The Centurion's Wife

by Davis Bunn; Janette Oke

  Leah made no response, but her hands fumbled with the tie. She opened the packet and breathed out a long sigh.

  The robe was made from a fabric as soft as any Alban had ever felt. It was simple enough, nothing that might attract any jealous attention of others within the prelate’s household. Yet a freedwoman of station might wear such as this. Alban supposed a lady of stature would be at ease crossing the central plaza of Jupiter in this garment. “I saw this and knew it was made for you.”

  “I cannot accept such a gift.”

  “Please, Leah, I cannot now imagine it gracing any other woman but you.”

  Her gaze and her hands remained upon the robe. “It is the most beautiful gift anyone has ever given me.”

  “You will keep it, then.”

  She hesitated for enough time to stroke the robe again, then gave a simple nod.

  “You make me very glad.”

  Then she did something that astonished him. This woman who was able to mask her interior world, this woman of such immense inner strength she humbled him, this woman wept a single tear.

  Alban resisted the urge to ask her why she wept. To probe would only cause her further distress. There would be time for both of them to share their most sorrowful secrets. Time as well, hopefully, to find solace in each other. He said merely, “If Pilate is to be believed, he has offered me a position on his staff once I complete this quest.”

  She blinked fiercely and took a determined breath. “My mistress speaks of this as though it has already happened.”

  “The other officers on his staff are both Roman and wealthy. I am from Gaul. And I am hardly a man of means.”

  She tried to give him back the robe. “Oh, Alban, you must return this.”

  He settled the gift and her hands back in her lap, his heart warmed by hearing her speak his name. “I confess my poverty only because I can’t give you the home you deserve.”

  “During the past three years, I have slept on a pallet in the servants’ quarters. I share the chamber with slaves.” She was silent a long moment, her hands stroking the robe. “You give me something I do not dare even name.”

  Alban felt his heart swell with an unfamiliar emotion. His connection to this remarkable woman was no longer about vindication of his name, nor career advancement, nor wealth and power. What he felt was beyond any desires he had ever held, beyond anything he had ever known for another human being.

  Alban saw their chaperone shifting around on the bench and knew their time had come to an end. He rose to his feet and moved to where he blocked the woman’s view of Leah.

  “Leah, I sense something is happening with you,” he said quietly.

  She almost wept the words, “How do you know these things?”

  “Because I believe I am going through something similar. Can you tell me?”

  “I don’t know if I can find the words to explain it. The people I have met who follow this Jesus. They . . .”

  When she didn’t finish Alban said, “Though you do not understand, still you are convicted. As am I.”

  She rose to her feet, clasping the robe to herself with both arms. “Who is this Jesus?”

  Once more Alban gave her a courtier’s bow, more for the benefit of the watchers than for Leah. “That is what I intend to find out.”

  With a trembling smile, Leah echoed, “And I as well.”

  On the day they were to travel to Bethany, Leah left the palace before daybreak to head to the now-familiar plaza. She found herself anticipating these visits more and more, though they troubled her long after she returned to the palace. She was surprised at how often the words and actions of her grandmother now became part of her whirl of thoughts. Things she had easily dismissed as a child returned unbidden to mind, and with them came an understanding of their meaning. To her dying day, the woman had cherished her Judaean roots, the faith of her fathers. Leah longed for the chance to have discussed her recent experiences with her. Now, though, it was her responsibility to ferret out the truth on her own.

  When she reached the courtyard and entered the kitchens, she found Martha and Mary busy making preparations for the journey ahead. Mary came up beside her and put a hand on her shoulder. “I’m afraid we have some bad news,” she said gently. “Abigail has had an accident with the washtubs. She spilled boiling water on herself.”

  Leah felt her throat constrict. “Oh no—where is she?”

  “Resting in her room.”

  “Is she . . .” But Leah could not finish her question.

  Martha said, “She is in pain. We are doing all we can.”

