Vox Potestas

Marcus Severus flinched as the scroll fell to the table.

"Another denial from the Treasury," Tribune Cassius Albinus said, his voice measured but eyes sharp. "The fourth this month. Yet somehow the Ninth always receives their full stipend."

Marcus avoided his commander's gaze, studying the worn tabletop in the officer's quarters. Twenty-two years of service had taught him when to speak and when to remain silent. This moment demanded the latter.

"Look at me, Centurion."

Marcus raised his eyes, meeting the Tribune's stare. Something unspoken passed between them—awareness of certain... irregularities in the cohort's accounting. Nothing that would merit severe punishment, but enough to stain an otherwise impeccable service record. The kind of indiscretion most officers committed but none confessed.

"Three months until your honorable discharge," the Tribune said finally. "Let us ensure nothing jeopardizes your land in Sicily."

"Yes, Domine."

The weight of unspoken guilt followed Marcus as he strode across the garrison yard. Hierosolyma's morning air carried the scent of spice markets and unwashed humanity, mingling with incense from the Jewish Temple. He supervised drills mechanically, his mind elsewhere until a commotion at the Praetorium gates caught his attention.

"Another disturbance?" he asked the optio standing guard.

"Local troublemaker, Centurion. The provincial authorities brought him to Praefectus Pilatus at the third hour."

"Anything requiring intervention?"

"Not yet. Though the crowd grows. They say he claims to be a king."

Marcus arched an eyebrow. "Another pretender to David's throne?"

"This one's different," the optio said, lowering his voice. "They say he heals the sick. Commands spirits. Even raised a dead man near Bethany."

"Superstitious babble," Marcus scoffed, though something in the optio's tone gave him pause.

"Perhaps. But I've heard strange reports from reliable men. This Nazarene speaks with... authority."

Authority. In Rome's vocabulary, authority was simple—it flowed from the Emperor down through the military chain of command. The authority to tax, to judge, to punish, to execute. The authority that Marcus wielded daily as Rome's representative.

"We'll see how his authority fares against Roman justice," he said, fastening his lorica segmentata.

When Marcus reached the forum, he found Publius observing proceedings from the edge of the gathered crowd.

"The governor's offering them a choice—Barabbas or the Nazarene."

Marcus studied the scene. At the top of the steps, flanked by Roman soldiers, stood a battered man in a bloodied tunic. Despite the obvious signs of flagellation, he stood straight-backed, dignity intact in a way that seemed incongruous with his circumstances.

"And the Nazarene?" Marcus asked.

"Crucifixion. Pilatus wants it done before their Sabbath begins. You're to oversee it."

Marcus nodded, accepting the orders scroll. "They'll need to be down before sunset. The Jews won't have bodies displayed during their holy day."

"We'll break their legs if necessary," Marcus replied. "Speeds the process."

The procession to Golgotha followed standard procedure. The thieves received their beams with curses and struggles.

The Nazarene was different.

When the soldiers secured the rough-hewn wood across his flayed back, he accepted it with a silence that bordered on dignity. Blood from the flagellation had already soaked his garments—the scourger had been particularly thorough.

The Nazarene collapsed twice, his blood leaving crimson trails on limestone. After the second fall, Marcus conscripted a Cyrenian farmer to bear the patibulum.

At Golgotha's summit, Marcus oversaw the preparations. The thieves struggled, requiring four men each to subdue them.

The Nazarene stood in strange stillness, offering no resistance.

When they laid him against his patibulum, Marcus found himself watching the man's face. The condemned man's gaze drifted skyward, not in prayer or plea but in something that resembled... anticipation. As if this moment were not the end of his journey but a necessary passage within it.

The executioner positioned the first nail against the Nazarene's wrist. Marcus knew precisely how the iron would slide between radius and ulna, severing the median nerve, sending lightning bolts of agony through the entire body. Every man broke in this moment.

The hammer fell. Metal pierced flesh with a dull thud.

The Nazarene's body tensed, a single tear tracking through the dust on his cheek, but no sound escaped his lips. Only a controlled exhale, as if he were accepting the pain rather than being consumed by it.

Once secured, each patibulum was hoisted and fitted into its vertical stipes. The thieves wept and thrashed, their movements only hastening their suffering.

Marcus approached the central cross where a soldier was affixing the titulus—the wooden placard declaring the condemned's crime. Pilatus had been specific about the wording: IESVS NAZARENVS REX IVDAEORVM.

Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews.

