The Centurion's Wife (21 page)

Leah’s numb fingers closed over the base of the jar. Her entire being struggled against the words. But how she wished it were true.
Free . . .

Mary rose from the stone. Silently she rested a hand on Leah’s shoulder, then slipped through the trees and away. Leah stared at the point where the woman had disappeared. Sunlight and heat caused the vista beyond the trees to waver, as though out there was a flimsy dream, and here was what was truly real. She did not want the jar. She wanted nothing more than to walk away from the gift, from Mary’s explanation, from the woman’s obvious conviction. If only she had not been given this assignment from her mistress.

Leah had no idea how long she remained where she was, sheltered by the stunted trees and holding the alabaster urn. Mary’s words about the risen man echoed through the silence. How was it possible for the woman to speak with such utter conviction about a dead man come to life and appearing to people within a locked room? Leah rose to her feet, set the urn and satchel on the stone where she had been seated, and began pacing among the trees. Her thoughts were as twisted as the roots lining the rocky soil beneath her sandals. Hope was a lie told to children. She would never hope again. She would never let herself be destroyed by expectations of a change in her circumstances, of a man who truly loved her, of the promise of security and safety and redemption. Never.

Then she heard footsteps.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-THREE

The Burial Grounds

LEAH COULD SCARCELY TAKE IN what her eyes revealed. A moment before she had been alone, torn by her uncertainties and fears. And now Alban himself was walking down the trail, not far from her secluded place among the trees.

She froze as Alban turned in her direction. The intensity of the man’s gaze reached across the sunlit expanse. Only when he scanned further around the perimeter did she breathe again.

The awareness that she, his betrothed, was a danger to him struck her heart with a dagger’s force. Leah sought to push it away with silent insistence that it was not she who sought his life.

But though dressed in the garment of reason, the lie still rankled.

She heard Alban command, “Come here.”

Her heart caught in her throat until a man replied, “Sire, I would rather—”

“I did not ask your preference, Crasius. I gave you an order!”

Leah carefully moved back another step, deeper into the trees, but kept the two men in sight. Alban wore a simple toga and sandals laced about his calves. He bore no weapon she could see save a knife sheathed at his belt. The satchel slung from his left shoulder was almost identical to the one Leah carried. The second man also wore simple Roman garb and bore what the maidservants called a soldier’s mark. This was the callous stretching from beneath the ear around the top of the neck, where the helmet’s leather strap chafed against desert sand. This man looked terrified.

“Sire, I came as you asked.” He waved weakly toward the same trees where Leah stood. “Can we not step into the grove out of the sun?”

“The prophet’s grave is here. Here we will remain.”

The man wiped at his face with his arm and turned so his back was against the cliff’s face. “Is it true what your message said?”

“I am a man of my word, Crasius. Tell me what I need to know, and I will offer you protection. You and your mate.”

“How can anyone protect us from Pilate?”

“I carry a scroll bearing the prelate’s own seal, granting me the authority to do whatever I deem necessary to carry out my orders.” He patted his satchel. “Do you wish to study it?”

“I cannot read.”

Clearly Alban had expected the response and waved it aside. “You are not a novice recruit. You know the punishment for deserting your post. There is no safety for you except through me. And all I need from you is the truth.” When the soldier did not respond, Alban barked, “Speak, man! Your future depends upon it.”

The soldier groaned, “I cannot.”

Leah felt her entire body clench at what was likely to come next. She knew Roman legions ran on absolute authority. A centurion held the power of life and death. Justice was swift and brutal. Floggings, beatings, flaying the skin with iron combs—all were common practices among the legions. A soldier who disobeyed a direct command, as this soldier had just done, could only hope that his death would be swift.

Alban walked forward and gripped the man by his arm.

“Come.”

“Sire, mercy, I beg—”

“I said, come.” But Alban’s voice had gone mild, and he drew the trembling soldier to where a rocky overhang offered a narrow shadow. He pointed to an outcropping that jutted from the cliff like a shelf. The man now looked baffled as Alban guided him onto the natural seat. He pulled off his satchel and drew out a water flask. “Drink.”

