The Centurion's Wife (3 page)

She was surprised to find Dorit and Hugo still seated at the kitchen worktable. She decided to use the opportunity to seek the soldier’s help. She went to the vat and fished out a cucumber and a pepper from their brine of seawater, then sliced them thinly. She added some flatbread before setting the plate before him. “Will you take anything else?”

Hugo stared up at her and then dropped his eyes to the plate.

“You’ve made a home here.”

“And friends.”

“Many expected you to try to lord it over the other servants.”

“Including yourself?”

Hugo nodded slowly. “True enough. When I heard of your arrival, I said to myself, ‘Here comes trouble.’ ”

“You’re not often wrong.” She smiled briefly. “Will you ask one of the guards to stoke the fires?”

“They loathe such slave duty.”

“The baths won’t be ready otherwise. You know Pilate will demand a bath as soon as he arrives. And I need to start preparations for the evening meal and ready the prelate’s chambers.”

Dorit said, “I can help with the rooms.”

“No, you have enough to do here.” Leah turned again to Hugo. “Don’t
order
one of them to this duty—they’ll only take it as punishment. Ask for a volunteer, and I’ll feed him tonight from Pilate’s provender.”

“In that case, I’ll do it myself.”

This was what she had been after all along. As Leah thanked him and turned to the next task, Dorit said, “Sit with us a moment, child.”

“I have a myriad of things to get done and too few hours.” But something in Dorit’s expression had her seating herself. “What is it?”

Hugo said, “I have heard Pilate speak of you.” He would not meet her eyes. “The rumors are true.”

Leah felt like she had turned to stone. Rumors had swirled through the servants’ quarters for weeks, about a centurion who commanded one of the province’s outermost garrisons. This man, Alban was his name, had reportedly approached Pilate through a trusted emissary. The centurion had requested Leah’s hand in marriage. How the centurion had even come to know of her was a mystery, for Leah went nowhere and sought the company of no man. Leah had done her best to ignore the talk, for she hoped with all her might that she would remain unwed all her life long.

Hugo continued, “Pilate has conferred with several of his officers. They all speak highly of this centurion.”

“If Pilate wishes for you to wed the centurion, child, that is what you will do.” Dorit reached for Leah’s trembling hand. “Those who have met him say this Alban is most uncommonly handsome—”

“What do I care for his looks? They only serve to breed pride and arrogance,” Leah retorted, her lips trembling. “Who speaks so of him? The maidservants whose hearts he has broken? Brothel owners? Tavern keepers?”

“Soldiers who have served with him in battle,” Hugo put in quietly. “As well as men who serve under his command. They claim the commander is fair in his dealings.”

Dorit spoke in a low tone to Hugo, “I told you she would be against this plan.”

He shrugged. “A soldier obeys the commands of his officers.”

“I am not a soldier!” Leah cried out.

She felt Dorit’s grasp on her hand tighten. “Hugo speaks with you as a friend, child. If you will not hear what he has to say, how can you prepare?”

“There’s no need to prepare for anything because it will not . . .” But the fire had gone out of her, and her shoulders slumped forward in defeat.

Hugo asked gently, “Why did your family send you to serve in Pilate’s household? Did you think you could remain hidden in the servant quarters for the rest of your life?”

Dorit reached for Leah’s face to turn it toward her own. “You must listen, and listen well.”

“I have served Pilate since he was still using a child’s sword,” Hugo went on. “I know him as few do. The man gives nothing away without an assured return. He will barter you for an advantage.”

Leah’s being was so filled with bitterness she could not speak.
Barter
whirled through her mind. Her last months at home had been overshadowed by her two older sisters begging and weeping and pleading not to be bartered into loveless marriages. But ultimately one had been sent to the bed of a man eleven years older than Leah’s own father. The other sister had been wed to a man so stout he had not seen his own feet since childhood.

Hugo was saying, “I tried to find out what this centurion has to offer Pilate and came up with nothing save booty.”

Dorit argued, “Pilate is already immensely rich.”

“A man like Pilate never has enough of anything. I think the only reason this has not happened more swiftly is because Pilate needs time to decide what he wants to extract from this man.” Hugo plodded forward with a soldier’s relentless tread. “The day we left Jerusalem, Pilate sent his aide Linux off on the eastern road toward Galilee. My guess is Pilate is deciding what it is your man is going to provide to win your hand. And I suspect it will be something to do with the crucified prophet.”

Leah dropped her face into her hands.

“Like it or not, your time is approaching.” Hugo leaned forward until she raised her eyes to his. “We all know how your father was disgraced and died penniless.”

