The Centurion's Wife

Chapter 6

Their dusty procession arrived back at the garrison under a cold moonlight. Alban let the wounded captives set the pace, though it left the small convoy open to attack. He stretched his men out as flanking guards while he and Horas moved about on their mounts, checking the perimeter. Alban did not realize how tired he was until he saw the fort in the distance. The hilltop glowed from the watch fires. He let Horas lead the cadre with the Parthians in chains through the fortified gates. Alban remained at the rear, watching for an ambush until the last man was safely inside.

He himself passed inside to the cheers of the entire garrison. His men had good reason to celebrate. The caravan masters had rewarded Alban's work with two sacks full of gold. The Harrison had not been paid for almost six months, a common enough problem among the outlying posts. And Alban needed the money as desperately as any of his men. After an initial gift to Pilate, and another to the Jerusalem officer who had presented Alban's case to the prelate, he was nearly penniless.

Alban grinned at the cavorting men and answered their cheers with an upraised fist. He directed the night guard to use an empty stone enclosure for all the captured bandits. Then he spotted the strangers.

They approached Alban's horse and the lead officer saluted. "You are the centurion Alban?"

"I am."

The gentleman was impressive, with waxed hair and gold ornamentation on his uniform. He pointed at the enclosure. "Those are the Parthians, the ones most claim do not exist?"

"They are."

"How many men did you lose in the battle?"

"None." The soldier had addressed him in Latin, and Alban responded in kind. Even the few words on his tongue seemed strange. He had not spoken the language in months. He doubted that any of his men spoke more than a few words of Rome's mother tongue.

"You are to be congratulated, centurion. Your predecessor lost a quart of his strength to the ghost battalions." The polished officer paused, then said, "Pilate commands that you attend him immediately."

Alban slipped from his horse and wearily rubbed the dust from his face. "Does he give a reason?"

"Only that the matter is urgent."

"Then we leave at first light."

"Centurion, we were ordered --"

"We will be taking with us the two Parthian leaders so Pilate can see them for himself." Alban pointed to the darkness beyond the garrison's main gates. "A mounted band of perhaps thirty more escaped on horseback. Do you with to open yourself to attack at night from a mounted force? One that is incensed at their humiliating loss today?"

The soldier said doubtfully, "Pilate said nothing about bringing Parthians."

"Hardly a surprise, since no one knew of our raid." Alban dismissed the strangers with a weary hand. "We leave at dawn."

~

Tired as he was, Alban did not sleep well. He could not understand why Pilate had found it necessary to send an officer of his household guard to summon and accompany him to Caesarea. He tossed for hours, searching for some reason to hope that it all was good news, and came up with nothing that gave him calm.

Alban's greatest fear was not of death, not even of injury or shame. The dread that struck in the bleakest hours was over a loss of control. So little of his life had been as he wanted. At the age of six, his own father had ordered him to begin preparing himself for battle.. At twelve, his father had banished him to the compound of a retired centurion, where he was intensively schooled in the art of combat. He was permitted home only four times a year, for feast days and his mother's birthday. His father had visited from time to time, watching his progress as a swordsman, offering no sign of affection or affirmation other than his presence.