The Centurion's Wife

by Davis Bunn; Janette Oke

  “We aren’t certain. But we are sure he will let us know at the right time.”

  “Do you mean his kingdom?” pressed Leah.

  “His kingdom is not one like we have understood. But he will reign from a throne. And when he does, it will be with the power of love.”

  “Love? Not revolution?”

  “No. Jesus never taught revolution, the kind with swords and battles and bloodshed. He talked about a revolution of love. Love your neighbor. Love your enemy.”

  Leah was stunned. “How can the man expect that?”

  Abigail thought for a moment. “I think that’s what his revolution is about—one that changes a person to be able to do something even that impossible.”

  “Do the others . . . do they believe as you do?”

  “Oh yes. The new kingdom will be one of restoration. Of peace. We will no longer have need for instruments of war.”

  A sharp flash of lightning ripped at the clouds overhead and was followed by a crack of thunder that shook the ground beneath them. Abigail laughed as she lifted her face to the rain. “We’d better head for the kitchens if we don’t want to be drenched,” she said. “Although it would be fun to stay out and play in the rain. I loved to do that when I was a child. My mother was always dragging me in. . . .”

  Leah noticed the shadow in Abigail’s eyes again, but then the girl sprang to her feet. “Come!”

  Leah felt a sudden urge to tell Abigail about her own mother and the burdens she carried. As though this younger woman might hold the answer to healing her own heavy spirit. But she remained silent as Abigail pulled Leah toward the door and shelter.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-FIVE

  In the Presence of Caiaphas

  Two Days Later

  AS ALBAN CROSSED the Antonia Fortress central courtyard, he found himself filled with a feeling so subtle he could not even give it a name. Yet this new awareness was powerful enough that he felt as if he could observe diverse experiences being forged together toward something new. He could not identify a reason for this change in perspective. Progress toward answering Pilate’s pressing demands remained slow. And he had heard nothing from Leah for eight days. Yet despite all this, gradually his search and his world seemed bound with something that defied his warrior’s pursuit of cold, hard facts.

  As he passed from the courtyard’s sunlight into the shadows of the gates, a legionnaire on duty at the fortress entrance said, “A moment, centurion.”

  Alban took an instant to bring the day back into focus. “Yes?”

  “One of the Temple guards brought this for you.”

  Alban made no move to accept the parchment. “You’re certain this is for me?”

  “He asked for you by name,” the soldier replied.

  With Leah’s warning at the forefront of his awareness, he accepted the parchment and stepped back into the shadows.

  The document was of woven linen, and held but one word. Come. Beneath it was the Temple seal, used by Caiaphas, the high priest of Jerusalem. Alban had seen the seal often enough, stamped upon documents nailed to the synagogue door in Capernaum.

  Alban returned to the sunlight. As he expected, a young lad stepped from across the cobblestoned lane, making it instantly clear he had been posted there, waiting for Alban. “You are the centurion?”

  “I am.” Alban held up the parchment. “And I am ready.”

  The youngster led Alban through streets and winding lanes to the shop of a famed seller of perfumes, a man who brought expensive wares to the elite and wealthy of Judaea. Alban had not been in the place himself but had passed it several times and heard of its renown in the Roman baths. Customers came from as far away as Damascus for flasks of the celebrated aromas. Alban had never thought of perfume for Leah. Perhaps it was a worthy gift to consider the next time he found himself with gold coins—whenever that might be.

  His guide looked like a Judaean slave and probably worked for the shop owner. The lad cast a glance at Alban, then turned into the dark passage beside the perfumery.

  Alban wondered why he was not being shown to the front entrance. Was this surreptitious entry for his anonymity—or that of Caiaphas? The sweet fragrances followed them down the otherwise foul-smelling alley. The boy stopped and lifted a hand to indicate a low-curtained doorway. The stout wooden door was propped open to let in a bit of air, Alban assumed, and to accommodate those who knew of this hidden entrance.

