Leah could not remain secluded for long. An hour after she sought to lose herself in the palace gardens, she was discovered by Dorit, who had arrived in Jerusalem with the prelate and his entourage. “Our mistress, Procula, wishes to see you. And I would not keep her waiting. She is in quite a state this morning.”
Leah had no choice but to follow Dorit back into the palace.
“What does she want with me?”
“Something about betrothal garments. I know not what the tumult is about, but Procula is quite frantic.”
Leah sighed. Was there to be no end to all the fuss over this distressing ceremony? What difference did it make what she wore?
Dorit noticed Leah’s expression and admonished, “There are far worse fates than yours.”
Leah checked her response. There was nothing to be gained by quarreling. Her world, her life, was totally out of her control.
“There you are!” Procula exclaimed when Leah appeared. “This is hardly the time to be slipping away! I have sent for the maid from Herod’s household. She knows what is needed and will accompany you to the vendors to choose the proper attire. Now go. You have little time. Nedra is waiting.”
“Yes, mistress.” Leah did not recognize her own voice.
“Here are the denarii you will need.” She thrust a handful of coins at Leah. Leah knew in an instant she would not need the amount of money her mistress was holding out to her, but there was no time to argue. She nodded, took the currency, and as she walked, tied it into a corner of her shawl.
Nedra sat on a bench in the hallway connecting the servants’ quarters to the royal chambers. She looked nervous and agitated but brightened when she saw Leah. “They have a chariot waiting to take us to the market street.”
“A chariot?” Leah stopped in midstep. Never in all her trips into town had she ever traveled in such a conveyance.
“They say we must hurry.” As they rushed toward the palace entrance, Nedra went on, “Lady Procula asked me all sorts of questions while they sought you. She is most interested in this coming ceremony. There have been messages sent back and forth between the prelate’s court and Herod’s. Enos has become more pompous than ever.” Immediately, Nedra’s hand flew to her mouth. One did not criticize one’s overseer without severe punishment.
“You and I will keep that our secret,” Leah said. She was rewarded with a look of pure gratitude
True to Nedra’s word, their transport waited at the gate with an impatient driver and a pawing bay horse. Leah clung to the side as wheels rumbled and hooves clattered over stone-paved streets. The driver skillfully wended his way through pedestrians and flocks alike. Nedra looked terror stricken, her eyes wide with fear and white-knuckled hands clinging to whatever was within reach.
Leah wished they could just drive on and on. Through the city, out the other side, and away through the countryside—perhaps all the way to Egypt. Or northward to Italia and Mother. . . . But it was not long until they had reached the street of shops.
Face drained of color, Nedra descended gratefully. When she could finally speak, she turned to Leah. “This is Lemuel’s shop. He carries everything you will need.”
Nedra almost pushed Leah through the doorway. Before Leah stretched an array of colorful garments and shawls. She didn’t know where to begin.
“Perhaps it will be easiest if you choose your head covering first,” Nedra suggested.
“I have worn one when I am out, but I really don’t under-stand—”
“You need one for the betrothal.”
“It is not part of my culture. We are accepted as . . .” But she wasn’t sure how to describe Roman women’s place in society. Many of them, like her sisters, were viewed as chattel, to be bartered off wherever a father could get the best reward—the best bride price. That was freedom?
“We are accepted as well,” Nedra was saying. “Accepted—and treasured.”
“Treasured?”
“Our men—our fathers, our brothers, and our husbands protect and care for us.”
“And that is shown by hiding you under this shawl?”
“It’s not hiding us, Leah. The shawl, this head covering, is a declaration before man and God. His divine Law proclaims women to be of great worth and orders that they be protected. First through their father, then their husband. If the husband dies, then women are protected through next of kin. And if there are no next of kin, the community. If this is not fulfilled, Leah, it is not the fault of God’s Law, it is the fault of those to whom his Law was given.”
