The Centurion's Wife (5 page)

A young shepherd boy watched them with solemn eyes but made no attempt to approach. Alban’s men took the opportunity to break out a breakfast of flatbread and goat cheese. After a time, Horax shifted over and squatted beside Alban. “I am amazed the shepherd trusts us with his secret.”

“My guess is that the Parthians spotted his flock up on the plateau. They demanded sheep, tracked the shepherd, and now threaten to take everything. At least he has a chance with us.” Alban spotted the man at the cliff’s edge and rose to his feet.

“Here he comes.”

The shepherd signaled once and disappeared. Alban and his men again began a climb up the rocky path.

They were greeted up top by the best of an area spring. The wind was strong enough to cool the day’s mounting heat and ruffled the knee-deep grass that still smelled fresh from recent rains. A second flock of sheep grazed contentedly. In a month’s time, Alban knew, the grass would wither and the sheep would be reduced to eating thorns.

Alban turned to his young servant. “Wait for us here.”

Jacob had not looked so distressed since his illness two years past. Or so vulnerable. He drew himself up as tall as possible. “I can help, master.”

“You already have. I give you my word that the loss of your family will be avenged. The Parthians will pay for the death of your parents, your sister.” Jacob did not respond. He simply looked a long moment at Alban and turned away.

The shepherd also watched as the despondent lad walked over to join his son with the flock. Jacob picked up a stick of his own along the way and gave the grass a frustrated whack. “He has personal reasons to loathe the bandits?”

“His family ran a caravan between Caesarea and Damascus,” Alban said. “When he was only nine he saw them all slaughtered, and he and other youths were taken as slaves. We spotted the raiding party and gave chase. They only escaped by dumping the captured goods, including Jacob.”

The shepherd studied the two boys with pursed lips. “The Parthians threaten us with the same.”

Alban hitched his sword belt tighter still. “Not after today.”

The highland pasture was bordered on all sides by sharp-edged cliffs. Alban ordered his soldiers to lower themselves prone, and soon his two squads of twenty-five men were just so many shifting mounds in the high grass. The shepherd used his staff to shove aside the animals and led Alban in a careful crouch to the southwest ledge.

The breathtaking view descended in a mad tumble of rocks and grass and scrub trees to the southern plains. Far below, the Damascus Road was a winding yellow river of dust.

The shepherd pointed with his staff. “There and there.”

Alban nodded and muttered over his shoulder, “Horax? Do you see?”

“I see them.”

Two bands of men, each some fifty strong, crowded on ledges below jutting from the rubble-strewn hillside over the highway. Far to the southeast, where the heat caused the air to writhe and tremble, came a long snaking line of men and beasts. The expected trade caravan was approaching.

Alban asked quietly, “Where are the paths?”

“Look to your left and your right. See how one shadow in each place forms a line from cliff’s edge to valley floor.”

Alban moved back a pace. A single bandit glancing upward would be enough to expose them and destroy the element of surprise. He lay on his back, surrounded by sweet-scented grass, and closed his eyes to the sun. “The question,” Alban said, “is how to mask our descent.”

Neither Samuel or Horax responded. Alban’s adjutant rested on the grass beside him and remained silent. Watchful.

Alban turned over and carefully slid forward for another look. The bandits below were very much on the alert, watching for any outrider who might raise the alarm before the caravan drew close.

Fifty Roman soldiers descending from the plateau above them might as well arrive with trumpets and cymbals. To make matters worse, Alban’s men would be attacking in single file against seasoned warriors massed on two ledges. Unless Alban could find a way to maintain absolute silence, he and his men would be decimated.

The shepherd moved back from the edge and swept his staff about him like a scythe. “The bandits saw us bringing sheep down to sell to a caravan they later destroyed. They tracked us back up and demanded a tax. Either in sheep . . . or in boys. Each time it is more. Last night they took half my newborn lambs.”

