The Centurion's Wife

by Davis Bunn; Janette Oke

  The late afternoon heat had driven everyone indoors. As he returned from the stable to the inn, Alban passed a pair of donkeys huddled beneath an awning, their eyes shut against the flies. Otherwise the lane he walked was empty. He sensed more than saw the men who followed him.

  He had spotted trackers twice as he crossed high hills and pretended to inspect his horse’s hoof while discreetly scouting the route behind him.

  Now he purposely walked with a distinct limp, as though working out cramps from an overlong day in the saddle. But his body and mind were alert and on guard, thanks to Leah’s warning.

  What held his thoughts fast at the moment was his conversation with a bearded Judaean whose gaze and words had rocked his world. Anyone could love their friends, Joseph of Arimathea had told him. Even the Romans could do that. Even a warrior. Jesus had taught his followers to love one’s enemy.

  Alban stepped into the plaza and surveyed the empty area. But what he was thinking was that no one who taught such lessons could foment an armed revolution. Alban went on to consider the challenge to forgive his own brother—even after he had cruelly sought Alban’s death, banishing him from home. Even to contemplate such a thing left Alban astounded and shaken to the core.

  Alban forced himself to concentrate upon the danger at hand. He limped awkwardly toward the pair of lanes opening ahead. He lowered his head and shielded his eyes as though the sunlight was almost too much to bear. He selected the narrower lane, the one most completely enshrouded in gloom. Every town had such places as this, dark even at high noon, with high walls protecting family compounds on both sides. Alban took his time down the narrow alley, wondering if he might have unwittingly lost them. Then he heard the soft pad of footsteps behind him.

  He arrived at a corner and leaned hard upon the stone, squinting and searching the various turnings as though uncertain which way to proceed. Alban pretended at deep weariness and walked slower still. But the harsh breath that hissed through his teeth was real enough.

  Then he heard a soft twang.

  Instantly he dropped and rolled. The arrow thrummed the air over his head and shot into the wall opposite, its feathers trembling at the force.

  Alban came up with sword in his hand. One of his earliest lessons had been how to combine a series of actions into one smooth motion, how to change a moment of perceived defeat into unexpected strength.

  Clearly his assailants had not expected the feint. The man in front faltered slightly, for Alban was neither screaming from the arrow nor open to a final strike. The second man tumbled into the first, forcing them both off balance.

  Alban quickly stepped forward and used his sword hilt to hammer the first attacker between his eyes. The man remained on his feet, but his eyes fluttered and his hand dropped his blade.

  When Alban saw the bowman raise his bow and take aim again, he took a half step to his right, placing the stunned foe between himself and the next arrow. The second man thrust at Alban with a wickedly curved sword. But he risked hitting his mate and the force was halfhearted. Alban parried the thrust easily and slid his own blade down the attacker’s sword, slipping around its guard and digging his point into the attacker’s hand. The man shouted and released his own blade in a clatter on the stones.

  A voice shouted, “Behind you!”

  Alban flattened to the earth in an instant. The air over his head whistled, and a metal-tipped mallet aimed for his head struck the wounded assailant, who howled in further pain. This third attacker again spun the hammer over his head and struck downward. But Alban was already rolling away and felt the earth near his head tremble from the strike. He jabbed his sword at the attacker’s leg, but the man scrambled out of reach. Alban spun and leapt back to his feet. He yelled, “Take out the bowman!”

  The third assailant snarled and closed and took a vicious swipe.

  Alban parried the blow, his sword catching the mallet’s metal face and breaking clean off, leaving only its hilt in Alban’s hand.

  Then he saw the fourth assailant. He shouted, “Toss me your sword!”

  The answer was the clash of steel upon steel. He realized Linux was occupied with his own struggle and unable to help him.

  Alban did the only thing that came to mind. He ran—upward.

  He dropped his sword hilt and used a hitching rail to make an impossible leap and land upon the top of a wall. The two remaining attackers roared their anger. Alban sprinted down the wall as the stone behind him rang with the sound of metal upon stone.

  Two steps ahead, the narrow wall made a right-hand turn. Alban knew his speed would not allow him to make the angle, so he accelerated and raced out into the air. All limbs windmilled, seeking a hold that was not there.

  He landed in the dust, rolling and coming up against a cart’s wheel. Alban scrambled under the cart just as one of the assassins raced within range and swung his hammer once more. The blow was so savage it broke the wheel. The cart tumbled over, nearly crushing Alban in the process. The load of bricks poured out, forcing the assailant to retreat.

  Alban knew now was his best chance. He scrambled out, grabbing two bricks along the way. Even before he was fully on his feet, he loosed the first brick. He missed, but the throw halted the attacker for a moment. Alban took more careful aim and threw the second brick with all his might, striking one foe directly above his heart. The man’s breath rushed out and he sat down hard, a look of stunned disbelief upon his scarred and bearded features.

  Alban ducked the hammer’s next swing and reached for more bricks. His attacker was grunting with each breath, the hammer’s weight slowing his actions. Alban stepped in and clapped the bricks to either side of the attacker’s helmet. The steel rang like a gong. Alban extended his arms out as far as they would go and struck again.

