The Centurion's Wife
“Julia! Julia!” a breathless voice, desperate with panic.
She pauses for a split second, gasps with relief, hands stained red from the blood she was washing from his tunic in the semi-darkness. There is water all over the floor from the earthquake, but there is washing to be done and so she carries on with her life. She must wash his uniform, he has been wounded in a battle, it is the blood of the man she loves, she must wash it away, cannot bear to think of his mortality.
“Julia, Julia!”; urgent now. She pats her daughter Marcia on the head and tells her to carry on washing her father’s uniform. She will be back in a minute.
“Marcus?” she cries out “we are all safe, all alive, the earthquake didn’t kill anyone here”, she runs to him, wraps her body around his familiar hard leather and metal breastplate. His centurion’s medals press hard into her breast and puncture her skin. “We are all safe! All safe! ”Marcus, don’t cry we are all safe, the light is returning”.
But the crying does not cease. He is racked with grief, hoarse with sobbing. “Truly, Julia, truly, he was the Son of God”, incoherent the words tumble from his mouth like water from a spring. He carries on spilling words into the faint light. “Into your hands I commend my spirit” this is what he said, “into your hands I commend my spirit”, Julia, “he was talking to the Jewish God”…”Jesus called his God ‘Father, I was facing him, we all were, me and the lads, when he breathed his last, he was righteous, he was innocent, he was the Son of God after all. We just watched him. We just watched him. Oh Julia what have we done?”
Julia stands and stares, ‘who is this?’ Where is her soldier? Why is he broken? What words are these of ‘hands and spirit’? She knows he is right; nothing has ever broken him before like these words have. It must be true, what he is saying can only be true; nothing breaks her Marcus, her man who she calls to mind in his absence by remembering the familiar smell of fresh human blood. It is his smell, it is his profession, it is to be expected that he would smell of human blood. Here he is, her Marcus crying with remorse simply because he was an onlooker in another man’s demise. Her heart beats in her ears a rhythm so fast she fears it will consume her. Her home is in chaos, cracked jars litter the floor, and this was no ordinary earthquake, the sun’s failure, everything shaken, broken and torn apart but no one dead and rendering her husband speechless with grief.
She is trembling with panic and she wonders what will happen next.
She finds her voice and can hardly bear what she must say. “Hands are for humans” she quivers, “hands are for humans”, they are for touching, they are for everything”. She goes on, gabbling with shock “The hands of the God’s are not like ours, they cannot reach us or touch us or receive from us”. “Marcus what are you saying?”. He could not “give” his breath into anyone’s hands; and not those of a God. It is not possible; it isn’t as if our ‘breath’, our ‘life’; our ‘spirit’ is bread, given into another’s hands. It is wind, it is air, it is only breath and when it stops it is simply death, the end. Death is an ending, it is where breath stops. There is nothing of it to give. How can anyone entrust the end of something?” “Marcus how could he give it, he couldn’t touch it, he has just given his death, what God could hold death in his hands like bread?” she shook now. “Marcus what does it mean?”
Marcus, slowly now, faltering, finding his tongue, parched with thirst from three hours gazing at an ordinary man revealing his divinity. This Jesus had shown his connection with his God, whilst all Jesus felt was agony.
Marcus had seen that Jesus was divine.
He finds his words sticking like coarse grain in his mouth; he can hardly get them out. “It means…”; deeply breathing now “it means…” gasping for survival… he shakes his head, bows it, heaves with sorrow, and pours out the truth like the first pouring of a new jar of wine. “It means I have stood facing a man who was the son of a God with hands like ours…and I have watched him die. That is what it means”
She stands motionless, the tears are coursing down her cheeks, moving into her neck, spreading over her chest and then her hands, in slow motion reach her face and she covers her face, palms of her hands sticky with blood. She is rocking now, the Centurion’s wife, holding her head, covering her face for shame. She stands there, time stops, everything stops, she hears nothing, feels nothing, cannot move or speak or touch or swallow, only the tears flow into her hands. Ages later she removes her hands. He looks up at his wife, his Julia, and takes in a sharp breath. Her hands have left the imprint of his blood. Hand shaped stains, his blood from his life’s work imprinted on her lovely face.
