The Centurion's Wife (27 page)

“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.”

“She heard about Lazarus on the road today,” Martha said briskly. “Tell her, please.”

Though his features went somber, his eyes gleamed stronger than the candles. Cleopas looked at the table for a moment, then began, “I hail from the village of Emmaus. You know it?”

“No, I have not heard of it.”

“There is no reason you should. Emmaus is nothing more than dust and hovels and poverty. I earn my living shaping walls for wealthy homes in the Upper City. I once repaired the wall of Herod’s palace.”

“And now about the day,” Martha said, gesturing with her hand.

“I’m getting to that. It was the first day of the week, the first week after Passover. You know what happened on Passover, yes?”

“She knows.”

“Our Lord was crucified.” Cleopas said it anyway. “He died on a cross, and he was buried. My friends and I, we could not leave the city. The sun had set and we were bound by our laws not to travel. The sun set and rose and set again. But for us, all was darkness.

Hope had died on the hill with Jesus that day. A storm swept in with the earthquake, and our souls remained caught in that same storm long after the winds had stilled and the earth stopped shaking. We in that upstairs room wept and we moaned and we were sick unto death. Our bodies still breathed, but our life was over.

“Finally the next morning my friend and I were preparing to set off. When suddenly the door bursts open and . . .”

Cleopas was strong in the manner of a man who had toiled his entire life. He wore simple garments that were patched and patched again. Leah was certain she was listening to a man who was able to face the worst life could dole out, shoulder his burdens, and push forward. This man covered his face and could not continue.

Lazarus reached over and touched his arm as Martha said softly, “Mary Magdalene came running in and cried out that she had seen our Lord.”

The other Mary picked up the account. “Peter and some of the other disciples raced back to the tomb. Peter found the
tziddick
, the prayer shawl that at burial is wrapped around the head, set aside and folded upon the tomb’s stone. Just as he had seen the Lord fold the prayer shawl every day they were together. Peter came back shouting that the Lord still lived.”

Cleopas wiped at his face. “Forgive me, please.” He looked around the table. “You finish for me,” he said to Lazarus.

“It is your story. Take your time. Leah needs to hear this from you.”

Cleopas stared at the table between his hands. “I had seen him die. I saw the soldiers approach to break his legs, and they found him already dead.” Cleopas sighed hoarsely. “Peter was always the impulsive one. I feared he was grasping at straws. The Lord was gone. To hope again, and have the hope crushed, would have been unbearable.”

Cleopas took another breath. “My friend and I left. We walked the road leading from Jerusalem, and we spoke of what the women might have seen, what Peter could have meant, and all the while we returned over and over to the simple fact that Jesus was gone from us, and the light of the world was snuffed out.”

Leah glanced around the table. The group had gone completely still, as if they held their breath as one.

Cleopas went on, “Then another joined us on our journey. He asked of what we spoke. We could not believe someone leaving Jerusalem had not heard of our Lord’s trial and death. We told him in snatches—it was hard to say more than a few words at a time.”

Cleopas looked at the flickering candles for a long while. When he began speaking again, his voice was firm and calm. “Then he started talking with us. He spoke with a rabbi’s knowledge. More than that. He made the Scriptures
live
. He explained how all that had happened, the trial and the rejection and the scourging and the death, had all been according to the Scriptures and the prophets. Even the fact that the leg bones had not been broken—everything. He . . .”

“He brought hope back into your hearts,” Mary Magdalene supplied.

Cleopas nodded. “When we arrived at our home, the stranger made as though to continue further on the road—”

“Wait,” Leah said quickly, leaning forward in disbelief. “You did not
recognize
him?”

Mary Magdalene said, “Over and over it has happened. At the tomb I thought he was a gardener.”

Leah sat back at her place, her mind whirling with questions.

Mary continued, “The Lord was no longer a carpenter, a simple rabbi who taught profound truth. He had none of the dreadful wounds. . . .” She stopped and bowed her head.

“He was more than healed,” Martha said. “He was transformed.”

