Free The Centurion's Wife by Janette Oke, Davis Bunn Page A

throat. “I don’t want to marry,” she dared to say, her voice hardly above a whisper. “I would willingly serve you for the rest of my life, my lady.”
    Procula’s head lifted away from the cushions. “Herod is there as well. I must know what is happening.”
    “Mistress, I have served you well. I have never asked you for anything. But I am asking you now. Please do not force me to wed this man.”
    Even wracked by pain, Procula possessed a queenly demeanor, dark and sharp and unreadable. “They say he is most handsome. And a fine soldier. Even Pilate refers to him as a hero.”
    “Mistress, I beg you. Do not force me to marry anyone .”
    “You are young and intelligent. You have fire. Others might not see it, for you mask your inner power well. You were not born for such a life as this. Do not bind yourself with fear over what may never come.” She halted Leah’s protest with an upraised hand. “You must learn to accept what the gods offer. I have learned the consequences of going against them. The Judaean God, in particular. Nothing is worth . . .” Her voice drifted away and she slowly turned her head to stare out the window. When she turned back, she finished quietly, “Believe me, it is not worth it. Now, go and observe and remember everything you see and hear. I will wait for your return.”
    Alban was aware that Pontius Pilate held several official titles, and the most commonly used was prelate. But the provincial governor preferred to be known as prefect. The title was held by a commander of the emperor’s cavalry, someone known for grasp of military strategy. Pilate considered himself a warrior first, which was why he had been appointed to this troublesome province. In a calmer region, a prelate’s first responsibility was taxation. But not in Judaea.
    Pontius Pilate, prefect of Judaea, and his lone guest received Alban in a north-facing courtyard ringed by columns. The terrace had a fine view both of the sea and the hippodrome. White linen canopies stretched over the columns, offering shade where Pilate and his guest were seated. The palace doorways were hidden behind intricately carved wooden screens. A light wind off the sea caused the fabric to billow softly. On a table at the courtyard’s other side was spread Alban’s gift of bandit loot. Compared with the palace and its polished ambiance, the bejeweled sword hilts and shields seemed garish.
    The courtyard’s three divans, two chairs, two lampstands, and incense burner were all ornately carved and chased in gold. As were the cups and bowls and plates and utensils. Even the writing implements used to anchor the scrolls against the wind were gold. An empire’s wealth was spread about the patio on casual display.
    Only the two seats were occupied, low thrones set side-by-side upon an elevated dais.
    Alban knew some of the prelate’s history because he had made it his business to find out all he could. Pontius Pilate was born in Rome of Samnite heritage. The mountains south of Rome had bred a race of proud and stubborn people, whose men fought with brutal intelligence and ruled the same way. Pilate’s father had been an eques , a member of the Roman knightly class. Pilate served in the emperor’s personal bodyguard, then fought with the victorious legions in the Germanic wars. The newly appointed emperor Tiberius had decided Pontius Pilate was the ideal man to rule the troublesome province of Judaea.
    Alban stepped forward and bowed low. As he did so, he noted a shadow behind the carved wooden screen. He forced himself to ignore the unseen watcher. “Greetings, my lord.” He attempted to strike the proper note of subservience yet confidence. He would wait for Pilate’s cue to acknowledge the other man.
    Leah’s first impression upon seeing Alban through the wooden screen was of the moment eight days earlier when she had risen from her bed, utterly free from the fever that had gripped her for nine long days.
    Drawn from her bed by the