Marcus: The Centurion's Journey to Faith - Episode #2

Journal Entry-Monday, August 10, 26 A.D.

Journal Entry - Marcus the Centurion
Date: Monday, August 10, 26 A.D. (Year of the Consulship of Lentulus and Agrippa, 778 Ab urbe condita)

Another week has passed in this strange, restless land, and once again, I find my thoughts drifting back to the past. I’ve been thinking a lot about my father lately. Maybe it’s this heat, or maybe it’s the weight of my duty in a place that seems determined to resist all that Rome stands for. Either way, memories of my father have been coming back to me—his words, his lessons, the things he tried to pass down to me before he died. It’s strange how certain moments can linger in a man’s mind, even years after they’ve passed.

My father was a soldier, like me. In fact, everything I know about being a man, a Roman, and a soldier, I learned from him. He was a hard man, forged in the fires of combat and discipline. There wasn’t much softness in him, but there was wisdom, hard-earned and practical. He had no patience for weakness, in himself or in others. “The world is not kind to those who falter, Marcus,” he would say. “You either stand tall, or you’re trampled underfoot.”

He was right, of course. Life doesn’t give you much room to falter, especially not in the world I was born into. Rome isn’t built on kindness or second chances. It’s built on strength, on power, on the backs of men like my father, who knew that to survive, you had to be willing to do whatever was necessary. And he made sure I learned that lesson well.

I can still remember my first day of training, the way my father stood there watching me with those sharp, unforgiving eyes. I was barely old enough to hold a sword, let alone swing one with any real strength. But he didn’t care. To him, it wasn’t about whether I could succeed right away. It was about whether I had the will to try, to push through the pain and frustration until I mastered it. “Pain is a part of life, boy,” he’d say. “Better to learn that now, while you’re young.”

He wasn’t wrong. Every bruise, every cut, every failure—it was all part of the process. And under his stern gaze, I learned to accept that pain, to embrace it even. Because in the end, that’s what made me stronger. That’s what made me the man I am today. Without him, I wouldn’t have survived a single campaign, let alone risen through the ranks of the Roman army.

But it wasn’t just physical strength that he taught me. No, my father had a keen mind for tactics, for strategy. He knew that brute force could only take you so far. A true soldier, a true leader, had to think ahead, to anticipate the enemy’s moves before they made them. “A sword is only as good as the man who wields it,” he’d say. “And a man is only as good as the mind that guides him.”

I can still picture the two of us, crouched over a map, his finger tracing the paths of Roman legions, explaining the importance of positioning, timing, and the element of surprise. He’d quiz me relentlessly, making me memorize formations, battle plans, the weaknesses of our enemies. At the time, it felt like a never-ending lesson, but now, I see the value in it. That knowledge has saved my life more times than I can count. And as I stand here in Judea, leading men who rely on me to keep them alive, I realize just how much I owe him.

But there was more to my father’s teaching than just strength and strategy. There was loyalty. Loyalty to Rome, to the Empire, to the cause we serve. That, more than anything, was what defined him. He believed in the power of Rome with an almost religious fervor. “Rome is eternal, Marcus,” he would say. “Nations rise and fall, but Rome will stand forever. Our duty is to ensure that it does.”

And that’s what I’ve spent my life doing. Ensuring that Rome’s strength remains unchallenged, that the order we bring to the world is maintained. I’ve followed his teachings to the letter, and they’ve served me well. But here, in this land of Judea, I can’t help but wonder if my father’s lessons are enough.

It’s not that I doubt Rome. No, Rome is still the greatest power in the world, and I am proud to serve her. But the people here… they are unlike any I’ve encountered before. They don’t resist with swords and spears, at least not openly. They resist with something else. Something I can’t quite understand. It’s in their eyes, in the way they talk about their God, about this Messiah they’re waiting for. I’ve faced rebellion before, but this feels different. It’s not rebellion born of hatred or anger. It’s rebellion born of faith.

My father wouldn’t have had time for such things. He would have crushed it, snuffed out the hope of these people before it had a chance to take root. And maybe that’s what I’ll be ordered to do, eventually. But I can’t help but wonder if that will be enough. Can you truly crush something that’s born in a man’s heart? Can you kill an idea, a belief, with a sword?

I don’t know. And that’s what troubles me. My father’s teachings have carried me this far, but I wonder if there’s something I’m missing. Something he didn’t prepare me for. He always said that strength was the ultimate power, that in the end, might makes right. But what if there’s more to it than that? What if there’s a strength that can’t be measured in muscle or steel?

I’ve been hearing more and more about this Jesus of Nazareth. The people speak His name with a kind of quiet reverence, like they’re afraid to say it too loudly but can’t help themselves from saying it at all. I haven’t seen Him yet, but the way they talk about Him, it’s almost as if they believe He’s the answer to all their prayers. The one who will deliver them from our hands.

It’s dangerous talk. The kind of talk that could stir up unrest, maybe even violence. But there’s something else too. Something I can’t quite put into words. It’s not fear, exactly. More like… curiosity. Who is this man, really? And why do the people look to Him with such hope?

My father would have told me not to waste my time with such thoughts. He would have said that a man’s worth is measured by his actions, not his words. And maybe he’s right. But I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something more to this. That maybe, just maybe, my father didn’t have all the answers after all.

I’ll continue to watch, to wait. I’ll do my duty, as I always have. But I can’t help but feel like I’m standing on the edge of something, like the ground is shifting beneath my feet. My father’s voice is still there, reminding me to be strong, to stay the course. But for the first time in my life, I wonder if strength is enough.

—Marcus