A plan began forming in Alban’s head. Once more he slithered forward on his belly and inched his head out over the precipice. This third inspection confirmed what he thought he had spotted. He reversed away from the ledge, then said to Horax, “Assemble the men.”

As Horax glided away in a low crouch, Alban told the shepherd, “You need go no farther.”

“This is my clan’s pasture.” He could tell Samuel had more than his share of Judaean pride.

“And I will keep it so. Now let my men do what we are trained for.”

“I have fought brigands longer than you have been alive.”

“Think of your sons,” Alban said, his voice low.

More than half of Alban’s soldiers were older than he. Four years earlier, they had greeted his arrival with sullen hostility. Now they watched him with the unblinking eyes of seasoned warriors. They trusted his ability to lead them into danger and bring them out again. They knew he had been trained for this role since childhood. He might be a chieftain’s son, but he had never known a day when it had been within his power to choose a different life. Which, truth be told, was what bonded him most closely with his men and they with him. The power to choose one’s fate was the prerogative of the wealthy and the firstborn.

Alban used his sword to diagram the cliff’s border and the two paths in the rocky soil, then lifted his head to address the men now gathered before him. “We will split into thirds. I lead the group taking the eastern path. Horax, you lead the west.”

The group scowled as one. They knew only one way of soldiering, the Roman way. Victory was achieved by the massed attack. The best-trained men and the greatest numbers were thrown forward in overwhelming force.

Alban pointed his sword at the most senior of the men and said, “You lead the third group from above.”

“We’re not to fight?”

“You will keep us alive.” He stabbed his sword into the earth by the carved cliff edge. “You must crawl down among the rocks without being spotted. On my signal, you will dislodge the largest rocks you can.”

“A landslide,” Horax said thoughtfully.

“Aim for the two groups of men. Keep them so busy they can neither ready an attack nor escape.”

Horax grinned. “It could work.”

“If there are not enough rocks, use arrows. But you must keep the bandits occupied. Once we are in position, come down and join the outer wings.” Alban slid his sword back into its scabbard and rose to his feet. He was desperate to move before one of the more experienced warriors spotted his plan’s glaring weakness. “We move out.”

Horax crouched alongside his centurion as the three groups crawled toward the cliff. “Split into threes we’ll number far fewer than them. If the rock throwers are spotted before they’re in position, we’ll trot down those paths to sure death.”

Which was why Alban had chosen the older ones for the rockslide. He hissed, “Quiet as snakes.”

Crablike, Alban led his men to the cliff’s far eastern corner, gliding forward until he could look over the edge. He watched Horax’s face appear two hundred paces to the west. In between them, the third group slipped over the ledge in cautious stealth. Their goal was a pile of loose rubble perched upon a narrow outcropping above the bandits. Their progress was impossibly slow. Or so it seemed to Alban.

Like all good officers, Alban had learned to hide his fear. But his morning meal sat like a leaden lump in his gut. So much depended upon the success of this venture, yet so much was utterly unknown. It was difficult to concentrate fully on the task ahead. And Alban could afford no distractions—not for his men, not for the shepherd, not for himself.

The caravan’s sounds carried through the desert heat, with jangling harnesses and shouting herders and the donkeys’ sonorous protests. The noise was most welcome, because it focused the bandits’ attention downward and masked the soldiers’ hushed scramble.

At that point, the Parthians’ evil strategy was revealed.

From the south rose shrill cries. Perhaps two dozen fighters on horseback and camels came screaming out of the valley’s opposite side. Their exact numbers would be hidden from those walking the Damascus Road, for the dust and the heat would obliterate all but the leading bandits.

In a practiced motion, the caravan’s outriders rode back to the procession’s heart. They clustered together and drew swords, readying to meet the first attack. At the same time, the drovers and traders wrenched their beasts around and headed for the nearside cliffs, straight toward the bandits hidden below.

Then one of Alban’s men slipped.

Roman sandals were not made for scrabbling silently on a stone face. A bit of rubble was unleashed to roll downward. Alban watched the tableau through an unmoving dread, as one Parthian after another looked up and the bearded faces opened to shout a warning.