“He was . . . he was cheated.” The last word came out on a sob.

The soldier waved that aside. “He is dead and his debts remain unsettled. Where is your mother?”

When Leah did not respond, Dorit answered, “Rome. Residing in a widow’s hut at the back of her sister’s compound. Living like a pauper—”

“Stop.” Leah covered her face.

Hugo continued nonetheless, sounding more friend than soldier. “So there is no voice from your own family to influence your fate. Pilate can do with you as he pleases. Mark my words, sooner or later you will be given to the centurion.” He waited until Leah could bring herself to again lift her gaze. “You have a chance to make this marriage work to your own advantage.”

The man leaned closer still and said, “You must decide what you want from this union. Then prepare yourself to fight for it.”

Leah attempted to lose herself in the day’s tasks. By habit more than conscious thought she set the joint to roasting and put the soup to boil. When a maid brought flowers picked from the palace grounds, Dorit arranged some at the table while Leah distributed them through the main rooms, one vase at a time. She forced her mind to other subjects, concentrating now on Dorit. The woman had been Procula’s maid for years. Had come with her mistress from Rome. Service was the only life she knew, and she had continued the work long after most women her age would have settled for an easier routine.

Soon after Leah had arrived in the household, Dorit had broken her hip. The pain aged her as work never had. Leah had acted as Dorit’s maidservant, doing what was needed before the woman was required to ask. It had been most difficult to see to Procula’s demands while attempting to lighten Dorit’s load. Leah had done so because something in the woman’s eyes reminded Leah of her own mother. The silent sorrow in her gaze was the expression in her mother’s the last days Leah had spent with her. What would be worse? To never have wealth, position, or honor, or to know it all and have it wrested from you? Whatever the answer, the eyes of both women had reflected the same pain and defeat.

But otherwise Leah and Dorit had little in common. Dorit had known nothing but the hard life of servanthood. Leah’s grandmother, her mother’s mother, had been a Judaean married to the chief official in Verona, Italy. Leah’s mother, having been born into wealth and power, considered herself a Roman by birth and a Greek by culture and dismissed anything to do with her Judaean heritage.

So Leah had spent her first days in Judaea serving a slave in hopes that someone was offering her mother the same kindness. As a result, Leah had earned a friend who watched out for her in a house full of intrigue and hidden daggers.

How little all that matters now.
Leah set the last vase in its niche. No one could protect her from her fate.

CHAPTER

THREE

Nightfall

PONTIUS PILATE AND HIS ENTOURAGE approached the Caesarea palace just as the sun touched the edge of the western seas. Some three dozen officials—servants, slaves, and soldiers, coated with dust from the road—climbed the last incline to the gates. Despite the hour and their travel-weary state, they moved efficiently through the entrance and scattered to their familiar roles. Because of Leah’s efforts, the servants found all was ready without the usual turmoil of the household’s return. The cooks discovered a meal already filling the house with welcome fragrance. The governor’s senior staff went straight to the baths, where they found the waters heated, fresh towels laid out, incense burners adding their own heady scent, and garden flowers adorning the changing rooms. The formal chambers were aired, the table set, and the sleeping accommodations were ready for the night. Leah received soft greetings from fellow servants able to breathe easy because she had organized and accomplished the work of a dozen.

Pilate remained by his wife’s palanquin as Leah assisted Proc-ula’s descent from the conveyance in careful stages. Leah had seen the governor’s wife in this state a few times before. Procula was not a complainer, even when she suffered the most dreadful of her headaches, and the worse the pain the quieter she became. Now she did not speak at all. She moved slowly with her eyes closed as Leah guided her through the formal chambers and into her bedroom. Pilate stood in the doorway as Procula was settled onto the bed. Leah noticed his normally severe features were softened with concern.

The prelate was by nature a stern man with a soldier’s brusqueness, accustomed to being immediately obeyed. Most of the servants and guards were frightened of him and the power he held. Leah’s interactions with him had been few and brief, but she had always found him a fair man. Yet she knew he could be deadly when crossed.
He has decided my future. . . .

She shook her head and turned her full attention to her mistress. She bathed Procula’s face with cool, scented water, then prepared a dose of the apothecary’s draught. “Drink, my lady.”

“I cannot.” Procula barely breathed the words.

“You must, mistress.”

Procula moaned. “If I drink it, I sleep. If I sleep, I dream.”

“We both know the pain only passes in sleep.” Leah kept her voice low and soothing.

Procula shook her head, then winced at the motion. “This pain shall never end.”

