Behind the Cross: The Centurion’s Journey to Faith – Episode #2

Echoes in the River

Journal Entry – Marcus Aelius Vitalis
Date: Monday, October 12, 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.)

Something has shifted in the air.

I cannot see it, but I feel it—like the pull of a blade still in its sheath, waiting to be drawn. The Jordan murmurs the same song as last week, but the rhythm of the people has changed. They no longer come merely to hear. They come as if summoned. As if pulled by something—or someone—not yet revealed.

I’ve seen this look before—not in religious fanatics or angry mobs, but in the eyes of soldiers before battle. Expectation. Tension. A soul standing at the edge of something that cannot be undone.

And here I stand, a Roman centurion, watching dust swirl in the wilderness as if waiting for the sky to break open.

---

The Baptizer has not lessened his fire. If anything, it has grown hotter.

He stood on a stone yesterday and pointed toward the horizon—not at anyone in particular, just the open path—and shouted:

“Among you stands One you do not know. He comes after me, and yet He was before me.”

Those words struck harder than he knew.

Jonah turned to me and whispered, “They think He’s already here.”

I laughed, but it sounded hollow in my mouth.

Because deep down, I wondered the same.

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The crowds now come from everywhere. Not just Galilee or Judea, but the Decapolis, Idumea, and even Syria. One caravan claimed to have followed the river for six days just to hear John speak. Among them was a woman who carried her son on her back—a boy born without sight. She held him to her chest as John preached, tears soaking her tunic.

He never touched them. But when she left, I swear she walked taller.

What is this power? There are no miracles—no signs like the gods of myth. Only words. And yet they move mountains in the hearts of men.

I’ve seen campaigns where Rome broke cities with siege towers and battering rams. But what I’m witnessing here is something infinitely more dangerous:

A revolution of the soul.

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I must speak now of the stranger.

He has returned.

I caught sight of him again—cloaked in plain garments, face shadowed by the folds of his hood. He stood at the edge of the crowd, silent as always. Unmoving. But unlike the others, he does not flinch when John speaks. He watches—not with awe, but with understanding. As if he knows the script before it’s spoken.

Jonah saw him, too. He didn’t speak at first. But later, as we prepared the evening fire, he said:

“He doesn’t come to learn. He comes to wait.”

I asked, “Wait for what?”

Jonah shrugged. “Maybe for you.”

I said nothing, but I haven’t slept since.

---

I sent a brief dispatch to Pilate—coded, short. I wrote:

“The prophet gains. No sign of insurgency. But the people are shifting. Their hope is turning toward someone unseen. Will observe further.”

I omitted the stranger. I do not trust how to explain what I cannot grasp.

Besides, Pilate does not care for shadows. He cares for swords. And this is not a war he can understand.

Not yet.

---

Today, John baptized a man who walked thirty leagues to get here. His legs were torn with blisters. His sandals, broken. He fell at John’s feet and cried, “My soul is unclean!” John didn’t blink. He reached down, pulled the man up by his hair, and shouted for the people to listen:

“The axe is laid at the root of the tree! Bear fruit worthy of repentance, or be cut down and thrown into the fire!”

The man sobbed—and stepped into the river.

As the water closed over his head, I watched the crowd lean forward, hearts pounding. They weren’t here for a show. They were here for rebirth.

And I—I could not look away.

---

I find myself more restless each night. Rome taught me to sleep with one eye open, sword by my side. But now it’s not the enemy I fear.

It’s my own heart.

There’s a pounding in my chest I cannot explain. It is not weakness. It is not sickness. It is something deeper. A knocking. A question.

Who is this One John speaks of?

Why do I care?

And why do I feel as if the ground beneath my feet is shifting, grain by grain, toward a place I have never known?

---

Jonah caught me today staring into the river after the crowd dispersed. He approached quietly, placed a small rock in my hand, and said, “Some things are meant to be carried until the right moment.”

I turned to him, confused. He just smiled and walked away.

The rock remains in my cloak pocket. Smooth. Heavy. Like the truth.

---

Late this afternoon, something unusual happened.

The stranger stepped closer.

Not much. Just three paces.

Enough that I saw his face more clearly—young, yet weathered. Eyes dark, but alive. Not Roman. Not temple. Not zealot. Just… human. Deeply, wholly human.

And yet more than that.

He looked at John as if they shared a secret no one else was allowed to know. Then he looked at me.

Not past me. Not through me. At me.

I stood still, the crowd pressing around us. But in that moment, it felt as if the valley went silent.

Then, without a word, he turned and walked toward the path that leads east—toward the hills.

I went after him.

I pushed through the crowd, rounded the bend…

But he was gone.

Again.

No trail. No dust. No prints. Only the echo of something eternal that I cannot shake.

---

I have seen many things in my life—empires rise, kings fall, blood spilled in the name of gods.

But I have never felt what I feel now.

Not fear.

Not awe.

But recognition.

As if the world is preparing to introduce me to the one man who will undo everything I thought I knew—and remake it in a fire not of destruction… but of glory.

I can feel the curtain rising.

The moment approaching.

The river waits.

And so do I.

—Marcus

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[To Be Continued...]

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