  Mary said, “One leg is badly burned. The other was only splashed a bit. It will heal quickly.” She squeezed Leah’s arm. “I will take you there.”

  Abigail lay on a cot in her simple upstairs room. The injured leg lay atop the cover, wrapped in a cloth that oozed some kind of dark liquid. She smiled wanly as Leah came through the door. The pain was clear in her face.

  “Oh, Abigail. What have you done?”

  Abigail watched as Leah pulled a stool over close to the bed.

  “I was lying here thinking of the Master.”

  Leah seated herself and reached to take the girl’s hand. The bond between them was growing strong. Abigail murmured, “I remember his eyes when he passed, the way my heart was instantly healed. I know it sounds silly, talking about sorrows being lifted.”

  “It doesn’t sound silly at all.”

  “It brings me comfort right now, remembering him in that moment. I feel as though my pain makes the memory clearer.”

  Leah stared at the girl’s slender fingers, felt the callouses from her work, the strength even in pain. “You remind me so much of my sister. Her name was Portia.”

  “You say ‘was.’ . . . What happened to her?”

  “She’s . . . gone.” It was strange to be speaking of this, especially now. But the words rose unbidden from her heart, as though seeing Abigail in pain had heightened her own loss. “Portia was born to sing, to laugh, to shower everyone around her with joy. Just like you.”

  “I felt that way as a child. My mother said I was born to make her smile. I thought I lost that ability forever.” Abigail searched Leah’s face. “You miss your sister.”

  She swallowed hard. “So much.”

  “There is pain in you. And much strength. You are stronger than I could ever be.”

  “I don’t feel strong just now.”

  “You have handled your distress alone. I could never do that.”

  Leah stared into the beautiful face and for once saw beyond the shadows of pain. “I wish . . .”

  “What?”

  If only your Master were here now, thought Leah, surprising herself. Then she found herself asking Abigail the most astonishing question. “Is there any chance that . . . that Jesus might come . . . ”

  “We never know,” Abigail responded. “He comes at unexpected times. Suddenly he is here. Then he leaves us again. We do not know.”

  The answer did not satisfy Leah. “Isn’t there some way he can be—well, summoned?”

  Abigail smiled in spite of her obvious pain. “He is not our servant, Leah. He is our Master. Even when he is not visible, we know he knows and cares about us. He is as close as a prayer.”

  Prayer! Of course. They all prayed. They believed. And their God had answered. Abigail’s quiet faith in the face of scalding injuries was a mystery beyond Leah’s understanding. “I was invited to visit Bethany. Perhaps I should stay with you instead.”

  “Oh, Leah, you must go. There is so much you will learn. Please.

  Please don’t let this keep you here. I have many to help me.”

  Leah reached a hand to Abigail’s shoulder. “If that is what you wish—I will go.”

  Abigail relaxed against her pillow. “And I will pray,” she said simply.

  The little group left for Bethany as soon as Leah came from her visit with Abigail, the four women taking turns riding a single donkey. It was a practice Leah h
ad seen often enough upon the local roads. Families walking long distances would, one by one, take their turn resting their weary bodies. The road was jammed long before the sun strengthened into the full light of day. Travelers hastened in both directions, departing Jerusalem in hopes of celebrating the Sabbath with their families, or hurrying to arrive within the city walls before the Temple trumpet sounded the evening prayers.

  Leah, Mary Magdalene, Mary, and Martha were accompanied by the sisters’ brother Lazarus. He was a small man, standing scarcely as tall as his energetic older sister. He carried an expression that greeted every sight with quiet wonder.

  Leah could see how Mary was very much like her brother, small-boned and quiet. They both had a gentle smile and demeanor that Leah found almost otherworldly. She was more at home around Martha, who bustled as though the day moved at too slow a pace to suit her. Leah liked her no-nonsense manner and the direct way she met gazes and conversation alike. When Mary Magdalene settled upon the donkey for her turn to ride, Leah left Lazarus and Mary and moved forward to walk alongside Martha.

