Enos blinked slowly. “What else did she say?”
Leah paused to remember what she had heard. “His father was a chief, and his grandfather swore fealty to Rome. His eldest brother rules the province now. The centurion has risen up the ranks through merit.” It was little enough to know about a man with whom she was to live the rest of her life. She sighed. “He keeps the peace in Capernaum.”
Enos did not seem impressed. “The Galilee is a long ride from civilization. You’ll be stuck in the back of beyond, grubbing out your garrison existence, a lovely flower among brutes and mercenaries.”
“He is said to be ambitious. Perhaps we will not stay there long.”
“Do you actually think this Gaul has any hope of advancement?”
“He’s been promised a promotion to tribune.”
Enos could not hide his astonishment. “Pilate has offered to take this Gaul into his personal staff?”
“I . . . I heard him speak the words myself.” Leah was sure she should not be saying all this to Enos. She clamped her lips together, determined to offer no more.
Enos stared at her for a moment, then allowed, “The young man will find you to be a great asset.”
A silver bell chimed in the distance. Enos leapt to his feet. “Herod calls. For all our sakes, I hope it’s to say your centurion has arrived.”
The air condensed until Leah could scarcely catch her next breath. Then a remarkable thing happened. One moment, she could think of nothing more appealing than turning away from life itself. The next she had the distinct impression that she was no longer alone.
Leah was sure she could feel the prayers, even the presence, of the women who called themselves followers of the prophet. Her mouth opened, as though she could call to them and they would hear. They were that close. Her breath slowly released from its iron grip of terror. She shut her eyes and tried to sense their voices as they spoke her name. Women who were a universe removed from her world of intrigue and tragedy. They spoke not to her, but rather to a God she did not know. In her very soul she felt sure that, just as they had promised, they prayed to him about her in this most difficult moment, and she knew the same peace she had felt in their kitchen facing the inner courtyard.
Leah had no idea how long she remained like that, resting in a sea of impossible calm. Then a sound drew her back. She heard sandals scrape across a marble floor. She opened her eyes. A wooden screen divided the chamber where she sat. On the screen’s other side loomed a shadow with a warrior’s form.
Leah felt herself back in the grim reality of the moment.
Enos stepped back into the chamber and announced formally, “We are ready to begin.”
The rabbi was a slender man with pointed features and a wispy beard. He made grand gestures and droned so loudly the walls echoed with his strange speech. The Judaean tetrarch sat on a padded chair with gilded arms and a high back topped by a golden eagle, a miniature version of the emperor’s traveling throne. Herod was attended by two maidens, one of them the young woman with ancient eyes who had summoned Leah eons ago, the other the new maid who had nearly dropped the tray earlier.
Pilate’s chair was empty. Procula had offered formal apologies, saying her husband had been called away by the Sanhedrin. Leah’s mistress sat on a throne only slightly smaller than Herod’s. Behind the trio of gilded chairs stood an officer and a young lad with a wide grin. Leah had seen the officer often enough, as he served in Pilate’s household guard, but she could not remember his name. He was handsome in the manner of one born to wealth and position. The officer observed the proceedings with a languid smile.
Farther back stood Enos, surrounded by other members of the two households.
Leah did not look at the man standing at her side, but she could feel his eyes upon her. For a moment, the chamber was so silent she could hear his even breathing. He stood a full head taller than Leah, which was uncommon, for she was taller than all of the women and some of the men in Pilate’s household. The centurion radiated a sense of raw power, like some young lion whose strength and speed and claws threatened even when the beast was still.
Alban was still looking at her when the rabbi addressed him.
“I asked, centurion, if you are a God-fearer.”
“The elders of Capernaum have called me thus.” His voice was far deeper than when she had overheard him speaking with Pilate. The sound pushed through Leah’s benumbed distance, drawing up her gaze to his against her will. Alban stared at her with eyes that held an unsettling intensity. Quickly Leah looked away.