  A servant waited on the other side, clearly alerted to his approach. The servant shut and locked the heavy door behind him. The room’s only light came from a trio of oil lamps hung by chains from the high ceiling. Alban’s eyes took a moment to adjust to the chamber’s dimness.

  He then spotted Caiaphas standing by the back wall. The high priest wore formal robes and an air of stern dignity as he lifted his chin defiantly. Here was a man who would never bow to Caesar or any other Roman.

  Alban acknowledged the high priest with a simple nod and waited. He would not be the first to speak. The priest had called this meeting. Let him declare its purpose.

  There were no reclining couches or even benches in the dim, still room. The servant placed a single wooden stool on which the priest could seat himself and began fluttering a fan above him in the hot, overly scented air. Caiaphas lowered himself with a sigh. Alban knew the priest intended this all to be insulting, forcing the Roman to remain standing. Yet a curious emotional distance kept him calm.

  Alban had long made it a habit to observe and learn from human nature. Clearly this religious ruler considered Alban to be beneath him in every way. Yet in the presence of this powerful and devious man, Alban found himself looking beyond the moment and their conflict to something else, something just out of reach. He was still searching for whatever that might be when Caiaphas demanded, “Has your mission proved to be successful?”

  “Somewhat.” Alban turned to the servant and asked, “May I please trouble you for another seat?”

  The servant glanced at his master, who nodded. He swiftly left and returned with a matching stool. Alban eased himself down.

  “My thanks.”

  Caiaphas asked, “The young lady to whom you have been betrothed. What is her name?”

  “Leah.”

  Caiaphas lifted his chin once more. “Unless you are indeed a God-fearer, the ceremony is worthless and more. It is a sacrilege.”

  Alban found himself searching past the man’s belligerent tone. The high priest was so consumed by the maneuvering required to stay in power that he could not take a single easy breath. Caiaphas had eyes that burned with authority, yet his gaze was forever restless, constantly searching for hidden enemies, unknown threats. Here was a man Alban would normally have both feared and detested, for a suspicious man was liable to attack without warning. Yet now, in this strangest of moments, Alban felt what he could only describe as a twinge of sympathy.

  He had come to trust his instincts enough to make a decision that he would not even have considered previously. Alban decided to treat this foe as a friend.

  He replied, “It has never been my desire to cause any Judaean offense. Especially in matters related to religion.”

  “I am hearing reports of your investigation that disturb me. I demand to know precisely what you have learned.”

  “Sire?” Alban cocked his head. “Surely a man in your position would understand that a centurion takes his commands only from Rome.”

  Caiaphas made a process of adjusting his robes. He muttered, “It was a request, nothing more.”

  “In that case, I would gladly answer any question you might have, sire.”

  “There is continued talk about the dead prophet. You have heard it?”

  “I have.”

  “They are saying he has been seen—again.”

  Alban nodded. “I have heard this as well.”

  The high priest’s voice rose once more. “Who is behind these absurd claims?”

  “Word comes from many directions. People spea
k of it in the markets. I have heard it in the streets.”

  “As have I. But they all trace back to the leaders of the dead man’s group, yes?”

  “I have never met one of the prophet’s disciples, sire.”

  “I forbid you to refer to that man as a prophet!”

  Even the man’s sudden wrath did not touch Alban. He felt a calm that did not seem like his own. “I search for the same answers as you, sire.”

  “I need no answers!” The high priest bounded to his feet. “I need nothing except for this problem to be gone! I need nothing save for you Romans to stop meddling in business that is none of your concern!”

  “My apologies, sire, but Pilate has a different assessment of the situation. And it is his concern.”

  “The prelate fears revolution? Have him retreat back to Caesarea and leave Jerusalem to the Sanhedrin! We of the Council know what is the best course of action.” Caiaphas stalked the room’s narrow confines. “All this poking and prodding only stokes the same fires your so-called ‘prophet’ fueled. He fed the masses and their discontent.”

  “What are you referring to when you say ‘fed’?”

  Caiaphas stopped and stared at Alban. “Eh?”

