The Centurion's Wife by Davis Bunn; Janette Oke

Author:Davis Bunn; Janette Oke
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Baker Publishers Group
Published: 2008-12-31T23:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER

EIGHTEEN

Antonia Fortress

ALBAN TOSSED IN RESTLESS WORRY. In mere hours his future was to become intertwined with that of a woman he had never actually met. The fact that she was Judaean was as great a mystery as this betrothal ceremony. To a soldier’s rational mind, it sounded like all of the responsibilities of marriage with none of the benefits. Time and again he fought against the fear that he was making an enormous mistake. His simple request for a wife, one who would contribute to his successful future, had turned into something else entirely. It was now being used as leverage in someone else’s hands—out of his control, and certainly out of hers.

Added to this were growing concerns over young Jacob. Alban had heard nothing since sending the lad off on his errand. He tried to tell himself that the boy was resourceful and smart, that he likely would return soon. Finally around dawn, Alban slipped into a fitful slumber.

When he awoke, he discovered two crumpled forms snoring in the other room.

Linux looked like he had spent weeks in the saddle. His lanky body was dusty and sweat streaked. A filthy Jacob sprawled upon the floor by the window, wrapped in Linux’s blanket and snoring louder than the officer.

“A fine sight!” Alban stood with hands on hips. “I’ve been very worried! Where have you been?”

Linux groaned. From Jacob there was no sound at all.

Alban walked over and nudged the lad with his toe. “You young hooligan! What have you got to say for yourself?”

Jacob rolled over and covered his head with the blanket.

Linux muttered, “Where did he come from?”

“You’re asking me?” Alban nudged Jacob again and was rewarded with a sleepy sound. “Where have you been?”

Linux staggered to his feet. “Did I make it back in time?”

“For what?”

Despite his evident fatigue, Linux summoned a grin. “You can’t possibly be that relaxed about your own betrothal.”

Alban nudged the boy once more. “I command you to explain yourself!”

The lad at his feet groaned. “Water. Please . . .”

Alban walked to the corner table and poured a cup from the pitcher. He knelt beside the lad. “Here. Drink.”

Jacob rolled over, sat up, drained the cup, opened one gritty eye, and croaked, “I found them, master.”

Alban roughed the lad’s hair, or tried to. It was like rubbing his hand through oily sandpaper. “How did you get so filthy?”

The lad held up the cup and pleaded, “More.” Then added, “Master.”

Alban shook his head, rose to his feet, and returned with both water and ripe plums, along with the previous day’s flatbread. The lad ate quickly. Alban filled the mug a third time, then ordered, “Speak.”

Jacob coughed to clear his throat. “No one would say where I might find the prophet’s disciples. I could tell people knew. But they did not know me. And they would not reveal it. Not even to an unarmed lad.”

Alban pulled over a chair. “The Judaeans are protecting plans for revolt?”

“No, master. At least I do not believe so. I saw no weapons.

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