The Centurion's Wife

by Davis Bunn; Janette Oke

  Alban stood. “Thank you for your time, sir. And for the tea.”

  But as he started for the door, the commandant halted him.

  “Who else was with you at your meeting with Pilate?”

  Alban turned back. “Herod Antipas, sir.”

  The commandant growled, “That man is a snake.”

  Alban did not respond.

  “A snake! And now his man is outside, waiting to speak with me. No doubt interested in our little exchange. As though a Roman tribune need tell a Herodian snake anything.” The tribune turned from the window to face Alban full on. “Herod wouldn’t be worried about our conversation without a good reason. Do you have any idea what that reason might be?”

  “Perhaps Herod is in league with the Parthians,” Alban said, finally giving voice to his suspicions. “He feeds them information about caravans run by his own subjects. And I have—”

  “Herod will not like you stirring his pot, centurion.” The commandant returned to his desk. “If I were you, I’d watch my back.”

  Nothing moved swiftly enough in Jerusalem. Over the next week, Alban remained confined by the crowds and bound by currents he could neither name nor identify. He and Linux returned to the high priest’s residence and were met by a secretary who knew nothing and offered less. Not even Linux’s threats could dislodge a useful word.

  In desperation, Alban finally went back to the commandant’s office. But the tribune was away and his aide proved equally unhelpful. “Wait till the spring festival season ends,” the man said laconically. “They’ll turn up.”

  “You seem surprisingly relaxed about men under this command,” Alban commented. When the junior officer eyed him crossly, he added in a placating tone, “This is my first time in Jerusalem. I seek wisdom as much as the missing men.”

  The officer laid his stylus aside. “I am telling you, they are not missing at all.”

  “Explain for me. Please.”

  “The garrison has but one duty in the festival season. This duty takes precedence above all else.”

  “To maintain order,” Alban guessed.

  “Precisely,” the tribune’s aide confirmed. “The high priest is as frantically busy and overstretched as we are. Perhaps he was troubled by bandits stealing lambs being brought for the slaughter. Perhaps there was a rumor of trouble in one of the camps. He might have ordered his men to go, only then discovered there were no free guards. So he sent ours. But this is not officially permitted. The Roman garrison is restricted to patrolling Jerusalem. Are we going to object? Are we going to raise a fuss?”

  “Not if there is no trouble,” Alban said, nodding now. “Not if you don’t know.”

  “So the men have vanished. Perhaps they slipped away and are spending the festival season in a tavern’s back room. It has happened before. They will show up.”

  Alban asked, “What about the missing centurion, the one named Atticus?”

  “His mates claim he was taken ill. His sergeant says he has not seen him.”

  “This does not worry you either?”

  The officer hesitated, then nodded. “The commandant knows and likes Atticus. He is asking around. But quietly.”

  Alban set the scroll bearing the golden eagle on the officer’s desk, then pulled out the purse holding Pilate’s gold. “I wish to offer a reward in the prelate’s name.”

  The officer could not keep his gaze from the royal scroll. “The tribune wishes to save the centurion Atticus from official censure.”

  “Atticus is a friend of mine. I am in his debt. I seek to protect him as well. I am after information, nothing more.” Alban set a pair of gold denarii on the table beside the scroll. “For your troubles. And another two for the soldier who leads me to Atticus.”

  The officer could no longer disguise his amazement. A legionnaire earned a third of that amount each year—if he was paid at all. “They will be at each other’s throats to hand you the man.”

  “And another two for the man who brings me the missing guards.” Alban turned to the door. “Tell them speed is everything.”

  Centurion Atticus was precisely where his sergeant had said Alban would find him. The man had chosen a tavern well removed from any of his Roman colleagues. Which was a good thing, for the centurion was far beyond bedraggled. The tavern was located in what once had been the main Greek quarter and was now the caravans’ central gathering point at the Damascus Gate.