  Their dusty road passed along the base of a high hill blanketed by olive trees. The leaves glinted silver in the sunlight. Martha must have noticed where Leah was looking and said, “That was the Master’s favorite place to pray.”

  Leah liked how the women felt no need to either pry or waste breath on idle conversation. “Was?”

  “Who knows what he does now. Or where.” Martha shrugged, her answer like her walk, direct and swift and blunt. “Does he go to heaven and then come back to meet with his disciples? Does he dwell here in some secret place? My sister and brother love such questions. I have no time for them myself.”

  Leah hesitated, then confessed, “I find it easier to speak with you.”

  “That’s because we’re doers, you and I. I recognized it the first time we met. You came into the kitchen, and you picked up a knife and began paring vegetables. You knew what needed doing and you did it. My sister is so different from us both. Every time the Lord visited, Mary dropped whatever she was doing and clung to his every word. Her eyes never left him. Once I chided her for not helping with the meal I was preparing, and our Lord rebuked me for it.”

  “What did he say?”

  “That Mary had chosen to do the best thing, and that it would not be taken from her.” Martha spoke as matter-offactly as she would about the weather. “I saw then that there are many ways to serve our Lord. Some like you and I do it through action. Others like Mary do it through reverence.”

  Leah pondered on that for a time, then confessed, “I find your brother to be rather unusual.”

  “Yes, he is different from the rest of us,” Martha said briskly.

  “Especially since . . .”

  It was not typical of Martha to hesitate. Leah prompted, “Yes?”

  Martha glanced her way. “Since Jesus raised him from the dead.” Leah stopped in the middle of the road. “Tell me, please,” she implored.

  The story of Lazarus and his emerging from the burial tomb, the death garments streaming about his body, took the rest of the journey. Midway through, Martha was joined in the telling by Mary. Leah’s turn came upon the donkey’s back, and the two sisters walked on either side while Mary Magdalene and Lazarus walked on ahead. He said nothing about the experience, though he did not appear uncomfortable with the retelling. In fact, whenever he met Leah’s gaze, he smiled. When a turning in the road and the jostling travelers blocked the pair from view, Leah asked quietly, “What does he say of it?”

  “He says he remembers little,” Mary said. Her voice also resembled her brother’s, a soft sibilance carrying a trace of otherworldliness. “It seems what he does recall is not meant for this earth.”

  Martha shot a look across the donkey’s neck to her sister.

  “You’ve never told me that before.”

  “I have no way of knowing whether I am right or not. But I have spent much time thinking on it. Jesus also does not speak of his death, but he tells us what we are to do. He says that all is well. He gives us his love and his wisdom. But no explanations about what actually happened, or what will come next.” She looked ahead toward where her brother walked with Mary Magdalene. “I think our dear Lazarus may have come very close to God. And what earthly words could describe such a moment?”

  The village of Bethany had neither central plaza nor market nor even a tavern. They took a heavily rutted lane that meandered up and over a rocky terrace. Backyard corrals were built from whatever rubble was nearest—branches, mud, stones, bits of cloth and furniture and discarded bedding. It was the poorest village Leah had ever seen, midway down a rise and somewhat sheltered from the wind but facing into an empty valley of rock and desert shrub and lengthening shadows. Mary Magdalene saw her expression and said quietly that the name Bethany in the ancient Hebrew tongue meant “a house of affliction.” She also said it was one of their Lord’s favorite places, one he returned to time and again.

  The house was of a common design. The lower floor was split into two chambers, a kitchen and a larger communal room. Up an outside stairway were two more rooms, sleeping chambers for the women and the men. Above that was a flat roof, high sided so that the people who slept there on hot summer nights were granted privacy. The simple home was neat and clean. Martha took charge of the meal preparation as Leah joined her in the kitchen. The others began preparing the table and setting a fire.