“I did not know him,” Cleopas affirmed. “Neither of us did. Even so, we could not let this stranger continue upon the road. The sun was setting and bandits in that area are out in droves after dark. We urged him to come and stay the night. He agreed. We prepared a simple meal. He reached for the bread, lifted it in his hands and blessed it, then broke it into pieces.” Cleopas turned to look at Leah. “It was as though a veil dropped from in front of our eyes. He offered the bread around the table, and in that moment we saw our Lord.”

The glow on his face reached to Leah at the end of the table. Cleopas said, “And then he was gone. But we knew with certainty our Lord lived still. Our hearts burned with the truth. They burn within us still.”

CHAPTER

TWENTY-NINE

On the Road to Tiberias

ALBAN LEFT THE BEDOUIN VILLAGE soon after twilight and rode in solitude beneath the moon, the desert a vast silver sea. Hour after hour he rode until he arrived at an oasis fed by a bubbling spring. After a perfunctory search of the perimeter he determined he was the only wayfarer that night. He ate a solitary meal of flatbread and goat cheese, staring back over the route he had just taken. There was little chance he had been followed. The attack had been foiled, and any village messenger had at least a day’s journey to reach Herod or the Parthians.

As he leaned his back against a date palm and listened to the soft evening wind rustle the dry branches overhead, he allowed himself to consider his recent proximity to death. A soldier was trained to put this kind of experience aside, to use it as simply more fuel for strength and determination to survive. Both a blessing and a curse, a warrior knew death better than anyone.

Alban struggled to his feet. He knew he could not sleep—not yet. His horse snorted and backed as far as its hobble permitted. Alban reached out to gentle the steed, then moved away. His thoughts chased him like hounds. He had made the best of a life he had not chosen. He had no reason to lament. Wasn’t he a good man, as he had heard others affirm?

Palm fronds in his path became sentinels that barred his way forward. Alban pushed through, battering against the thoughts that also assaulted him. It was impossible that a dead Judaean prophet could trouble him so. Yet that was how he felt. As though the man had risen from the grave specifically to disturb his nights and his days.

Alban paused, holding his breath as he stared out over the empty desert beyond the oasis. He was certain he was no longer alone.

He quickly unsheathed his sword and circled. “Who goes there?” he called.

The branches waved and the wind hissed its warning.

“Show yourself!” Alban dragged sandaled feet across the uneven surface, never lifting them clear of the ground. It was a warrior’s tactic he had learned as a child watching gladiators in the arena, so as not to lose touch or traction. Those who lived to fight again left circles in the sand, where each step created shallow furrows. Always keeping a doublestanced balance. Always ready for the attack.

“Come out and fight!” He had spent a lifetime on alert, just like now. The moonlight flickered upon the blade’s cold steel, and then the light shifted so the blade seemed stained by old blood.

Alban stalked out across the desert, climbing the nearest hill. He made another circle, the blade now shining silver and black. The oasis was a dark shadow below him.

And the sense of another’s presence followed him there as well. But there was no longer a premonition of danger. Alban had the sense of someone unseen ahead of him on the climb to the top of this dune. Now out in the open where the wind could fully encircle him, without branches blocking the stars, the night surrounded him with its sounds.

And someone whispered his name. Someone who
invited
him to . . . to what?

Was the only way forward to release his shields and his weapons, both those in his fists and those built around his heart?

He sat listening to the night for a long time.

Alban’s journey continued northward and brought him to Tiberias late afternoon on Saturday. It was only upon his approach to the city, when he discovered it wrapped in weekly silence, that he realized his moonlit encounter had occurred at the beginning of the Sabbath.

He had awakened at the oasis just after dawn, certain of two things. First, his encounter the previous night had not merely been imagined. And second, he was through fighting the truth. All the answers he had learned forced him toward the same conclusion—one that required faith more than logic. The prophet did indeed die upon the cross. But Alban no longer questioned whether it was possible Jesus also lived. His experience on the hilltop allowed him to honestly say,
Yes, I am willing to believe.
If the prophet was who he had claimed to be, and Alban was feeling more and more like that was the case, he was ready to give him the allegiance due him. Whatever that might mean.

