Soldier of Rome: Journey to Judea (The Artorian Chronicles) (34 page)

A legionary grabbed the hammer that had been used to drive home the crucifixion stakes and quickly smashed the legs of the two criminals. The men gave renewed cries of anguish as their shin bones snapped, though their passage into oblivion would now be hastened. The soldier then rushed to the base of the Nazarene’s cross and made ready to swing when suddenly he stopped.

“What the hell are you waiting for?” Justus shouted. “Finish him already!”

“I think he’s dead, sir!” the legionary responded.

The earth heaved beneath them and the
man suddenly panicked.

With a growl of rage, Justus grabbed the
other legionary’s heavy spear, which he had since left at the base of the cross. He looked up at Jesus, and he did, indeed, look as if he were already dead. Still, he had to make certain. He swallowed hard and gritted his teeth.

“Please forgive me,” he said quietly. He then thrust the spear just
beneath the Nazarene’s ribcage. The weapon plunged into the man’s flesh, penetrating all the way to the heart. As he wrenched free the crimson-soaked blade, a jet of blood and fluids splashed him in the face. He gave a great cry and fell to his knees as if he had been struck down, his helmet knocked from his head.

After a moment the rumble of the earth subsided, though the sky remained black. Justus glanced around and realized he was alone. Shivering despite the warmth in the air, he donned his helmet and gazed down at the bloodied spear. He clutched the weapon close and looked up at the cross once more. Without another word he solemnly walked away.

It was a long walk back to the barracks and the principia. Artorius had ordered Cornelius and Julius to keep him posted on the disposition of the crowds. There had been a brief panic following the tremors, and with the sky still dark it seemed that most of the people were cowering in fear.

I
t was late afternoon, and yet, the blackened sky made it feel like it was already night. The wind blowing was warm, but Artorius felt a chill run up his spine. His stomach was twisting in knots, and he found he was sweating. This was not unusual for him, for he loathed crucifixions and each time he had the hateful task of taking part in one he would pray to whatever deities were listening that it would be his last.

What was it he said?
‘Here was the Son of God’
? Had he unconsciously acknowledged the divinity of one whose bloodied carcass hung from a cross in the most indignant form of execution the Romans had devised? The very thought frightened him, as it went against all reason and logic; threatening his very sanity. Though not an atheist and hater of religion like Justus, he was more than assailed by doubts regarding mankind’s understanding of the divine.

As he attempted to sort out the wave of a thousand conflicting thoughts, he was distracted by a stooped over person, huddled beneath a hooded cloak. He could not tell if it was a man or woman, as they were deliberately hiding their face and hands. Artorius walked over and pulled the hood back, revealing the face of a very young man with fair skin and blonde hair.
The lad’s smooth face was streaked in tears, his eyes red.

“You’re no Jew,” Artorius noted. “Nor are you a Roman.”

“N…no, sir,” the man said quickly in a heavily accented voice.

“So who the bloody hell are you?”

“M…my name is Alaric,” the man replied. He then stood upright and regained his composure as he seemed to recognize the centurion. “I know you, sir. I came with you on ship from Ostia.”

“Did you now?” Artorius asked.

Alaric nodded his head quickly.

“Yes, sir. I was an oarsman under Stoppello
. We fought the pirates together. My friend is Hansi Flavianus.” The lad’s response took Artorius aback.

“If you were a crewman of Stoppello’s, what are you doing here?”

“Looking to find myself,” Alaric responded as he started to walk down the dirt road.

Artorius walked beside him, surprised that they were the only two souls on the road.
It was as if the darkened sky and brief tremor had scared away the entire province. He had deliberately taken a different path back to the city than the one he had sent Magnus and his legionaries on.

“You’re from the Nordic realms,” Artorius surmised, though Alaric shook his head.

“No,” he replied, his voice no longer showing fear of the centurion. “Germania was my place of birth. I was of the Marsi.”

The mention of this tribe caused Artorius to halt in his tracks.

Alaric looked at him and sighed. “You know of my people and how we were practically exterminated by Rome.”