  Leah was shaken to the core by the story of Lazarus. She had been hearing of miracles performed by Jesus for weeks. But this one struck her very hard indeed. She was grateful for Martha’s willingness to leave her in silence, glad also for the normal tasks that occupied her hands and allowed her mind to roam. She finally came to settle upon precisely what had left her world tilted slightly upon its foundations.

  Her hands paused in their chopping of vegetables to add to the broth simmering over the coals. She said to Martha, “I feel I can speak frankly with you.”

  “I was wondering when you were going to let out what you’ve been chewing on,” the woman said with a little smile.

  “I am betrothed . . .” Leah took a breath and started again. “I am betrothed to a Roman centurion.”

  Martha stepped over and took the knife from Leah’s trembling hand. “Let’s set this aside before you cut yourself. Here. Sip some water. Better?”

  “Yes.”

  A voice in the doorway said, “It is almost sunset.”

  “We’ll be ready on time. We always are.” Martha turned back to Leah. “Tell me.”

  “My sisters were imprisoned in terrible marriages with men who saw them only as chattel. I fear the same thing happening to me.” Leah’s voice shook along with her hands. She looked up at Martha. “The betrothal was not of my choosing. Soon after, I was given information that the centurion was going to be assassinated. I thought this was my way out. I almost let him die. But I didn’t.”

  Martha reached over and put a hand on her shoulder. The hand was thickly calloused, yet the gesture carried an uncommon gentleness and comfort.

  “I’ve hardly ever cried,” Leah said now, her voice low. “It is one of the few things I have taken pride in through this whole impossible experience. I did not weep even through all that happened to me and my family. But now I want to cry all the time.”

  “I don’t think you’ve allowed yourself to hope either,” Martha said. “What is the centurion’s name?”

  Leah lowered her head, tears forcing their way down her cheeks.

  Martha gripped her hand and peered into her face. “Try.”

  Leah whispered, “Alban.”

  “So your Alban has come into your life. He is no longer merely a name upon a betrothal document. He is a man for whom you have feelings. You hope that there might be a tomorrow for you together.”

  Leah grasped the woman’s strong hand with both of hers. “But men fail—even good ones. They break up families. They rage and they wound. And then they leave.”

  “Some
do. My own father died. My mother too. And finally, Jesus himself did not come when we sent for him, and my brother Lazarus died as well.” Martha spoke in the same calm tone Leah had come to recognize. “Then, when all hope was lost, Jesus did come. Do you know what I think now?”

  Leah shook her head.

  “Mary and I have spent quite a bit of time with the Master. I saw him teach, I saw him heal, I saw him dine with his disciples, I saw him leave, and I saw him return. And this is what I think: I believe every moment of his entire life has been spent setting an example. Every breath, every act, every word, carries message upon message upon message. His every instant was meant to bring eternity into the moment and hope to this fallen world. The death of my brother, our time of broken mourning, our loss of hope . . .”

  It was Martha’s turn to stop and struggle with her emotions. Then she said, “He did this not only for us, but for everyone who witnessed that day. And for those like you who hear of it. He did this to show that even in the darkest hour, when there is no reason to go forward, no possibility of a better tomorrow, he is there to comfort, to guide, to heal. He brings with him the gift of hope. Impossible, glorious, joyful hope.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  North of Jerusalem a Day’s Journey

  ALBAN WALKED DOWN a squalid village lane and thought of the city he had left behind. Despite Jerusalem’s overwhelming crowds, particularly at festival time, the city showed a remarkable tidiness. But this Bedouin village, a day’s ride into the Samaritan desert, held perhaps a thousand souls and prospered because it was located at the point where the Damascus Road separated from the one leading north to Galilee. The village included an underground water system that fed an oasis planted with date palms and olive trees. Broad dirt plazas, every one surrounded by taverns and travelers’ markets, each held a well. The remainder was a haphazard scramble of corrals and vegetable patches and mud-thatched houses. Refuse was piled in the unlikeliest of places, and animals bleating from neighboring pens added their own stench. Alban swatted at the ferocious flies and appreciated Jerusalem anew.