The Centurion's Wife (17 page)

“Say the word,” Mary replied calmly, “and I will ask her to leave. But my heart tells me she should be granted entry.”

The man, tall and broad shouldered, was burned dark by years of labor in the Judaean sun. He chewed upon the end of his beard for a moment, then turned away, saying simply, “I do not like it.”

Mary waited until the man had climbed the stairs, then said to Leah, “Your mistress is welcome here, as are you.”

Nedra asked, “How are her headaches?”

“Since my first day here—since you offered to pray, they have not returned.”

Mary Magdalene repeated, “Your mistress should come with you and see for herself.”

“That is not possible. Pilate would not permit it.”

Neither woman disagreed. Instead Mary said, “I am supposed to be preparing the noonday meal. We can talk as I work.”

“Please, I would like to help.”

Mary smiled. “Come, then.”

They passed through the narrow shaft of sunlight at the courtyard’s center, the only space where the second floor’s overhanging roof did not shade, and entered the kitchens at the rear of the compound. Mary Magdalene lifted her voice above the commotion to announce, “I have brought another set of hands.”

A tall large-boned woman glanced over at the newcomer. “If she is as unskilled at cooking as the men who keep pestering me, I’d be better off alone.”

“Her name is Leah, and she is a servant in Pilate’s household.”

All work ceased in the kitchen area. Finally the big-boned woman demanded, “Can you cook?”

“I can,” she answered. “What needs to be done?”

The woman tended a great simmering cauldron. She pointed to vegetables piled at one end of the table. “You may begin by preparing these for the pot.”

“This is Martha and her sister, Mary,” Mary Magdalene told her. “There are a number of Marys among us, including the Lord’s mother. This is why I am known by my other name as well.”

“The mother of Jesus is here?”

“She is.”

Leah saw the group, including Nedra, go through a subtle change. A curtain had been drawn, not in hostility, but in a sense of unified protection. Leah allowed the silence to linger long enough for the question to disappear.

The chamber was open to the courtyard and had another three small windows along the opposite wall, no doubt overlooking a rear alley. Even so, the heat was stifling. Leah had endured such conditions before, however. She quickly selected a knife from utensils piled by a stone washbasin. Like everything else in the cooking area, it was immaculately clean. She washed the vegetables, stripped off the outer leaves, and chopped them into segments. The women watched her for a time, then seemed to accept that she knew what she was doing.

Leah asked, “Are the prophet’s disciples here?”

“We are all his followers. But our Lord selected twelve to be his closest disciples.”

“And they are here?”

They seemed to accept Leah’s questions as simple curiosity, and one answered, “The eleven who remain are in the upper room, where they had their last supper together.”

Mary Magdalene said, “She is Judaean. She knows what Passover is.”

Leah corrected, “My mother’s mother was Judaean. My father was Roman.”

“If your mother was Judaean, by our law you are as well.”

Leah responded to the unasked question. “My grandmother followed some of the rituals, like the lighting of the Sabbath candles. My mother, though, took pride in being Roman.”

No one criticized or questioned her. Instead their silent acceptance was so natural it invited further confidences. Leah felt herself pulled in two, her mind following parallel tracks like the deep ruts of an overused road. One side sought information to satisfy Procula’s questions. The other searched frantically for a way out of the impossible dilemma facing her the next day. Only the practiced movements of her hands held her emotions in check.

Mary Magdalene spread flour over the table’s opposite end and began kneading dough. “Do you wish to tell us about your difficulty? You said you didn’t know what to do.”

“I am to be betrothed tomorrow.” The words brought glances from the other women. “To a man chosen for me by Pilate. A soldier. I need to escape, and I was hoping—well, maybe I could find shelter someplace here for a time. . . .” Leah stared at the knife in her hand. She blinked fiercely, then picked up another vegetable, holding it so tightly it was crushed nearly to pulp.
I will not cry,
she told herself over and over.

When her vision cleared, she realized the women were watching her. Mary Magdalene said simply, “That is not our way.”

Nedra added, “I also came begging for sanctuary. You were there when I returned to Enos as I had been instructed.”

Mary Magdalene said, “Our task is to carry the Lord’s peace into every situation, into every duty.”

Leah used a cloth to wipe the ruined vegetable from her hands. She continued to rub the cloth over her palms, as if to scour away her sorrow. “I have some coins,” she offered hopefully.

