The Centurion's Wife (12 page)

“And what does this have to do with the prophet?”

“All I know for certain is this: Caiaphas—and probably Annas also—is still extremely worried about a man who was most definitely crucified and buried. The body of this Jesus has vanished, but I suppose you already know that.”

Leah nodded slowly. “My mistress wishes for me to speak with the prophet’s disciples. But I have no idea where to begin.”

Enos gave a slow smile, the one he showed all supplicants seeking an audience with his master. “I am ever ready to stand in the service of Pilate’s lovely wife.”

“Procula suggested I offer a . . . a reward for your help.” Leah retrieved the pouch from her pocket. “I have no idea how to go about this, or even what to say.”

“Your honesty is almost too charming.” With the delicacy of a bird drinking from a fountain, Enos dipped his fingers into the pouch and quickly retrieved two gold coins that just as quickly were secreted into his robe. “I will see what I can learn, my dear.”

CHAPTER

THIRTEEN

Antonia Fortress

THE JERUSALEM GARRISON’S commandant, Tribune Bruno Aetius, was a crusty veteran of a hundred battles. The fingers of his right hand remained half curled even when empty, as though the soldier were unable to relinquish his sword’s haft. Close-cropped grey hair and beard set off a broken nose that angled slightly to the left. The scar running from a corner of his mouth to his ear made him appear to leer, certainly when angry. Which he indeed was now.

After keeping Alban waiting in his antechamber for almost three hours, the tribune greeted him with a roar. “Front and center, soldier!”

“Sir!” Alban came to rigid attention as his feet smacked the floor and saluted. “Centurion Alban reporting to the garrison commander, sir!”

“I caught your mate skulking around here yesterday. You are of the impression that tossing Pilate’s name about is going to impress me?”

“Indeed not, sir!”

“Alban—that’s no Roman name.”

“I hail from the north, sir. From Gaul, sir.”

Bruno Aetius offered a few choice remarks about Gauls pretending to be Roman soldiers, then noted, “Aren’t you the one assigned to that pestilent outpost crammed with other mercenaries?”

“Along with other foul beasts. Yes, sir, that would be the one standing here at your command.”

The tribune must have caught a glint of humor in Alban’s response. He barked, “Something strike you as amusing?”

The man’s gruff demeanor took Alban straight back to his childhood. His first teacher and dearest friend, the retired centurion, had sounded so similar to Bruno Aetius they might as well have been brothers. Alban replied, “Only that it’s good to be in the company of a real soldier again, sir.”

The tribune’s eyes narrowed. His next volley lacked some of his former ire. “If you expect my men to bow and scrape, you’re soon to be disappointed.”

“Indeed not, sir. I was merely hoping to ask the commandant’s advice.”

“I’m not in the habit of advising mercenaries.” But the tribune’s growl was now a mere rumble. “You have some ill-considered reason for being so far off post, some odious purpose for fouling my quarters?”

“I was hoping to report to you about Parthians and the Damascus Road.” Swiftly Alban recounted the raid, the capture, the summons from Pilate, the strange response the Parthians gave to their captivity.

The commandant pondered for a time, then conceded, “Splitting your men like that and using a landslide was rather clever. Where did you come up with that one?”

“My homeland lies not far from the Alpine slopes. A neighboring province rebelled against Rome around the time I was born. Landslides were a favorite tactic. They once took out almost six hundred legionnaires. The Parthians outnumbered us and were holed up in a pair of caves overlooking the caravan. I needed to keep them from attacking while we moved into position.”

Bruno Aetius gave a single nod of approval. “I fought the Gauls. Farther north than your homeland. Across the sea, west of a town called Londinium. Fierce, they were. Terrible fierce.” He turned and shouted for an aide. Then he said, “Seat yourself, centurion.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The aide appeared and looked startled at the sight of Alban seated across from the commanding officer. His eyes widened further still when Bruno Aetius asked Alban, “Some tea?”

“I wouldn’t say no, sir.”

When the aide departed, the commandant went on, “The Parthians call their land Persia. We don’t know how far it spreads or how many they number. All we know for certain is they care nothing for the lives of their men. We kill ten thousand, and they send ten thousand more. You’re wondering why the Parthians were so casual about their captivity.”

