A Week in the Life of a Roman Centurion

by Gary M Burge

  Appius and Tullus were walking near the site at dusk one day to check its progress. Work was being done skillfully, even though the stone, they thought, was too porous and too dark. It was almost black. They have to plaster these rooms, Tullus thought. Otherwise it will be a cave. Or a tomb.

  And then it happened—not far from Appius’s villa, near a narrow street darkened by the sunset. Three men who were clearly Jewish rebels had been waiting for them in the darkness. One man charged quickly, running at them with his sword extended. Appius was wearing his armor but little else that would serve for defense. He carried a gladius at all times strapped to his left hip. Tullus had nothing.

  Appius pulled his sword instinctively, and the clash of steel was deafening. Tullus ran behind Appius as the centurion held his ground at the opening of the lane. The skill of this swordsman was astonishing.

  Without a shield in his left hand, Appius’s sword was his only defense, and he kept it forward constantly. However, his opponent kept pressing on his left, forcing him to brace with his backhand. Appius could not move the combat to his strong right side, and his opponent seemed to know his advantage as he rotated around to Appius’s weak flank. For one moment, Appius seemed shaken. But then he stirred to greater action.

  The rebel stepped back, took a deep breath and raised his sword with two hands above his head. He was aiming at the left side of Appius’s neck and swung the sword explosively. Appius saw it coming and knew it was meant it as a final blow. He crossed his gladius to his left to meet it and attempted to strengthen his defense with his left hand on the hilt. But as he raised his sword with both hands, pain screamed from his damaged shoulder, and he lost his grip. The enemy’s sword hit Appius’s gladius, but the centurion could not absorb it. The blow cut into him and threw him back as he fell to the ground. He was dazed by the power of the hit and knew he was wounded.

  The other two attackers were now free to enter the fray, and the three of them now stood facing Tullus. They paused, knowing this would be no fight. The leader looked at Appius, who was struggling to regain his feet. But clearly the centurion was compromised. Then Tullus made a sudden move toward Appius’s fallen sword—a foolish and impulsive gesture—which the rebel answered with a sudden thrust of his own sword. The blade found Tullus completely unprepared, and as it sunk into his belly, Tullus looked down with horror. As the rebel withdrew the thrust, a savage pain shot through Tullus’s body. He covered himself with his hands and fell to his knees.

  The rebel now turned to Appius, who was in no condition to repulse the men. But denying this final reality—that he had lost, that his fate was now set—he prepared to launch an assault even as he heard the men laughing over him.

  At that moment Appius heard a sound that echoed from his entire career in Legion Gallica: the sound of running behind him, and the grunt of an infantryman launching a javelin with enormous velocity. The spear ripped through the air just over Appius’s head and found its mark in the rebel leader. Shock swept over the man as the weapon flew through him cleanly and hit the stone wall behind him. Sparks sprayed in the darkness.

  It was Marcus. His gladius was drawn, and letting out a battle scream, he drove in full sprint toward the other two, who quickly fled into the darkness of the night.

  Marcus stopped to check on Appius and brought him to his feet. Seeing that the rebel leader was dead, they turned to Tullus, who was bleeding and unconscious. Men came running from the villa, and Tullus was quickly hoisted into strong arms and carried home.

  Appius was furious. Utterly furious. He was ready to march directly to Sepphoris and kill Chuza and his entire family. Appius’s trust in the village of Capernaum had evaporated in an instant.

  Marcus and Appius walked to the fallen rebel and flipped him on his back. They looked closely at the man’s still-open eyes. In the fading light they recognized him. This wasn’t a delegation from Chuza. These men weren’t even Jewish.

  It was Axius of Carthage, the tribune’s guard from the Caesarea gatehouse.

  10

  One Week in Capernaum

  The violence of the attack near Appius’s villa was utterly unexpected. This was to be a joyous week that celebrated the construction of the synagogue and stronger alliances with the Jewish leaders. All was going well. But the week now had become a disaster—an unmitigated disaster. Fear and anger would poison every relationship in Capernaum. Even the elders worried that the congenial Appius was lost to them.

