The Centurion's Wife

Chapter 6

Alban lay and stared at ceiling beams that flickered and writhed in the oil lamp, and recalled the last time he had seen his father. The old chief had arrived on Alban's seventeenth birthday with gifts and orders both. They had ridden east toward the Roman legion garrisoned at Avignon. His father had spoken of great changes in the world, the chance Alban now had to elevate himself and the family name. He had handed him a small pouch of gold and a scroll appointing him adjutant to the garrison's commandant. Then he had saluted his son and ridden away. The tears Alban had refused to shed that day still burned behind his eyelids.

Alban had harbored no desire to become a soldier, much less a Roman legionnaire. But he had done as he was ordered. He lived a soldier's life. He strengthened his body and deepened his skills. He studied, and he served his commanders. He asked the wisest of them about lessons that came only through surviving in battle. He had returned home once a year. His last journey home had been for his father's burial. When he had knelt and promised the new chief, his elder brother, his fealty, Alban had seen the light of resentment and fear in the man's face. The next morning Alban had been ordered to Judaea Province. His brother could not kill him, so he had arranged for Alban to spend the rest of his days in the most desolate reaches of the Roman empire.

Alban pulled the covers over his eyes and did his best to shut out the bitter memories. He had never once broken a vow. But if he was ever granted leave to travel home, he would make his brother pay.

~

The officer from the prelate's household guard proved a good enough sort. His rank was tesserarius, a title that could mean any number of things and made him Alban's subordinate. But Alban knew Romans to be prickly lot and vindictive if their pride was bent. So Alban treated Pilate's official messenger as though they were of equal rank. The soldier's name was Linux, and he hailed from a town in Umbria, a province to the north of Rome. According to Linux, Umbria was good only for growing strong pigs and weak wine. "I thought I'd already seen the nastiest place on earth -- been there, seen it, and left immune to the worst. But this province turns out to be harder than iron."

Since Pilate was waiting for them, they all rode. Alban lashed the Parthian bandits firmly to their saddles and left the garrison accompanied by just one of his men. Jacob had begged to join them, but Alban said a firm no and turned away before his resolve could weaken.

His pack horse was piled with his share of booty from the raid. The Parthian leaders had carried shields of hammered gold, and their sword scabbards and hilts were jewel encrusted. Alban had never met a leader not cheered by a gift of booty.

Hours later, as they passed the small garrison marking the entry into Samaria, a guard called down from his tower, and the main portals opened so that the watch officer might salute Pilate's standard. Linux answered with a casual wave, then turned back to Alban. "For a Gaul, your Latin isn't altogether crude."

"Gifted by a centurion from Rome who had retired to a farm near my father's land. He was a rough sort, but a good fighter and a better teacher."

"Which explains the hint of gutter in your accent." Linux revealed an easy grin. "No offense, centurion. We Romans like a bit of the street. And your captives are testimony to your abilities as a fighter and leader both. As a matter of fact, Pilate himself mentioned that your ally in Jerusalem called you a hero in the making. What's his name?"

"The centurion Atticus. Based at the Antonia Fortress."

"Another good man, by all accounts." Linux sobered. "Your friend has known some trouble of his own."

"Atticus is ill?"

"In a way. You've heard about the prophet?"

"You mean the Nazarene, the one they call Jesus? Yes. Word came just yesterday."