“I do,” Artorius replied coolly.
“Though your tribe still remains.”

“Ha!” Alaric scoffed. “There are but a few scattered remnants even after all these years. I daresay, sir, you are probably old enough that you could have taken part in my people’s destruction.”

“So what if I did?” Artorius retorted defensively, though secretly grateful to have something else to occupy his time besides the crucifixion of the Nazarene. “The Marsi were part of the Germanic Alliance under Arminius, who ambushed and murdered nearly twenty-thousand of my people, including my brother.”

“I mean no offense,” the young German replied, catching the growing hostility in Artorius’ voice
and growing fearful of the armed centurion. “Hostilities between our peoples have existed for centuries. One side commits atrocities upon the other, all in the name of vengeance for a previous wrong. It never ends.”

“Interesting then, that you fought beside us against the pirates,” Artorius noted.

“The irony of which has never been lost upon me,” Alaric remarked. “But I did not fight for Rome. I fought for my own survival. When I left home…”

“And where do you claim as home?” Artorius interrupted. “Seeing as how you say you were of the Marsi
, speaking in a past tense.”

“Britannia,” Alaric answered. “And I pray that Rome leaves that isle well enough alone.
I was just a boy when my mother saved me from our village as it was destroyed.  I remember very little from the time she carried me across the raging river, lashed to her back, to when we landed on Britannia’s shores. We were saved from starvation in the wilderness by King Breogan of the Brigantes. He was kind enough to take us into his household and practically raised me as a foster son.”

“And now you wander through Judea and the east,” Artorius noted.

“I saved enough during my time at sea that I’ve been able to live to some degree of comfort since landing here,” Alaric explained. “I figured once I started to run out of coin, I would find work aboard another ship. But then I met him…”

“Who?” Artorius started to ask. He then raised an eyebrow in realization. “You mean the Nazarene?”

“I’ve been following him for the last three years,” the young man continued. “Many called him ‘rabbi’, though I don’t think he was ever recognized by any synagogue. I think that is why so many, especially us who are not of the Jewish faith, simply called him ‘teacher’.”

“And what did he teach you?” the
centurion asked.

“Mostly how we should be to each other,” Alaric answered. “It is difficult to explain. He was of deep personal faith, yet he loathed the hypocrisy of organized religions. Sad that he met such a violent end when all he wished was for people to love one another.”

“Do you think he was the Son of God?” Artorius’ question caused Alaric to stop abruptly.

The young German turned to face him, a single tear running down his cheek.
“I followed Jesus of Nazareth,” he said, “because I thought he could teach me to forgive. Rome destroyed my family and my people. When I see your armored soldiers, all I see is death. I asked him…no, I
begged
him to teach me forgiveness, lest I never find peace within my soul. I do not know whether or not he was the Son of God, as his followers claim, but I do know he was more than just a man.” With that, he abruptly turned and walked away as quickly as he could, leaving Artorius completely alone once more.

Artorius was taken aback when he saw Justus enter the principia. He had walked the entire way from Golgotha with the bloody spear clutched to his chest. His forearm, hand, and face were also covered in sticky crimson. His fellow
centurion simply walked over to a table, dropped his helmet onto it, and collapsed into a chair, holding the spear close. His face was filthy from the flaking blood that had splattered him, his hair matted with sweat, eyes completely vacant.

“Justus!” Artorius said, walking over and placing a hand on his shoulder.

“How was I to know?” was all his friend would say.

Chapter XX
X: Live for the King

***

The Passover season had mercifully ended, and Pontius Pilate returned to Caesarea, along with the First Italic Cohort.
That a number of the Nazarene’s followers had rolled away the boulder in front of his tomb and spirited away his body did not matter; or at least it would not have, were there not numerous supposed sightings of him.

S
everal months had passed since the crucifixion, and it was well into summer. The numerous detections of him walking the earth, alive and well, were having an effect on many within the populace. Pilate was determined to put the issue to rest once and for all.

