The Centurion's Wife

by Davis Bunn; Janette Oke

  Soon a circle of women had joined hands with Leah to implore the Almighty to give Alban courage and wisdom. “And please protect his life and Leah’s,” Martha’s sister prayed fervently.

  When they were finished, Leah whispered to Martha that Alban had requested Nathanael be made award of the situation. Martha quickly sent a child to find him, and when he entered the kitchen, Leah briefly repeated the grim news, and Nathanael led them in another prayer. “I will ask the other disciples to pray as well,” he assured Leah as he left.

  Alban was kept waiting in the rear garden of Pilate’s palace, watched by three very alert guards. Even so, Alban felt no distress as Linux slipped away. He knew he should be more worried. Yet he was filled just then with an image of people back in the believers’ courtyard. People who knew how to pray . . . to a God who promised to listen.

  He looked up at the sky and wondered if the God of these people—the God of Israel—would be willing to accept a prayer from a man who had walked his entire life as an outsider.

  The garden grew intensely still, the silence as powerful as any voice Alban had ever heard.

  He had no idea how long he stood there before a guard paraded down the path and came to attention with a salute. “Centurion, you are called.”

  Alban replied, “I am ready.”

  Alban was led into what he suspected was the most formal of Pilate’s chambers, with a grand high ceiling, ornately carved walls, and a mosaic floor of onyx and semiprecious stones. Pilate sat upon a gilded chair, its high back shining ruddy in the light. Herod Antipas was seated to his right, Procula to his left. Alban glanced around the room, hoping his friend Linux had managed to implement the plan he had proposed. But the young officer was nowhere to be seen.

  Alban knew a moment’s regret, then pushed it away. He did not feel alone.

  He marched forward, saluted Pilate, and said, “I come as ordered, sire.”

  The prelate scowled. “I expected your report long before now, centurion!”

  Alban bowed to the prelate’s wife and his guest. “I discovered the truth myself only days ago, my lord, and that was in Tiberias. I returned to Jerusalem the moment I had what you required.”

  “And yet you waited until I was forced to summon you! I should have you flogged!”

  Alban stood quietly.

  Procula offered, “My lord, perhaps you should hear what the centurion has to say.”

  But Pilate was not finished. “This is utterly unacceptable behavior, particularly from an officer I had thought to include on my staff!”

  “My most sincere apologies, sire.”

  Pilate drummed his fingers on the armrest. Beside him, Herod’s eyes gleamed fiercely. Pilate barked, “Are you ready with an answer? Do you come with a report to give?”

  “Sire, the betrothal agreement stated that when I had fulfilled my obligations, those requiring answers about the Judaean sect, my rights would be acknowledged.” He paused, drew a breath. “I have come to claim my bride.”

  Herod snapped, “Have you found the prophet’s body?”

  “No, sire. But I now have the answer. I know where he is.”

  Herod’s swarthy face gleamed with malevolent anticipation. “I knew it! That ragged band of disciples stole the body away. Where did they take him?”

  But Alban was not to be hurried. His eyes held Pilate’s, not Herod’s. “You promised me my bride when I brought the answer, sire. I do claim her now.”

  Herod narrowed his gaze and muttered to Pilate, “Grant the centurion his wife, and you will lose your hold over—”

  “I am indeed sorry it took me so long, sire!” Herod’s words were drowned out by a loud voice coming from the shadows of a doorway. Linux stamped forward, the bundle in his arms making a loud clatter. He marched to the table by the side wall, dumped his load, and offered an ostentatious bow to the three on the thrones.

  “Reporting as ordered, sire!”

  “Yes, yes, all right.” The governor sounded peevish. “What do you have there?”

  “Items requested by Herod, sire.” He tossed back one fold of the covering to reveal a small glimpse of the contents.

  “I never . . .” Herod’s voice slowly died.

  Pilate rose slightly from his chair, peering at the items. “Are those Parthian weapons?”