  But it would turn out to be something more. It would be a week no one would forget.

  Appius refused to have his own wounds tended and became hardened and resolute. He was not sure what to do: he wanted to attack someone somewhere—that was his instinct—but he had no outlet for his rage and his confusion. Anger was brimming inside him, and anyone might be his target. Most in the villa kept their distance.

  Tullus’s wound was small but deep. The cut barely betrayed any damage to the young man’s body, but everyone knew this was serious. Gaius sent a guard at once to find Mariam or her husband to see what could be done. Mariam immediately ran to the villa and stayed at Tullus’s side late into the night. Livia assisted and conveyed supplies as they were needed. The sword had pierced deep, wreaking its damage within, and now there was a spreading darkness around the cut. Mariam was able to close the wound and apply herb poultices, but she was not confident they could save him. She prayed for Tullus fervently. But he was delirious and unable to respond to anything they asked.

  Appius refused to let even Mariam look at his own wounds and paced the villa in his distress over what had happened. He also refused to change his tunic, wearing the blood of the attack as a reminder of what had been done. He wanted to send for a physician in Legion Gallica, but he knew the tribunes would never release one of their physicians to travel the distance to help a slave.

  Appius blamed himself. He had never before lost a private battle like this. But the incident sobered him: his damaged shoulder genuinely compromised his ability to defend himself. And it made him feel incompetent. He would never have lost—he would never have abandoned Tullus—had he been himself. He could not let go of his final memory on the street: Tullus’s fear, his sudden move and his shock when he was felled. All this happened as Appius lay on his back looking on in agony at what transpired beyond his reach. Only Appius knew that when Tullus collapsed their eyes were fastened on each other.

  Mariam left in the middle of the night but returned before sunrise and was met by Livia and Gaius. Both looked tired and shattered. Mariam barely paused to greet them.

  “How is he, Livia? Signs of change?”

  “He sleeps a sleep unlike any I’ve seen before. I cannot awaken him. And then suddenly he is with me again.”

  “And the wound?”

  “It grows worse, I fear. The color grows. And it shows no sign of improving.”

  “Soon it will grow rank unless we open it and remove the blood.”

  “And he has fever, Mariam. He is wet with sweat and is in constant pain.”

  “Take me to him. I must see our young Tullus before he leaves us.”

  Together the women made their way to the room that had been set aside for Tullus the night before. Livia’s report was accurate, and the visit confirmed Mariam’s worst fears. She knelt beside Tullus’s bed and placed her hand gently on his forehead. Heat radiated from his skin. She whispered to him, “Hold on, Tullus. Hold on my son. God has not abandoned you. You are not lost.”

  Mariam stood and whispered, “He is in serious danger, Livia. We will know within the week. Few can survive a wound like this. The fever will grow and consume him. Tullus is in the hands of his God now.”

  “His God?” Livia caught Mariam’s words. It sounded out of place.

  “Yes. If you must know, Tullus is one of us. He belongs to the God of Abraham. And with us he has begun to reclaim the faith of his fathers. Tobias has been meeting with him. But you must tell no one.”

  Livia stood silently, thinking. It was
a secret not even she had known. And it made Tullus even more endearing to her—that this man lived with something he could tell no Roman. But it also gave her some assurance.

  With Tullus asleep and breathing in shallow gasps, Mariam took Livia by the arm and walked out into the courtyard. The sun was just rising. “There is only one hope for him, Livia. We must find a healer who is stronger than this evil. We cannot repair what we see here.”

  “Asclepius? We need a priest of Asclepius,” Livia offered.

