JAC Online

The Centurion
by Simon Court

 

The passage was shrouded in mist.

 

Yet, with every heavy step, Septimus made his way down it, hands caressing the clay walls for support.  His eyes remained fixed ahead, but they caught little of what appeared before them - not only was the fog thick, but his own mind impeded it.  There was, after all, only one thing he could truly see.

 

Emerging from the darkness and into the open air, he heard thunder crash like war drums across the distant hills.  A sea of foreboding clouds materialized overhead, encroaching on Rome like an invading army.  In response, the surrounding streets were empty, citizens taking cover from the looming besiegement.  They were now clustered in cellars and alleyways, wrapped in cloaks and warming themselves over fires, rolling dice and swapping tales.

 

Septimus, of all men, paid no heed.  He trudged precariously across the uneven earth, the hem of his cloak dragging limply at his feet.  The first beads of rain had made their descent, clinging to his neck and shoulders.  Upon catching what little light existed, they engulfed him in an otherworldly glow. 

 

In one such raindrop, Septimus glimpsed his own reflection.  Gone was the fearless warrior, the rousing Senator, the proud father.  In their place stood a feeble old man.  His yellowing skin sagged from aching bones.  A scraggly beard carpeted his once-handsome face.  His iron grey hair, unkempt and tangled, thrashed in the wet wind.  Pushing a fallen strand from his brow, he at last reached his destination.  It was in the midst of a once-plentiful garden, now barren from neglect.  Though shallow, the cave still served its purpose.  Septimus collapsed at the foot of the tomb. 

 

It had been several weeks since she had died, taken by the past winter’s fever.  Yet she remained with Septimus wherever he went, her voice a constant whisper in his ear.  He could still glimpse her gliding through that very garden the previous summer, dark hair shimmering in the sunlight, her breath carrying the scent of wine and olive bread.  Yet that memory soon succumbed to nothingness, laying alongside her in the tomb.  She was gone.  In many ways, Septimus had left with her.  He had not ventured from his estate in many days.  He had forsaken his Senatorial duties.  He rarely spoke with family and servants.  Septimus had become a hermit in his own house - her voice still spoke loudest of all.

 

“Father?  Father!”

 

It was not her voice, but another, from somewhere beyond the confines of grief.  Septimus lifted his head, the rain now pounding his back, each drop like the burn of a whip.  His son, Decimus, stood nearby on the porch of the villa.  He had several scrolls tucked beneath his arm, trying in vain to shield them from the downpour.  Septimus could scarcely look at the green eyes and riotous black hair he’d inherited from his mother.

 

“I’m headed for the Forum” Decimus declared, saddened eyes flickering over his withered father.  “Hopefully the rain won’t hold back the crowds…if it does, maybe I’ll find an audience trapped beneath the market awnings.  They’ll have no choice but to listen then.”  He gave a quick smile but, when it was not returned, fell into an awkward pause.  “You can’t sulk here all day Father - you should come with me.”

 

Septimus visibly hesitated, then returned his gaze to the stone tomb.  Decimus clutched his scrolls, unsure of how to proceed.

 

“Another time then?” he suggested, a slight quiver in his voice.  “When the skies have improved?”

 

Septimus still gave no reply, the falling rain drenching him to the bone.  Decimus hovered on the porch, wanting to say something, but knowing there was nothing he could say.  He’d never seen his father like this before - barely functioning, on the brink of total collapse.  He missed him. 

 

With a deep sigh, Decimus disappeared down the stone path and into the receding haze.

 

He probably deserved better.  After all, he’d been the only son to remain by his father’s side in his advancing age.  The other boy, Antonius, gripped by adolescent angst, had run off and enlisted as a Centurion, taking a post in some backwater province of the Empire, as far away from his family as he could.  Septimus had sent him many letters, but had never received a reply.  Decimus, on the other hand, remained faithful, staying in Rome to tend to both his father and his greatest passion - poetry.  From a young age, Decimus had been a skilled writer, and had composed hundreds of works, mainly for his own amusement.  In recent months, however, he had gone public, embarking on near-daily jaunts to the Forum to recite his poems to the crowds that gathered there.  With every reading, his audience and reputation grew larger.  Yet, since his mother’s death, his father had not attended a single performance.  He had left with her.   