She saw that the rabbi was frowning over the centurion’s response. But Herod waved a hand and declared, “I say the word of the Galilean elders is all we need.”
Leah watched Herod’s rabbi start to protest, then shrug his acceptance. He asked Leah, “And you are Judaean?”
She touched her tongue to her lips and whispered, “My mother’s mother. Yes.”
“Then by the laws set down by Moses, I am able to perform the betrothal ceremony.” With a ritual flourish he produced the parchment bearing the royal seals of both Pilate and Herod Antipas. He read the document, halting at several points to explain the details. Leah knew she should be paying careful attention. But the words spilled about her like rain.
She knew some of the maidservants were jealous. They noted the centurion’s good looks and saw her marriage as an enviable chance to escape servitude. Leah clenched her teeth and dug her nails into her palms.
The rabbi leaned over until his face filled her vision. “I said, do you understand the terms of the betrothal?”
She breathed a sigh. “Yes.”
“The bridegroom may recite his pledge.”
Leah had not been prepared to hear vows made by Alban. Please, she inwardly pleaded, please don’t make me say anything.
But the rabbi’s eyes were on Alban. Something deep within Leah made her feel it was only fair that she look at him while he recited the promises, though another part of her wished to stare straight ahead.
Instead she lifted her shoulders and turned to meet his gaze. She would not shrink before this man.
“I, Alban, take you, Leah, as my bride. I will depart. But upon the fulfillment of the pledges I have made, I will come for you and receive you to myself and into my household. That where I am, you may dwell also.”
It was most unsettling. His eyes seemed to suggest that the day, however quickly it transpired, would not come soon enough. Leah felt a shiver pass through her body and was once again glad for the shawl veiling her face. She let her eyes drop and turned ever so slightly to hide the chaos of her bewildered thoughts.
The rabbi invoked a flowery blessing on them in what Leah assumed was Hebrew, a language of which she knew not a word. He produced a stylus, inked the tip, then passed it to Leah. “When you sign this document, in the eyes of the Law you are wed to this man,” the rabbi announced in sonorous tones. “If Alban were to die before your marriage is consummated, by the Law you would be treated as his widow.”
The words penetrated her numbness. Her fingers were so stiff she almost dropped the pen. “Pardon me? I don’t—”
“A widow,” the rabbi confirmed with a nod. “Your betrothed must fulfill the terms set in the betrothal document. But the Law now considers you married to him.”
She took a deeper breath. “How long?”
The rabbi was obviously nonplussed, clearly expecting nothing but a subservient silence from the bride. “You are asking, how long before what?”
Alban, misreading her question, answered in a husky voice, “My task should be completed in a few weeks.”
“Sign the document,” Herod instructed brusquely. Leah signed.
She waited as Alban added his signature next to her own. The rabbi invoked another prayer. He held out bread on a silver plate to Alban. He took it and turned to Leah. She moved her shawl just enough to allow him to slip a small portion between her lips. It rested in her mouth, a lump as tasteless as mortar. She fed him a bi
te of the bread, making sure her fingers did not touch his mouth. The goblet was offered, and Leah took one small sip before settling her covering back into place. The rabbi prayed once more, then, “Mazel tov.”
It was done.
CHAPTER
TWENTY
The Celebration
AFTER THE CEREMONY, the guests and bridal couple were ushered into an adjoining chamber. Servants hurried around the ornate room with trays of sweetmeats and honeyed wine. Leah and Alban were seated on a small dais with two chairs. The crowd talked and laughed and swirled around the two, glancing occasionally in their direction.
Leah ate and drank without tasting anything. She simply sought some action that kept her attention off the stranger seated next to her. The tiny seed of hope planted during the signing ceremony remained a mystery. Even so, the feeling was too strong to be dismissed. She felt calmer than she had all day. Could it simply be from hearing that one word, widow?
Alban shifted in his seat and cleared his throat. “You have lovely eyes, my lady.”