Leah had never heard the explanation before. She certainly could use protection. Would welcome it. Then a new thought seized her imagination. Could I use this covering to provide a means of escape? To find opportunity to become lost in a crowd, slip away with travelers, find a transport ship, flee to another land? Even flee back home?
Leah nodded to Nedra. “Which shawl would you advise?” It did not take Leah long to make her selections. The robe she chose was much simpler than Nedra would have liked. The long shawl was matching in color, a robin’s egg blue with a lining the shade of fresh cream. Nedra showed her how to take one end of the shawl and drape it across the opposite shoulder, hiding all but her eyes. New sandals completed the outfit. As Leah laid out the required coins, hardly diminishing the fistful she tied back into her shawl, the shopkeeper frowned his disappointment. In a matter of a few minutes she and Nedra were once again in the small chariot and on their way through the cobbled streets back to the palace.
Leah turned from Nedra’s obvious discomfort at their speed and squared her shoulders for the day ahead. Much as she hated to acknowledge it, the occasion she had dreaded was truly going to take place. Every turn of the wheels reminded her that her future was now numbered in hours. She would soon be joined to a man she did not even know.
Leah returned to the palace to discover the baths had been temporarily closed to the men. When she entered the courtyard, she was met by two servants whom Procula had ordered to prepare Leah for the ceremony. Her feeble protests went unheeded. Leah’s skin was scrubbed with soap mixed with sand as fine as flour, then gently scraped with an ivory baton intended to remove its outer layer. She was settled upon the marble massage table. Unguents spiced with the immensely expensive myrrh were worked into her skin. Her hair was washed and straightened and dried and combed into an ornate style adorned with fresh flowers. Leah dared not object further for fear Procula would revise the orders concerning the gown and insist she wear something more fashionable for the ceremony. After all, her hair would be hidden under her head covering and her oiled skin well covered by her robe.
She recalled childhood dreams in which her beloved would appear and sweep her away into a palace that would be hers, filled with love and light and song and children. Now she shuddered. Just like her sisters, she would be trapped within the locked cage of marriage for the rest of her wretched life. If only the gods—if there were any gods—had dealt more kindly with her. For the first time in her life Leah was thankful her grandmother was not here to see her now.
Alban arrived at the guard station before Herod’s palace compound with Linux and Jacob in tow. Outfitted in a new linen toga, hair washed and combed and coiled, Alban looked ruddy from a thorough cleansing. The breakfast Linux had forced on him sat in his belly like a stone. He could not decide which he feared most, the meeting with Pilate or the ceremony that was to follow.
He saluted the guard and asked, “Is there someplace my young companion can wait?”
The man waved toward the courtyard wall. “There is the bench used by merchants.”
Alban settled Jacob into the shade and promised, “Linux will come for you as soon as we finish our meeting with Pilate.”
A young officer of Pilate’s contingent was waiting for them and led them through Herod’s grounds toward the adjoining palace. They made their way by large gardens filled with every imaginable flower. Birds Alban had never seen before flitted from branch to branch while fountains spl
ashed and waterfalls emerged from palace walls.
They passed through a newer wall that separated Pilate’s Jerusalem abode from that of the Judaean tetrarch. The prelate’s authority and power were immediately evident. The surroundings were more austere, the military presence far more evident. A trio of officers bearing the standard of the Damascus legion waited on benches shaded by date palms. Linux and Alban saluted them as they proceeded through open double doors. They halted and bowed to the figure seated before them on the low dais.
Pilate finished dictating to his secretary, then rumbled, “Well?”
Alban’s heart squeezed in cold fear before he realized the prelate addressed Linux. The officer replied crisply, “As you ordered, sire, I traveled to the Capernaum garrison. The officer in charge, a man by the name of Horax, insisted that he gave up the captured Parthians only upon receiving your signed command.”
“Herod’s soldiers claim that the Parthians were gone when they arrived.”
Linux responded with military silence.
