From the Dark to the Dawn

by Alicia A Willis

  Up close, they were even fresher in appearance. Some looked no more than seventeen years old. None were over twenty-five.

  Marcus lifted his voice to be clearly heard. “Men, I welcome you to the Castra Praetoria. You have officially joined the Praetorian Guard, the highest trained company of soldiers in our army. Do not abuse this privilege. You are here to serve the government, the people of Rome.”

  Marcus paused, allowing his words to sink in. “You will find this is no pleasure excursion. Your station in Rome is no less arduous than one of a combative nature. You will train, you will work.”

  Silence hovered in the air. Marcus turned on his heel. Taking the reins of his horse, he swung into the saddle. “Centurion, have the men fall out. Dismiss all but the first century. I want to see them drilling in paired combat.”

  The centurion turned, his shouted commands reverberating barrack walls.

  “Century one, fall out! Cohort, to the right, face, march!”

  The simultaneous echo of marching feet filled the air. Rhythmically, the cohort exited the training grounds, escorted by the senior centurion. Under the shouted directions of their commander, the remaining century disbursed.

  The legionaries laid aside their parade weapons, replacing them with doubly heavy dummy swords and wickerwork shields. Forming into pairs, they began to train, wielding their wooden swords in offensive strikes and counter strikes.

  Marcus watched their drills with a keen, experienced eye. The soldiers were young and raw to actual combat, but they had obviously trained arduously during their probatio.

  Well-rounded, tanned biceps protruded beneath the legionaries’ scarlet tunics, glistening with perspiration. Their calf muscles stretched and taut, they practiced thrusting their gladii beneath the shields of their opponent.

  One particular legionary gradually caught Marcus’s eye. At first with casual attention, then with growing interest, he studied his movements.

  The legionary was decidedly youthful. Fresh-faced and boyishly good-looking, Marcus deemed him no more than seventeen years of age. Still, he had the vigor of a wildcat.

  As he watched, the young legionary thrust his wooden sword up beneath his opponent’s wicker shield. The objective was an enemy’s stomach or beneath the waist, and it became apparent the plucky young man found his target. With an indiscernible exclamation, the defeated soldier dropped his shield. He reeled back, only half-muffling his groans.

  Marcus felt an amused smile lurk around the corners of his mouth. Whoever he was, the young legionary was strong and shrewd. An idea began to play in his mind, and he turned to the centurion below him.

  “Centurion, have that stripling brought here.”

  With a wordless salute, the centurion made a sign to his optio. At a quick stride, the optio weaved his way among the combating men and made a quick gesture to the young legionary.

  “You are summoned before the tribune.”

  Even at the distance between them, Marcus saw the flicker of apprehension that crossed the young legionary’s face.

  Small wonder.

  Marcus knew what it was he dreaded. The faintest possibility of harsh discipline would chill the staunchest heart. Among the ranks of Rome’s army, soldiers often feared their commanders more than the enemy.

  Flanked by the optio and centurion, the young legionary approached Marcus. Respectfully, his eyes uplifted to Marcus’s face, he brought his arm across his chest in salute.

  “All hail, tribune.”

  Marcus met his gaze. Up close, the young man’s eyes were a deep green shade, their luster steadfast and honest. He recognized his fighting spirit, his vigorous courage. But there was something else that drew him to the young man, something he could not understand.

  “What is your name?”

  “Alexander Lucianus, tribune.”

  “You seem a soldier of worth.” Marcus paused. “How long have you been among the ranks of Rome?”

  “I enlisted several months ago, during the festival of Mars.”

  “Then you have made good use of your time. Or have you trained with the gladiators?”

  “Only slightly, tribune. Our century received some instruction from a lanista once before we were summoned here.”

  Marcus glanced down at the centurion. “I would see this stripling in further combat, centurion.” He returned his gaze to Alexander’s forthright countenance, meeting his eyes. “Drill with him yourself.”

  “Yes, tribune.” The centurion raised his sword against his chest in quick salute.