No one laughed. Instead Martha left the cauldron and walked over. “You must find this all very confusing. But know this: Understanding comes from within, from knowing and trusting in the Lord.”

She touched Leah’s shoulder before returning to the simmering vat. “The men will soon be asking where their meal is.”

One of the other women offered, “Know you will be prayed for.”

Leah looked from one of them to another. “You would pray for me?”

“I do so already,” Mary Magdalene replied. “I have since our first meeting.”

Leah did not sleep. Voices chased her through endless dark hours. Her father’s endless tirades against the gods, the echoes of her sisters’ pleas, her mother’s silent and helpless regret. She heard them all.

Only now there were other voices.

She saw herself once again standing in an overheated kitchen at the back of a narrow courtyard in the poorest section of Jerusalem. Women spoke to her, strangers who shared their duties and their words with the ease of lifelong friends. Leah tried to dismiss them and what they had told her. Despite their poverty, their tragic pasts, their own sorrows, they stood before her in strength and spoke with a wisdom that defied their circumstances.

As dawn brightened the eastern sky, their words echoed in a refrain countered by near panic. Leah rose heavily from her pallet and washed her face. The Jerusalem palace was already bustling with those working in the kitchen and stoking the fires that fed the bath’s warming pipes.

This day her duties had been assigned to another. The previous evening Procula had sought her out and questioned her, then made her repeat everything she had already reported about her visit to the followers. Leah had done as she was instructed, this time leaving nothing out. Not even the way the women had responded to her own plea for sanctuary. Procula had looked hard at her when Leah had confessed her desire to escape but said nothing further to the implied plea, once again, for her mistress to spare her this day, this hour, this future.

CHAPTER

EIGHTEEN

Antonia Fortress

ALBAN TOSSED IN RESTLESS WORRY. In mere hours his future was to become intertwined with that of a woman he had never actually met. The fact that she was Judaean was as great a mystery as this betrothal ceremony. To a soldier’s rational mind, it sounded like all of the responsibilities of marriage with none of the benefits. Time and again he fought against the fear that he was making an enormous mistake. His simple request for a wife, one who would contribute to his successful future, had turned into something else entirely. It was now being used as leverage in someone else’s hands—out of his control, and certainly out of hers.

Added to this were growing concerns over young Jacob. Alban had heard nothing since sending the lad off on his errand. He tried to tell himself that the boy was resourceful and smart, that he likely would return soon. Finally around dawn, Alban slipped into a fitful slumber.

When he awoke, he discovered two crumpled forms snoring in the other room.

Linux looked like he had spent weeks in the saddle. His lanky body was dusty and sweat streaked. A filthy Jacob sprawled upon the floor by the window, wrapped in Linux’s blanket and snoring louder than the officer.

“A fine sight!” Alban stood with hands on hips. “I’ve been very worried! Where have you been?”

Linux groaned. From Jacob there was no sound at all.

Alban walked over and nudged the lad with his toe. “You young hooligan! What have you got to say for yourself?”

Jacob rolled over and covered his head with the blanket.

Linux muttered, “Where did he come from?”

“You’re asking me?” Alban nudged Jacob again and was rewarded with a sleepy sound. “Where have you been?”

Linux staggered to his feet. “Did I make it back in time?”

“For what?”

Despite his evident fatigue, Linux summoned a grin. “You can’t possibly be that relaxed about your own betrothal.”

Alban nudged the boy once more. “I command you to explain yourself!”

The lad at his feet groaned. “Water. Please . . .”

Alban walked to the corner table and poured a cup from the pitcher. He knelt beside the lad. “Here. Drink.”

Jacob rolled over, sat up, drained the cup, opened one gritty eye, and croaked, “I found them, master.”

Alban roughed the lad’s hair, or tried to. It was like rubbing his hand through oily sandpaper. “How did you get so filthy?”

The lad held up the cup and pleaded, “More.” Then added, “Master.”

Alban shook his head, rose to his feet, and returned with both water and ripe plums, along with the previous day’s flatbread. The lad ate quickly. Alban filled the mug a third time, then ordered, “Speak.”

Jacob coughed to clear his throat. “No one would say where I might find the prophet’s disciples. I could tell people knew. But they did not know me. And they would not reveal it. Not even to an unarmed lad.”

Alban pulled over a chair. “The Judaeans are protecting plans for revolt?”

“No, master. At least I do not believe so. I saw no weapons. I heard no talk of battle.”

Linux padded across the floor and washed his face. Toweling off the water, he demanded, “How did you locate them?”

