CENTURION

(this is a rewrite of an old story)



He had survived in the Teutoberg Forest by managing to crawl into a cart full of the dead bodies of his friends and commanders. They had all been slaughtered there, the whole army, almost to the man. The victory chants came down from the hillsides, the sound echoing through distant ravines and hills spotted with tiny fires. Blood drenched Germanic barbarians wheeled the carts full of dead Roman soldiers to enormous lime pits, dumping them there and laughing as the contorted bodies of their grandest enemies went tumbling lifelessly on top of one another.
The Legionary had prayed to the Gods; he had prayed without ceasing to every name he could muster in his memory.
After two days and nights in the pit he had accepted this fate, but soon after he felt something rummaging amidst that mountain made from the dead flesh of the thousands of Romans. Someone whispered to him;
“You are alive, Legionary?”
He did not move. He licked his lips, parched and swollen and cut open throughout. The whisperer spoke again.
“If you are alive, Legionary, then leave this place with me.”
“Where would we go,” he whispered furiously, through clenched teeth.
“Anywhere but here, we will starve here."
"We'll die of thirst," said the Legionary. "Long before we die of hunger."
"I'm not dying here."
The Legionary slowly had turned his head, finding the master of the voice to be a large soldier who lay on top of the pile. Stubble lay underneath the encrusted dirt and grime like grass turned brown after a heavy snowfall. The man's face had been recently disfigured, a fresh open scar reaching down from his bloody temple, over his eye, down to his chin.
Flies collected in enormous black clouds over the ocean of dead.
“The guards are gone, now,” said the scarred-face Roman. "I'll not die here. Not like this."
The Legionary had nodded then, after a moment. The one-eyed scarred-face Roman offered his hand and pulled him up, and then there came a blurry vision of days that seemed to have been melted together, as the two wounded Romans went were hobbling carefully through the ruined German forest, looking for any other outpost of survivors they could find.
That was almost 25 years ago, he thought now. 25 years. He had been just a child then -- no more than 16 – a simple Legionary who by luck had one of the few who had survived that terrible and atrocious betrayal of Rome. Hundreds of thousands had perished, and the Legionary – now a Centurion, a commander – had not seen such brutal and horrifying combat since.
He shifted his weight to scratch an itch under his heavy shoulder armor. If there was anything at all that he could take away from his experiences against the Germanic tribes in Germania, it was that at least the land had seasons.
In Jerusalem there was only the sun, and the scorched earth, and the dryness of the desert that lifted up and bit out at you like a wild animal who floated on a vicious wind.
He sighed, monitoring the crowd that surged through the mazes of tiny streets below, as hundreds of cheering onlookers followed the criminals as they struggled through the city and up towards the Skull.
It was a day for executing.
Sweat glistened in between his muscular legs and the high straps of his leather sandals. He squinted under the short visor of his helmet, the sun leering over the earth like a mourning father holding a torch, staring down into the grave of his son.
They judiciaries had positioned him and 13 men under his command at the top of Golgotha, the rocky hill that overlooked the city, called the Skull. Some of the Legionaries gambled behind him, cursing and giggling; he did not mind so long as they attended to business when the procession approached closer. He cracked his neck, looking down at the three men whom they would execute that day, each currently carrying the burdensome tool of his own destruction through the roaring, angry mob of crowds below.
The procession reached the bottom of the hill, and as young children and eager onlookers raced ahead of the criminals to the top of the execution ground, the Centurion called back to his men in a vicious tone that sounded more the barking of a wild dog.
“Get that cleaned up there,” he called. “Get into your damn formations, you fools.”
The Legionaries were swift and on their feet, some of them still grinning. He knew that most of them loved this; he was young once, and would have loved it back then. But the young are foolish, and too quick to deem what is good.
The criminals approached, struggling. Random citizens in the crowd spit and threw rotten food; some kicked out at them ferociously. The Centurion palmed the handle of his sword. His face was expressionless and rigid.
When the soldiers who had escorted the slow moving pageant through the city reached him, the Centurion nodded back towards his men. They spread out in unison in groups of three, each group attending to a different man. The took the crosses off of them and laid them flat and in alignment with the deep post-holes they had dug that morning. The criminals wept, and bled profusely. One was adorned with a strange sort of hat that had been fused together with branches of thorns. The Centurion raised an eyebrow and stepped forward.
The man had been tortured almost to death, to the point where the whipped skin on his neck and shoulders and back and flank had peeled completely off in certain areas. Both of his eyes were almost swollen shut, and his mouth and nose dripped blood profusely. Bruises stained his entire torso and both of his legs, and his forehead had been deeply mangled by the circles of thorn-branches that had been shoved onto him.
The Centurion knelt down as the man lay there silent, panting furiously, his breaths bubbling with blood.
The Legionaries grabbed the man by the arms and laid his body in line with the ‘t’ shape of the cross.
“Aulus,” he said to one of the soldiers.