  Linux lifted a war hammer. The metal surface glinted dully in the light. “Indeed they are, sire.”

  “You’ve found some of the bandits who escaped?” Pilate inquired with some interest.

  “Five of them, to be exact, sire. But I don’t know if they were part of the original band defeated by the centurion here. We suspect these five to have been assassins.”

  “Parthian assassins operating here in Judaea?”

  Linux merely stood and glared a warning at Herod.

  Herod stammered, “I—that is, we—”

  Linux finished, “We managed to capture all five of the men alive, sire. Thanks to the centurion and his cunning.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “In Tyre, my lord. Awaiting transport to the galleys.”

  “On whose orders?”

  “Mine, sire,” Alban now put in. “We thought it best to offer them a hint of mercy.”

  “But they are bandits and assassins! They should already be hanging on Golgotha.”

  Linux answered, “At the time I thought the same, sire. But by offering them this leniency if they answered his questions, Alban gained information that was not tainted by fear. We learned a great deal, sire.” The statement was followed by another glance at Herod.

  Alban took up the telling. “We can confirm they were Parthians. We identified their sources of information within Judaea and the Galilee, including certain villages upon the trading routes.”

  “Thanks to the centurion’s wisdom, sire, we know where to station our garrisons.” Linux’s focus now remained hard and steady upon Herod. “We also know they had sources at the highest level of Judaean society.”

  Pilate looked from his officers to the ruler seated next to him, then back again. “I thought we were here to discuss the missing prophet.”

  “Indeed, sire.” Linux bowed and flicked a glance toward Alban. “My sincere apologies. Might I take this opportunity to wish Alban every good wish for his marriage?”

  The Judaean ruler hissed an angry defeat and subsided into his chair.

  Pilate demanded, “What were you about to say, Herod?”

  The ruler fingered his beard and muttered, “Of course the centurion should receive his bride. But such arrangements take time.” He cast Alban a venomous glance. “Certainly someone of the centurion’s rank and position would wish to make the celebration a proclamation to the world. I could order the preparations begun this very night, but—”

  “We have no need of such, sire. My bride, Leah, and I will make appropriate arrangements.”

  Pilate studied Herod, then Alban, clearly at a loss at the tetrarch’s sudden retreat into silence. “The request seems genuine enough, does it not?”

  Herod fidgeted, finally thrusting himself forward in his chair to shout, “But where is the body? I demand to know! And if you don’t fulfill your word, you will never claim that woman.”

  “I do keep my pledge,” Alban declared. “Sire, every shred of evidence confirms what the disciples have said all along.”

  Pilate’s face darkened in rage. But before he could speak, his wife cried out, “I knew it!”

  All eyes swiveled to Procula.

  “It is as my dreams have foretold!” Procula obviously found no triumph in her declaration, not even satisfaction. Her eyes glittered with a feverish intensity. “The prophet is alive!”

  Pilate and Herod shared astonished confusion.

  The governor demanded, “He did not die?”

  “He was brought down dead from the cross, sire,” Alban answered carefully. “He was buried, but on the third day the tomb was discovered empty. Not because he was stolen away. Roman soldiers would not h
ave allowed that to happen, nor did they. No, sire, the tomb was empty because he no longer required it. He who was dead lives again.”

  Herod’s voice rose even higher. “Then where is he now?”

  “Jesus has now returned to his Father in heaven,” Alban replied evenly. “But his presence remains here still.”

  “Get him out of here,” spat out Pilate. “Remove him before I do so myself, piece by piece!”

  A guard moved forward and Alban felt his arm in a firm grip. He did not resist. He felt thankful to be leaving the room.

  “And he can have his bride,” Pilate’s angry voice shouted after them. “They deserve each other. But you will hear from me, centurion. You will hear from me!” The words echoed down the passageway behind Alban.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Antonia Fortress

  AS HE WALKED THE LANE leading to the Antonia Fortress, Alban knew the first lancings of fear. But it was not for himself. Not even with the prospect of the marriage hanging in the balance could the peace he carried be disturbed. What he feared was the fate of Leah—and of Jacob.