  “You said the prophet fed them.”

  “I said no such thing!” The fact that Alban remained composed only heightened the priest’s ire. “You want to know what happened? Fine! I will tell you! A rabble-rousing Galilean upstart bribed the poorest of the poor with food, gathered the hordes with a charlatan’s promises of healing and revolution until they could no longer be ignored. He was finally tried and condemned in the court of Pilate himself.”

  “After a court of your Sanhedrin failed to do so,” Alban inserted mildly, “when it was clear that the witnesses against the prophet had been bribed.”

  “Lies!” Caiaphas slammed a fist into his other hand as if to strike out the words. “He had a just trial. He was convicted. He was crucified. Your soldiers gambled for his garments. He died. He was taken down and laid in a tomb. And it was from this tomb that his disciples stole away his body!”

  “And that is where the mystery begins.”

  “And I tell you there is only one mystery!” The man was shouting. “Why you Romans insist upon stirring up more trouble over a man who was never a prophet and who is now dead!”

  “I find it all very strange,” Alban said. “The man is crucified and laid in a tomb after one of the Sanhedrin wrapped him in proper burial fashion. He was cold in the bonds of death by the testimony of two witnesses who carried him to the tomb. Guards were set in place and the tomb was sealed.”

  Alban looked directly at Caiaphas. “Yet when those unsuspecting followers who thought they would find the dead man there arrived at the tomb, they found it empty and the linen cloth carefully folded and left in full view. I understand this would have been the prayer shawl used by all religious Judaeans, and it is your custom to use this as the face covering at burial. My question is this: Who, stealing a dead body, with Roman guards nearby, would stop to fold a cloth and leave it behind? Thieves are always in a hurry, even when not being pressed for time by guards of Rome. Yet someone did this. . . . Unusual, don’t you think? It puzzles me.”

  Caiaphas revealed a glimmer of surprise, a flash of doubt that darkened to concern. Many of the Judaeans who lived in the larger cities of Judaea and the Galilee were men like Caiaphas, educated and sleek and powerful. The man’s robes swinging behind him were a study in two rich cultures, Greek and Judaean. His internal state seemed to reflect this duality, this conflict. Clearly Caiaphas was a man who considered himself religious—after all, he served as the Temple’s high priest, just like his father before him. Yet Caiaphas was also a sophisticated man, used to dealing with worldly power. The ruling council derived their power from the Romans, the same people they clearly detested and wished out of their homeland. Of course they were conflicted.

  Caiaphas resumed his pacing. “We were right to insist upon the criminal’s death. His crowd of followers grew every day. Soon Rome would have been blaming us for the troubles. There would have been a price to pay had Caesar smelled a rebellion.”

  “Did he preach rebellion, this Jesus?”

  “The Galilean announced himself as ‘the Promised One’! Absurd! How could this be when Israel is ruled by Rome? Dangerously absurd! Yet the riffraff was deceived by his silky speeches. They even started calling him Messiah.” The word seemed to lodge in the high priest’s throat like a bone. “So now the Galilean is dead. That much I know. I watched the imposter die, I received the report that he had been buried and the tomb sealed, and I and the priesthood went through the purification rites, though none of us had touched the body. But we all felt a need to separate ourselves from this pretender before starting our Passover. And I deeply resent the fact that you insist upon raising the issue again!”

  Alban rose slowly to his feet. “I appreciate your concern, sire. But I regret that I cannot end my search. I am a soldier, and I must continue to obey the prelate’s command. And the prelate is not yet satisfied with the information he has received thus far.”

  “There are no further answers required! The matter is settled!”

  “Respectfully, sire, there are questions for which I must have answers. Two of which I had hoped you might assist me with.” Alban waited until the high priest lifted his gaze. “First, why did you order the tomb’s guards to insist the disciples had stolen the body, and give them a large sum of money for their silence? I request that you please do not deny it, sire. I have found the guards and retain their sworn statements.”

  The quiet was so complete Alban could hear the priest’s breaths, sharp jabbing intakes. The servant stood as if carved from stone.