"Eh?"
“Nails.”
The Centurion bent down to the dirt to grab the hammer.
The other groups had already started, and the high pitched wailing screams of the two criminals on either side of him only made his head ache more intense. He removed his helmet for a moment to wipe the sweat away with his leathered forearm.
“This is the man,” said one of the Legionaries. “Who claims he is the Christ.”
“The Christ?” said the Centurion, raising his eyebrow again. He looked down at the destroyed corpse of the dying man. “This is that man?”
“You 'aven’t 'eard, sir?” said Aulus. “We getta do him in.”
The Centurion handed the hammer to a young Legionary who had dual scars on either side of his mouth.
“You do it.”
The Scarred-Mouth soldier grinned wildly, and The Centurion for a moment thought he might be sick. Pullio, his second in command, was already hoisting one of the thieves up, and the crowd roared with approval as the thief screamed in absolute pain.
The Scar-Mouth Roman knelt carefully over the Christ-claimer, and let a long trail of spit fall down into his face. He held the nails over the mans wrists, and began to pound the hammer through the bone and into the wood. The man tried to scream, but choked on his blood, and coughed heavily.
“Lift his head up,” shouted Aulus. “Don’t let him choke to death, you feckin idiot,”
“Get uff it 'en,” replied the Scar-Mouth. "I don't tell ye'ow to do your job, do I."
The Romans began hoisting the second thief into the air, as another soldier began pounding a nail into the mans feet. The Centurion leaned back, making eye contact with Ailus.
“Good,” he said deeply. His face showed no emotion.
“You’re a king of men, eh,” said the Scar Mouth, as he wrapped thick rope around the mans forearm and the wood. “All hail'a king.”
“The Gods gonna surely turn you into 'eir house slave, you feckin King,” said Aulus. The man who called himself Christ had tears in his eyes.
“Quiet,” ordered the Centurion. He rubbed his face, staring at the mans eyes. “Lift him up, carefully.”
The Legionaries were not careful, forcing the bottom the cross into the hole hurriedly, causing the man to scream out in pain.
“I SAID CAREFULLY, YOU SWINE,” screamed the Centurion. “Sons of Dis, carefully.”
He turned and pushed through the crowd, telling them to get back, get back. Several women wept. A Legionary stood several yards away, both hands cradling a spear, staring with obvious discomfort at the scene of butchering and death.
The Christ-man’s cloak had fallen off, and Aulus had reached down to grab it. He motioned to Pullio and the Scar-Mouth and several others to the foot of the mans cross.
“I like 'is,” he said excitedly. “I 'fink I’ll keep it.”
“Bloody hell you will not,” said Pullio. “Throw in for it, if you want it. I want it more.”
“I’ll frow in,” said the Scar-Mouth, kneeling. “Whose got dice?”
“I 'ave,” said a Roman Sergeant, approaching with an enormous grin. “What are the odds?”
The Centurion spat and took many steps backwards. The three men who hung on the crosses conversed to each other, but the Centurion could not hear what they were saying. The Christ-man called out; it sounded as though he was asking someone for forgiveness. Thunder boiled overhead.
The crowd began to disperse as the men on either side of the Christ-man passed. The thunder became louder, and clouds seemed to form from nothing. It became somewhat darker, and the Centurion glanced at the group of women who wept.
“I thirst,” moaned the Christ-man. “I thirst.”
The Centurion stepped forward, towards the laughing Legionaries who gambled at the foot of the cross.
“Aulus,” he barked. “Give this man some water.”
“My water?”
“Will you argue with me?” threatened the Centurion. Aulus obeyed. Suddenly lighting cracked, vicious and loud and surprising. The Legionaries glanced up, noticing the threatening nature of the sky. The Scar-Mouth stood.
“Rain!” he exclaimed.
“This aint normal,” said Pullio, staring up. “Something strange, about this.”
The thunder roared as if the Gods were arguing with each other in the ancient language of old. The wind became a howl.
The Centurion looked up at the Christ-man, who was staring at him. The Centurion tried to break the man’s gaze, but found that he could not. The man struggled for every breath, having to lift his body. Still he forced him to hold his gaze.
The Centurion took off his helmet, eyes still staring into the Christ-mans, as it started to rain.
“Finished,” whispered the Christ man. His head rolled back, before slumping forward.
Instantly, horrible surges of lightning seemed to strike simultaneously, as the rain began to pour and the wind became villainous. The Legionaries scattered, leaving the red cloak and the dice and the money to blow away. Several of the weeping women crept slowly towards the Christ man, lifeless on his cross, and they began to wail. The Centurion still stared at the mans face. One of the women looked back at him then, her face horrified and locked in a river of tears and disbelief. The Centurion swallowed, feeling his heart to be heavy. His head pounded. He breathed very deeply, and quickly.
“Surely,” he said quietly, as the weeping woman looked at him. The Centurion shook his head in disbelief. “Surely this man was the son of God.”