Leah gave a brief shake of her head. But it was a response for herself, not him. She knew she would never be able to arrange another person’s death, no matter how desperate she might feel.
“Forgive me if I do not speak correctly,” he began again. “This all is very new to me. I have never taken part in, or even observed such a ceremony. . . .”
His voice drifted off. He lifted a platter toward her, the delicacies glistening with syrup. “Will you take another sweetmeat, my lady?”
“I would ask that you not call me by that title.” Her voice sounded metallic to her own ears.
He put down the tray. “I meant no disrespect.”
“I am but a servant in Pilate’s household.”
“You are also Pilate’s niece. That makes you—”
“It makes me nothing but another servant. I survive by assuming no station or airs that are not mine to claim.”
She was astonished that she had spoken thus. She, who went for days without speaking a word beyond the minimum responses required by her duties. Offering up such confessions was unthinkable.
Alban waved a hand, and she saw the creases of war made by the leather straps used to protect his wrists and arm from sword and spear. “You may serve in another’s home this day. But you have the beauty and bearing of a lady of Rome.”
She opened her mouth, intending to silence him with the same haughty retorts she used with household guards who dared cast impertinent comments in her direction. But a servant came just then with another tray, departing with the first one.
Alban picked up where he had left off. “Your gown is most becoming—”
“Nedra, a servant, helped me with the purchase.” She shook her head again, willing him to stop. She did not want to hear these sincere-sounding words. “I have nothing. Not even a second name.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“My father died disgraced and destitute. My mother dwells in a widow’s hut behind the servants’ quarters of an unwelcoming relative.” She did not want to tell him these things, yet the words continued to emerge, drawn from the simmering cauldron that was her heart. “I sleep in the same chamber as the household slaves. I own nothing. I am dressed at the whim of my mistress and ordered to obey commands I often find loathsome. How could I use the prelate’s name?” Leah stared at him for the first time since entering the salon. “So you see, my ambitious centurion, I have nothing of any use to you. Not position, not title, not even a name to help you scale your way into Rome. And legally I am a Judaean.”
He met her gaze above the veil with unblinking intensity. This close, she saw his eyes held a remarkable contrast. They were not brown, as she had first thought. Their copper depths were flecked with a remarkable mix of gold. The same was true of his hair, which was woven so it fell over one shoulder, the locks bound by a simple gold ring. He wore the formal Roman toga, white save for the lone blue stripe that signified military service.
Alban said quietly, “We hold more in common than you realize.”
Leah caught her breath. She had expected a lashing of anger, bitterness, spite, and disappointment. Instead his voice had returned to that same husky tone she had heard during the ceremony.
Alban rose to his feet, crossed the room, and called, “Linux.” The officer put down his goblet and moved quickly toward the centurion.
Leah knew a disquieting regret that Alban was leaving on such a note. Yet that made no sense at all. She wanted nothing to do with him. How could she possibly care how or when he came or went?
But then two men moved back toward Leah. She heard Linux say to Alban that they needed to leave.
“Soon. Hand me the satchel,” Alban told him.
Linux slid the leather sack from his shoulder. “I remind you we are in Herod’s palace,” he said, his voice low enough that Leah could barely hear the words. “And you are not exactly a royal favorite right now. . . .”
But Alban merely motioned him away and returned to seat himself again across from her. She dropped her gaze, only to find herself staring at his hands as he unfastened the satchel’s straps.
He said, “In my homeland, the clan’s name is a title used only by the eldest son. For all other sons, such as myself, we may use just the one name.” He looked at her a moment, as if to ascertain whether she understood the parallel with her own story. He pulled a rough woven cloth from the satchel, the sort of bundle a shepherd might use for carrying his meal. Alban went on, “Not long ago we captured a band of Parthians who had been attacking the caravan route between Judaea and Syria. Most of my allotment went to Pilate as payment for your hand. All the wealth I had managed to collect before then had gone as a first offering to the prelate, and to reward the man who spoke on my behalf.”