  “And second, how would you describe a man who has risen from the dead? I know it sounds absurd—I can scarcely believe those words have come from my own mouth. But I am increasingly drawn to wonder if this might—just might—have happened. What would you call such a man? A prophet? Or something more?”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-SIX

  Pilate’s Palace, Jerusalem

  LATER THAT DAY, Alban presented himself at the entrance leading to Pilate’s residence, saluted the guard, and said, “The centurion Alban. I have business with the governor’s household.”

  The guard gave an informal wave for him to proceed inside. Alban was too anxious about what lay ahead to object to the man’s casual air. No battlements, no cave full of Parthians, no menace in the night could cause a greater shiver in his gut than the encounter ahead of him.

  At the entrance to the door to the palace itself, a guard he did not recognize demanded, “Your name and purpose?”

  “The centurion Alban sends his respects and asks to see Leah, niece of Pilate and servant to the mistress Procula.”

  The guard smirked. “Wait here, centurion.”

  Alban settled onto the bench closest to the exit. A hummingbird flitted overhead, a feathered jewel that flashed through the sunlight like an arrow. He could not have guessed at the passage of time, but it seemed like hours he waited.

  And then she was there before him.

  He rose and gave a noble’s bow. “I wish to offer my sincere greetings.”

  Leah was followed at a discreet distance by another woman, one with a crone’s face and deeply seamed features. Leah motioned toward her and said, “This is Dorit, my closest friend in Pilate’s household.”

  Alban bowed toward the servant as he would a lady of the realm. “An honor, madam.”

  Clearly Leah felt close to the woman, for her eyes softened and she said, “Dorit, will you sit please?” The woman took a place on another bench a dozen paces away, her eyes never leaving Alban’s face.

  Alban motioned toward the bench he had occupied, and Leah carefully sat at one end of it. He could not take in the fact that this woman was his betrothed. She was both tall and strong yet seemed also weak and broken. Her gaze was intelligent yet fractured with old pain. She was
queenly but wore a servant’s robe. He knew most in Roman society would find her too tall, too direct, too strong, too tainted by her family’s tragedy to be interesting or appealing. Yet never had he imagined he might one day come to call someone such as this woman his own. “I thought perhaps I had dreamed you were so beautiful. I find my eyes did see correctly, and my memory has remained true.”

  Leah flushed and dropped her gaze to the stone tiles. “I don’t know what you see. I am an ordinary—”

  “No, please,” Alban said, stopping her with an outstretched hand. “I cannot accept that word to describe you.”

  Leah was silent a long moment, then said quietly, “I had just been wondering how I might send word to you. I don’t even know where you are staying.”

  He sat down on the other end of the bench. “Above the Antonia Fortress stables, across from the main portals.”

  “I have just learned that the disciples left yesterday for Galilee. They were told to meet Jesus upon a mountain there where he taught. The women among his followers tell me it is just north of Tiberias.”

  “I know it well.” He inspected her closely, wishing he knew how to take away the veil of sorrow across her eyes, far more concealing than the end of her shawl. “Once more I find myself in your debt, my lady. I must thank you again for what you told me at the prophet’s tomb. I understand what it took for you to warn me.”

  Leah whispered, “If you tell anyone, I will not last the night.”

  They were in plain view of the old woman and the guard, though both kept their distance. Alban kept his voice low. “I have not told a soul, and it will remain so.” Alban leaned close enough to catch a trace of her fragrance, a mixture of soap and lavender and a long day’s toil. “We have both been battered by life’s unfairness. But this does not diminish us.”

  “How can you say such things of a woman you do not know?”

  “Because I see in you what I am not yet able to describe in words.”

  Leah’s chin quivered. She took a long breath and seemed to regain her composure. Alban watched the action and was so moved by her fortitude he wished he could disregard the watching eyes and take her in his arms. Instead he settled a bound bundle in her hands where they rested in her lap. “I would be very grateful if you would accept this token of my gratitude and my very warm regard for you.”