The Centurion's Wife

Chapter 3

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 Procula'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 prepare 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 arm load 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 guard house 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 confidence. 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's 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."