“Horax. What kind of name is that?”
Alban spoke up for the first time since entering the prefect’s presence. “He is a freeman from Damascus, sire. And a very good officer.”
“You trust him?”
“With my life.”
Alban knew a moment’s dread that Pilate would demand just that. Instead he addressed Linux. “You believe the man?”
“I do.”
Pilate grunted. “What of the Parthian officers?”
During their morning bath, Linux had explained to Alban what had happened after Herod had taken custody of the two bandits. Herod’s men reportedly had been attacked while transporting the Parthian officers from Jerusalem to the infamous prison within Herodion, the walls of the fortress city built by Herod’s father. The tetrarch’s men had been killed, so the report went, and the Parthians had escaped.
Linux now answered the prelate, “I traveled to where the Damascus Road meets the turnoff to Herodion. I found no evidence of a recent battle. I went into the surrounding hills and spoke to the Samaritan elders at both villages overlooking the road. None of them knew of any recent disturbances.”
“None that they saw,” Pilate corrected sternly.
Linux said, “The villagers have been attacked twice in the past year, sire. They keep careful watch over the lowlands. If there had been something to see—”
“Well, centurion? What do you have to say for yourself?” Pilate demanded.
Alban snapped to rigid attention and related his investigations over the past two weeks. Pilate maintained an intent silence after Alban was finished. After a time he asked, “How did you get the centurion at Golgotha to speak with you?”
“I promised him protection in your name, sire.”
Pilate’s frown deepened. “You gave amnesty to an officer who vanished at the height of the festival season?”
“Atticus is a good man, sire.”
“He has an unusual way of showing it!”
Alban felt sweat trickle down his spine. “He is a favorite of the tribune Bruno Aetius, sire. I felt it was more important to obtain the truth than to punish.”
Pilate conceded gruffly, “If he has won the approval of that old warhorse, there must be something to be said for him.”
“I intend to offer the same amnesty to the tomb guards, sire. That is, if I can find them. And of course if the prelate does not object.”
Pilate rubbed his chin, his fingers rasping over the day’s beard. “That was very clever, using the village elder to set up a secret meeting with Joseph of Arimathea.”
“Thank you, sire.”
“But Caiaphas will already have heard of it, you mark my words. Nothing that happens in this city escapes the high priest’s notice. Be prepared. He will call for you to give an account.”
“I am grateful for the prefect’s counsel.”
“Now, centurion.” The hand formed a fist and dropped to the gold-covered chair arm. “Tell me what you have concluded from your search thus far.”
Alban was ready for this. “There are three issues you commanded me to resolve, sire. First, did the prophet die? Second, where is his body? And finally, is the disappearance tied to a revolt?” Alban resisted the urge to wipe perspiration from his face. “I have two firsthand reports that the prophet Jesus of Nazareth was indeed crucified and breathed his last upon the cross. His side was pierced by a Roman spear. He was brought down by trusted Roman soldiers who are certain the man was dead. Then Joseph of Arimathea and a friend took the body and wrapped it in burial garments, and he set it in his own tomb. Joseph has confirmed that the body was lifeless and cold.”
When Alban hesitated, Pilate barked, “Proceed!”
“Sire, some of his followers are certain the man now lives.”
Pilate said, “You mean the man’s disciples believe he did not die?”
“No, sire. They acknowledge that Jesus of Nazareth did indeed die upon the cross. They say he has now risen from the dead.” Alban swallowed hard and stared at a point just above the prelate’s head.
“They accept this as fact.”
“This makes no sense.”
“No, sire. Even so, not just his close disciples believe this. It is a story I am finding throughout the city and beyond. The Capernaum elders discuss it with utter certainty.”
Linux broke his rigid stance to turn and stare at Alban.
Alban went on, “They do not quarrel over whether the prophet has risen from the dead. They argue over what it means.” Alban related Jacob’s report, adding, “I have heard similar discussions around Jerusalem’s plazas. They have begun using terms that I have never heard before. The most common one is Messiah.”