  Atticus slouched within shadows at the back of the tavern’s main chamber. The flooring was sand and its walls Bedouin cloth. The front was open, with a view of the noisome corrals for donkeys and camels. The other patrons feasted on roast lamb with the single-minded intensity of those facing a long trek and a longer time until the next decent meal. Atticus watched Alban’s approach with eyes that seemed almost dead. In fact, his entire person seemed to have collapsed in on itself.

  Alban seated himself across from him and asked, “What’s happened to you, my friend?”

  Atticus drained the pewter mug and hollered for the innkeeper to bring more ale. “Who’s the man you left stationed by the front?” he muttered.

  “Linux. He’s on Pilate’s staff.”

  “Thought I recognized him. He scouts the road like it’s enemy terrain.”

  “We seem to have made a foe of Herod Antipas.”

  “Then I’m talking to a dead man.”

  “I might say the same thing.”

  Atticus gave no sign he had heard Alban’s words. He nodded as the innkeeper refilled the mug. “My first year in Jerusalem, Herod Antipas held a banquet. The daughter of his new wife danced for his guests. The girl is quite the beauty, or so I’ve heard. Like her mother, who let herself be stolen away by Antipas from his own brother. After the girl danced, Herod was in such a state he offered her anything she wanted, up to half his kingdom.”

  “I wanted to know—”

  “The girl asked for the head of this Judaean by the name of John. Apparently she’d been put up to it by her own mother. This prophet was known as the Baptizer by those who followed him. John had condemned Herod and the girl’s mother for marrying after she’d divorced Herod’s brother. Anyway, Herod makes the girl his offer, and the girl asks him for the head of this John—on a platter. Herod serves him up as the banquet’s last course.”

  Alban remained silent and waited. He marveled that the man could speak so coherently after the amount of ale he’d obviously consumed.

  “His father was worse still. Do you know Herod the Great heard about the birth of this Jesus from Magi who claimed to have read the signs in the stars? Herod the Great’s own advisers found writings in old Judaean scrolls that spoke of a king rising from a lowly birth. That Herod had every male infant in the boy’s village slaughtered.” The centurion drank deeply, swiped his mouth and beard with a filthy sleeve, then added, “The things you hear in this city are enough to curdle a man’s gut.”

  Alban asked, more softly this time, “What happened, old friend?”

  “I was there.”

  “Where?”

  “Golgotha.” He drank again. “If I could have the day to do over, I would abandon my post and flee the city.”

  “I was told you saw the prophet crucified.”

  He drained the mug and shouted for another. The innkeeper was ready this time, for scarcely had the centurion raised his voice when another foaming goblet was set upon the stained table. But when the soldier reached for it, Alban clamped his hand on the soldier’s arm.

  The centurion’s face darkened. But just as suddenly, the fight went out of him. He slumped forward, seeming to curve inward around a hollow core. “You know what they’re saying now?”

  “Who?”

  Atticus swept his free arm in a broad circle, taking in the entire city. “Some of the Judaeans. Three days after it happened, I was down in the Lower City. I heard them talking about how the body had disappeared from a sealed tomb. Some claimed the prophet had simply swooned. That he wasn’t actually dead when we took
him down.”

  Alban admitted, “I’ve heard that too.”

  This time, when Atticus tugged, Alban released the arm. Atticus lifted the mug, then lowered it back to the table. “I’ve seen death. We were sent to do a job. There were three of them crucified that day, two thieves and the prophet. I was in charge. Do you think I’d walk away without being certain?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “I watched him die.” The man slumped further still. “The Judaeans were frantic about getting the three of them down before their Sabbath. My men broke the legs of the other two. But when they came to the prophet, he was gone. When we took him down, he was cold, rigid. No blood flowed. I swear to that.”

  “I need to know what you haven’t told the others.” Alban leaned closer. “Pilate has ordered me to learn if there is a threat against Rome. He worries that the prophet’s disciples stole the body to start such rumors and cause the people to revolt.”

  The older centurion gave no sign that he had even heard.