“If the Nazarene lives,” he stated, “Then let him come before me. Let me see the scars on his flesh, the holes in his hands and feet, and the wound to his side. If
, indeed, he walks amongst us, I daresay the whole of the empire will bow before him and acknowledge him as a god among men!”

Many took the
procurator’s remarks as condescending; a dare to this newest Jewish sect to produce their Messiah in the flesh before him. Those closest to him, particularly his family, knew that deep down he was afraid. What if Jesus, whose followers called the Christ, was indeed divine; a god who could not be killed by the weapons of men? Justus Longinus seemed to think he was, though he had mostly kept quiet about his feelings.

Sti
ll, he and his family were associating less with their Roman peers, and he spent more time with locals who had known Jesus of Nazareth intimately. As Justus had spent most of his career in the east, many of his friends and fellow soldiers dismissed his actions as simply those of one who was more familiar with eastern culture than with his own. And as his informant network was still very active in rooting out insurrectionists and those guilty of sedition, he kept himself immersed in these matters.

Centurion Cornelius was doing the same, although some dismissed this out of hand, due to his ongoing intimate relationship with the Judean woman, Rebekkah. That Roman soldiers had executed her brother did not appear to sway her feelings for the
centurion.

Artorius rightly
had his own suspicions, though he kept his thoughts to himself. In fact, he had yet to tell anyone of his own assessment of the Christ following the crucifixion. Instead of answers or assertion, all he could feel was confusion. He surmised that there were some things in this world that he simply would never understand, and he had to accept them as such. It was because of this that he avoided the subject altogether, even with Diana. And yet, it was because of the surreal nature of the Nazarene’s death and the aftermath that Artorius decided it was finally time to confide in his wife something he had never shared with anyone, and that evening he would take her on a walk along the sea.

That day Cornelius and Justus were dispatched to patrolling the area around Jamnia to the sout
h. This was at the request of the local allied king, who was permitted control over the tiny sliver of land along the sea, much the same as Herod Antipas. Magnus and Praxus were conducting a joint maneuver exercise with Centurion Taurus’ cavalry, Julius’ men were on city patrol in Caesarea, and Artorius’ own century had the task of palace guard for the next month.

“We have enough men that we can run three shifts,” Valens noted as he went through the century’s roster. “Three squads on each shift can cover the entire palace easily enough, and that means we stand one squad down each day.”

“Make it happen,” Artorius said as he went through some other documents. “Insurrectionists keep mostly to the hills with the occasional raid on the smaller settlements, though Pilate is concerned they might become brazen enough to try and hit us here.”

“I would have thought smashing those bastards who tried to take down the Antonia Fortress would have taught them a lesson,” Valens mused.

“That will never happen,” Artorius grumbled. “These people learn what it means to defy Roman rule about as well as the Germanic barbarians we fought all those years ago.”

Once evening came, Artorius walked hand-in-hand with his wife, watching the waves glide over the sand. Diana knew what was troubling her husband, and that he had difficulty in expressing it.

“These last few months have been surreal,” she said, trying to coax him to finally open up to her.

“According to the newest sect of Judaism,” Artorius replied, “we crucified the Son of God, yet he still lives. I cannot say for certain that I believe this, but I have witnessed some things that can never be explained.”

“Such as?” Diana only persisted because she knew Artorius longed to tell her what had lain dormant within him for many years, since before they’d even met.

“It was after the Triumph of Germanicus,” Artorius explained, already feeling a great weight coming off his chest, though he could not fathom how his wife would react to his story. “Eight years had passed since the death of my brother, and yet I saw him.”

He went on to tell her about how after the Triumphal parade, while walking along a hill path alone, he’d met another legionary and spoken to him at length. The man was not just a Roman soldier, but the soul of his long-departed brother. He spoke very quickly, and as soon as he finished he felt like he was out of breath. Diana remained silent for some time, trying to comprehend her husband’s tale.

“I have never spoken of this to anyone,” Artorius emphasized, “Lest they think I’m mad. I daresay, you probably think I’ve lost my mind.”