  His face tinged by puzzlement, Alexander took the gladius handed to him by the optio. Both men picked up their shields, and, with easy nonchalance, the centurion advanced to meet his inferior.

  Marcus leaned slightly forward in the saddle. He had recognized worthy soldiers before. He only hoped he was not mistaken this time.

  For all Marcus’s keen observations, Alexander portrayed no trace of hesitance at facing his own centurion. With a visible inhale, he immediately took the battle stance, standing with his left foot and shield forward. With his right foot turned at the angle of a wrestler, he cut an imposing figure, ready to jab his opponent with the shield and deliver a fatal blow with the gladius clenched tightly in his uplifted right hand.

  Without warning, the centurion lowered his head in battle stance. Stealthily advancing, he raised his sword and brought it swiftly down.

  Alexander was ready for him, and countered the thrust with his shield. He struck a blow of his own before safely circling to evade the swift plunge of the centurion’s sword at his unarmored back.

  Stooping, thrusting, circling, the two men sparred for several minutes. The others, evoked to interest, ceased their drills to watch.

  Marcus felt his admiration for the young legionary growing. His amusement also deepened, seeing that the centurion was growing frustrated. What should have been an easy victory for an experienced officer was quickly becoming an embarrassing challenge.

  So far, his intuition in Alexander’s abilities was proving accurate.

  Impatience registered clearly on the centurion’s countenance. With each successful counter-strike of his opponent, his anger mounted visibly. His stance became one of wrathful vengeance, mortified by his delayed victory before the eyes of the century.

  Marcus knit his brows disapprovingly, knowing from long experience that no soldier who allowed himself to lose patience could safely govern his battle maneuvers.

  He was right.

  The centurion brought down his sword with particularly heavy force, his thrust fairly screaming with pent-up frustration.

  Alexander caught the thrust with his shield, forcibly throwing his opponent back. The act momentarily disoriented the centurion, destroying his balance and battle composure. In one swift move, Alexander stepped up to deliver the final blow.

  The edge of his gladius caught the centurion a little to the right of his brow, directly where the crested helmet gave way to leathery skin. Marcus saw the lightness of the blow and respected the self-control Alexander maintained over battle instinct.

  Even still, a thin rivulet of blood trickled down the centurion’s face. It was quickly coupled with a wave of red-hot anger.

  “You numskull! How dare you draw blood on me! I’ll–”

  Several choice words ended the furious outburst. Choked with rage, the centurion snatched his staff from the hand of his optio. He raised it, clearly intent upon delivering the military discipline of castigatio.

  “Halt!” Marcus felt a wave of indignation tingle through his body. No centurion would hit a soldier because he chanced to humiliate him. “In the legion under my command, no man will be punished for doing well.”

  “It is insolence, tribune.” The centurion sputtered with anger. He gripped the vine with doubled intensity, an artery bulging in his neck. “He–”

  “Silence.” Marcus leaned forward in the saddle, his eyes narrowed. “If you have been mortified, it is to my charge, not his.” He shifted his gaze
to the quiet, open countenance of Alexander. “You have done well, soldier.”

  Alexander brought his arm against his chest in silent salute. He said nothing, but a visible tinge of gratitude warmed his deep green eyes. Marcus glanced back at the red-faced centurion.

  “If he is not already, make him head of his contubernium. That is all; dismissed.”

  The centurion’s face contorted. His veins bulging with intensified wrath, he brought his arm up in salute. “Yes, tribune.”

  Marcus flicked his mount with the reins, spurring the animal into motion. As he rode from the training ground, he glanced back.

  Alexander stood watching him go. Marcus could recognize the signs of loyalty in his soldiers as he knew the palm of his own hand.

  Its fierceness in the admiring eyes of the young legionary was unmistakable.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  In the coolness of his quarters, Marcus laid down his pen. Waiting a moment for the ink to dry, he rolled up the scroll and laid it with his other accounts.