 

Thunder clapped overhead as the sky continued its assault.  Septimus raised himself from the soaking, sunken earth.  Ensuring that Decimus was gone, he reached deep within his cloak and produced a small, glimmering object.  With the rain brushing his cheeks like teardrops, Septimus placed the blade against his throat.

 

The dagger had idled on his chamber shelf for several days.  There it had tempted him, whispering as he slept, promising liberation.  And now, in the midst of a ravenous storm, he was finally giving into its pleas.

 

The first trickle of blood caressed his neck, the red standing brazenly against its backdrop of leathery skin.  The blade had made its inaugural cut, not deep enough to be damaging, but still painful.  He began to think about what would happen next.  Decimus would come home, find the mud-drenched body among the weltered crops, garbed in a crimson necklace.  He’d rush for a doctor, but it’d be in vain.  He assumed Antonius would be notified by messenger, but would he don his horse and make for Rome, or brush it off without a tinge of grief?  Septimus supposed it didn’t matter.  Soon he’d be with the one he had loved most.

 

Septimus steadied his trembling hand, preparing to make the fatal blow.  His whole body shook, his breath emerging in quick sobs.  Yet suddenly, as if a servant summoned by its master, a curious white light appeared from nowhere, floating over the garden.  Septimus watched it, entranced.  Then the ground gave way beneath him.

 

The earth sprung to life with untameable force.  A nearby pot, dislodged from its pedestal, was heaved to the dirt, clay shards exploding across the garden.  The wind whipped by so powerfully that it burned Septimus’s face, effortlessly throwing him to the pulsating ground.  He felt the cyclone tear the dagger from his grasp, lobbing it into the trees beyond.  The sphere of light expanded, its beams growing stronger and stronger.  They pierced through his shut eyes, igniting his very soul.

 

“Open your eyes Septimus!”

 

The voice shattered his last shred of sanity.  Septimus collapsed to his knees, weeping hysterically, his body convulsing with fear.

 

“Open your eyes!”

 

Somehow, Septimus heeded the command, and stared into the scorching onslaught of light.  He could scarcely make out a figure in the garden before him.  It was tall and a shining white, its glowing face rendered featureless.  Septimus tried to speak, to cry out, but his voice emerged a raspy croak. 

 

“Do not be afraid Septimus.  I come bearing good news.”

 

The being’s voice radiated power.  It was akin to the roar of a waterfall, the thunder of a thousand chariots.  Male, female, and inhuman all at once, it seemed to burst from every direction, including from within Septimus’s mind.

 

“There is no need to take your own life, for good things shall be bestowed upon your family.”

 

Septimus felt himself strangely drawn to the being.  He dragged himself through the dirt with sweaty palms, his body still trembling. 

 

“I assure you of this truth: your son’s words will live on for all of time.”

 

Septimus found himself screaming.

“What are you?! What are you saying?!” he roared over the shaking of the earth.  Yet as quickly as the being had arrived, it was gone.  Septimus was left lying at the foot of the tomb, his garden sprawled out around him.  He slowly lifted himself to his feet, placing a hand against his aching temple.  The ground was still, and the wind had ceased blowing.  The dark clouds were beginning to clear, and a beam of fresh sunlight shot through the heavenly rift.

 

It was the calm after the storm.