  Alban now wound his way up the stairs to his lodgings above the stables. As he expected, he found the boy huddled in the corner. “Come out, lad.”

  There was no answer.

  “Come here, Jacob. Please.”

  When the lad finally approached, head hanging low, Alban did what he had wanted to do a thousand times. He gripped Jacob and hugged him hard.

  The boy wrapped his arms around Alban’s neck and cried out, “I’ve never disobeyed you before. But I won’t. I will not leave you.”

  Alban drew him over to a bench by the window. He pointed out the guards pacing in front of the fortress gates. “You see them? For all I know they have orders to arrest me on sight.”

  “Then I’ll wait for you here, sire.”

  Alban shook the lad but not hard. Just enough to get his attention. “What I’m trying to say is, my days of soldiering could well be over. Pilate is contemplating my fate.”

  “But you will always be a centurion,” stated Jacob with childlike confidence.

  “Perhaps not, lad. If so, I will serve to the best of my ability. If not—then God has other plans. And the same is true for you. I want you to promise me you will try to discover what plan God has for your life, and then follow it.”

  The boy dropped his head. “I have always done as you commanded, sire, except when you ordered me away.”

  “Listen to me.” Alban lifted Jacob’s chin. “There may come a time when the teachings of Jesus are violently opposed by the Roman guard. What then?”

  Jacob gave no answer.

  “I want you to be part of Simon’s household. I want you to have someone to care for you, and his wife already does so. I have made a promise that you will be trained in the faith of your people. I want that to happen. I plan to . . .”

  Jacob was shaking his head.

  “Let me finish.”

  “No, sire—”

  “You would be much safer there than with me.”

  “I want only to be with you!”

  Alban rubbed a hand roughly over his brow.

  “Let me stay. Please, sire. The lady Leah says I can. Even after you are joined.”

  “She told you that?”

  “Yes. When you sent me to Simon’s family, instead I went to the courtyard before I came back here. Leah said if I wanted, she was happy to have me be a part of your house.”

  Alban leaned against the wall. “She has not told me this.”

  “She said you were already overburdened, sire. She told me to come back here and wait for you. She said if you agreed to this, she would send for me in time for the marriage celebration.”

  “You young rascal, you. You two have it all planned.” Alban wiped his face a second time. “All right, then. Let’s be off.”

  There was something else that needed doing. Alban approached the barracks through the main fortress courtyard. A group of perhaps thirty legionnaires were clustered about the dice pit. Alban found his friend Atticus standing apart. The older centurion leaned against the far wall and watched birds who pecked at bread tossed by two soldiers. Only when the senior of the pair glanced over did Alban recognize Crasius, the soldier he had last seen in front of the tomb. Alban showed the sergeant an empty palm. “All is well.”

  Alban moved toward Atticus. He searched for a way to ease into the conversation. “I owe you a great debt, old friend,” he finally said.

  Atticus blinked slowly. “You saved me from severe punishment, maybe death, over my abrogation of duties during the festival season. That is enough.”

  “It is not even the beginning. I will soon take my bride, Leah.”

  “The servant from Pilate’s household? The prelate’s niece?”

  “The same. What is more, I love her. And none of this would have come about had you not approached Pilate on my behalf.”

  A glimmer of the old fire shifted in the Roman’s gaze. “I should say congratulations, I suppose. Though how a woman such as she would ever be happy with a soldier’s lot is beyond me.”

  “She assures me she will be just that. Whatever my future.”

  “Then I am glad for you.” The fire in Atticus’s eyes dimmed as quickly as it had appeared. “But you owe me nothing.”

  “I owe you a debt of life itself.” Alban stepped in closer so his words would carry to the two men by the side wall. “I also bring news. The one I asked you about, Jesus of Nazareth. He did die upon the cross.”

  “Just as I have always said.”

  Alban saw the man’s bone-deep pain. “How you must have suffered.”

