The Centurion's Wife Read Online Free PDF Page A

wiped his mouth, and added, “Pilate has returned to Caesarea.”
    Alban frowned. This was unexpected. When the Judaeans celebrated their major religious festivals, Pilate used his presence to proclaim that Rome would allow no unrest. Judaeans traveled from Rome, Babylon, Damascus, Alexandria, even Alban’s own native Gaul. Jerusalem was packed for the entire period, since many of the families who journeyed in for Passover remained there through Shavuot , the Feast of Weeks, fifty days later. The risk of revolt was never higher than during this time.
    “The city is quiet, then?”
    “There was some talk of revolution. The governor put the entire garrison on alert. The Judaean leaders blamed the problems on the prophet.”
    Alban closed the distance between them in two steps. “The one called Jesus?”
    “The same. The Sanhedrin threatened a rebellion of their own unless Pilate ordered the man crucified.”
    This was a cruel blow. The rabbi had used Capernaum as his base and had even healed Alban’s favored young servant, Jacob.
    “So he’s gone?”
    “A storm blew out of a clear sky when he breathed his last upon the cross.” The squad leader quickly made the sign against the evil eye.
    Alban hid his deep regret. In his opinion, there was never a man less likely to brew trouble and war than the prophet Jesus. But Alban was a Roman soldier, under Pilate’s command. It would not do to let his men see his dismay. He could not risk his personal feelings getting back to his commander, this one who could decide his own fate. “You’ve done well. You and your men get some rest.”
    Alban walked out into the shadows that still clung to morning. So the prophet was dead. He shook his head sorrowfully as his whole being revolted against the news. Surely the Judaean elders knew they had no legitimate reason to crucify the man.
    Young Jacob was alive only because of the prophet—of that Alban had no doubt. The lad had been terribly ill. Physicians had done all they could, to no avail, and declared the boy would be dead by nightfall. Alban had been desperate. Many whispered he had been too overwrought about the fate of a mere servant, especially only a Judaean lad taken in battle against bandits. Yes, legally Alban owned the lad. But deep within he knew that, in reality, his heart belonged to Jacob. Alban had no idea why he felt such affection for the orphan. His own family had taught him nothing about love. Yet he knew he would give his life for the boy.
He heard a soft whisper in the darkness, “Master?”
    Alban turned toward the small form behind him in the shadows. “Yes, Jacob.”
    The lad stepped into the light. “I heard the soldiers speak about the prophet. Is he truly dead?”
    Alban’s voice sounded gruff to his own ears. “So they say.”
    “This is the Jesus who healed me?”
    “He is.”
    “But why? Did he do something wrong?”
    “I do not know the reasons. But of this I am sure: He did only good. Look at you. You are well and strong.”
    “Then why . . .” The voice trembled to a stop.
    Alban reached out to touch the boy’s shoulder. He felt a shudder go through Jacob’s slender frame. Alban had no idea what to say to bring comfort. Alban released the lad, and became the commander once again. “You must prepare. We leave soon on our mission.”
    They moved out in fading moonlight, an hour before dawn. Alban led his troops from horseback. His second in command, Horax, was the only other mounted soldier. Horax led the rear guard. Jacob trotted at Alban’s side, one hand resting upon Alban’s right stirrup. The lad was only twelve and far too young to take part in the operation. Yet this day’s success depended upon the lad’s knowledge and connections.
    They moved in silent haste and entered the mouth of the first Golan valley. The night air carried the vague scent of date palms and olive trees. To their right, a field of new barley trembled in the wind.
    Alban looked around with a practiced