  The duty of keeping records was his least favorite task as a tribune, but, fortunately, he did not fulfill it alone. His centurions were even busier recording events and proceedings than he was.

  Marcus poured himself a glass of cool water. Tipping his head back, he swallowed thirstily, allowing the liquid to trickle down his chin. Satisfied, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “Great Caesars! At last that is done.”

  Across the room, Philip briefly looked up. He sat cleaning his master’s armor, polishing it to shimmering brightness. “You are on duty tonight, are you not?”

  “Yes.” Marcus set his cup down within arm’s distance. “Why do you ask?”

  “I pledged Daniel I would assist him with handing out bread to the poor before night fell. Still, if you need me here, there is time to send him a message.”

  “No, no, you must go.” Marcus paused. A secret fear gnawed at his heart, vexing him. It was a torment he suffered from often of late. As if casually, he again picked up his pen. “Tell me, do you suppose Moriah will be there?”

  “I cannot say for sure, my lord, but she generally is. You know her works of charity among the poor are beyond measure.”

  “Yes.” Marcus bit his lip, vexed. Philip’s apparent indifference to his question was fairly maddening. He confided nothing of what he actually felt for Moriah. His praise for her was that of any Christian who was renowned for good works.

  Philip placed his master’s armor and cloak in its assigned place with easy competency. Slinging his own cape over his shoulder, he paused at Marcus’s desk.

  “Farewell, my lord. I will return in a few hours.”

  Offering his usual salute, he strode across the room.

  Marcus felt his frustration rising. It boiled inside of him, venting itself before he could stop it. “Philip!”

  Philip stopped in the doorway. Turning, he stepped a little towards Marcus. “Yes?”

  Marcus looked down at his folded hands, squeezing them together. The uncertainty of Philip’s feelings for Moriah was killing him. Day after day, it seemed, he watched them together. He saw their unified devotion to Christ, their youthful purity and good works. They were both perfect exemplars of Christianity, upright, strong in the faith.

  And what was he?

  Yes, he was a Christian, but little else. He was a young man with a scarred past, a past of murder and lust he knew Moriah remembered all too well.

  Even beyond all that, he had the instinctive feeling she despised his occupation. Violence was his life. He trained his men with brutal insensitivity, ordered them flogged when they failed to meet the full measure of Roman competency and submission. He oversaw the crucifixion of slaves, he fought, and he killed.

  Above all, he protected the person of Nero.

  Why should he wonder that a sweet spirit like Moriah shunned his company and affections? Could he blame her for lavishing her respect on a man such as Philip?

  “Philip, I–”

  Marcus could not bring himself to say more. Mingled pride and fear of the truth kept him from it. After all, if Philip did love Moriah, what would it profit him to know? He would not mar Philip’s joy, the servant whose prayers had won him to Christ. And he loved both of them too dearly to shatter their happiness and wellbeing.

  “Tell Daniel and Moriah I bid them joy in the Lord.”

  Philip’s striking smile flashed across his face. “Of course. I would have done so even if you had not asked.” He laughed ever so slightly. “Do not look so grave, Marcus. I know you would like to offer them your greetings yourself, but you will see them soon enough.”

  Marcus forced a smile to his lips. “You are right, of course.” He looked down, continuing to guise his heartache beneath quiet comradeship. “Go–it is growing late. And I would not have the brethren say I kept you from attending to the work of the Lord.”

  Philip raised his hand, the amused smile still deepened on his handsome countenance. Swiftly, he left the room.

  Marcus continued to look down. In sudden frustration, he snatched up his quill pen and snapped it in two, hurling the pieces against the wall. Slowly, his anger expended, he leaned forward on the desk, resting his head in his hands.

  The crashing sound of a spear being struck across a buckler quickly aroused him. He sat erect as the guard at his door entered.

  “A legionary to see you, tribune.”

  “Very well.” Marcus straightened himself erect, lapsing into the stern commander. “Send him in.”

  Briskly saluting, the guard left the room. In a matter of seconds, a legionary entered, bringing his arm up against his chest in respectful salute.

