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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