As the cross was raised, something compelled Marcus to position himself directly before it. The Nazarene's face came into direct sunlight, illuminating features that pain should have distorted beyond recognition.

Yet his eyes—gods of Rome, his eyes. They met Marcus's gaze without hatred or accusation, without the glazed desperation of a dying animal. Instead, they seemed to look through the centurion, past the armor and insignia of office, into something Marcus himself couldn't name.

A peculiar sensation spread through Marcus's chest—not quite discomfort, not quite recognition. As if he stood before something familiar yet utterly foreign.

From his position, Marcus overheard fragments of conversation. The religious authorities circled like vultures:

"He saved others, but he cannot save himself!"

"If you're the Son of God, come down from the cross!"

More intriguing were the exchanges between the Nazarene and others. To his mother, he spoke words of provision. To one of his followers, he assigned her care. Even in extremis, his thoughts were for others.

Then one of the thieves began hurling insults in rough Latin: "Aren't you the Messiah? Save yourself and us!"

But the other thief rebuked him: "Have you no fear of God? We deserve our punishment, but this man has done nothing wrong." Then: "Remember me when you come into your kingdom."

The Nazarene's response struck Marcus with its calm certainty, delivered in flawless Latin: "Veritas tibi dico, hodie mecum eris in paradiso."

Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise.

Marcus startled. The Nazarene had addressed the thief in the language of Rome, not the Aramaic he'd used with others. As if he wanted Marcus to understand.

Not the desperate promise of a dying man, but the assured declaration of someone with authority to fulfill it. As if this broken, dying body was merely a temporary vessel for something more permanent.

The sky darkened at midday, as if night had forgotten its appointed hour. A wind rose from nowhere, carrying dust that tasted of copper on the tongue.

The crucified normally died from asphyxiation. The position—arms stretched, chest expanded—made exhaling impossible unless they pushed up with their legs. Eventually, exhaustion prevented this movement. The humors of the body turned foul, the breath grew labored, and death followed.

The thieves had already entered this pattern, alternatively cursing and pleading. But the Nazarene breathed differently. Each inhalation seemed deliberate rather than desperate.

"Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?"

The cry pierced the darkness in Aramaic. My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?

As Marcus approached, the Nazarene's head turned. Their eyes met. For a heartbeat that seemed to stretch into eternity, Marcus felt known. Not as a centurion, not as Rome's instrument, but as himself—the boy from Capua who had once gazed at stars and questioned his place among them. The man who had looked away when grain meant for his soldiers vanished from storehouses.

Then, with strength that should have been impossible, the Nazarene's chest expanded. He didn't gasp for air like a drowning man but drew it in like a general gathering his forces for a final command.

"Consummatum est!"

It is finished.

And finally, again in Latin: "Pater, in manus tuas commendo spiritum meum."

Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.

With that, his head bowed forward. Not the gradual slump of asphyxiation, but a deliberate act—like a soldier laying down his sword not in defeat but having achieved his purpose.

The earth convulsed violently. A fissure split the ground at Marcus's feet. From the direction of the Temple came the sound of tearing fabric, followed by cries of alarm.

As the tremors subsided, Marcus approached the central cross. Death normally came after days of suffering, yet the Nazarene appeared to have simply... departed.

Protocol required verification. Marcus positioned his spear between the ribs, aiming for the heart. The metal pierced flesh, but what flowed out broke the last certainty in Marcus's ordered world.

Blood and water, separated. The garrison physician had explained this phenomenon—when the sac around the heart ruptures, it releases clear fluid along with blood. But this occurred only in cases of severe trauma, never in a still-warm body.

As the mingled fluids ran down his spear, something shifted in Marcus's perception. Every death he had witnessed had followed the same pattern—struggle, submission, defeat.

Yet this man had inverted the pattern entirely. He had yielded not in defeat but as an exercise of power. As if death were not his master but his servant.

In that moment, Marcus saw himself as he truly was—not Rome's mighty representative but a man whose power extended only to destroying life, never creating it. A man who had compromised his honor for convenience, had looked away when it served his interests.

The realization rose from somewhere deeper than thought, bursting from his lips:

"Vere hic homo Filius Dei erat."

Truly this man was the Son of God.

"You've taken leave of your senses," Publius declared days later. Strange reports now circulated throughout Hierosolyma. The body of the Nazarene missing. Guards at the tomb claiming an impossible story about blinding light and stone doors moving of their own accord.

"Other men's spirits are wrenched from their bodies," Marcus said. "His... his was given. Freely. As if his spirit obeyed his command."