Alban was already on his feet. “
NOW!

”

His men launched themselves downward, a howling Roman multiheaded beast. A hundred legs pounded the stone ledges. Swords and pikes rose like uneven teeth.

The soldiers on the cliff face let go of their boulders, which dropped in tandem. The two piles of rubble smashed into the second group of bandits while Alban’s group frantically grabbed for handholds. Their combined weight had dislodged both piles, and they were threatened with following the cascading rocks to their own deaths.

The Parthians were caught in the instant of launching themselves downward. As the first raiders flung themselves down the ledge, those behind them screamed a shrill warning and turned to face rocks and Romans scrambling downward toward them.

“Hold hard!” Alban flung himself onto the cliff face, as more rocks tumbled and crashed from overhead. A stone struck his shield arm, almost dislodging him from the ledge. As soon as the tumult passed, he risked a glance upward, then shouted, “Attack!”

As he expected, the ledge used by the Parthians backed into a shallow cave. The ledge itself had been wiped clear of bandits. Either they had fled down the path, pursued hard by soldiers, or they had darted toward the cave’s protection. Alban could hear the clanging of spear striking spear as the battle was struck below, but he knew Horax would be at the forefront and could be trusted to lead the men. His attention was on the cave mouth, which was now half filled with rubble and still-scrambling bandits. They were coughing and wheezing as they tried to grapple their way through the dust and debris.

“Bowmen!” The traditional massed Roman-style attack simply was not possible in such limited space. Now a quarter of his men fitted the shorter arrows into their bows and fired into the cave mouth. Shouts of rage changed swiftly to screams of alarm and pain.

Alban appointed a cadre of men to stand fast against any of the bandits who might try to return on the path. The rest stayed with the cave.

“Cease fire,” he signaled his bowmen.

He shouted in Aramaic, the tongue used by all eastern border nations, “This is your only chance! Toss out your weapons, and you will be spared!”

Down on the plain, the situation had rapidly coalesced into victory for the caravan masters. Alerted by the rockslide, the traders had spotted the bandits before committing their beasts to the hillside. They drew their convoy into a tight defensive unit. Seeing that the allies on the hillside had been trapped, the bandits on horseback pulled up hard. The caravan outriders raced forward, their weapons glinting overhead. The mounted Parthians turned and fled.

But Alban had little time to peruse the fight below. His full attention was taken by the cave and its inhabitants. “Your cause is lost!” he informed them in a loud voice. “Drop your weapons or die!”

A dozen pikes and swords now clattered upon the rocks at his feet. He motioned his men forward. “Bowmen, stay on guard.”

Alban turned to Horax, who had been gathering the men and taking stock. “How many of our men were lost?”

“One wounded, none killed, my lord.”

Alban felt the tension in his body seep away like the sweat drying on his body.

As a raucous cheer rose from the valley, Horax lifted his sword and shouted, “Soldiers, salute your centurion!”

CHAPTER

FIVE

Pilate’s Palace, Caesarea

THAT MORNING AFTER HER MISTRESS’S RETURN from Jerusalem, Leah entered Procula’s bedchamber and discovered the woman was sitting up. Leah quickly prepared the scented bathwater and laid out fresh garments. “You seem better, mistress.”

“And what a relief it is.” Procula rubbed her forehead. She still looked wan, her eyes sunken by past pain, but her voice sounded alert. “I would like to see my husband. Is he available?”

“Not right now, I’m afraid. He has a guest.”

Procula’s head lifted. “Who might he be entertaining at this early hour?”

“I believe it is a matter of state, my lady. Immediately following breakfast, he summoned Herod Antipas.”

Procula sat up abruptly. “Herod? Here? But why?”

“I know not, mistress.”

Both hands went to cover her eyes. Leah feared she was going to suffer another painful spell. “My lady?”

“This can bring no good.” She lowered her hands and examined Leah with a troubled expression. “You must observe them and bring me a report of this meeting.”

