wisely insisted they wait out the Sabbath evening prayers at a hillside inn beyond the city walls.

  The inn was run by Greeks who catered to non-Judaean guests. Situated on the same hill as the hippodrome, it was a pleasant enough stopping place. Leah was hot and tired and her body ached. She could ride well, but seldom was she required to travel such distances on horseback. Servants from several households were lounging at a long table by the inn’s entrance, close enough to the main terrace to keep within sight of their patrons. Leah sat with her back against the inn’s front wall, facing into the sunset and easing her throat with a drink of watered curds with honey. She had been to Jerusalem seven times in the years she had served in Pilate’s household. The city unsettled her and magnified her sense of being an outsider in Judaea.

  Between them and the city was another valley with a spring, where Pilate had permitted the Sanhedrin to set up a camp for the festival season. The Judaeans paid the Temple priests a rental fee, the priests gave a portion to the Roman tax collectors, and they in turn passed a tax on to Pilate. The prelate received his share of everything, including the Temple treasury.

  The valley was overflowing with tents and makeshift hovels built of branches. A few cooking fires sent lonely pillars rising into the still air. A dog stalked the dusty lane leading down from their hillside. Otherwise the camp was deserted.

  A servant Leah did not know muttered, “Where is everyone?” Another of the household’s personal guards replied, “Inside the city.”

  “Everyone? Doesn’t that make Jerusalem very crowded?” The servants all laughed at that, and the guard asked, “This is your first visit to Jerusalem?”

  “We arrived from Rome only last week.”

  “Rome,” another servant murmured. “What I wouldn’t give to return there.”

  The guard explained, “Every week at this time, they go for their Temple ritual. It’s all the worse during this festival season.”

  Leah, who listened silently, suddenly recalled the voice of her grandmother describing just such a scene. The yearly sacrifice, the trip to their Holy City, Jerusalem, the need for cleansing, for renewed commitment to a deep-seated faith that stayed with her grandmother even as a foreign culture pressed her to become another woman. Why am I remembering this now? Leah wondered. She had assumed those memories were buried so deep they would never surface again. Yet suddenly they were pushing to be released, relived. She wished she
had listened more intently to her grandmother’s recollections, her explanations of the Judaean ways, of their faith.

  She forced her attention back to the conversation, putting aside her troubling memories.

  “And in the autumn too,” another voice was saying. “The same every year.”

  “But why?” The young woman clearly liked using her questions to remain the center of attention.

  Leah did not know why she now answered. She seldom spoke in such gatherings. But today her thoughts made for uncomfortable companions. “The Judaeans’ holy day begins on Friday night. Everyone is called to prayer. During the festival season they come from all over the empire. They like to gather as close to the Temple Mount as they can. Their prayers are supposed to mean more if they are inside the city walls.”

  All the servants were watching her now. The young woman asked, “Are you one of them?”

  Leah stared into the golden valley. “My mother’s mother.” The young woman pointed to the city walls fired a brilliant gold by the setting sun. “Why do they all come here?”

  “The laws of their religion say Judaeans must come to Jerusalem three times each year and make sacrifices during certain festivals.

  “Why aren’t you over there with them?”

  “Because she’s doing her duty, the same as us,” the guard seated next to Leah put in, then pointed to the table by the balcony. “Your mistress is calling you.”

  Leah hurried over to Procula, sitting alone in a simple robe of grey felt. On the table before her rested a silver goblet holding the inn’s best wine. Leah knew this because she had poured it for her mistress. Procula had not touched it.

  Though Procula was approaching forty years of age, her hair remained dark and thick. Her face was smoothed in the lingering traces of sunlight. “Sit with me, please.”

  “Mistress, it is not proper—”

  “I instruct you to take this chair.”

  Claudia Procula was true Roman royalty. Leah knew the family had been part of the emperor’s court for three generations. Procula’s mother, Augusta, had been married twice. First to Tiberius, who had divorced her for adultery. Augustus had then married a Roman knight, Procula’s father, who controlled the island of Sardinia.

  As Leah reluctantly seated herself across from her mistress, she reflected that the woman had never looked so regal. Or so lonely.

  Procula said, “Once we arrive tomorrow, I want you to go directly to Herod’s palace. You know Enos, do you not?”

  “Indeed, mistress.” Enos was Herod’s chief servant in Jerusalem. “But don’t you want me to help you settle—”

  “We are not here for me to settle. We are here to learn.” Though the words had been softly spoken, Leah was certain the entire group saw and heard the tone and assumed she was being criticized for some great failing. “Yes, mistress.”

  “You are to be my eyes and ears. Starting immediately. We have no idea how much time we have.”

  Leah blanched at the sudden chill that struck her bones. “Before what?”

  But Procula had leaned forward and missed the change in Leah’s expression. “Help me with this clasp.”

  Leah realized what Procula intended and did not move. “Mistress?”

  “Never mind, I have it.” Procula lifted the gold chain holding the royal insignia from her neck, a replica of Pilate’s official seal in miniature. She placed it in Leah’s hand and said, “If anyone questions your right to inquire, show them this and say you speak on my behalf.”

  If Leah had any doubt about the importance Procula set upon this task, it was now gone. “I don’t even know where to begin—”

  “Someone in Herod’s palace must know where the prophet’s disciples are gathered,” Procula said briskly. “For once, the festival is working in our favor.”