"Now you sound like these Jewish mystics with their talk of body, soul, and spirit."

"What if they're right? What if a man is more than flesh and bone? What if we are spirits dwelling in bodies, not bodies that possess spirits?"

Before Publius could respond, a messenger arrived. "Centurion, Tribune Albinus demands your presence."

Marcus stood at attention in the Tribune's quarters, his posture perfect despite the turmoil in his mind.

"You requested to see me, Domine."

Tribune Albinus studied him, eyes narrowed. "You were present at the execution of the Jewish agitator?"

"I was, Domine."

"And you've been... affected by it."

It wasn't a question. Marcus remained silent.

"The Praetorium received a most unusual petition this morning," the Tribune continued. "The High Priest fears the Nazarene's followers will steal the body to claim resurrection. He wants guards posted at the tomb."

Marcus waited for the inevitable order, already knowing what would come.

"Normally I'd assign this foolish duty to someone who's displeased me," Albinus said. "But given your... interest in the matter, perhaps you'd prefer to volunteer?"

Before Marcus could respond, he continued: "Or perhaps we should discuss certain discrepancies in the grain allocations from last winter?"

The accusation hung in the air between them. The missing grain. The falsified records. The coins that had found their way into officers' purses while soldiers went hungry.

Marcus drew a deep breath. "There is no need to assign punishment duty, Domine."

"No?"

"I wish to make a confession."

The Tribune's eyebrows rose. "A confession?"

"The grain shortages last winter were not due to supply problems. I falsified the requisition documents. I—"

"Silence!" Albinus hissed, glancing toward the door. "Have you gone mad? Such matters are not for open discussion."

"Nevertheless, I am responsible and wish to make restitution."

Albinus stared at him as if he'd grown a second head. "What's happened to you, Severus? You were always the practical one."

Marcus thought of eyes that saw through armor and flesh to the soul beneath. Of words spoken with authority over death itself. Of power exercised not through force but through willing surrender.

"I witnessed something that changed me," he said simply.

The Tribune studied him for a long moment. "There will be consequences."

"I understand."

"Your land in Sicily—"

"Is of no importance compared to my honor."

A long silence followed.

"Very well," Albinus said finally. "You are relieved of your command, effective immediately."

Marcus felt his stomach clench, though the loss was expected. "Yes, Domine."

"Report to Decanus Flavius at the Arimathean's tomb. The Jewish priests have requested guards. Apparently, they fear grave robbers." The Tribune's mouth twisted into something between a smile and a sneer. "A fitting assignment for a man suddenly concerned with honor—guarding a corpse for superstitious barbarians."

Marcus bowed his head in acknowledgment.

"Perhaps three days in a graveyard will restore your practical nature," Albinus added. "We'll discuss your... confession after the Sabbath."

The walk to Joseph's garden took Marcus through the eastern market, past vendors already closing their stalls for the approaching Sabbath. A wine seller eyed his plain tunic—his armor and insignia surrendered along with his rank.

"Fallen on hard times, soldier?" the merchant called.

Marcus paused. "Just changing positions."

"Ah! Moving up in the world, then?" The man grinned, revealing wine-stained teeth.

"Moving exactly where I'm meant to be."

The merchant squinted at him. "Strange days, these. The sun darkens, the earth shakes, and now Romans speak like philosophers. Perhaps I should water my wine less."

Despite everything, Marcus found himself smiling. "Perhaps you should."

As he continued toward the garden tomb, Marcus considered the strange comfort that had settled over him since his confession. He had expected to feel regret, even despair at the loss of position. Instead, he felt lightened, as if he'd set down a burden carried too long.

The narrow path wound between olive trees, their silver leaves catching the last light of day. Ahead, a cluster of Temple guards conferred with a Roman soldier—Flavius, presumably. The Jewish priests must have secured Pilate's approval for a mixed watch.

Interesting that they would go to such trouble for a dead man. Unless—and here Marcus paused in his steps—unless they feared something more than grave robbers. Unless they had heard the same words Marcus had heard from the cross, about paradise and spirits and fathers.

A curious thought for curious times.

He squared his shoulders and continued down the path. Whatever the night might bring, Marcus Severus—once a centurion of Rome, now a common guard—walked toward it with a lighter heart than he had known in years.

Some might call it demotion. But for a man who had witnessed death bow to something greater than Rome's power, perhaps it was simply the beginning of a truth he had only glimpsed on Golgotha.