“But I have no reason to intrude, mistress.”

“My orders are your reason.”

“How am I to gain entrance?”

Procula rubbed her forehead again. When she looked up, Leah realized she had a plan. Leah inwardly prayed to all gods, known and unknown, that it would be a plan with even a hope of success. If Pilate felt he was being spied upon, her life would be in extreme danger, whether or not she was his niece. That she was only carrying out his wife’s orders afforded no protection.

“You shall serve them. Say that I have ordered them wine. For Herod, it is never too early in the day.”

“But Pilate has his wine steward—”

“Greet Herod in my name and say I ordered it. If that sounds improper, my husband will attribute it to my illness. And linger,” continued Procula. “Linger in the alcove behind the curtains until you know whereof they speak.”

Leah bowed and turned, trembling. Her mistress was once again rubbing her forehead. “Trouble. Trouble. No end to trouble,” Leah heard her murmuring.

Leah shifted the tray she was carrying and held her breath. She paused behind the crimson tapestry that covered the entrance to Pilate’s audience chambers. All of the palace’s formal chambers had windows facing the sea, and on this early morning the draft carried a noticeable chill. She put down the tray on the table next to the doorway. With only the slightest movement of her hand, she was able to shift the heavy drape just enough to observe the two men. Neither man glanced her direction. Pilate was pacing while Herod reclined on one of the velvet lounge chairs.

Herod lifted a plum from the golden tray and examined it idly. “What do you make of these rumors?”

Pilate continued his pacing. “I know not.”

“I do wish you would sit. It is most difficult to speak to someone constantly moving about.”

Pilate dropped into his chair. From her hidden position Leah thought his eyes appeared dark and haunted.

“Frankly,” Herod said, “you look ghastly. Are you not well?”

Pilate rubbed a hand down his face. “I have not slept.”

“It is troubling you, then?”

For a moment there was no answer. Then with the slightest nod Pilate admitted the truth. “That and Procula. Her health has been threatened, and by this same hazard.”

“
You
are in charge. If things are out of control, you have the power and the might to fix them.”

“True, but only when I can recognize the enemy.” Pilate left his seat again and strode to the window. “Right now, I don’t know where the danger lies, so how can I strike against it?”

“The danger arises from those fanatics who claim this carpenter’s son is their Messiah. And to strengthen their claim, they are inventing all sorts of outlandish tales.” As Herod leaned forward, grapes tumbled off his robe and rolled across the patterned tiles at his feet. “They are out to destroy us. If they can stir up a large enough rebellion, we will both suffer for it.”

“How do you know this?” Pilate’s tone was as sharp as the dagger at his waist.

“It’s what they do. Always making trouble. No sense of—”

“So you have no proof? It is merely conjecture?” When Herod remained silent, Pilate turned back to the window. “My nights have been plagued with worry. We must determine what they are planning. But I have found no one willing to speak with me. Nor with you, I suspect, which is why we are having this conversation.”

“We need to find some way into their inner circle.”

“You mean, infiltrate their ranks.”

“Get into the community. Yes. We need ourselves a spy.” For one long moment Herod stared at his compatriot. “Surely, my lord, you can solve that problem. All it takes is gold. There are always plenty of peasants who will do anything for a price.”

“We need truth, not more fables bought through bribery.”

“Then what is
your
answer?”

Pilate began pacing once more. “There is a centurion, Alban by name, who is said to have made acquaintances in the Judaean community near Capernaum.”

“You would trust a Roman soldier in the Galilee to bring you truth?”

Even from her hidden location, Leah could sense the tension in the room. Her hand fluttered to her breast, brushing against the curtain. The quiet stirring caught both pairs of eyes. Her breath caught in her throat as she quickly lifted the tray and stepped forward between the drapes. She hesitated long enough to dip a slight bow and then moved silently forward.

“Your wife sends her greetings to your guest, my lord. She has ordered that I offer you wine.”