When the soldier tried to return the flask, Alban motioned for him to keep it. “You strike me as a good enough soldier. You do your duty and ask nothing more than a clean berth and a fair officer to whom you can report. Am I right?”

The man nodded as he, hand shaking, lifted the water bottle and drank again.

“The might of Rome is built upon the shoulders of men just like you. And when an officer gives you a command, you obey. But this time you have not. Why? The reason for the disobedience interests me as much as the reason you left your post.”

“Sire, you wouldn’t believe me.” Leah could barely hear the man’s answer.

“Were you drunk while guarding the prophet’s tomb?”

“I had only watered wine with my meal, as I do every night. Nothing more. And nothing once I was sent from the garrison out here.”

“What about your mate?”

“He was sober as I.”

“I believe you. You see? Already I accept you as an honest man. So now I ask only that you tell me what happened. Everything.”

The man shuddered and drank again. Leah could see his terror even from her hiding place thirty paces away.

Alban waited the man out.

Leah found his patience most disconcerting. Alban was nothing like she had expected, nothing like her own nightmares. All the strength and masculine force she had come to equate with brutal command were present, yet there he quietly stood, leaning calmly against the cliff wall, half in the shadow and half out, ignoring the blistering heat and the rising wind. Showing in a manner stronger than words that he was no threat to the terror-stricken soldier.

No threat
. The concept was as strong as a conviction. She glanced back at the urn resting on the stone. Though the top was sealed with wax and bound with taut cord, a faint fragrance filtered through, of wild flowers and impossible hope.

Alban was not by nature a patient man. He found waiting one of his most onerous duties. Waiting for patrols to return, waiting for orders, waiting to be noticed, waiting for promotion, waiting for just that chance that would propel him upward. Even so, he restrained his impulse to press the man further.

Crasius had the look of a solid enough soldier. Strong, steady, experienced at battle. Yet he was clearly terrified. And Alban was sure it was not merely the threat of punishment that frightened him. In fact, the soldier obviously wished to flee
despite
the dire consequences.

Alban tested the man, searching beyond what he saw, probing, guessing. “You did not flee your post because of an attack. Something happened. Something beyond your abilities as a soldier.”

The man’s words emerged broken. “The entire world shook.”

“There was an earthquake. Was that what frightened you away?”

“No. No, it was not that.”

Alban already suspected as much. Earthquakes were common enough in this region, and no soldier would use such as an excuse to leave his post. Besides, there was no evidence around the site of violent tremors, no cracks in the earth, no pile of rocks shaken from the hillside.

Alban crouched to where he was eye level with the soldier. “Look at me, Crasius. Now listen well. I have been sent by Pilate to search out the truth about this prophet and his disappearance. Do you hear what I’m saying? All right. Good. Now I will make a confession of my own. Nothing I have heard so far makes sense. I too am a soldier. I receive an order, I obey. I see an enemy, I attack. But everything I have learned about this prophet, about his death and burial, only adds to the mystery.”

The soldier nodded, took a ragged breath, then said, “There was an earthquake, as I told you. And then two . . . two beings . . .”

“Men?”

“Perhaps.”

Alban slowly repeated, “Perhaps you saw men. Perhaps.”

“They shone like lightning. Perhaps they caused the earthquake. I cannot say. But when they appeared, I froze.” The words now tumbled from his mouth. “I have fought Rome’s battles for nine and a half years. I have known a soldier’s fear. My mate is a good man, a good Roman. And he fell over like he was dead.”

“Because two men appeared bearing light.”

“They did not
carry
light. They
were
light. And as I said, they might have been men. But I . . .” He wiped sweat from his face once more. “One of them—with no effort at all—rolled the stone set before the opening to the side. It had taken four of us to roll it into place. And then this . . . this man sat on that stone.”

Alban gave that a pair of breaths. “Did the prophet walk out?”

“I stared at the opening. The other creature went into the cave, and his light was so strong I could see everything. The tomb was already empty.”

“The prophet left during the earthquake?”

“The earthquake struck. The creatures appeared. The stone was rolled back. The cave was empty. It happened in that order.”