Despite red-rimmed eyes and hoarse voice, Jacob’s face shone with pride. “I joined the orphans.”

Alban and Linux exchanged glances. The packs of young children who survived by picking pockets, stealing from the stallholders, and scouring the garbage heaps were evident wherever one went in the city. Despite his anxious hours worrying about the lad, Alban was impressed. “And then how did you get them to show you where the prophet’s disciples were located?”

“I told them of my healing. I said I wanted to pay my respects. Which is true. They took me.”

“Clever.” Linux sniffed one of the remaining plums and bit deep. “Very clever indeed.”

Jacob went on, “They occupy a merchant’s house at the highest point of the Lower City. How the group found it is a tale told far and wide. The day before Passover, the prophet sent his disciples into the city. He said they would see a certain man and should tell him their master had need of his house. They did, and the owner gave it to them.”

“You’re not making up this story?”

“Oh no, master. I heard the same thing from more than one person. The disciples come and go, but they always return to the upper room where they shared the Passover meal. I heard that story too. How the Rabboni broke the bread and shared the wine and declared that this was of him, his flesh and his blood.”

“Do you understand this?” Linux asked.

Jacob shrugged and shook his head.

“Nor do I,” Alban said. But he recalled the conversation with Joseph of Arimathea, and his heart was stirred. “What else?”

“The plaza that fronts the house is filled with people, men and women alike. They leave, but they always return.”

Linux asked, “They guard the disciples?”

“Not with arms, sire. They watch, but they do nothing except talk.”

Alban asked, “What do they say?”

Jacob’s young face creased with concentration. “Things I did not understand, master. They argue yet without anger. They speak words I have never heard before. They talk about Jesus being the Messiah. Some say he is, and others aren’t so sure. They ask if he is to restore Israel.”

“Do they ask if he is alive?”

“No, master. They sound like they are sure of this.”

“What?” Linux looked offended. “The man was not crucified?”

Jacob’s features showed an even deeper bewilderment. “Sire, they are as certain he died as they are that he now lives.”

Linux protested, “These Judaeans are insane!”

Alban patted the boy’s shoulder. “You did well.”

The lad’s grin split his coating of grime. “Thank you, master.”

“And I should still flog you for causing me such worry.”

“You’ll have to leave the lad’s punishment for later,” Linux declared. “You are to be betrothed the hour before noon, and Pilate commands us both to report before then.”

Alban took a deep breath and nodded his agreement, but he kept his gaze upon the lad. He crouched down so he could look directly into Jacob’s face. There was one thing that could not wait. “Jacob, I am giving you your freedom.”

The lad’s face crumpled. “You’re sending me away?”

“Of course not.” Alban gripped the boy’s arm and shook him gently. “Listen to me. Your freedom is my betrothal gift to you.” He explained what he had agreed upon with the Capernaum elders, then repeated it all to ensure the lad truly heard him.

Jacob rubbed at his eyes with grimy hands. “I can stay?”

“As long as you wish. But as my free servant, not a slave.” Alban ruffled the filthy head again and found his throat closed up so tight he could scarcely shape the words, “You young scamp. Go get yourself into the baths.”

Leah could not remain secluded for long. An hour after she sought to lose herself in the palace gardens, she was discovered by Dorit, who had arrived in Jerusalem with the prelate and his entourage. “Our mistress, Procula, wishes to see you. And I would not keep her waiting. She is in quite a state this morning.”

Leah had no choice but to follow Dorit back into the palace.

“What does she want with me?”

“Something about betrothal garments. I know not what the tumult is about, but Procula is quite frantic.”

Leah sighed. Was there to be no end to all the fuss over this distressing ceremony? What difference did it make what she wore?

Dorit noticed Leah’s expression and admonished, “There are far worse fates than yours.”

Leah checked her response. There was nothing to be gained by quarreling. Her world, her life, was totally out of her control.

“There you are!” Procula exclaimed when Leah appeared. “This is hardly the time to be slipping away! I have sent for the maid from Herod’s household. She knows what is needed and will accompany you to the vendors to choose the proper attire. Now go. You have little time. Nedra is waiting.”

“Yes, mistress.” Leah did not recognize her own voice.

“Here are the denarii you will need.” She thrust a handful of coins at Leah. Leah knew in an instant she would not need the amount of money her mistress was holding out to her, but there was no time to argue. She nodded, took the currency, and as she walked, tied it into a corner of her shawl.

