The Centurion

Short story for NTT 11/7/24

This short story is for Kevin’s No Theme Thursday for 11/7/24. Every week, Kevin produces amazing artwork that serve as inspiration for prose or poetry. Check it out!

She was dying. I knew it.

Her face was mottled and red. She was listless, burning up and as my wife patted her face with a wet cloth, she caught my eye. “Daddy…” she said.

It wouldn’t be long now.

My first memory was of a huge building, the roar of a crowd, and the thundering of horses. My father had taken me to the Colosseum to see the chariot races, and to a five-year old boy, everything seemed enormous. The smells, the sounds, the excitement…they generated in me a lifelong love of horses.

So I suppose it was a natural fit that I would pursue a military career. Our family in Rome was moderately prominent, tribunus angusticlavius, which qualified me for elite service. My Greek tutors trained me in legionary procedures, military operations, tactics, horsemanship, and military history.

Twenty years to the day after the Colosseum, I joined the Roman army with the rank of legionary Centurion. It was a heady day. My parents and wife were proud of me as I received my commission. Two days later, I stood in front of the desk of the garrison commanding officer, Praefectus Castrorum Appius Scipio.

“Step forward,” he ordered, not looking up.“Name?”

“Marcus Aeneas.”

He consulted his logs. He picked up a sheet of paper, folded it, and finally looked up as he handed it to me. “Your posting is Capernaum, Syria Palaestina. Good luck.” I saw a faint smile; perhaps he was recalling his own first posting.

Syria Palaestina. It was the other end of the world.

Capernaum was actually a nice place to be posted. It was built next to one of the largest lakes in that part of the world, the Sea of Galilee. I’d often find excuses to ride my horse along the shore, gazing at the distant mountains across the lake and breathing in the fresh air. Small waves washed up on the beaches and in spring, the hills were covered with flowers.

Our garrison was responsible for maintaining order in the occupied region. The Jews, whose home we occupied, varied greatly in their opinion of us. Some were ambivalent; some friendly; others openly hostile. They had strange customs and one of the strangest was their belief in one god. While Romans had many, their God Yahweh supposedly had done miraculous things in times past.

One afternoon, I was patrolling along the lake when I encountered some fishermen landing their boat. I dismounted and walked over.

“Good afternoon,” I said. I noticed their bulging nets; it had been a good day.

“Hello,” said one. The others looked at me; a Centurion didn’t usually speak to Jews unless on civil matters.

“I’ve heard there’s been some excitement in the province lately,” I said. “What’s going on?”

They looked at each other, then me. “A mighty prophet,” the leader said.

“A prophet?” I asked. “As in someone who foretells things?”

“More than that. He’s done miracles.”

“Miracles?”

“He’s healed people. It’s said he’s calmed the wind and the waves with a command.” The leader looked at his friends. “He’s raised people from the dead.”

I’d heard stories about the Jews and their prophets, and how they gave messages to the people from their god. But the things I was hearing now was news to me. I thought all that other sort of stuff had happened long centuries ago. Their culture fascinated me.

I stayed by the lake that day long after they left, until late in the night. The stars were a glittering vault over my head and as my horse snorted softly and yanked at tufts of grass, I thought about a lot of things.

A month later, my wife called from upstairs. “Marcus,” she said. “Can you come here? I don’t like how Octavia looks.”

My six year old daughter looked at me from her bed. “Daddy,” she said. “I don’t feel well.”

I felt her forehead with the back of my hand and she did feel warm. “I’m sure it’s nothing,” I said. “Let’s see how she’s doing tomorrow.”

By the time I got to our garrison, I had forgotten about Octavia. A Roman diplomat was making a visit today and the imposing brick fort, guarded out front by a dozen Roman soldiers, looked suitably impressive.

The day passed quickly and as I wearily put my helmet on the kitchen table, Antonia called again from upstairs. Octavia, slumped down up to her neck with her blanket, had dark circles under her eyes. “I don’t like that,” I said. “Tomorrow, take her to the doctor.” Octavia gave me a frightened look.