The urgency of the quest had shifted. Far more pressing than Pilate’s command to discover the
facts
about Jeus was a growing hunger within Alban to know the
truth.

He knew such a commitment would change his life. Where he had once sworn total allegiance to Rome, that would now be relegated to a subservient place in his life. Yet Rome was a demanding and jealous ruler. Strict and unwavering, her edicts were not to be questioned or refused. Alban had no doubt there would be a collision of wills. Rome’s or God’s? Yet he would not—could not—turn away.

Tired and stained from the road, Alban slowed his horse’s gait as he came to the synagogue and heard voices lifted in fervent prayer. The Sabbath quiet meant the inns and market booths were all closed. But shuttered windows could not fully contain the Sabbath chants or the fragrance of the incense as he passed.

As in Capernaum, which lay still farther north, the synagogue fronted the town’s central square. Empty market lanes opened to either side. Alban slipped from the saddle and led his horse to the central well to ply the rope until the leather bucket filled the trough. His horse snorted greedily as it drank. Alban filled the bucket once more to drink his fill. As he lowered himself onto the well’s stone wall, the sun slipped behind the western rooflines.

The synagogue door behind him creaked open. Alban turned to see a bearded man step slowly into the early evening shadows. Alban rose to his feet.

Realizing he still wore his sword, Alban slid the belt from around his waist and slung it across the horse’s pommel. He hesitated, then removed the leather sack containing Pilate’s scroll from his shoulder and added it to the pommel. He wanted to meet this man as unencumbered as he could.

Alban recognized him as one of the senior elders of the town with whom he’d had contact in the past. But it was not yet the close of the Sabbath, and Alban was a Roman. The elder seemed hesitant.

Alban walked slowly toward the man. The elder said, “You are the centurion, yes? The God-fearer?”

Alban took a long breath. “I am.” And this time he knew it was true.

“Forgive me, sire. Now I see you more clearly. Of course, of course. But may I ask why have you come here?”

“I seek . . .” Alban hesitated. He finally said, “I seek the truth about Jesus.”

The elder smiled. “As do we all.”

“I did not feel up to the journey to Jerusalem for the feasts,” the elder told him as he led Alban along the street. “For the first time in sixty-eight years, I did not go. My son and grandson and great-grandson, they have gone for me. Was I wrong not to travel? At this most important of festivals?”

Alban was familiar and comfortable with the Judaean style of conversation, asking questions without expecting answers. But he said, “It is not only the journey. Life in Jerusalem during the festival seasons can be difficult.”

“Just exactly as my grandson said.”

The elder’s name was Eli. They had first met when Alban had started the practice of visiting each of the towns under his jurisdiction at least once every three months, permitting anyone to bring whatever complaint they had. Eli had been one of the city fathers who sat with him and advised on matters of Judaean custom and religious laws.

“Well, here we are.” The elder stopped before an unpainted door.

Alban could not help but gape. He had seen enough such structures to know he was before the village
mikveh
, the ritual bath.

“Is it permitted?”

“You are a God-fearer. You are road weary. We are instructed by the holy texts to offer God-fearers our hospitality.” He fitted his hands together in what Alban knew was a formal gesture of welcome. “When you are done here, please join my family in the meal to mark the Sabbath’s end.”

Alban fumbled over his thanks. After retrieving clean clothing from his saddlebag, he opened the door to the white-washed interior. He piled his sweat-stained garments onto the lone bench and pushed through the curtains. The contrast between this unadorned chamber and Roman baths could not have been greater. A simple wooden barrel stood in one corner, and he used the rainwater to rinse himself, then took the steps leading down into the bath. The pool was perhaps a dozen paces long and half as wide. The only illumination came from two oil lamps. Alban settled into the water and felt his overworked sinews begin to relax. The water was cool but not uncomfortably so. Beyond the whitewashed wall, a child laughed. He thought of Jacob—how he missed his impish grin and unstinting devotion.

Alban dressed in the fresh clothing. When he emerged, the elder rose from his position against the wall and led Alban down a narrow village lane.