  The man dropped like a sack.

  Alban plucked the sword from the man’s fingers. He swirled and thrust the blade at the neck of the stunned assailant. The man froze in the process of rising from the dust.

  “It’s over,” Alban said.

  “Explain to me again why we must go through all this nonsense,” Linux said.

  They were seated in an open-fronted inn on the plaza’s western side, deep inside the awning’s shade. The five attackers were lashed to a hitching post by the well, kneeling in the dust with their wrists bound level with their heads. The square was filled with villagers now, talking in low voices.

  “Have you noticed,” Alban asked, “how the village has suddenly sprung to life? As though they might have been aware of the attack before it occurred?”

  “Of course I have,” Linux said, sounding peevish. “And that is no answer at all.”

  Alban and Linux had planned carefully, then made as much noise as possible to announce their departure from Jerusalem. Their hardest task had been dealing with Jacob’s insistence on coming also. Alban had to become rather stern, finally convincing the boy that his presence would put Alban’s life in greater danger.

  Alban had left Jerusalem alone. Linux had left at the same time but on the road toward Caesarea, which departed from the city’s opposite side. Once beyond the hippodrome, Linux had made his way overland, circling back around the camps beyond the walls.

  “The village could well be a hiding place for the bandits,” Alban now said patiently to his partner. “Or at least a point for information to be exchanged. Think of it: The bandits pay for a safe haven at the juncture of the two most important roads east of Jerusalem.”

  Linux waited as the nervous tavern keeper placed food and mugs of something hot before them, then scurried away. “I still don’t understand why you won’t let me lash these fellows behind my horse and drag them back to Pilate.”

  Alban rose to his feet without responding. He carried his empty mug out into the waning sunlight. The villagers backed away as he approached the five bandits. Alban ignored the surrounding peasants and reached for the rope attached to the well’s overhang. He pulled up the leather bucket, set it on the well’s ledge, and
filled his mug. He walked to the closest attacker, who flinched at his approach. Alban held the mug to the man’s cracked and dusty lips and said, “Drink.”

  “You’re wasting perfectly good water,” Linux called over to him.

  “Be a friend and fetch my sack.” Alban let the man drain the mug. He filled it again and gave it to the next bandit. He continued until all had drunk. He then exchanged the sack from Linux for the mug, opened its neck, and pulled out the scroll. He said to the bandits, “I am going to assume at least one of you speaks Aramaic. No band would dare enter this far into Judaea without at least one to speak for you.” He held it so the golden eagle caught the sunlight. “This scroll bears the Imperial Eagle and the governor’s seal. It grants me full powers within Judaea.”

  Alban motioned with the scroll to Linux. “My friend serves on the prelate’s personal staff. He wants to take you back with him to Pilate. You know what will happen then. You will be questioned in the Roman fashion.”

  A moan could be heard from one of them.

  “And then,” Alban continued, “you will be crucified.”

  He settled the scroll back into the sack and cinched the top shut. Alban handed the sack back to Linux. And he waited.

  Finally one of the men muttered, “What do you want?”

  The attacker who had wielded the hammer barked out a guttural command. Linux’s blade flashed in the sunlight and came to rest upon the attacker’s neck. The man went silent.

  Alban said, “I am going to give you a choice. I have fought the Parthians. I know they are men of valor and fierce warriors. So I offer you this: Tell me what I want to know, and my friend will transport you to Tyre. There you will serve upon the galleys for five years.”

  “It is the same death,” one of them scoffed. But his voice trembled. “Only slower.”

  “Nothing is the same as an interrogation and crucifixion,” another shot back.

  “We don’t know if we can trust him,” put in a third.

  “Five years,” Alban repeated. “And then you will be freed. You have attacked a Roman officer upon a Roman road. You deserve far worse, as you are well aware.”

  The hammer wielder started to speak but was silenced as Linux pressed the sword more firmly.

  The first attacker said, “What guarantee do you offer?”

  “My word as you hear it now. Answer my questions, and I will put everything in writing.”

  “We do not read—”

  “I do,” Linux said. “I will confirm what is said, upon my oath as an officer. Though I say it would be far better to hang you on a Golgotha tree.”

  “Three questions,” Alban said. “First, you are Parthians, yes?”

  “We are.”

  This time Linux pressed the blade before the one with the mallet could even open his mouth.

  “The Parthians are responsible for the attacks upon the Damascus Road?”

  “Not all,” another muttered. “But most.”

  “This village is your point of contact?” When he received a grudging nod from one attacker, he went on, “You have watchers in place who report when caravans are passing, and which route they take.”

  “We have spies everywhere,” the hammer wielder reported, pride in his voice in spite of the knife in his neck. “Even in the palaces of Caesarea.”

  Alban said to Linux, “You will tell Pilate?”

  “His questioners would have obtained this same information.”

  “Perhaps. But with me they did not have fear and pain staining their answers.”

  Linux lowered his blade and eyed Alban with new respect. “Pilate was right in what he said. You have the makings of a hero about you.”

  Alban obtained parchment and a writing implement from the innkeeper. He wrote carefully, invoking Pilate’s name and his own authority. “You will ensure the admiral is aware of my agreement?” he asked Linux.