Pilate neither acknowledged her nor offered his thanks. She set the tray on a small marble table beside a plate of honey cakes. “Shall . . . shall I pour, my lord?”

“Here, girl. I’ll have some.” Herod’s voice was as languid as his eyes. He watched her with unfeigned interest as she filled his goblet.

Then as quietly as she had come, she left the room. She could feel Herod’s eyes on her back, watching her go.

Once again behind the safety of the curtain, Leah felt the shudder that vibrated through her entire body. How she wished to escape. Leave this whole terrible business behind her, along with all the fear and uncertainty and bitterness. She once more lowered the tray silently to the marble table. Though she dared not shift the curtains, she again listened carefully.

She heard Herod ask, “Who was that girl?”

“Her name is Leah.”

“Of course. Your niece. How long has she been with you?”

“I’m not sure—three years, I think. She’s my wife’s maid until such time as she finds a suitable husband.”

“Then you don’t plan to keep her?”

“No. No, it doesn’t seem fitting—her being family. I promised her mother . . .”

“Would you be willing to sell her?”

“She’s
family
,” Pilate said with annoyance. “She is with us until she marries. In any case, she is already spoken for.”

“By whom?”

“The centurion I just mentioned.”

Leah could hear Herod shifting his position. “This centurion you say may be of use to us?”

“Alban is young, but the men I have questioned speak highly of him. No doubt he sees my niece’s hand as an upward step.”

Leah heard the creak of the couch as Herod leaned forward. “This favored niece, how does she fit into your household?”

Leah felt her face flush with both embarrassment and anger. They were discussing her as though she were mere chattel.

“Her father lost everything. Names, titles, honor, life. When her family begged, I saw no way to refuse. My wife speaks well enough of her. Why do you ask?”

“You say this young centurion wishes her. Perhaps we could use her to, what shall we say, encourage him to find the answers. You haven’t yet given this Alban your word?”

“We are still in negotiations.”

“Alban is a strange name for a Roman.”

“He’s a Gaul.”

“And the maid?”

“Mixed blood. Father was from a northern province. Mother was a Judaean, that is, her mother’s mother.”

Leah could hear Herod’s intake of breath. “Perhaps we won’t need as much gold as I had thought. The centurion Alban. Favorably disposed toward the Judaeans, you said. And this maid with Judaean blood. I do believe we have our answer.”

Pilate’s voice was heavy with impatience. “Then perhaps you would proceed to divulge it.”

“Make the solving of the mystery the condition of the betrothal agreement.”

“Betrothal?”

“A standard practice among Judaeans.”

“A Judaean wedding? But the Gaul is not Judaean, even if the maid can claim Judaean blood.”

It was all Leah could do not to cry out and disclose her hidden position.
A Judaean wedding
? She covered her trembling lips with a hand. She was no more of the Judaean religion than the Gaul himself. Much less did she desire a wedding of any kind.

“We will need to encourage one of the Judaean priests with a bit of gold. But you say this centurion has allies among the Galileans. Yes, this could be arranged.”

“This Judaean wedding you are proposing. How does it work?”

“It’s simple enough. First there is the betrothal. A traditional and rather legal ceremony once the conditions are agreed upon. The bride is presented, and following the ceremony she returns to her place of abode until such time as the bridegroom fulfills his conditions. Once that is done, he is free to collect his wife.”

“So he is married, yet not married?”

“Precisely.”

“I don’t think the Gaul will go for it.”

The couch squeaked again as Herod stirred. “Then you must convince him. We
need
a Judaean wedding. That is the only way we can ensure that the Gaul finds the required information. If he really wants the advancement that the woman would bring, he will do what needs to be done.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps you are right.”

“You must send for this centurion at once.”

Pilate’s feet scraped across the tiles. “I already have.”

Leah could bear no more of this discussion. Surely she had enough information to satisfy her mistress. Silently she slipped away from the doorway and walked on numb feet down the servants’ hallway. She did not enter the kitchen, however. She needed air and time to think. Time, as Dorit said, to plan.