The Centurion's Wife

by Davis Bunn; Janette Oke

  Leah rarely indulged in recollections. They were so painful and led to nothing save bitterness and regret. Especially now, when she was facing yet another upheaval, yet another bitter event, on the morrow. Yet here she sat, images rushing through her mind for the second time in days. First the market and now here, both times leaving her helpless to stem the flow.

  Her father had shown the world a gentle face. He affected a slight stoop, though he could walk for miles in the hills above Verona and not tire. When meeting people for the first time he often turned his head and cupped his ear, though in truth his hearing was very keen, as sharp as his mind. He had liked to smile and sing, and he filled their home with good friends. The quality of their table had been known throughout the province. He had often noted they made stronger allies over dinner than most nations did through decades of negotiation.

  Yet none of this had helped them, not when his two partners had fed him to the wolves. In one season they had lost everything. Their house, her mother’s inheritance, the family titles, her father’s wonderful smile, all gone. Her sisters had been shunted off into marriages that had turned out to be nothing more than slavery. Leah had sensed her father’s desperation, made sharper by the knowledge that any attempt to restore their former life was utterly futile. He had turned a deaf ear again, ignoring her sisters’ tears and entreaties, leaving them to fester and grow bitter within the peculiar loneliness that only the unloved and ill-used wife will ever know.

  Leah realized someone was speaking her name.

  She opened her eyes to find Nedra standing in front of her, and beside Nedra was Mary Magdalene. Leah hardly realized she spoke the words welling up inside her. “I am so afraid, and I don’t know what to do.”

  Leah followed the women toward the doors at the plaza’s other side. The torment her words unleashed now swept about her in a whirlwind of heat and dismay.

  The double doors were the height and width of a loaded cart. Inside was a traditional craftsman’s residence, or that of a small merchant. They went through into a narrow alcove, fronted by a second set of doors that could be barred at night. They stepped into a narrow courtyard, perhaps twenty paces long and ten wide. The small patio was surrounded by stone pillars supporting the second floor. The shadowy lower floor was divided by chest-high walls into chambers the size of animal stalls, perhaps their original use. Or possibly the craftsman’s apprentices had worked their trade here, or the merchant had stored his wares. Whatever their previous purpose, it was lost now to the tide of people gathered in them.

  There was little difference between the people here and those outside. Leah saw the same clusters speaking in low tones. Perhaps there were more women in here, some seated and talking, others busy with chores. She was startled to recognize the young woman from the market, the one who had reminded Leah of her sister, tending a cooking fire. But swiftly she turned away, and Leah decided their chance meeting would go unmentioned.

  A bearded man in a shepherd’s robe rose from his group and walked over. “Who is this you have brought inside?”

  “Her name is Leah.”

  “She is the one you spoke about?” The man was not so much unfriendly as concerned. “The servant in Pilate’s household?”

  “Yes, she is—”

  “You allow a possible spy into our midst?”

  “What do we have to hide?”

  The man blinked quickly. “I do not think—”

  “Say the word,” Mary replied calmly, “and I will ask her to leave. But my heart tells me she should be granted entry.”

  The man, tall and broad shouldered, was burned dark by years of labor in the Judaean sun. He chewed upon the end of his beard for a moment, then turned away, saying simply, “I do not like it.”

  Mary waited until the man had climbed the stairs, then said to Leah, “Your mistress is welcome here, as are you.”

  Nedra asked, “How are her headaches?”

  “Since my first day here—since you offered to pray, they have not returned.”

  Mary Magdalene repeated, “Your mistress should come with you and see for herself.”

  “That is not possible. Pilate would not permit it.”

  Neither woman disagreed. Instead Mary said, “I am supposed to be preparing the noonday meal. We can talk as I work.”

  “Please, I would like to help.”

  Mary smiled. “Come, then.”

  They passed through the narrow shaft of sunlight at the courtyard’s center, the only space where the second floor’s overhanging roof did not shade, and entered the kitchens at the rear of the compound. Mary Magdalene lifted her voice above the commotion to announce, “I have brought another set of hands.”

  A tall large-boned woman glanced over at the newcomer. “If she is as unskilled at cooking as the men who keep pestering me, I’d be better off alone.”

  “Her name is Leah, and she is a servant in Pilate’s household.”

  All work ceased in the kitchen area. Finally the big-boned woman demanded, “Can you cook?”

  “I can,” she answered. “What needs to be done?”

  The woman tended a great simmering cauldron. She pointed to vegetables piled at one end of the table. “You may begin by preparing these for the pot.”

  “This is Martha and her sister, Mary,” Mary Magdalene told her. “There are a number of Marys among us, including the Lord’s mother. This is why I am known by my other name as well.”

  “The mother of Jesus is here?”

  “She is.”

  Leah saw the group, including Nedra, go through a subtle change. A curtain had been drawn, not in hostility, but in a sense of unified protection. Leah allowed the silence to linger long enough for the question to disappear.