 

By the time Septimus reached the Forum, the clouds had fully retreated.  The victorious sun rose over the ravaged battleground, already baking the stones beneath his feet.  As people emerged from their rain shelters, yawning and stretching tight muscles, they resumed their daily lives as though nothing extraordinary had occurred, and the square soon bustled with activity.  Septimus strode past a man haggling with a weary merchant over a set of jewels, likely brought to Rome after the conquest of some nameless foreign land.  He then cautiously stepped from the path of a patrolling legionary, pale sunlight glinting off his iron helmet.  In a clustered alleyway, he spotted a pair of young boys with wooden swords, laughing as they pretended to vanquish a mangy cat that lapped up stagnant rainwater.  Probably pretending to be Centurions, Septimus mused to himself, feeling a brief tinge of sadness.

 

Yet he quickly put those thoughts aside - now was a time of joy, of unspeakable joy!  Mere moments ago, awash in despair and on the edge of self-destruction, the gods had visited him - the gods! - not only to save him from himself, but to deliver a message.  A message that had run through his mind continuously as he’d made his way to the Forum.

 

Your son’s words will live on for all of time.

 

Though he couldn’t grasp why the gods had interfered, why they desired to extend his life, he was sure of one thing - he had reason to live again.  For the message could only have one implication.  Decimus was destined to be a famous poet.  And, over the cries of merchants and the braying of horses, Septimus could hear his son’s voice in the wind.

 

Decimus stood brazenly upon a raised platform, gazing down at his entranced audience of rather prominent citizens.  He read aloud from one of his many scrolls, his words smooth, each syllable flowing from his tongue like water.  Septimus shuffled to the rear of the crowd, allowing the prodigal father to gain the perfect view of his son.

 

As Decimus finished his reading, the crowd exploded in approval, their claps echoing across the Forum.  The young poet, modest as always, thanked his admirers for their kindness, and began to gather his scrolls for the journey home.  Septimus, with a deep breath, pushed past the dispersing crowd and approached Decimus as he dismounted the stage. 

 

“My son!” he called out joyfully.  Decimus spun around, a smile bursting across his face.  

“Father!” he exclaimed.  “You came!  It’s so good to see you!”

 

“I wouldn’t miss it for anything, Decimus” Septimus assured with pride, resting a hand on his son’s shoulder – the same hand that, moments ago, had grasped a dagger.  “And I see the crowd is the same!  Half of Rome must be here!”

 

“Indeed, and it grows larger still” Decimus agreed.  “I suppose it’s all because of the Senators, your…old colleagues.  Word of my poetry has spread through the Capitol like wildfire.”  He paused for a moment.  “I know what you’re going through Father, and so do they, but they can’t keep your seat vacant much longer.”

 

Septimus breathed deeply.

 

“I’ll reclaim it soon.  After all, I’ve been assured of good things.”  He leaned in close to Decimus, beyond the earshot of passers-by.  “The gods have spoken to me.”

 

The poet’s eyes widened.

 

“The gods?” he said excitedly.  “What did they say?”

 

“They said that our family is blessed” Septimus reported, his voice brimming with joy.  “They said that your words will live on for all of time!”

 

Decimus stumbled back in surprise, scrolls nearly falling from his grasp. 

 

“That must mean…my poems!” he exclaimed.  “They’ll be remembered!”

 

“Yes, Decimus - the whole world will know them!” Septimus proclaimed, embracing his son tightly.  They were both silent for several moments, wrapped in the warmth of mutual joy, something neither had experienced for quite some time. 

 

At last, Decimus pulled away.

 

“So, what is it we wait for?” he inquired with a smile.  “I have to get writing!”

 

Septimus laughed, hand returning to his son’s shoulder.  Dividing Decimus’s supplies between them, the pair departed the Forum, sunshine across their backs.  Septimus was smiling proudly to himself.

 

My son’s words will live on for all of time!

 

The weeks passed quickly, like the Tiber beneath a bridge.  Septimus no longer had time to dwell in his grief - all his efforts were put towards shaping his son’s talents, anything he could do to hasten the arrival of the divine prophecy.  They rose together, long before the sun peaked over the Seven Hills, and Decimus would write until the last light had been doused by night’s black mask.  As his hand moved swiftly, the bridge between the author’s mind and the scroll before him, Septimus would lean over his shoulder, offering advice and encouragement.  Whenever time and daylight permitted, they walked together to the Forum for a public reading of Decimus’s latest magnum opus.  Word of his talents quickly spread to the furthest regions of the province, and Septimus had been particularly pleased when an imperial courtier had arrived to judge whether the poems he’d heard about were of a high enough quality that his master could tolerate them.  Septimus wished his anguished old self could see him now - a changed man, a happier man - all from the hands of the divine. 