“You spoke of Jesus of Nazareth,” the man said as they walked. “His disciples were here. But they have already returned to Jerusalem. I spoke with them before they departed.”

“Do you know why they returned so soon?”

The elder reached a point where both the lane and the village ended. He stared out over the Sea of Galilee’s calm waters, like a burnished copper shield in the waning light. “Jesus told them to do so.”

Alban knew the elder was waiting for a response. He thought of several, then finally said, “Last night I stopped at an empty oasis. Just after moonrise, someone I could not see came to me.”

“How did you know he was there?”

“I cannot truly explain it to you,” Alban replied slowly, turning to look at his host. “I thought he whispered my name. My heart burned like a torch within my chest.”

The elder smiled through his beard. “Come. You must be hungry.”

They dined in a covered courtyard underneath a steadily darkening sky. They were joined by at least a dozen family members. Alban respected the elder’s silence and said nothing through the course of the meal. In truth, he was too full of conflicting thoughts to know precisely what to say.

The children also were subdued, shooting glances of awe and not a little fear at him. When everyone had finished eating, Alban watched the elder stand to light a candle made from three braided strands. Eli prayed over the flickering flame, his hands up to either side of his head, speaking in the ancient Hebrew tongue. His final amen was echoed by everyone at the table, even the youngest. His wife handed Eli a ceramic vial, from which he took a pinch of spices, sprinkling them over the candle. Instantly the patio was filled with the fragrance of incense.

At his place at the head of the table, Eli seated himself again and said, “We light the candle and ask the Lord Jehovah to illuminate the week ahead. We sprinkle spices into the flame and remind ourselves that the Sabbath should remain a sweet scent in our lives, flavoring the days to come.”

“I wish I knew how to thank you for the honor of being included in this meal.” Alban turned toward the women seated at the table’s far end. “I am deeply indebted to you all.”

“A Roman comes into the village as we invoke the final Sabbath prayers,” Eli responded. “He waits at the well, silent and watchful. He comes alone. When I appear, he strips off his weapons and approaches with empty hands. What is this, I wonder? What has happened to change the course of our destiny? Could it be as the prophets have said, that the day will come when we will beat our swords into plowshares?”

“I do come in peace. But I am only one man.”

“How else can we become reconciled, except one individual at a time? This Jesus you seek did not come to address nations. He washed the wounds of lepers. He dined with sinners. He healed all who came to him. One person at a time.”

Alban realized he was occupying the only other chair. He suspected it normally went to Eli’s wife, who now sat with the other women on one of the long benches. At some unseen signal, the women rose as one and began gathering dishes. The children scampered off. The young men sat in utter stillness, only their heads turning between the two as they talked.

Alban asked, “What happened here among the prophet’s disciples?”

Eli stroked his beard for a time. When he spoke, Alban recognized the fashion of a Torah lesson, not answering directly. “While Jesus walked among us, we knew him as Rabboni, as Teacher and Master. Yet he came to serve. If he has indeed risen from the dead, then only one word truly applies. One title. Just one.”

“Messiah,” Alban said. “I have learned the word, but I do not know what it means.”

“The Righteous One. The Redeemer of Israel. Comforter. Light to the Nations. Wonderful Counselor. Mighty God. Everlasting Father. Prince of Peace.” The elder did not so much speak the words as chant them in a soft rhythm. “The One for whom we have prayed these two thousand years and more.”

Alban settled further into his chair and waited.

“The disciples came to Galilee just days ago because they were told to do so, first by heaven’s own messengers and then by Jesus himself. They arrived, but he was not here. So in the middle of the night watch, they went fishing. They caught nothing. As they rowed back toward shore with the dawn, a stranger called to them to cast their net once more. They did not want to, of course, for the water was shallow, there would not be any fish, and they were very tired. But they did so and could not lift the net, it was so full. At that instant, they recognized the man standing on the shoreline. Overjoyed and full of excitement, they waded ashore. Jesus sat with them, ate with them, and taught them the next lesson. That of tending his flock and reaching out to the world with his message of love and peace and redemption. And then he told them to return to Jerusalem—and wait.”