“No,” Diana replied, slowly shaking her head and giving his hand a squeeze of reassurance.
“Given the fantastic turn of events we’ve witnessed, my mind does not know what to think. My heart, however, believes you. And that is enough for me, my love.”

It was a routine patrol,
stopping all who passed along the stretch of road leading from Jamnia to Joppa, and searching them for weapons and other contraband. After the release of Barabbas, Pilate was anxious to keep what remained of the rebels from reorganizing.

Both centuries encamped on the side of a hill that overlooked the main road. Despite its relatively flat appearance, the terrain was so rough that the only feasible way for carts to travel was on the dirt road that had been used for a thousand years already. A squad of legionaries waited at either end of the road with merchants and travelers reluctantly having their cargo and persons searched.

“Not exactly endearing ourselves to the populace,” Cornelius noted as he and Justus watched some of their soldiers searching the caravan wagon of a well-dressed merchant.

“Sedition and rebellion are rife in this province,” Justus replied. “And with every new sect that arises, more crazy zealots find yet another reason to take up arms against Rome.”

“At least the Nazarene’s sect taught peace and understanding,” Cornelius noted.

“That he did,” Justus replied. “Some of his followers I am not so sure about, though. The same arrogance that permeates much of the Jewish religious hierarchy infests them as well. I can’t help but wonder if the message will eventually be lost altogether.”

It was easier for Justus to speak with Cornelius about these matters. Whatever Artorius may have said at the crucifixion itself, he was not willing to discuss the matter further. For Justus Longinus, the centurion who had blasphemed against all gods after the death of his son, it was a type of awakening for him. Cornelius understood this, as he had heard the Nazarene speak on numerous occasions and was moved by his words.

“Rebekkah calls herself one of his followers,” he said at length.

“And do you?” Justus asked.

Before Cornelius could answer, they were interrupted by one of the legionaries from the checkpoint.

“Beg your pardon, sirs. A man has just ridden up who says he’s one of Centurion Justus’ informants.”

“Bring him up,” Justus ordered as he and Cornelius retired into his oversized tent.

The two centurions sat around a small table as legionaries escorted the Judean in. He was a middle-aged man with a scar running down the left side of his face, past a sightless eye. He was clean shaven, though his hair was long and pulled back. He wore a traditional head scarf, which he unwrapped from around his face.

“My
Lord Centurion,” he said with a bow.

“Amir,” Justus acknowledged. He knew it was not the man’s real name, but then he did not care what his informants were called, only that they did the job he paid them to do, discreetly and effectively.

“I have the information regarding a secret anti-Roman society lurking in Joppa.”

“And?”

“They are few in number, but they have a man who is promising them Roman weapons,” Amir stated. “I think he is someone you are familiar with.”

“Barabbas,” Justus growled as he crept along the low ditch next to the small wheat field.

It was almost midnight, and
even from a distance he could clearly see the renegade’s face as the door was opened to the small, one-room stucco farmhouse.

“I followed him after his release,” Amir explained quietly. “It would seem time in your prisons only made him even more brazen.
He’s found a few local contacts in this area, including the owner of this paltry farm.”

“Alright.” Justus signaled to his nearest
decanus, who passed it down the line. As silently as they were able, his entire century encircled the house, creeping along, with the occasional bleating of a goat startling them for a moment.

“Weapons!” a voice said from within
, as Justus leaned against the wall near an open window. “We need weapons! Your men attacked the Antonia Fortress without proper arms, and they were slaughtered because of it.”

“I can get your arms,” Barabbas replied. “We’ll make our own if necessary.”

Hearing all he needed to, Justus waved to one of his men, who smashed in the door with his foot. Legionaries on the far side of the house kicked in the other entrance as well.

“What is the meaning of this?” the old man, whose house it was, demanded.

“Weapons?” Justus asked, his eyes cold with rage. He eyed the table, which held a number of Jewish holy books. “You claim to be devout people of peace, yet you speak of sedition and murder.” He then looked over at Barabbas and grinned sinisterly. “Hello, Barabbas. We meet again.”