Character Sketch

I have no home. I was child of the streets and now am a man of the world. Abandoned when I was eight years old, I grew into a bitter, tough, rebellious youth. The gods on their Olympus had long since forsaken me and I relied on my wits for survival. My heart and eyes were blind to kindness, it was all a manipulation. I entered the Roman Military for a place to belong.

Through my diligence and hard work I achieved the position of centurion at a remote outpost in Judea 71 miles from Jerusalem. All my life I believed I had seen it all and nothing could faze me; I was wrong. I was hearing strange rumors about some Jew healing, raising the dead, and walking on water. I thought it must be a crazy magician, scaring the townsfolk, but nothing to capture the attention of a servant of Rome.

At twenty-four I went about my business carrying out orders for Marcellus, my Tribune. I began to hear more and more about Jesus, the Jew, as stories echoed across the desert through country and town.

My curiosity can never be satisfied and it had been growing in me, consuming my thoughts. My curiosity mounted further when we pulled out of the fort heading over to Jerusalem to oversee their Passover celebration. As we neared the ancient and great city, the tales came to life.

The road into the city was lined with men, women, and children, thick as flies on an over-ripe peach. The air was filled with a deafening noise. Children were weaving in an out legs for closer positions, men were throwing their cloaks on the street, and women were waving palm leaves as a banner. I stared down the long narrow road to catch a glimpse of the person who was arresting so much attention and praise.

A man appeared. He was a top a donkey, not regal in any Roman terms. His feet were adorned with worn sandals used to long walks. His tunic was clean, but of the homespun variety, simple and hung forlornly around his shoulders. As my eyes leveled to his face my heart pulled strangely from shock. His face held a seriousness that showed he knew a great many things, things no ordinary human would know. The face was kind an sympathetic. Then our eyes met. I had never seen such sad eyes. Those eyes pierced through my whole body so physically that I felt sick and numb at the same instant. Those eyes knew me, all of me.

As he passed I stared at the back of his head bobbing through the crowd. As I made my way back to camp I kept repeating to my self, "Artemeus, forget that man Jesus, he has nothing to do with you!" But he continued to invade my thoughts.

I was wrong. I had everything to do with him. The very next week I heard the rumors of his arrest and number of midnight trials. I was shocked. Then Pilate commanded Tribune Marcellus and his command to facilitate the execution of Jesus and two others.

We beat and tortured him. We mocked him and spat in his face. This man was a lunatic believing he was the king of the Jews, or anyone. Never once did he raise a word or a hand in retaliation or plea. His eyes still held that loving sadness, the eye that was still open. I began to feel ashamed. I felt ashamed when I whipped the cat-of-nine at his back, ripping it open. I felt ashamed when I drove the nails through his wrists. I felt ashamed when I cast lots for his clothes and won his robe. Him above me, regally silent facing the mocking mob.

The midday sun darkened and the sky grew to a shady colour of yellow-brown. The air was filled with a great white noise that physically weakened my body. I glanced up at Jesus and saw him murmur something in Hebrew. I caught the "It is finished" and his head slumped to his chest. Hell broke loose. The darkness close in with supernatural speed, the earth trembled violently beneath my feet, horrific screams filled my ears. I stood below the cross of Jesus and stared at his unmoving face. I fell to my knees and prostrated myself before him. I covered my face with my bloodied hands and shouted, "Surely this is the Son of God!"