Nedra sat on a bench in the hallway connecting the servants’ quarters to the royal chambers. She looked nervous and agitated but brightened when she saw Leah. “They have a chariot waiting to take us to the market street.”

“A chariot?” Leah stopped in midstep. Never in all her trips into town had she ever traveled in such a conveyance.

“They say we must hurry.” As they rushed toward the palace entrance, Nedra went on, “Lady Procula asked me all sorts of questions while they sought you. She is most interested in this coming ceremony. There have been messages sent back and forth between the prelate’s court and Herod’s. Enos has become more pompous than ever.” Immediately, Nedra’s hand flew to her mouth. One did not criticize one’s overseer without severe punishment.

“You and I will keep that our secret,” Leah said. She was rewarded with a look of pure gratitude

True to Nedra’s word, their transport waited at the gate with an impatient driver and a pawing bay horse. Leah clung to the side as wheels rumbled and hooves clattered over stone-paved streets. The driver skillfully wended his way through pedestrians and flocks alike. Nedra looked terror stricken, her eyes wide with fear and white-knuckled hands clinging to whatever was within reach.

Leah wished they could just drive on and on. Through the city, out the other side, and away through the countryside—perhaps all the way to Egypt.
Or northward to Italia and Mother. . . .
But it was not long until they had reached the street of shops.

Face drained of color, Nedra descended gratefully. When she could finally speak, she turned to Leah. “This is Lemuel’s shop. He carries everything you will need.”

Nedra almost pushed Leah through the doorway. Before Leah stretched an array of colorful garments and shawls. She didn’t know where to begin.

“Perhaps it will be easiest if you choose your head covering first,” Nedra suggested.

“I have worn one when I am out, but I really don’t under-stand—”

“You need one for the betrothal.”

“It is not part of my culture. We are accepted as . . .” But she wasn’t sure how to describe Roman women’s place in society. Many of them, like her sisters, were viewed as chattel, to be bartered off wherever a father could get the best reward—the best bride price. That was freedom?

“We are accepted as well,” Nedra was saying. “Accepted—and treasured.”

“Treasured?”

“Our men—our fathers, our brothers, and our husbands protect and care for us.”

“And that is shown by hiding you under this shawl?”

“It’s not hiding us, Leah. The shawl, this head covering, is a declaration before man and God. His divine Law proclaims women to be of great worth and orders that they be protected. First through their father, then their husband. If the husband dies, then women are protected through next of kin. And if there are no next of kin, the community. If this is not fulfilled, Leah, it is not the fault of God’s Law, it is the fault of those to whom his Law was given.”

Leah had never heard the explanation before. She certainly could use protection. Would welcome it. Then a new thought seized her imagination
. Could I use this covering to provide a means of escape?
To find opportunity to become lost in a crowd, slip away with travelers, find a transport ship, flee to another land? Even flee back home?

Leah nodded to Nedra. “Which shawl would you advise?” It did not take Leah long to make her selections. The robe she chose was much simpler than Nedra would have liked. The long shawl was matching in color, a robin’s egg blue with a lining the shade of fresh cream. Nedra showed her how to take one end of the shawl and drape it across the opposite shoulder, hiding all but her eyes. New sandals completed the outfit. As Leah laid out the required coins, hardly diminishing the fistful she tied back into her shawl, the shopkeeper frowned his disappointment. In a matter of a few minutes she and Nedra were once again in the small chariot and on their way through the cobbled streets back to the palace.

Leah turned from Nedra’s obvious discomfort at their speed and squared her shoulders for the day ahead. Much as she hated to acknowledge it, the occasion she had dreaded was truly going to take place. Every turn of the wheels reminded her that her future was now numbered in hours. She would soon be joined to a man she did not even know.

Leah returned to the palace to discover the baths had been temporarily closed to the men. When she entered the courtyard, she was met by two servants whom Procula had ordered to prepare Leah for the ceremony. Her feeble protests went unheeded. Leah’s skin was scrubbed with soap mixed with sand as fine as flour, then gently scraped with an ivory baton intended to remove its outer layer. She was settled upon the marble massage table. Unguents spiced with the immensely expensive myrrh were worked into her skin. Her hair was washed and straightened and dried and combed into an ornate style adorned with fresh flowers. Leah dared not object further for fear Procula would revise the orders concerning the gown and insist she wear something more fashionable for the ceremony. After all, her hair would be hidden under her head covering and her oiled skin well covered by her robe.