Behind the Cross: The Centurion’s Journey to Faith – Episode #1

The Voice in the Wilderness

Journal Entry – Marcus Aelius Vitalis
Date: Monday, October 5, 26 A.D. (Year of the Consulship of Lentulus and Agrippa, 778 Ab urbe condita)

(NOTE: Episode #1 and #2 will be FREE. All episodes after will be part of the “Faith Partner” membership.)

There are places in the world where time seems to hold its breath.

The Jordan wilderness is one such place. The earth here feels ancient. As if it remembers things men have long forgotten. The wind doesn’t blow—it whispers, and the ground doesn’t rest—it waits.

And I, a son of Rome, a commander of a hundred men, a soldier forged in fire and blood… I have been sent to listen.

Not for swords, not for rebellion—yet. But for something that has stirred the hearts of men and unsettled the watchmen of empires.

My name is Marcus Aelius Vitalis. I serve the Tenth Legion under the command of the Prefect of Judea, Pontius Pilatus. I have marched against barbarian tribes in Gaul. I have broken sieges and survived riots. I have seen what fear looks like in the eyes of dying men.

But nothing has prepared me for this place.

For this man.

They call him John.

Just John. No title. No lineage. No office. And yet his name carries through this land like thunder across the Dead Sea. A prophet, they say. A madman, some whisper. But the people… the people call him more. Much more.

I arrived at Bethabara two nights ago under orders to observe and report. Rome does not trouble itself with local religion. But when crowds begin to swell in numbers too large to ignore, and when whispers of prophecy begin to sound like marching feet, Rome listens.

And sends men like me.

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The river was still as dawn broke. Mist clung to the surface like breath frozen in prayer. I stood among shepherds and craftsmen, cloaked like one of them, the insignia of the Empire hidden beneath plain robes. Jonah, my servant and translator, stood silently beside me—young, watchful, loyal. He spoke little, but his eyes drank in everything. I trust his silence more than most men's vows.

The people stirred at the sound of footsteps scraping against rock. He appeared—not from a temple gate or a palatial hall, but from the river itself. Waist-deep, arms raised like a herald calling thunder, his voice shattered the stillness:

“Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand!”

The words struck harder than a war horn. I expected frenzy. But the crowd did not recoil. They leaned in.

There was fire in this man—but not the wild, untamed chaos of insurgents or zealots. No, his fire was disciplined, focused, like the sun forced into the shape of a man. He did not speak to nations or to Rome—he spoke to the soul.

And they responded.

One by one, they stepped into the water—merchants, farmers, women, even beggars—confessing sin with tears that washed down their faces before the river could reach them. He baptized them without ritual or chant. Just water. And something else I cannot name.

Even I, trained to detect the smallest signs of rebellion, could not find strategy in his eyes. No calculation. Only conviction.

He spoke again:

“I am not the Christ.”

The crowd held its breath.

“I am the voice of one crying in the wilderness, ‘Prepare the way of the Lord!’”

That was the first time I heard it—the name unspoken, the figure unnamed. But every ear strained to hear more. And though no name was given, hope flickered like the first star of night.

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I left the river with questions I was not sent to ask.

What kingdom? What Lord? What war is waged without weapons?

And why does a part of me believe he’s telling the truth?

Jonah remained quiet until our return to camp. Then, as we cleaned our boots of the river mud, he spoke softly: “My people believe Elijah will return before the Messiah comes.”

I said nothing.

Because I remembered something else John had said:

“One is coming after me, whose sandals I am not worthy to untie. He will baptize not with water—but with fire.”

That word—fire—clung to me like a shadow.

I write now beneath a Judean moon, wind hissing through the tent flaps. I should be writing a report to the Prefect. But instead, I find myself staring at the flame and asking questions Rome cannot answer.

This is not a revolt.

Not yet.

But it is the beginning of something. I feel it in the sand. I see it in the eyes of strangers who leave that river bank changed.

Jonah sleeps. I can hear him whispering a name in his dreams—Sara. His younger sister. The only family he has. He’s sworn to protect her. I envy that kind of clarity. That kind of devotion.

All I have is my orders.

And this strange, growing ache in my chest that feels like a reckoning.

I will stay longer. I will watch. I will listen.

John is not the threat.

But I fear the one he speaks of will be.

Because men do not abandon sin, confess in public, and surrender to a madman. They do that for a king.

And I have not yet seen this king.

But I have a feeling...

He has already seen me.

—Marcus

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[To Be Continued...]

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