During the next three weeks, two things became of increasing concern and curiosity to me, respectively: Octavia’s worsening condition; and the imminent arrival of the Jewish prophet they called Yeshua.

The doctors had done all they could for her. They had poked and prodded and doused her with at least half a dozen medicines, none of which helped. She had lost weight and was getting sicker by the day; her eyes had sunken alarmingly, she had stopped eating, her breathing was labored. Helpless, we prayed to Asclepius, the god of healing and medicine. But even he could do nothing.

On the other hand, Yeshua’s steady approach to Capernaum was heralded by a crowd that grew by the hundreds each day. The city was so crowded that it became almost impossible to get anywhere and only on horseback could I navigate the packed roads and alleys.

On this fateful morning, I realized my only daughter was probably not going to live to see another sunrise. In desperation, I leaped into my saddle. “Marcus!” screamed Antonia. “Where are you going?”

“To look for a miracle,” I shouted as I wheeled my steed around and kicked his flanks.

I didn’t know what to expect, but I caught my first glimpse of Yeshua from far back in the crowd. But even at that distance, as he walked and talked with the masses, I noticed something strange; he appeared to be surrounded very faintly by a halo of light, much like the sun on an icy winter day.

As I got closer, the halo got brighter. And when I was still some distance away, he stopped interacting with the crowds and looked at me. It was as though he had been expecting me. I felt like I was laid bare and he could see through me, discerning my deepest thoughts and secrets.

Welcome, I seemed to hear. It was startling.

I dismounted and led my horse through the crowds, which parted for me. Finally, I was face to face with Yeshua, the man who had calmed the wind and the waves with a command.

He looked quite ordinary, dressed the same and about the same size and build as the other Jewish men surrounding him. But there was more, much more, just beneath the surface. I could sense it: An immense power, a brilliant radiance barely contained, the sun somehow bottled; yet not frightening, instead tempered with benevolence and love and a sense of humor. I was fascinated and humbled.

“Good afternoon,” he said with a faint grin.

“Good afternoon, sir,” I managed. My knees felt weak, yet I also felt something was propping me up.

“I’ve heard your little daughter is sick, is that correct?”

I nodded.

“Would you like me to come see her?”

I started to speak, but my mind went blank and I barely recognized my own voice. I’m not sure where the words came from.

“Sir,” I said. “Don’t trouble yourself. I’m not worthy to have you come under my roof. But just say the word, and my daughter will be healed. For I too am a man set under authority, with soldiers under me: and I say to one, ‘Go,’ and he goes; and to another, ‘Come,’ and he comes; and to my servant, ‘Do this,’ and he does it.”

Yeshua looked at me with a pleased look. Well done. He turned and addressed the crowd.

“I tell you,” he said loudly. “Not even in Israel have I found such faith.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “Go home,” he said with kindness. “Your faith has made her well.” He gave me a last look and I’ll never forget the love with which he, a complete stranger, vastly beyond my understanding, regarded me. He turned and the crowd followed.

I galloped home and ran into the house. Octavia, eating a piece of bread, ran over and squeezed my leg. “Daddy!” she exclaimed happily. “I feel all better.” Antonia’s eyes shone.

That night I again sat on the shore of the lake, watching the moon rise over the hills. I looked up and spoke softly, haltingly.

“I don’t know if you can hear me, but thank you for what you did today.”

I looked out at the lake then continued. “They say he’s Your Son…the Messiah.” My horse pulled grass.

“I believe it,” I said. My vision blurred. “I believe it.”

I still believed it two years later…as I watched him die, bloodied and beaten on a cross, and the ground shook so hard that buildings collapsed.

And three days later, when the news about the empty tomb spread like wildfire.

Note: the healing of Octavia is taken from Scripture (Luke 7:1-10). I changed a few minor things to make it fit my short story narrative.

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