“Just so, sir.”

“That’s easy enough. Because this province has more problems than there are fleas pestering a donkey’s hide!” He brought his fist crashing down on the maps and scrolls littering his table. “There’s not a decent Roman legion in the entire province! Then Herod Antipas is permitted to have his own forces, as is the high priest Caiaphas, not to mention a dozen or so merchants who claim they need private armies for their caravans. They’re all little more than villains in fancy robes!”

It was a complaint Alban had heard many times before. He let the officer across from him fume a moment, then changed the subject. “I became trapped outside the fortress by the Friday prayers.”

“My men have strict orders to be either on base or on the city walls an hour before sundown. Which you would have known if you’d reported in as you should.” At a knock on his door, he barked, “Come!”

Alban accepted his tea. He had not come to discuss the Parthians, and he suspected the commandant knew it. He’d merely brought the incident up as a means of establishing his credentials with the tribune. Alban spoke now as a fellow warrior. “I was ordered by Pilate to go straight to the home of Joseph of Arimathea. We’d been traveling so hard and fast I overlooked that it was Friday.”

The eyes tightened, but the anger did not return. “So what is this errand the prelate has sent you on?”

Alban recounted the story of the prophet’s missing body, or at least he started to, because the commandant cut him off. “This province breeds rabblerousers like Rome does rats. What difference does it matter if the disciples steal his body away for whatever reasons they might have? The man was dead, I tell you! Dead!”

“I was hoping to speak with the ones ordered to guard the tomb where Joseph of Arimathea placed the body.”

The commandant snorted his disdain. “That arrogant high priest is responsible for the guards.”

“Caiaphas?”

“He keeps a few of my men on hand during the festival seasons.

Some like the assignment because the duty is light. Others detest it because they serve with the Judaeans under the whim of the high priest, who is an old goat in fancy robes.” He noticed the aide still hovering by the door. “What is it, man?”

“Forgive me, sire. But Herod’s man is outside. He wishes to have a word.”

“Well, he’ll have to wait.” He waved his aide away. “Where was I?”

“Caiaphas uses your men as extra guards during the festival season.”

The commandant grunted. “This festival has been the worst of all. It won’t end too soon for me or my men, I can tell you that.”

“The prophet Jesus caused you trouble?”

“His name was everywhere. And the ruling council, the Sanhedrin, they were frantic. That man had them worried like nothing I have ever seen.”

Alban ventured, “Did the prophet or his disciples preach revolt against Rome?”

Alban had expected the commandant to brush the question aside with a veteran officer’s claim that any threat against Rome would be crushed. Instead the commandant stood and walked to the window. “This is your first visit to Jerusalem, you say?”

“Indeed, sir.”

“This city is unlike any place on earth, and I’ve served Rome in some strange and dangerous regions, I don’t mind telling you.” The commandant squinted into the daylight and mused, “I don’t know what to tell you about the prophet they call Jesus of Nazareth, except that he was crucified and buried, and now his body is gone.”

Alban stood. “Thank you for your time, sir. And for the tea.”

But as he started for the door, the commandant halted him.

“Who else was with you at your meeting with Pilate?”

Alban turned back. “Herod Antipas, sir.”

The commandant growled, “That man is a snake.”

Alban did not respond.

“A snake! And now his man is outside, waiting to speak with me. No doubt interested in our little exchange. As though a Roman tribune need tell a Herodian snake anything.” The tribune turned from the window to face Alban full on. “Herod wouldn’t be worried about our conversation without a good reason. Do you have any idea what that reason might be?”

“Perhaps Herod is in league with the Parthians,” Alban said, finally giving voice to his suspicions. “He feeds them information about caravans run by his own subjects. And I have—”

“Herod will not like you stirring his pot, centurion.” The commandant returned to his desk. “If I were you, I’d watch my back.”

Nothing moved swiftly enough in Jerusalem. Over the next week, Alban remained confined by the crowds and bound by currents he could neither name nor identify. He and Linux returned to the high priest’s residence and were met by a secretary who knew nothing and offered less. Not even Linux’s threats could dislodge a useful word.