 

His dreams, for once, were also pleasing.  The same idyllic vision had drifted through his mind at such a rate that he could recount its every detail.  A group of men, women, and children, all of some distant generation, were seated in the grass of a quaint courtyard, bordered by rows of elegant pillars.  Their garments were woven from the finest silk, and their skin shone with health.  A man stood over them, framed against the canvas of a cascading fountain, reading aloud Decimus’s poetry.  Even then, hundreds of years in the future, his son’s works were cherished, his family name honoured.  However, his dream’s latest incarnation was interrupted by a sudden, heavy pounding.  The gatherers in the courtyard appeared not to notice, so transfixed by the flow of poetry.  Septimus tried to ignore the noise, but it grew louder and louder.  He shifted wildly in bed, the rapping bombarding him from all sides.

 

Septimus awoke with a start.  Someone was knocking madly on his chamber door.  Irritated by the disruption, he uttered a nonsensical grunt and threw the sheets from his body.

 

“Who’s there?” he shouted from bed.

 

“It’s Cassian” came the muffled voice of his servant from the hall.

 

Septimus, grumbling, granted him entry.  Cassian was several years younger than Decimus, and wore the scars inflicted by previous, less gracious masters.  Beneath them, his face was a pale shade of white.

 

“Well, where’s my breakfast?” Septimus demanded.

 

“I don’t come with food, master” Cassian said softly, unfazed by Septimus’s foul disposition.  “I come with…news.”

 

Septimus noticed a slight tremor in his lip.

 

“Out with it then!” he ordered. 

 

Cassian took a deep breath.

 

“There was a riot” he explained nervously.  “A large, angry crowd…torches were lit…stones were thrown…your son…”

 

He stopped short, unable to continue.

 

“My son what?” Septimus asked.  Cassian closed his clouded eyes.

 

“He’s dead, Senator” the servant murmured, a tear sliding down his cheek.  “There was nothing anyone could do.”

 

Septimus slammed his fist against the wall.

 

“I told him not to leave Rome!” he shouted.  “That wretched province is dangerous!  I knew this would happen!”

 

“No, Senator, Antonius still lives” Cassian assured him, reaching for his arm.  “It’s…Decimus who is gone.”

 

Septimus rose, veins throbbing, his face already streaked with tears.  He tried to speak, but no words emerged.

 

“De…Decimus?” he finally croaked through trembling lips.  “He’s…dead?”

 

Cassian nodded slightly, looking at his master in the eyes. 

 

“They lied!” the Senator screamed, his whole being erupting with fury.  He reached for his recovered dagger and threw it across the room, where it embedded itself in the chamber wall.

 

“Master, calm yourself, please!  Who lied?” Cassian asked, reaching for Septimus.  The Senator’s arm swung out, striking his servant across the face.  Cassian collapsed to the floor, clutching a bloodied nose, as Septimus wailed uncontrollably over him.

 

“They lied!  They lied!”

 

Septimus stormed from the chamber, his body shaking, nerves on fire.  Entering the adjoining studio, he tore Decimus’s works from the shelves, the scrolls clattering to the stone floor.  He stomped them until only dust remained. 

 

“They lied!” he continued to bellow.

 

Cassian, managing to compose himself, raced into the scroll room.  But Septimus had already left the villa, tearing across the garden.  The servant called for him, but Septimus appeared not to hear, falling to his knees at the foot of the old tomb. 

 

With tears streaming down his chin, he slammed his fist against the dirt until his knuckles bled.  Lifting his face to the clouds that formed above, he yelled with all his might.