  “All hail, tribune.”

  Marcus glanced briefly over him before speaking. Alexander Lucianus. The afternoon’s work had almost erased the memory of the valiant young stripling from his mind. “Yes?”

  “My centurion orders me to report that your command has been fulfilled and to give you this scroll of today’s proceedings.”

  Marcus rose to take the scroll, his eyes flitting briefly over its contents. Still stretching it open, he half-glanced up, again surveying Alexander’s youthful face. The deep green eyes that met his in soldierly respect were striking, set against such a forthright, open demeanor.

  Again, the feeling crossed him that this was no ordinary legionary.

  “My command that you be made head of your contubernium? Very well; dismissed.”

  Alexander wordlessly saluted, his armor reverberating ever so slightly against his metal-banded forearm. Marcus half-turned, then paused, noticing Alexander made no move to go.

  “Well? Have you not fulfilled your orders?”

  “Yes, tribune, and I crave your pardon. I could not go without first thanking you for your generosity with me today.”

  “It was no generosity, soldier.” Marcus resumed his seat, fixing Alexander with a meaningful gaze. “In my eyes, reward has its place alongside discipline. You chanced to do well; you were rewarded.”

  He paused a moment. “But I do acknowledge your gratitude. It is becoming in a soldier.” He gestured slightly. “Dismissed.”

  Alexander turned in silent obedience and strode briskly to the door. In its entry, he turned. As if unconsciously, he crossed his hands upon his breast. “Peace be with you.”

  Marcus’s mind seemed to snap. Had his eyes deceived him? The most promising legionary in his new cohort had forgotten the military salute in his presence. But, it was not that–unbelievable as it was–that had captured his attention.

  He found himself on his feet, his voice stern and angry. “One moment, soldier.”

  Alexander stiffened into machine-like rigidness. Despite his warrior stance, the confused apprehension that filled his tanned face was unmistakable. “Yes, tribune?”

  Marcus closed the gap between them. If anyone knew how to exercise the powers of a threatening close presence, he did. “What was that sign you just made?”

  With a s
trange rapidity, all color washed from Alexander’s face. He stood motionless, erect and rigid, his eyes locked into Marcus’s dark ones.

  Silence permeated the room.

  Marcus took a step nearer, his face mere inches away from the young man’s colorless features. His heart beat fast against his chest, pulsing with the overpowering to desire to know the truth.

  “Answer me.”

  Alexander’s manly throat constricted, swallowing. He looked unblinkingly into Marcus’s searching pupils. “It was a sign of my faith, tribune.”

  Marcus narrowed his eyes. “What faith, soldier?”

  Again, Alexander seemed unable to speak. He opened his lips, then, closed them, powerless in the ominous presence of his commander.

  Marcus refused to soften his stern tones. His heart yearned to speak quietly, to assure Alexander he had nothing to fear. But, he would not. He would not make the way of escape any easier. Alexander was a soldier of Rome. More importantly, he was a soldier of a Higher Power.

  He must answer as one.

  Give him courage, Lord.

  “I have seen that sign many times, boy, and I know-well what it means.” Marcus allowed his voice to darken, his features chiseled in austere warning. “Do not play the fool with me. Stand and answer: are you a Christus-follower?”

  Alexander raised his head ever so slightly. Unblinkingly, he continued to meet the burning gaze fixed upon him. “I am, tribune.”

  The tones were not unbecomingly bold, nor fearful. Marcus felt his heart warm. Here was a true soldier. Still, something pricked his heart to continue.

  “Do you dare to answer me so? I could at this moment send you to a death by torture. I give you one chance, boy. Recant this idiotic folly, and I will spare you.”

  Something about the threat seemed to spark new spirit in Alexander. His eyes flashed slightly, tightening his jaw line. “No, my lord.”

  Marcus violently raised his hand. Alexander stiffened, his chin upraised. Again, his eyes flashed, anticipating the blow. Like a flood, sudden color washed over his face, passion overpowering his quiet respect.