“This is a military term?”
“It is from the ancient Hebrew tongue, sire. It has been explained to me as meaning the Anointed One of the Judaean God.”
Pilate’s closed fist now beat softly upon the armrest. “What of your final task, that of discovering whether they plan revolt?”
Alban took a breath. “Sire, the followers of Jesus are waiting for him to tell them.”
Both men gaped at him. “They seek guidance from a dead man?”
“Yes, sire.”
“Not from his—what is the term they use for those chosen?” “His disciples. I have not yet met any of their leaders, sire. But from what I have heard, it appears they too are waiting. For what, I have no idea.”
CHAPTER
NINTEEN
The Betrothal
THE ONLY POINT when Leah nearly wept was upon her departure from Pilate’s house. She would be returning later that day and remain until the bridegroom fulfilled his obligations to Pilate and Herod. Yet as Leah passed through the gate for the second time that morning, her entire being was filled with an appalling sense of finality. She had known a similar sensation twice before—on the day her family learned her father had lost everything, and the day she left Italy for Judaea.
One of Pilate’s maids held her elbow as Leah walked the cobblestone lane toward Herod’s palace. Some turned her way and smiled. How do they know? she wondered. She was very glad indeed for the shawl’s protection.
Herod’s palace had never seemed more outlandish, more overdone. The overwhelming combination of coverings and drapes and mosaics and fragrances had never seemed stronger. The incense burners were filled and smoldering. Every surface she passed held vases filled with flowers. Leah knew the decorations were not for her benefit. Herod Antipas was in residence, and he demanded the immediate satisfaction of his every desire. Leah had known this about him since her first year in Judaea. Just as she had known that no matter how his eyes might track her movements through a room, she was safe. Herod would not dare make unseemly overtures to Pilate’s niece.
She was led into a small antechamber and seated on an ornately carved ivory bench. Enos appeared a moment later, followed by a young maidservant. He snapped his fingers and pointed at the table by Leah’s bench. “Set the tray
there.”
The maid’s hands trembled as she attempted to put it down without spilling its contents. “Now, straighten up, child,” he ordered. “You’re not a limp vine. No one wants to see you all bent over like that.”
Although the words were intended for the maid, Leah straightened as well. She tried to ignore the tears welling up in the young woman’s eyes.
Enos said, “All right, slave, you may return to your duties. And what will you do if Herod chooses to notice you?”
“I-I will bow, master.”
“And what else?”
The young girl’s swallow was as choked as her voice. “I will smile.”
“Go. Go.” When they were alone, Enos sighed. “How I deplore the task of training new slaves.”
Leah moved over in compliance with his motioning hand. Enos settled down beside her on the bench. “So this is your betrothal day. Might this unworthy servant be permitted to have a glimpse behind your veil?”
Without speaking she raised the shawl so that it framed her face. Enos inspected her gravely. “You are as beautiful as you are sad. And you are very sad indeed.”
Silently Leah settled the covering back in place.
He gazed into her eyes, then reached over, filled a goblet from the carafe, and placed it in her hand. “Drink. It will help you to concentrate on what is ahead.”
But that was precisely what she did not want to do. Even so, Enos watched her with an expression that allowed no argument, so Leah took a small swallow.
“You’ll be wasted on the centurion, no matter how fine the fellow may look.”
It was not like Enos to offer an opinion on such matters. Surprise caused her to ask, “What makes you say that?”
“Because he’s a Gaul.” Enos spat out the word as he might a rotten seed. “None of them can be trusted. Herod has hired enough as guards for me to know. And now your young Gaul is making us wait.” Enos crossed his arms and snorted. “The best of them are scum.”
“His men call him a true leader.” Leah could not understand why she was defending him. “One of his sergeants told me the centurion was born to rule. Procula called him a hero.”
The Centurion's Wife Page 17