  The Nazarene Healer

  Jesus had a number of popular names during his lifetime. One was the “Nazarene” (Mk 14:67), because he had come from Nazareth, a village southwest of Capernaum in the foothills of southern Galilee. Jesus grew up in Nazareth, and it was in the Nazareth synagogue that he announced publicly for the first time his identity as the Messiah of Israel (Lk 4:16-30). After reading some of the most important messianic texts from the Hebrew Scriptures in Isaiah, Jesus remarked, “Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.” This announcement did not present a problem per se, but then Jesus went on to define his messianic mission by telling two stories, one about Elijah and another about Elisha (1 Kings 17; 2 Kings 5). In each case, due to the faithlessness of Israel, God had sent messengers to Gentiles and blessed them. The implication was clear: if Jesus’ own ministry was met with unfaithfulness, he too would follow Elijah and Elisha and expand the work of his kingdom to include Gentiles. This notion was met with outrage, and the synagogue crowd tried to kill him (Lk 4:29).

  Even though Jesus grew up in Nazareth, following this dangerous conflict in the Nazareth synagogue he left there and came to Capernaum (Mt 4:13; Lk 4:31). In Capernaum the village commonly understood that when he stayed with them, he was “home” (Mk 2:1).

  But Jesus was also known as a healer. Even among skeptical scholars there is broad agreement that, despite what one may believe about miracles today, certainly in Jesus’ own day he was well known as a miracle worker and healer. The evidence appears in every stratum of the Gospel tradition (Q, Mark, John, and narratives unique to Luke and Matthew). He also cited Isaiah (Mt 11:5; Lk 7:22; cf. Lk 4:18) to explain that healing was essential to his work: “Go back and report to John what you have seen and heard: The blind receive sight, the lame walk, those who have leprosy are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the good news is proclaimed to the poor.” His popularity as a healer was so widespread that it frequently became a problem with the crowds who sought him out. Mark reports, “Because of the crowd he told his disciples to have a small boat ready for him, to keep the people from crowding him. For he had healed many, so that those with diseases were pushing forward to touch him” (Mk 3:9-10).

  “No, my dear.” Mariam resisted frustration. “We need a prophet-healer who can bring the power of Tullus’s God to his aid.” Mariam continued walking and then paused.

  “We need to find the healer of Nazareth.”

  “That man the authorities are watching? The man Antipas hates? The one Rome is worried about? Are you serious? This may bring us worse problems.”

  “We need to bring the Nazarene, for he alone knows what to do.”

  “How can you be sure? Should we talk to Tobias? Maybe Appius should know.”

  “I’d rather talk about it with Appius than Tobias. But it doesn’t matter. We either get what we need or we lose Tullus. It’s that simple.” It was clear that Mariam was not going to be dissuaded. She drew Livia close and whispered, “I know him. I know this Nazarene.”

  “You know him?”

  “My family knows him. Some are followers. Once he healed me as well. This is why I believe he can help Tullus.”

  “But how can you find him? And how quickly?”

  “We must send a messenger. He has other followers in the village, and we can send one of them. But we must keep this quiet. If he comes, we don’t want him to be greeted by Antipas’s police.” Mariam was already working out the logistics in her mind, and Livia was privy to very little of it. It was time for her to leave, and Livia knew it. Mariam sped from the villa and headed into the village.

  Antipas had agents who worked for him in the village, creating registers of property for taxation. Mariam contacted one of them, named Levi, and gave him a firm order. Levi was also a follower of the Nazarene and would be sympathetic. He was to travel directly to Sepphoris, to the tax offices of Antipas. But he should look for Joanna, Chuza’s wife, and tell her to send the message. She too was a follower of the Nazarene. “Tell her that Capernaum needs him immediately. That it is Mariam who asks for him. Tell him that we have prayed but that we are at our end.”

  Levi knew there was no discussing this plan, and he left at once. News of the attack on the centurion had now spread throughout the village. And the tragedy of this was compounded when they thought about the building of the synagogue. Will the centurion now become an enemy? Will he suspect us? Appius had the body of Axius quickly removed in the night. He did not want anyone to think there were divisions in the ranks of the Romans. This might inspire yet more hostilities of a different sort. He ordered his men to build a pyre, and they burned it outside the soldiers’ camp. Some desecrated Axius’s body before they finished with it. It needed to be dishonored on behalf of Appius and his household.