  The chamber was open to the courtyard and had another three small windows along the opposite wall, no doubt overlooking a rear alley. Even so, the heat was stifling. Leah had endured such conditions before, however. She quickly selected a knife from utensils piled by a stone washbasin. Like everything else in the cooking area, it was immaculately clean. She washed the vegetables, stripped off the outer leaves, and chopped them into segments. The women watched her for a time, then seemed to accept that she knew what she was doing.

  Leah asked, “Are the prophet’s disciples here?”

  “We are all his followers. But our Lord selected twelve to be his closest disciples.”

  “And they are here?”

  They seemed to accept Leah’s questions as simple curiosity, and one answered, “The eleven who remain are in the upper room, where they had their last supper together.”

  Mary Magdalene said, “She is Judaean. She knows what Passover is.”

  Leah corrected, “My mother’s mother was Judaean. My father was Roman.”

  “If your mother was Judaean, by our law you are as well.”

  Leah responded to the unasked question. “My grandmother followed some of the rituals, like the lighting of the Sabbath candles. My mother, though, took pride in being Roman.”

  No one criticized or questioned her. Instead their silent acceptance was so natural it invited further confidences. Leah felt herself pulled in two, her mind following parallel tracks like the deep ruts of an overused road. One side sought information to satisfy Procula’s questions. The other searched frantically for a way out of the impossible dilemma facing her the next day. Only the practiced movements of her hands held her emotions in check.

  Mary Magdalene spread flour over the table’s opposite end and began kneading dough. “Do you wish to tell us about your difficulty? You said you didn’t know what to do.”

  “I am to be betrothed tomorrow.” The words brought glances from the other women. “To a man chosen for me by Pilate. A soldier. I need to escape, and I was hoping—well, maybe I could find shelter someplace here for a time. . . .” Leah stared at the knife in her hand. She blinked fiercely, then picked up another vegetable, holding it so tightly it was crushed nearly to pulp. I will not cry, she told herself over
and over.

  When her vision cleared, she realized the women were watching her. Mary Magdalene said simply, “That is not our way.”

  Nedra added, “I also came begging for sanctuary. You were there when I returned to Enos as I had been instructed.”

  Mary Magdalene said, “Our task is to carry the Lord’s peace into every situation, into every duty.”

  Leah used a cloth to wipe the ruined vegetable from her hands. She continued to rub the cloth over her palms, as if to scour away her sorrow. “I have some coins,” she offered hopefully.

  No one laughed. Instead Martha left the cauldron and walked over. “You must find this all very confusing. But know this: Understanding comes from within, from knowing and trusting in the Lord.”

  She touched Leah’s shoulder before returning to the simmering vat. “The men will soon be asking where their meal is.”

  One of the other women offered, “Know you will be prayed for.”

  Leah looked from one of them to another. “You would pray for me?”

  “I do so already,” Mary Magdalene replied. “I have since our first meeting.”

  Leah did not sleep. Voices chased her through endless dark hours. Her father’s endless tirades against the gods, the echoes of her sisters’ pleas, her mother’s silent and helpless regret. She heard them all.

  Only now there were other voices.

  She saw herself once again standing in an overheated kitchen at the back of a narrow courtyard in the poorest section of Jerusalem. Women spoke to her, strangers who shared their duties and their words with the ease of lifelong friends. Leah tried to dismiss them and what they had told her. Despite their poverty, their tragic pasts, their own sorrows, they stood before her in strength and spoke with a wisdom that defied their circumstances.

  As dawn brightened the eastern sky, their words echoed in a refrain countered by near panic. Leah rose heavily from her pallet and washed her face. The Jerusalem palace was already bustling with those working in the kitchen and stoking the fires that fed the bath’s warming pipes.

  This day her duties had been assigned to another. The previous evening Procula had sought her out and questioned her, then made her repeat everything she had already reported about her visit to the followers. Leah had done as she was instructed, this time leaving nothing out. Not even the way the women had responded to her own plea for sanctuary. Procula had looked hard at her when Leah had confessed her desire to escape but said nothing further to the implied plea, once again, for her mistress to spare her this day, this hour, this future.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHTEEN

  Antonia Fortress

  ALBAN TOSSED IN RESTLESS WORRY. In mere hours his future was to become intertwined with that of a woman he had never actually met. The fact that she was Judaean was as great a mystery as this betrothal ceremony. To a soldier’s rational mind, it sounded like all of the responsibilities of marriage with none of the benefits. Time and again he fought against the fear that he was making an enormous mistake. His simple request for a wife, one who would contribute to his successful future, had turned into something else entirely. It was now being used as leverage in someone else’s hands—out of his control, and certainly out of hers.

  Added to this were growing concerns over young Jacob. Alban had heard nothing since sending the lad off on his errand. He tried to tell himself that the boy was resourceful and smart, that he likely would return soon. Finally around dawn, Alban slipped into a fitful slumber.

  When he awoke, he discovered two crumpled forms snoring in the other room.

  Linux looked like he had spent weeks in the saddle. His lanky body was dusty and sweat streaked. A filthy Jacob sprawled upon the floor by the window, wrapped in Linux’s blanket and snoring louder than the officer.