“They rolled away the stone from a tomb that was already empty.”

The man just stared numbly back at Alban.

“Could you have guarded the wrong tomb?”

“No, sire, we did not. We watched as the body was placed there. We put the stone in place and watched while the governor’s own seal was placed on it. We stood our duty where we were ordered, before that same tomb.”

Alban realized there was nothing to be gained by insisting that what the man reported was impossible. Crasius spoke as a good soldier would. The thoughts were set in marching order, although the man was gripped by tremors and his eyes searched even now for escape.

Alban said quietly, “Now tell me the rest.”

The man looked away, took another breath. “It felt like these creatures were shining their light inside me. I saw everything I had done. Everything I had ever
thought
. That’s why I could not move.” He looked back at Alban. “I have followed orders all my life. I have done as I was told. But all of that meant nothing. These were my acts, my decisions and choices. This was
my life
. I was filled with a loathing and a dread. My time will come, and one day I will be seen as the person I really am.” The man dragged his focus back to Alban. “The prospect has torn my nights to shreds.”

Alban knew the man was waiting for him to scoff, to threaten, to rage. But he could not, because his instincts told him the man spoke truth. He steeled his emotions and held his tone even. “And your mate was knocked unconscious.”

“He swears he remembers nothing.” The man looked at Alban with eyes hollowed by fear and lack of sleep. “I wish it had been me there sprawled upon the earth.”

“And then?”

“I finally got my mate up, and we fled. We went to the high priest’s house. We were under his command. He was with some of the others—”

“The Sanhedrin.”

“We tried to tell them what had happened. They would not believe us, but finally they gave us money and ordered us to say that the disciples had come and stolen away the body. They said they would protect us from Pilate and the tribune.”

Alban straightened slowly. “They cannot, but I can. Report back to your garrison commandant.”

The man looked up in disbelief. “I am free to go?”

“You and your mate both. If anyone asks where you have been, tell them the truth. You were under orders from Caiaphas until I ordered you back to garrison duty. If they want more details, tell them you are under Pilate’s orders to say nothing more about the incident, and they should speak with me.”

Alban waited until the man stumbled away. He then turned, took his own very hard breath, and moved toward the tomb.

To Alban, the tomb appeared to be the large sort of chamber a wealthy man might order carved out for himself and his family. The opening in the cliff face was reached by five steps. Stonemasons had fashioned a wheel of stone set into a narrow groove. Once the body was laid in place, the wheel would have been rolled along the groove, sealing the tomb.

Above him, other sealed tombs were joined to narrow trails cut from the cliffs. Most of the other tombs he could see had openings that would require crawling through them. This one, however, was tall enough that Alban would be able to enter simply by bending his head.

Alban rested his hand upon the stone wheel, observing the shattered wax seal. The diameter was that of a village millstone, rising to his chest. He believed the guard. It would have required several men to roll it into place.

Alban bent down and entered the tomb. It held to the common form, with an area three or four paces wide where family and friends could gather to mourn. The north wall was carved into a shelf large enough to hold two bodies, perhaps three. The air felt cool in spite of the day’s heat. Alban reached over and touched the shelf. He ran his hand along the smooth surface, searching through his fingertips for answers his mind could not fathom.

He no longer questioned whether the prophet actually was laid here. He was also fairly certain that the prophet was indeed dead at that time. He knew crucifixions. He knew Roman soldiers. And he also trusted the word of Joseph of Arimathea. The man had carried a cold body and laid it in the tomb, wrapping the prophet in burial cloth. Joseph had handled a dead man. And he had help from another member of the Sanhedrin, another who was witness to the facts. Both men were acquainted with legalities and proper testimony.

So the prophet had been crucified, died, was taken down from his cross, brought here, and laid in this tomb. On this shelf. The tomb had then been officially sealed. Guards were stationed.

Then, according to every witness he had confronted, the impossible had happened.

Alban moved along the stone walls, probing with his fingers, tapping with the hilt of his sword, feeling his way over every surface. Was there another exit in the back or on one of the sides? Nothing. Not even a seam of any kind. The tomb was carved into solid rock.