  “You’re my oldest friend in Judaea,” Alban tried again. “I need to know—”

  “It haunts me.” The words were a groan wrenched from the man’s core. “Every time I shut my eyes I’m back on my horse on that cursed hill. Before we hung him on that cross.”

  Alban sat and waited.

  “The streets were packed with the festival crowds. I was on horseback. They saw me and got out of the way. They’d heard of the scourging and the Sanhedrin’s threats and Pilate’s decisions. News travels fast as the wind in Jerusalem. They knew, and they stood aside, and they wept. They reached out to touch the prophet as he passed. They were weeping and wailing and tearing their garments. The sound chills my bones.”

  Alban did not move or breathe. Did not even blink.

  Finally Atticus dragged in an uneven breath. “We made him carry his cross for a time, but he was torn apart by the scourging. So I had one of my men pull in someone from the crowd. We brought Jesus to Golgotha, and it seemed like the entire city was there. We nailed him to the cross. The people screamed like we were hammering the nails into their souls. He hung there for a few hours. Not long. Then it happened.”

  This time, when Atticus did not continue, Alban pressed with quiet urgency, “Tell me.”

  “He called out to his father. Since that moment, night after night I hear the man’s cry echoing in my soul. He speaks like no man I have ever heard before. He invites one of the thieves to join him that very night in the heavens. He asks his father to forgive us. He asks his father why he is forsaken. And then he says three final words: It is finished. And he leaves.”

  Alban felt a tight wind, as strong and silent and cold as death itself, drift through his chest. “You mean, he dies.”

  Atticus looked directly at him for the first time, an emptiness in his eyes. “I mean, he leaves. He is gone. Like it was his own will—his decision.” He dropped his gaze back to the table between them. “The sky darkens, like the breath of life is sucked from the entire world. The earth shakes.”

  “I heard there was a storm.”

  “Not was.” Atticus’s fist struck the scarred wood. “The storm is with me still.”

  Alban rose from the table. “Come. I will take you back to the fortress.”

  “There is nothing for me there.” But the older centurion did not struggle when Alban gripped his arm and pulled him to his feet.

  Alban did not speak further because he knew Atticus would not hear him. Even if Pilate’s seal was not enough to gain him clear answers, at least he could repay a friend’s favor by bringing him back from the abyss.

  CHAPTER

  FOURTEEN

  Pilate’s Palace, Jerusalem

  JUST OVER A WEEK after their arrival at the governor’s palace in Jerusalem, Leah was summoned from the kitchen with news she had a visitor. Leah had never been called on by anyone save the occasional merchant and one Temple guard who had spied her on the street and wished to pay court. Leah had made it abundantly clear she had no interest in his attention. Today, as soon as she entered the courtyard foyer, she knew the one awaiting her came from Herod’s household. The lovely young woman possessed a knowing gaze far beyond her years. She was dressed in the Greek style, including a lined outer garment and a necklace of semiprecious stones. “You are the one they call Leah?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  She dismissed Leah’s simple cotton garb with a condescending glance. “My master wishes to speak with you.”

  “King Herod has arrived?”

  “Of course not him. Enos bids you attend him immediately.”

  “One moment.” Leah hurried back to her alcove in the servants’ quarters and drew out a plain grey hooded robe. The summons from Enos could mean one thing only—he had discovered where the dead prophet’s disciples were hiding and would give her directions. Leah wanted to begin her explorations in a modest and inconspicuous fashion.

  Herod’s servant gave a sniff at Leah’s choice of outer garment. “Come.”

  The morning had started dark and blustery, and it still threatened rain. The maid did not speak to Leah again. They hurried back down the hillside avenue. The palace guard saw them coming and held open the main outer portal. As soon as they passed through the inner doors, the maid called, “She is here.”

  The plaintive tone that responded was all too familiar, though Leah could not see Enos. “Could you possibly have taken any longer?”

  The maid adopted a tone as pained as the head servant’s. “She insisted on dressing herself for the visit.”