  “A fine sight!” Alban stood with hands on hips. “I’ve been very worried! Where have you been?”

  Linux groaned. From Jacob there was no sound at all.

  Alban walked over and nudged the lad with his toe. “You young hooligan! What have you got to say for yourself?”

  Jacob rolled over and covered his head with the blanket.

  Linux muttered, “Where did he come from?”

  “You’re asking me?” Alban nudged Jacob again and was rewarded with a sleepy sound. “Where have you been?”

  Linux staggered to his feet. “Did I make it back in time?”

  “For what?”

  Despite his evident fatigue, Linux summoned a grin. “You can’t possibly be that relaxed about your own betrothal.”

  Alban nudged the boy once more. “I command you to explain yourself!”

  The lad at his feet groaned. “Water. Please . . .”

  Alban walked to the corner table and poured a cup from the pitcher. He knelt beside the lad. “Here. Drink.”

  Jacob rolled over, sat up, drained the cup, opened one gritty eye, and croaked, “I found them, master.”

  Alban roughed the lad’s hair, or tried to. It was like rubbing his hand through oily sandpaper. “How did you get so filthy?”

  The lad held up the cup and pleaded, “More.” Then added, “Master.”

  Alban shook his head, rose to his feet, and returned with both water and ripe plums, along with the previous day’s flatbread. The lad ate quickly. Alban filled the mug a third time, then ordered, “Speak.”

  Jacob coughed to clear his throat. “No one would say where I might find the prophet’s disciples. I could tell people knew. But they did not know me. And they would not reveal it. Not even to an unarmed lad.”

  Alban pulled over a chair. “The Judaeans are protecting plans for revolt?”

  “No, master. At least I do not believe so. I saw no weapons. I heard no talk of battle.”

  Linux padded across the floor and washed his face. Toweling off the water, he demanded, “How did you locate them?”

  Despite red-rimmed eyes and hoarse voice, Jacob’s face shone with pride. “I joined the orphans.”

  Alban and Linux exchanged glances. The packs of young children who survived by picking pockets, stealing from the stallholders, and scouring the garbage heaps were evident wherever one went in the city. Despite his anxious hours worrying about the lad, Alban was impressed. “And then how did you get them to show you where the prophet’s disciples were located?”

  “I told them of my healing. I said I wanted to pay my respects. Which is true. They took me.”

  “Clever.” Linux sniffed one of the remaining plums and bit deep. “Very clever indeed.”

  Jacob went on, “They occupy a merchant’s house at the highest point of the Lower City. How the group found it is a tale told far and wide. The day before Passover, the prophet sent his disciples into the city. He said they would see a certain man and should tell him their master had need of his house. They did, and the owner gave it to them.”

  “You’re not making up this story?”

  “Oh no, master. I heard the same thing from more than one person. The disciples come and go, but they always return to the upper room where they shared the Passover meal. I heard that story too. How the Rabboni broke the bread and shared the wine and declared that this was of him, his flesh and his blood.”

  “Do you understand this?” Linux asked.

  Jacob shrugged and shook his head.

  “Nor do I,” Alban said. But he recalled the conversation with Joseph of Arimathea, and his heart was stirred. “What else?”

  “The plaza that fronts the house is filled with people, men and women alike. They leave, but they always return.”

  Linux asked, “They guard the disciples?”

  “Not with arms, sire. They watch, but they do nothing except talk.”

  Alban asked, “What do they say?”

  Jacob’s young face creased with concentration. “Things I did not understand, master. They argue yet without anger. They speak words I have never heard before. They talk about Jesus being the Messiah. Some say he is, and others aren’t so sure. They ask if he is
to restore Israel.”

  “Do they ask if he is alive?”

  “No, master. They sound like they are sure of this.”

  “What?” Linux looked offended. “The man was not crucified?”

  Jacob’s features showed an even deeper bewilderment. “Sire, they are as certain he died as they are that he now lives.”

  Linux protested, “These Judaeans are insane!”

  Alban patted the boy’s shoulder. “You did well.”

  The lad’s grin split his coating of grime. “Thank you, master.”

  “And I should still flog you for causing me such worry.”

  “You’ll have to leave the lad’s punishment for later,” Linux declared. “You are to be betrothed the hour before noon, and Pilate commands us both to report before then.”

  Alban took a deep breath and nodded his agreement, but he kept his gaze upon the lad. He crouched down so he could look directly into Jacob’s face. There was one thing that could not wait. “Jacob, I am giving you your freedom.”

  The lad’s face crumpled. “You’re sending me away?”

  “Of course not.” Alban gripped the boy’s arm and shook him gently. “Listen to me. Your freedom is my betrothal gift to you.” He explained what he had agreed upon with the Capernaum elders, then repeated it all to ensure the lad truly heard him.

  Jacob rubbed at his eyes with grimy hands. “I can stay?”

  “As long as you wish. But as my free servant, not a slave.” Alban ruffled the filthy head again and found his throat closed up so tight he could scarcely shape the words, “You young scamp. Go get yourself into the baths.”