  “My own document will travel with yours, and I will personally select trustworthy guards for the journey. Though I still feel—”

  “We obtained all we needed.”

  Linux thumped his fists upon the table. “I ask again, why do you not want to hand these men over to Pilate?”

  “It is not about Pilate.” Alban continued writing. “I do not approve of crucifixions. Sending them back to Jerusalem would guarantee their fate on crosses.”

  “Crucifixions maintain order.”

  “I maintain order throughout all Galilee, and I have never required it.”

  “You are not most other men,” Linux replied, admiration in his voice.

  Alban finished the document, reread it, then left it to dry. “In truth, this quest of Pilate’s has left me even more averse to such methods.”

  “Now I am truly astonished. How could searching Jerusalem for the body of a dead Judaean influence you at all?”

  Alban stared out over the plaza. The sun was almost upon the horizon now, bathing the dusty village in hues of ochre and bronze. “Would you ever be able to forgive your brother?”

  Linux rocked back in his seat. “Why would I even consider such a thing?”

  “A worthy question.” Alban nodded. “And my brother went one further than yours. He paid men to kill me.”

  “Over supper on the way to Caesarea, you told me you’d break your own oath of fealty to bring battle to him.” Linux cocked his head. “Is this how you are after battle, morose and full of dark regrets?”

  “It’s not that.”

  “I have heard of such things, you know. Though you should take care to whom you make such confessions. Some would count you as weak.”

  “I told you. This quest has filled me with questions for which I have no answers.”

  “Well, I can certainly help you with this one.” Linux had features which adapted quickly to his swift-changing moods. They hardened now into the stone of old anger. “The answer is, you will never need worry about forgiving those who wrong you. Your brother and mine share one quality: They are both scum of the earth. But we are warriors and officers of Rome. We are not thinkers. We are wielders of Rome’s might, and we bring chaos and fire and havoc to all who defy Rome’s power. We keep such musings down deep and use them to fuel the soldier’s thrust of weapons and his cry of war.”

  Alban nodded as though he agreed. Yet inwardly he continued to listen to a faint whisper, like a song just beyond the range of his hearing, but one so compelling it caused his soul to cry out in return.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  The Village of Bethany

  JUST AS THE SUN touched the western horizon, another guest joined the group for the traditional Friday-evening meal in the home of Lazarus and his sisters. Cleopas was greeted by the others with a familial embrace, the same informal warmth that marked so many of the contacts Leah had witnessed between followers of Jesus. Though poverty marked the household by what it did not hold, Leah noted that the home held a richness of spirit that money could not buy. She sat at the table’s far corner, taking this opportunity to observe. The group clearly respected her distance. Happy conversation swirled around her after the Sabbath rituals, and she couldn’t help but contrast it with her own family meals during her formative years.

  Leah knew she tended to idolize her childhood, as though everything had been fine before disaster had struck. But in truth her family had always been focused upon wealth and power and status. They had judged happiness in earthly terms, and conversations at table had centered on how much they possessed and how well they lived in comparison to others.

  But these people had almost nothing. The sisters and brother, orphaned while still very young, obviously struggled for their daily needs. Even the Sabbath candles they lit were of such poor quality they sputtered and constantly threatened to extinguish themselves.

  And yet they were happy in a manner that did not so much defy their poverty as simply accept it and be content. Leah studied them and found herself wanting the same for herself.

  Cleopas was a large man
with a stonecutter’s hands, yet he spoke with a voice as gentle as Lazarus’s. When the newcomer looked her way, his eyes held the same glow, his voice the same warmth.

  “So you are in Pilate’s household?”

  “I am, yes.”

  “How did you come to be here with us in this grand place?” he asked with a smile.

  “I was sent to spy on you.”

  Cleopas looked around the rest of the table. “She speaks the truth?”

  Leah replied, “Would I make up such a thing?”

  Mary, the sister of Lazarus, gave Leah a smile of her own. “She has spent too long in the kitchen with Martha.”

  “There is nothing wrong with frank speech,” Martha stated.

  “So, my honest lady.” Cleopas turned back to Leah. “What does Pontius Pilate wish from us?”

  “I was sent by his wife, Procula. She had suffered dreadful nightmares and terrible headaches since . . .”

  “Since the night before the day,” Martha supplied with a nod.

  “She became better after Mary Magdalene prayed for her,” Leah added.

  “I pray for her still.”

  Cleopas showed no surprise at any of this. “Her dreams and her pain are gone, and she continues to send you anyway?”

  “Pilate wishes to know where the body of Jesus of Nazareth is and whether the disciples are a threat to Rome. And Procula is also concerned about this.”

  “And you? What is it you want?”

  Leah looked across the table and took strength from Martha’s calm gaze. The words seemed to form themselves. “I wish for . . . for my heart to be healed.”

  Cleopas’s hand came down on the table hard enough to clatter the dishes. “Well said, young woman!”

  Lazarus, who had said the least during the previous exchanges, now prompted, “Tell her of your experience, Cleopas.”

  “She would be more interested in what happened to you, old friend.”