  Atticus stared at the stones by his feet and did not respond.

  “But that is not my only news.” He beckoned to the other two, who cautiously moved closer. “The tomb was empty—just as the disciples declared. Empty. Because Jesus rose from the dead, just as it was reported.”

  This time, all three studied him. It was Crasius who whispered, “How can this be true?”

  “It is true because he is the Messiah, come from God himself,” Alban said. “It is not a fable. Not an illusion. It is real. Just as God has promised over the many years of Judaean history, his Anointed One has finally come.”

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-FIVE

  The Believers’ Courtyard

  ALBAN SPENT THE SABBATH NIGHT in his quarters above the stables. When he rose at dawn, he found Jacob soundly asleep on his pallet in the front room. Alban hated to wake the boy. Still, it was important they be on their way. He nudged Jacob, and the lad rolled over with a yawn.

  They didn’t stop for breakfast but took a piece of bread to eat as they walked. When they arrived, they found the courtyard to be already full.

  They slipped to the alcove in the far corner, where they had spent much of the previous day. Jacob curled up in his cloak and went back to sleep. Alban must have dozed off too, for the next thing he knew, sunlight was tickling his face. He sat up and quickly looked around. It didn’t look like they had missed anything.

  Two men who sat nearby nodded an acknowledgment, and Alban dared to enter their conversation.

  “Is this the day, then?”

  “We do not know. But it seems an auspicious time to us,” said the older of the men. “The day when Jesus was lifted into the sky, one disciple asked if he was now going to restore the kingdom of Israel. Jesus said it was not for them to know the day or the hour. Some wonder if this means the festival of Pentecost will come and go without his return. Others say we must watch and wait and hope.”

  They fell into a comfortable silence. After a time, Alban slipped through the doorway into the disciples’ courtyard. He stepped into the kitchen area and found Leah helping to prepare a meal. Two other women he had seen before glanced over, nodded their greetings, and returned to work. When Leah walked over, he said, “I understand you and Jacob have been talking.”

  “Was I wrong to do so?”


  He fought down a powerful urge to reach out and touch her. Though none of the women looked his way, he was certain all were watching. “It is a wonderful gift. To both of us.” Her smile lit his heart.

  “I can take a moment from my chores. Sit here on the bench. Would you care for anything?”

  “Water, please.”

  She brought him a mug damp and chilled from the cistern. Leah settled on the bench a discreet distance from him and adjusted the shawl so it covered the lower portion of her face. Her eyes were like polished emeralds, brilliant and totally engaged. She said, “I have been thinking of what it might mean, to build a home with you.”

  “I can scarcely imagine such a thing,” he confessed. “Since boyhood I have had no home except where I am.”

  “What do you miss about your homeland?”

  Alban started to give his normal terse response to all such questions about his former life. But he found himself reveling in a newfound ability to look beyond old pain and anger.

  “Winter,” he said quietly. “I miss winter and the change of seasons.”

  Her eyes smiled, and in that simple act he felt as though they were joined together. Leah said, “Winter was rainy in the lowlands around Verona. But sometimes, when the air was very clear, I could see the mountains far to the north. Floating like clouds of stone and ice.”

  “I miss hunting stags through a frozen forest,” Alban said softly. “I miss how a crow cuts shadows from a pale winter sky. I miss the company of a dear friend seated by a fire, surrounded by an empty glade. I miss the smell of horses in a warm corral.”

  Her eyes had gone soft. “You are very poetic. I could almost see it myself. You miss a life that was snatched from you.”

  Alban did not speak.

  “You miss friends. You miss feeling as though you belonged to a place, and it to you.” She took a long breath. “I have heard the women here speak of forgiveness. Do you think it would ever be possible to forgive those who stole your life away?”

  He answered slowly, not because he needed to think things through, but because he was coming to terms with an answer he knew could not come from himself. “I think perhaps I am already beginning to do just that. But only because the strength is given to me from somewhere beyond myself.”