Leah did not bother to ask what her mistress meant. There would be time enough for such discussions when the woman felt better. Leah lifted Procula’s head and held the cup to her lips.

“Drink.”

Procula’s breathing finally eased and she drifted into slumber as Leah gently stroked her forehead. Only then did Leah realize Pilate was no longer in the doorway. His presence lingered, however, like the biting odor in the air after a lightning strike. Or maybe it was just that Leah was thinking ahead to the confrontation that surely would occur at some point soon.

She shook her head again, gathered the used linens, and passed through to the servants’ quarters. She was greeted in the kitchen by a few quiet words and a rare smile, her only rewards for her day’s frenetic efforts.

With a sigh, Leah hurried out through the side door and deposited the armload of laundry near the large washing vats. She found Dorit seated on the ancient bench, staring out to sea and the sun floating on the western horizon.

The servants’ quarters and the guardhouse formed a triangle with the kitchen’s side wall, creating a narrow courtyard tiled in a dusty mosaic. Under cover of darkness, some guards and serving wenches used it as a trysting place. Leah preferred it now, when the walls radiated the day’s heat and the setting sun turned the sea to bronze.

With no reference to their emotion-filled discussion earlier in the day, Dorit now said, “These moments have been the only times this spring when my bones have felt truly warm.”

Leah leaned on the still-warm balustrade and listened to the waves lap against the stone foundations. Men’s voices drifted from the sea-filled cold bath beyond the wooden screens. It should have been a peaceful and private moment, yet even here Pilate’s power cast its pall and troubled her thoughts. “I would give anything not to wed,” she murmured toward the sea.

Behind her, she heard Dorit pat the marble bench. “Come sit with me.”

Dorit’s lined face never held a frown. She did not raise her voice and rarely spoke an unkind word. She had been born to accept her lot and to smile at whatever her circumstances. But her gaze now was deep and knowing. The woman always seemed to understand Leah’s feelings before words were spoken, which invited confidences. She knew Dorit hid a secret better than a sealed tomb.

The woman did not press her invitation. Leah said, still facing west, “I once knew a young man. He made me laugh. He bought me ices at sunset from the highlands, and we strolled along the river. I was fifteen and thought we were very much in love. After Father . . . after we lost everything, I never saw him again. He eventually sent word that his parents forbade our meeting. Nine months later, after my sisters became prisoners in two dreadful marriages, my father died. Soon after that, I was on a boat bound for Judaea.”

Dorit said softly to Leah’s back, “And you fear you shall never laugh again.”

Leah turned to stare at the plain stone walls now flecked with sunset gold. She did not sigh, nor did her eyes glisten with tears. When she spoke her voice sounded low and flat. “Laughter is for children.”

The sun slipped down beyond the sea’s far horizon, though the colors remained in the evening sky. A lone gull cried out before returning to her nest. It seemed so peaceful in light of the chaos churning within her breast.

After a time Dorit said, “They say this centurion is from the north, from Gaul.”

Leah walked over and seated herself on the bench. “Is that bad?”

Dorit pursed her lips. “It is hard to say with men. Still, he is a foreigner who has managed to rise to the rank of centurion. And he is the son of a chief, though not firstborn, of course. What chief would send his firstborn son to this forgotten corner of the empire? But these foreign chiefs have more offspring than a pomegranate has seeds. What is one more or less?”

They heard laughter drift up from the bathhouse. The sound seemed crude to Leah’s ears.
Men!

Dorit went on, “The centurion is said to be both a leader and a fighter. Which means he was likely considered to be a threat to the firstborn brother. It would have been easy to kill him in his sleep. It has happened many times, you know. But he is here. I believe he is only twenty-four years old.”

“What does that matter?” Leah could barely hear her own voice.

“Remember, this is no son of a Roman general. This Alban is enough of a warrior to fight his way up through the ranks. His father must be proud, and his older brother should be terrified.” Dorit cackled delightedly. “No doubt this Gaul plans to use you as a stepping-stone to Rome. He may find he has met his match.”

Leah gripped her arms against her waist but could not entirely stifle the shiver of dread. “I know nothing of his intentions. I do not know him at all. . . .”

“Nor he you. What does that matter?

She whispered, “What of love?”

“Bah. Love is for poets and princes. For the likes of us, we must hope for a tomorrow without pain.”

Dorit must have seen the sorrow shadow Leah’s eyes, for her voice gentled. “My little one, listen carefully to what I say. You must set such futile dreams of love and happiness aside. And you must
plan.
”