  “Come on then. No, not you. Over here, Leah.” The maid sniffed a final time and disappeared. Enos complained, “As if I had nothing else to do with my day but wait on your convenience.”

  Leah remained where she was. The double portals led into one of the palace’s receiving rooms. Like everything else about Herod’s residence, it was so ornate as to appear garish. Enos stood by an inner window, and in the dim light a figure knelt upon the carpet before him. Leah had seen the position well enough for her own stomach to clench with dread. The figure was clearly female, with long black hair spilling about her. The robe she wore was as plain as Leah’s, which was odd, for everyone else in Herod’s household tended to dress as flamboyantly as their master. Yet the woman was clearly a servant, for she remained in the position adopted for punishment. Enos held a supple cane and tapped it lightly against his other hand. Leah had seen it applied all too often. In her recent fevered state, she had dreamed about it, and though she had never felt the cane herself, she had heard herself scream.

  Leah’s voice was low but clear. “I have no desire to witness this.”

  “Oh, do behave sensibly and come in. I have far better ways to spend my hours than delaying a simple lashing.” He smiled thinly as the woman at his feet shuddered. “This troublesome slave ran away. Didn’t you—what’s your name?”

  “Yes, master. I’m . . . I am Nedra.” The voice that spoke was not young. Nor, another oddity, did it hold the typical mixture of whining and terror.

  “I knew she was gone, but I had not yet alerted the authorities,” Enos said. “Yesterday she went away on an errand. She did not return. But some of our maids can slip away from time to time. So long as Herod is not here, I grant them a bit of freedom. I am far too indulgent, I know.” He tapped the cane once more against his open palm. “I do hate the sight of blood. It upsets the other household help.”

  The woman at his feet trembled but did not speak. Normally by this point the slave to be punished would be reaching for the master’s feet, begging and pleading for a mercy that seldom came.

  “Then what happens,” he continued, “but the slave returns this morning. Alone. And she tells me the most curious thing. Didn’t you, Nedra?” When the slave remained silent, he prodded her with the cane. “Tell our guest what you told me.”

  “They . . . they ordered me to return, master.” Her voice shook but the words were clear.

  “And who, pray tell, told you to
do that?”

  “The prophet’s disciples. They said . . .”

  “Yes, go on. We are fascinated by what you are telling us. What could these riffraff possibly have told you that would have forced you to return, knowing the punishment that awaited you?”

  “They said, sir, that I must remain in my earthly position until the Messiah brings our final freedom.”

  Enos studied the kneeling woman, then turned to Leah and asked, “Do you have any idea what she is talking about?”

  Leah shook her head slowly, her eyes never leaving the kneeling figure.

  “And yet I have the strange feeling that the slave speaks the truth. At least, as much truth as she is capable of.” He tapped her back but not hard. “Nedra, listen carefully to what I have to say. This young woman’s name is Leah. She wishes to go to the prophet’s disciples. You will take her, do you hear me? This is not a request. You will take her, and you will do whatever she asks of you.”

  The woman did not move. She appeared not to be breathing.

  “Do this, and I will be gentle with you. I will show you mercy you do not deserve.” When the woman did not respond, he tapped her again with the cane. “Tell me you understand.”

  “I hear you, master.”

  “Now tell me you will obey.”

  “I will do as you say.”

  Enos’s lips drew down as he glanced at Leah and shrugged, clearly having expected more of a struggle. Either that or the woman’s unearthly calm unsettled him as it certainly did Leah. He started to say something further, then shook his head and told her, “You may rise.”

  Nedra unsteadily got to her feet, then stood with head downcast. Enos flicked the supple cane, causing the air to whistle around the woman. The slave flinched but did not move. He warned, “Your fate depends upon your doing exactly as I ordered.”

  “It will be as you said, master.”

  “Wait for Leah by the outer gate.” When the door shut behind her, he said, “I’d heard the man had secret followers everywhere. But never, not in my wildest dreams, did I expect to find one here in Herod’s house.”