  When she had done all she could, Mariam returned to the villa. Now to wait. Levi was on the road to Sepphoris, and Mariam had resolved to sit with Tullus until this had reached its conclusion. Livia sat with her. At about midday Livia heard what she thought was the most mysterious, magical singing she could remember. Mariam began to sing in Hebrew. As she sang, she draped her arms over Tullus’s still body. As Livia would later learn, it was a song of lament, a Jewish song, reserved for those who were facing the tragedy of their own death.

  My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?

  Why are you so far from saving me,

  so far from the words of my groaning?

  My God, I cry out by day, but you do not answer,

  by night, but I find no rest.

  Yet you are enthroned as the Holy One;

  you are the praise of Israel.

  In you our ancestors put their trust;

  they trusted and you delivered them.

  They cried to you and were saved;

  in you they trusted and were not disappointed.

  Yet you brought me out of the womb;

  you made me feel secure on my mother’s breast.

  From birth I was cast on you;

  from my mother’s womb you have been my God.

  Do not be far from me,

  for trouble is near and there is no one to help.

  But I am a worm, not a human being;

  I am scorned by everyone, despised by the people.

  All who see me mock me;

  they hurl insults, shaking their heads.

  “He trusts in the LORD,” they say,

  “let the LORD rescue him.

  Let him deliver him,

  since he delights in him.”

  But you, LORD, do not be far from me.

  You are my strength; come quickly to help me.

  Mariam paused and moved her hands gently over the festering wound, covered with linen bandages. She looked at Tullus’s face, then back to the wound, and continued.

  Deliver me from the sword,

  my precious life from the power of the dogs.

  Rescue me from the mouth of the lions;

  save me from the horns of the wild oxen.

  I will declare your name to my people;

  in the assembly I will praise you.

  You who fear the LORD, praise him!

  All you descendants of Jacob, honor him!

  Revere him,

  all you descendants of Israel!

  For he has not despised or scorned

  the suffering of the afflicted one;

  he has not hidden his face from him

  but has listened to his cry for help.

  Livia was struck by t
he passion of this prayer—for obviously it was a prayer—and through it and through Mariam’s gestures, she knew how deeply this woman had come to care for Tullus. She was calling her god in her own language. Livia understood this, and she stepped back and listened with curiosity and respect.

  Appius was hovering near the door with Marcus and Gaius. Livia went out to join them.

  Mariam’s Lament

  Mariam is using her memory of Psalm 22. This psalm was often a deathbed psalm in Judaism and was likely recited in its entirety on the cross by Jesus (“My God, My God, why have you forsaken me” [Mk 15:34]). The psalm begins with a sorrowful lament but evolves quickly into a psalm of faith and confidence.

  “What is happening? What does Mariam think we should do?” Appius asked. It had been a very hard season for both Appius and Livia. The loss of the pregnancy was bad enough. Now Mariam was tending yet another, even more severe, tragedy in the household.

  “We are waiting. Waiting to see whether the Jewish god will act as Asclepius helped you, Appius. But Mariam has also sent a messenger to bring a Jewish healer.”

  “Who is this? And why did I not know?”

  “Do you really think Mariam would have asked you? And if you said no—seriously Appius—would this have changed anything? It is a healer from Nazareth.”

  “The prophet-healer from Nazareth? The man who talks about his kingdom? The ally with the Baptist that Herod Antipas killed? Why should we welcome him to this village?”

  “It is the same man. And so we must keep this quiet, she says. He is powerful. And he is our only hope. We must choose to take this risk or lose Tullus. But Mariam says he is harmless. Antipas hates anyone who has a following larger than his.”

  “His name? What’s his name?” Appius pressed.

  “I asked Mariam. He is Yeshua bar Yosef. But he has now left Nazareth. And when he stays anywhere for long, he prefers to live in Capernaum. They say he is a great healer.”