  Leah nodded. At any other time of year, the disciples most likely would have fled the city, dispersing throughout the province and beyond to escape any repercussions from their master’s death. But these disciples were all clearly religious Judaeans. She understood they would remain within the city walls, bound by their ancient laws to a cycle of time they accepted as handed down by their God.

  Procula now reached into the folds of her traveling robe and drew out a pouch. It clinked softly as she set it on the table between them. “This is the only language Herod’s people understand.”

  Leah slipped the purse into a secret pocket sewn into the folds of her own robe. As she did so, the patio’s chatter was silenced by a trumpet’s piercing note, and Leah looked toward Jerusalem. The sound came from the blowing of the shofar, the Temple horn, and announced the arrival of another festival Sabbath eve. Leah shivered, struck by the sudden conviction that the trumpet had blown for her as well, announcing an unknown fate and future over which she had no control.

  When Alban emerged from the high priest’s house, he discovered that all the markets had closed and everyone in sight was headed in one direction. He finally reached a point where the way became impassable. The people around him seemed to accept this; in fact, they appeared enthralled with something he could not fathom. Alban inspected the surrounding faces and saw them gripped by a pleasure that bordered on ecstasy. Even young boys seemed caught up in something that remained invisible to Alban.

  Invisible was precisely how he felt. None of the throng showed any interest in Alban. Even when he began pushing forward, the mass of people, mostly men, glanced at him, saw he was Roman, and turned away. As far as these people were concerned, this Roman simply did not exist, nothing more than a wayward thought. They focused completely upon something else, something so vital they could spare him no notice.

  In the distance, beyond the towering Temple walls, a trumpet sounded. The crowd stopped pressing forward, and their fervor became even more intense.

  Alban clambered up the sidewall of a shuttered tavern and stood upon the roof. Crowds completely filled every lane and avenue and alley. The ones on the stretch of road below him were all male. To his right, another lane was packed with women, as though they had segregated the very city in one silent maneuver. Every person he could see faced toward the Temple compound. The women covered their faces with the shawls draped over their heads. The men wore strange woven cloths with tasseled edges over their heads and shoulders. Though they held texts in their hands, few of them actually seemed to be reading. In fact, most everyone had eyes not merely shut but clenched tight. They dipped their heads in time to their droning voices. A great heaving mass of people, moving back and forth where they stood, murmuring in one gigantic voice.

  The sun had descended below the western hills. The Temple itself seemed to hover above the city, drifting upon a cloud of golden dust and the chanting voices, more connected to the golden-blue sky than to the earth.

  CHAPTER

  TWELVE

  Antonia Fortress, Jerusalem

  BY THE TIME ALBAN had made his way to the Antonia Fortress, the city was shrouded in the shadows of dusk. He’d become lost twice in the winding ways and had to search for someone to direct him. The empty streets only heightened his disquiet over the ethereal scenes of religious fervor he had just witnessed at sunset.

  The tavern across from the fortress was the only establishment along the market lane still open. Linux, however, was nowhere to be found. The aromas of cooking food were enticing, and Alban ordered a flatbread filled with roast lamb and carried it with him up to the fortress baths. His body ached from the day and his mind from the burden of questions with no answers.

  He paused in the passage between the entry and the changing rooms. As was customary for Roman baths, three alcoves held statues dedicated to minor deities—Abundantia, goddess of good fortune; Epona, goddess of good health; and Moneta, goddess of prosperity. The vessels before each idol held mostly lepta, the smallest coins, often tossed in with a laugh or jest. Alban had seldom even noticed such idols, they were such a common part of life among the Romans. Today, however, his mind still vibrated from the echoes of f
ervent prayer.

  In the past he had visited the Capernaum synagogue and seen fleeting glimpses of the occasional man draped in his prayer shawl, rocking to and fro as he prayed. Alban had never witnessed an actual Sabbath service, of course. Or a festival like this one. He frowned at the figures in their small shrines. Who was to determine which was the god men should turn to?

  The new baths were a true Roman affair, with room for half Alban’s garrison in the caldarium alone. He discovered Linux in the steam room. The air was thick with vapor and the smell of healing unguents. Linux sat with his elbows planted on his knees and a towel draped over his head. He gave no sign he noticed Alban settling in beside him until he muttered, “Every time I leave this city I swear I won’t return. But here I am. Ordered by the prelate to remain here for how long I don’t know. And it’s your fault.”

  “Sorry,” Alban said, though in truth he was glad for an ally within the city walls.

  “I’m commanded to expedite your every request. Me, a prince of the realm.”

  Alban felt the welcome heat of the baths begin to work its way through his weary muscles. “It’s your brother who’s the prince.”

  “A trifling detail. His black heart can’t keep beating forever.”

  Alban shrugged. It was a soldier’s right to complain. Often it was his only defense against orders not to his liking. Alban wiped his sweating face and said, “I became trapped by the crowds.”

  An unknown voice carried through the chamber’s fragrant mist. “You didn’t know enough to get back before sundown?”

  “The centurion has never been to Jerusalem before, and I forgot to warn him about the Sabbaths during festivals.” Linux wiped his own face. “We arrived from Caesarea just after midday today.”

  “The crowds were unlike anything I have ever seen in my life.” Alban felt another surge of sweat with the memory. “I climbed on a roof. You know what I thought when I surveyed the mob?”

  Linux looked at him for the first time. “An army?”