In desperation, Alban finally went back to the commandant’s office. But the tribune was away and his aide proved equally unhelpful. “Wait till the spring festival season ends,” the man said laconically. “They’ll turn up.”

“You seem surprisingly relaxed about men under this command,” Alban commented. When the junior officer eyed him crossly, he added in a placating tone, “This is my first time in Jerusalem. I seek wisdom as much as the missing men.”

The officer laid his stylus aside. “I am telling you, they are not missing at all.”

“Explain for me. Please.”

“The garrison has but one duty in the festival season. This duty takes precedence above all else.”

“To maintain order,” Alban guessed.

“Precisely,” the tribune’s aide confirmed. “The high priest is as frantically busy and overstretched as we are. Perhaps he was troubled by bandits stealing lambs being brought for the slaughter. Perhaps there was a rumor of trouble in one of the camps. He might have ordered his men to go, only then discovered there were no free guards. So he sent ours. But this is not officially permitted. The Roman garrison is restricted to patrolling Jerusalem. Are we going to object? Are we going to raise a fuss?”

“Not if there is no trouble,” Alban said, nodding now. “Not if you don’t know.”

“So the men have vanished. Perhaps they slipped away and are spending the festival season in a tavern’s back room. It has happened before. They will show up.”

Alban asked, “What about the missing centurion, the one named Atticus?”

“His mates claim he was taken ill. His sergeant says he has not seen him.”

“This does not worry you either?”

The officer hesitated, then nodded. “The commandant knows and likes Atticus. He is asking around. But quietly.”

Alban set the scroll bearing the golden eagle on the officer’s desk, then pulled out the purse holding Pilate’s gold. “I wish to offer a reward in the prelate’s name.”

The officer could not keep his gaze from the royal scroll. “The tribune wishes to save the centurion Atticus from official censure.”

“Atticus is a friend of mine. I am in his debt. I seek to protect him as well. I am after information, nothing more.” Alban set a pair of gold denarii on the table beside the scroll. “For your troubles. And another two for the soldier who leads me to Atticus.”

The officer could no longer disguise his amazement. A legionnaire earned a third of that amount each year—if he was paid at all. “They will be at each other’s throats to hand you the man.”

“And another two for the man who brings me the missing guards.” Alban turned to the door. “Tell them speed is everything.”

Centurion Atticus was precisely where his sergeant had said Alban would find him. The man had chosen a tavern well removed from any of his Roman colleagues. Which was a good thing, for the centurion was far beyond bedraggled. The tavern was located in what once had been the main Greek quarter and was now the caravans’ central gathering point at the Damascus Gate.

Atticus slouched within shadows at the back of the tavern’s main chamber. The flooring was sand and its walls Bedouin cloth. The front was open, with a view of the noisome corrals for donkeys and camels. The other patrons feasted on roast lamb with the single-minded intensity of those facing a long trek and a longer time until the next decent meal. Atticus watched Alban’s approach with eyes that seemed almost dead. In fact, his entire person seemed to have collapsed in on itself.

Alban seated himself across from him and asked, “What’s happened to you, my friend?”

Atticus drained the pewter mug and hollered for the innkeeper to bring more ale. “Who’s the man you left stationed by the front?” he muttered.

“Linux. He’s on Pilate’s staff.”

“Thought I recognized him. He scouts the road like it’s enemy terrain.”

“We seem to have made a foe of Herod Antipas.”

“Then I’m talking to a dead man.”

“I might say the same thing.”

Atticus gave no sign he had heard Alban’s words. He nodded as the innkeeper refilled the mug. “My first year in Jerusalem, Herod Antipas held a banquet. The daughter of his new wife danced for his guests. The girl is quite the beauty, or so I’ve heard. Like her mother, who let herself be stolen away by Antipas from his own brother. After the girl danced, Herod was in such a state he offered her anything she wanted, up to half his kingdom.”

“I wanted to know—”

“The girl asked for the head of this Judaean by the name of John. Apparently she’d been put up to it by her own mother. This prophet was known as the Baptizer by those who followed him. John had condemned Herod and the girl’s mother for marrying after she’d divorced Herod’s brother. Anyway, Herod makes the girl his offer, and the girl asks him for the head of this John—on a platter. Herod serves him up as the banquet’s last course.”