 

“You lie!  You build me up from my weakest place and then shatter me with a single blow! You said my son’s words would live on for all of time!  How can they live on if he doesn’t?!  You lie, you lie!” 

 

Septimus collapsed to the dirt in agony.  Cassian watched helplessly from the porch as the storm clouds fell into formation overhead, preparing a new assault.

 

The valley was bathed in sunlight.

 

Antonius lifted his helmet, brushing away the locks of damp hair that clung to his forehead.  Though the sun was not yet at its zenith, he could already feel its sweltering rays beneath his heavy armour.

 

Around him, the valley flowed in all directions, coated in the morning dew.  It was broken only by a stream that cut through the grass like a dagger’s blade, and the peaks of distant hills, so intricate that they must have been carved by the gods themselves.  Peering forward into the light, Antonius commanded his men to quicken their pace, as there wouldn’t be much time before their target faded back into exile.

 

The small convoy of trusted legionaries, led by their Centurion, was making its way down a thin and furrowed road that ran alongside the brook.  With every step their armour rattled and their boots crashed against the dirt, sending pulses through the earth.

 

“Are we almost there Commander?” a nearby soldier asked, his sweat-stained face gazing hopefully at Antonius. 

 

“Nearly.  He should be around the next hill, if that shepherd spoke the truth” Antonius assured him.

 

They walked for another mile or so, Antonius not lifting his eyes from the path beyond.  At last, they rounded a corner and emerged in yet another majestic valley.  A large crowd filled the vale like a shimmering sea.  Antonius recognized the man atop a boulder in the centre of the mass - it was the Rabbi he’d been searching for.

 

The man looked relatively unimpressive - straggly hair and a tan complexion, not extraordinary in height or build - quite unlike the stories Antonius had overheard in Jerusalem.  The Rabbi was speaking, and the crowd stood transfixed by his words.  Even the children were silent.

 

They made a subtle approach.  However, it wasn’t long before they were spotted by an elderly woman, who turned frantically to her neighbour.

“Romans!” she hissed beneath her breath.

 

Almost instantly, the crowd was on fire, awash in whispers and echoes.  Why were there Romans here?  What did they want?  Would they arrest them?

 

Antonius pulled his sword from its sheath and raised it before him.

 

“Clear a path!” he demanded.

 

The silenced crowd quickly obeyed.  Some gatherers hurried away in fear, while others held their ground, chins rigid and knuckles white.

 

With the way unobscured, Antonius could see directly into the heart of the crowd.  The Rabbi stared back at him.  The man’s gaze was absent of fear, and it set Antonius on edge.

 

The Rabbi dismounted his boulder, as if challenging the Centurion to come forward.  Antonius, leaving his troops on the perimeter, walked through the crowd to meet him.  They faced each other, cautiously, like rival generals about to make a ceasefire. 

“Why are you here?” the Rabbi asked, his voice firm.

 

Antonius took a deep breath.

 

“My servant is at home, in bed” he explained.  “He’s paralyzed, and in terrible pain.”  He paused.  “I’ve heard the rumours…the whispers in the streets.  I know you can help.”

 

“Bring me to your house, and I’ll heal him” the Rabbi said, stepping forward.  Antonius blocked his path.  The Rabbi looked at him, not in surprise, but in anticipation.

 

“I am in a chain of command” Antonius continued.  “I say to my men ‘Come’ and they come.  I say to them ‘Go’ and they go.  I tell my servant to do this, and he does it.  I know it’s the same for you.”

 

The Rabbi stepped back in awe, looking around at the crowd.

 

“Never before have I seen faith like this in all of Israel!” he proclaimed.  He turned back to Antonius.  “What you ask has been done for you.”

 

The Centurion smiled.

 

“Thank you Rabbi.”

 

With those words, he returned to his men.  The crowd, whispering amongst themselves, watched as the Romans disappeared down the valley.  Engulfed by the light of the rising sun, they vanished.

 

 

  

 

 

   

 

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