Leah did not want to hear anything further, but she found herself unable to speak.
He unknotted the bundle and opened the cloth to reveal a wreath of woven gold. The circlet had been damaged and was misshapen. Even so, it was clearly a prize of great value.
Included with the circlet were five jewels. Leah recognized three of them as emeralds. The other two were rubies, she knew, from her dealings with her mistress’s jewelry.
“I was planning to have these made into a necklace, my betrothal gift to you.” Alban fastened up the bundle again as he spoke. “But I want you to have them now, if they will help you look beyond—”
“Please, no.” Her throat felt constricted, as though hands were throttling her neck. “I cannot accept this.”
“I will hold them in trust for you.” Alban quickly retied the bundle and rose to his feet.
She sat numbly. His gaze seemed to pin her to the chair.
“My lady,” he said, his voice a husky burr that drew a shiver from her. “Please forgive me, but I cannot call you by any other title at this time. I have never regretted my lack of fine words until this moment. I know that I stumble over my own tongue. But I wish you to know this: I shall do all in my power to restore to you the place and position you rightfully deserve.”
Leah’s breath again caught in her throat. She could only stare as he turned to follow Linux out of the room.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
After the Ceremony
ALBAN HAD NOT EXPECTED Leah to be so regal in bearing, or to have such an honest and intelligent manner. She held none of the haughtiness of other Roman ladies he had known. Alban had crossed paths with enough of them to know they wore too much scent. They drew their mouths into pouts as though the expression could hide the avarice in their eyes. They wore elegant robes belted by ropes of gold, their clothes simply another opportunity to flaunt their wealth and position.
This Leah was clearly someone else entirely. She was surprisingly tall and held herself so erect as to appear queenly. Yet she moved as though wishing to go utterly unnoticed, disturbing not even the air.
Alban recalled the way she had looked at him, with emerald eyes darkened b
y loss and splintered by pain.
He looked to his side and noticed Jacob was speaking. “What did you say?”
“I have seen her before, master.”
“Who?”
“The lady. The one beside you at your betrothal.”
Linux scowled. “Did you not hear anything the lad has been saying?”
“Apparently not.”
“She was at the plaza, sire.”
“Leah?” Alban stopped to look directly at Jacob. “With the disciples? Why?”
“I do not know, sire. But she was there. And she spoke with someone who came from inside the compound.”
“She met one of the disciples?”
“No, sire. She spoke with a woman.”
Linux must have read the concern on Alban’s face. “Perhaps the lad mistook her for another.”
“It was the same lady as came from the governor’s chambers just now,” Jacob insisted. “And she talked with one of the women from inside the disciples’ quarters. They talked for a long time. I know—I was watching them.”
Never had Leah’s bed seemed such an enemy as that night. Never had the dark held so many conflicting voices. Every time she began to drift off, she was startled back to wakefulness by the memory of two unblinking eyes the color of copper at sunrise. Alban had seemed immensely still, a man so secure in his abilities that he needed no adornment or even motion to establish who he was. He did not merely sit in a room, he took charge of the space around him.
Leah hugged her pillow to her chest and tried to tell herself that such a man as this would thrive on domination—brutally, if need be. That it was only a matter of time before her own laments joined the grief of her two sisters.
Then she remembered the centurion’s final words to her and shivered anew.
When dawn finally stole through her window, Leah rose almost in relief that she no longer had to struggle to sleep. She began her duties. Procula’s tray was ready long before her mistress awoke. Procula took the same breakfast every morning. Her instructions were very precise and came from the emperor’s own doctor. A handful of special leaves were to be twisted and clenched but not broken. The water was to be poured over them only after it had reached a hard boil. This was prescribed against the night humors, which the doctor was convinced were behind Procula’s headaches. Bread from the previous night was warmed along the edge of the morning fire until it became as hard as small bricks. Procula ate these spread with clotted cream and a sweet confection made from rose petals. One small orange when it was in season. A second mug of the tea.
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