assigning the duty, Leah began taking personal care of her. Imagine, Pilate’s niece acting as servant to a slave. But this slave is a favorite to many of the servants and the guards alike. Leah’s actions earned her friends throughout the household.”
Alban mulled that over. “Have you spoken with her?”
“Nothing more than a greeting. She says little. I have heard she talks with no one save the old slave.”
“An intelligent woman who is also private,” Alban mused.
“She also is quite easy on the eyes,” Linux finally added with a grin. “Too strong and direct and intelligent for my taste.”
“But attractive.”
“Indeed.” Linux grinned again and shrugged. “Shame about that wandering eye.”
Alban studied the other man. Linux had a good face. The firelight hardened the edges about his jaw and turned his gaze flinty sharp. Alban said, “Pilate suggested I contact one of the Sanhedrin. He said this Joseph of Arimathea would be a good starting point.”
Linux slipped a cloth packet from the saddlebag. He laid out the rest of their meal on the flagstone between them—salt meat, dried fruit, cakes of honeycomb. “I’ve met several members of the Judaean council, but not that one. He’s rich enough to barricade himself away from the likes of me. Not that I’ve any great desire to meet another Judaean. He’s a Pharisee. You understand what that means?”
“I’ve known a few.” Unlike the Sadducees, the dominant group on the Sanhedrin, some Pharisees traveled out to the provinces and visited religious communities like Capernaum, speaking in the synagogues, passing on Temple edicts to the priests and local elders. The Pharisees were well known for their distinct dress and the way they avoided even speaking to a Roman. A strict Pharisee would consider himself unclean after crossing so much as a Roman’s shadow.
Linux asked the question that had hung between them since Alban had emerged from the palace. “How was your audience with Pilate?”
“So intense I am still sorting through the fray.” He grinned crookedly at his companion. “Like after a battle, just as you said.”
Linux stirred the fire. “You know what is an officer’s best friend in battle?”
“Cunning.”
It was a good answer, but Linux flicked his head in disagreement. “Cunning alone can trap you. Get a soldier into a pinch and allow him a way to escape, cunning gives him reasons to turn from warrior to coward. And too often he’ll fall into the trap his enemies have set.”
Alban picked up one of the flatbreads and tossed it from hand to hand until it cooled enough to eat. “What is it, then?”
“Cunning bonded to a secret rage. A good warrior lets the fury take hold only when the heat of war surrounds him. Then he lets loose, and cunning guides his aim.” Linux inspected him gravely. “You have that rage, and you have that control, and you have that cunning. That is what I think Pilate found as well.”
Alban rolled a slice of the meat and a bit of the dried fruit into his bread. He found himself silenced by Linux’s observations. It was not often that a man read him as well as this one had.
The soldier continued to study him. “I for one wouldn’t want to come up against you in a fight, centurion.”
Leah and Procula were traveling light and made good time. They arrived at a simple inn on the road between Caesarea and Jerusalem with a few minutes of daylight to spare. Procula dined alone, served by Leah and the innkeeper’s wife. Twice the woman started to speak with Leah, but whatever she saw in Leah’s expression caused her to shrug, shake her head, and remain silent.
That night it was Leah who dreamed.
She stood in some flame-lit hall, dressed in finery not her own. In the murky distance a voice droned low and sonorous, the words reverberating with the beat of a gallows drums. She knew it was her betrothal ceremony, just as she knew without looking down that she was chained to the floor. Leah
Alban mulled that over. “Have you spoken with her?”
“Nothing more than a greeting. She says little. I have heard she talks with no one save the old slave.”
“An intelligent woman who is also private,” Alban mused.
“She also is quite easy on the eyes,” Linux finally added with a grin. “Too strong and direct and intelligent for my taste.”
“But attractive.”
“Indeed.” Linux grinned again and shrugged. “Shame about that wandering eye.”
Alban studied the other man. Linux had a good face. The firelight hardened the edges about his jaw and turned his gaze flinty sharp. Alban said, “Pilate suggested I contact one of the Sanhedrin. He said this Joseph of Arimathea would be a good starting point.”
Linux slipped a cloth packet from the saddlebag. He laid out the rest of their meal on the flagstone between them—salt meat, dried fruit, cakes of honeycomb. “I’ve met several members of the Judaean council, but not that one. He’s rich enough to barricade himself away from the likes of me. Not that I’ve any great desire to meet another Judaean. He’s a Pharisee. You understand what that means?”
“I’ve known a few.” Unlike the Sadducees, the dominant group on the Sanhedrin, some Pharisees traveled out to the provinces and visited religious communities like Capernaum, speaking in the synagogues, passing on Temple edicts to the priests and local elders. The Pharisees were well known for their distinct dress and the way they avoided even speaking to a Roman. A strict Pharisee would consider himself unclean after crossing so much as a Roman’s shadow.
Linux asked the question that had hung between them since Alban had emerged from the palace. “How was your audience with Pilate?”
“So intense I am still sorting through the fray.” He grinned crookedly at his companion. “Like after a battle, just as you said.”
Linux stirred the fire. “You know what is an officer’s best friend in battle?”
“Cunning.”
It was a good answer, but Linux flicked his head in disagreement. “Cunning alone can trap you. Get a soldier into a pinch and allow him a way to escape, cunning gives him reasons to turn from warrior to coward. And too often he’ll fall into the trap his enemies have set.”
Alban picked up one of the flatbreads and tossed it from hand to hand until it cooled enough to eat. “What is it, then?”
“Cunning bonded to a secret rage. A good warrior lets the fury take hold only when the heat of war surrounds him. Then he lets loose, and cunning guides his aim.” Linux inspected him gravely. “You have that rage, and you have that control, and you have that cunning. That is what I think Pilate found as well.”
Alban rolled a slice of the meat and a bit of the dried fruit into his bread. He found himself silenced by Linux’s observations. It was not often that a man read him as well as this one had.
The soldier continued to study him. “I for one wouldn’t want to come up against you in a fight, centurion.”
Leah and Procula were traveling light and made good time. They arrived at a simple inn on the road between Caesarea and Jerusalem with a few minutes of daylight to spare. Procula dined alone, served by Leah and the innkeeper’s wife. Twice the woman started to speak with Leah, but whatever she saw in Leah’s expression caused her to shrug, shake her head, and remain silent.
That night it was Leah who dreamed.
She stood in some flame-lit hall, dressed in finery not her own. In the murky distance a voice droned low and sonorous, the words reverberating with the beat of a gallows drums. She knew it was her betrothal ceremony, just as she knew without looking down that she was chained to the floor. Leah
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