It is too much for him. He is violently sick. She stands and she continues to weep. They are both white with shock. Little Marcia moves silently and un-noticed into the room. She witnesses the scene, the two people who make sense of her life, white with horror, senseless with grief. She picks her way over the broken containers, the cups of wine spilt by the cosmos.
“Mater” she says to her Mother. “Mater, what has happened?”
Silence
Persistent now
“Mater”, “Mater”, “why are you crying?” “What has happened here?
Eternal moments pass, a motionless family caught in time and then slowly the truth crept from the silence of Julia’s mouth
“Our lives have changed forever”
“Julia! Julia!” a breathless voice, desperate with panic.
She pauses for a split second, gasps with relief, hands stained red from the blood she was washing from his tunic in the semi-darkness. There is water all over the floor from the earthquake, but there is washing to be done and so she carries on with her life. She must wash his uniform, he has been wounded in a battle, it is the blood of the man she loves, she must wash it away, cannot bear to think of his mortality.
“Julia, Julia!”; urgent now. She pats her daughter Marcia on the head and tells her to carry on washing her father’s uniform. She will be back in a minute.
“Marcus?” she cries out “we are all safe, all alive, the earthquake didn’t kill anyone here”, she runs to him, wraps her body around his familiar hard leather and metal breastplate. His centurion’s medals press hard into her breast and puncture her skin. “We are all safe! All safe! ”Marcus, don’t cry we are all safe, the light is returning”.
But the crying does not cease. He is racked with grief, hoarse with sobbing. “Truly, Julia, truly, he was the Son of God”, incoherent the words tumble from his mouth like water from a spring. He carries on spilling words into the faint light. “Into your hands I commend my spirit” this is what he said, “into your hands I commend my spirit”, Julia, “he was talking to the Jewish God”…”Jesus called his God ‘Father, I was facing him, we all were, me and the lads, when he breathed his last, he was righteous, he was innocent, he was the Son of God after all. We just watched him. We just watched him. Oh Julia what have we done?”
Julia stands and stares, ‘who is this?’ Where is her soldier? Why is he broken? What words are these of ‘hands and spirit’? She knows he is right; nothing has ever broken him before like these words have. It must be true, what he is saying can only be true; nothing breaks her Marcus, her man who she calls to mind in his absence by remembering the familiar smell of fresh human blood. It is his smell, it is his profession, it is to be expected that he would smell of human blood. Here he is, her Marcus crying with remorse simply because he was an onlooker in another man’s demise. Her heart beats in her ears a rhythm so fast she fears it will consume her. Her home is in chaos, cracked jars litter the floor, and this was no ordinary earthquake, the sun’s failure, everything shaken, broken and torn apart but no one dead and rendering her husband speechless with grief.
She is trembling with panic and she wonders what will happen next.
She finds her voice and can hardly bear what she must say. “Hands are for humans” she quivers, “hands are for humans”, they are for touching, they are for everything”. She goes on, gabbling with shock “The hands of the God’s are not like ours, they cannot reach us or touch us or receive from us”. “Marcus what are you saying?”. He could not “give” his breath into anyone’s hands; and not those of a God. It is not possible; it isn’t as if our ‘breath’, our ‘life’; our ‘spirit’ is bread, given into another’s hands. It is wind, it is air, it is only breath and when it stops it is simply death, the end. Death is an ending, it is where breath stops. There is nothing of it to give. How can anyone entrust the end of something?” “Marcus how could he give it, he couldn’t touch it, he has just given his death, what God could hold death in his hands like bread?” she shook now. “Marcus what does it mean?”
Marcus, slowly now, faltering, finding his tongue, parched with thirst from three hours gazing at an ordinary man revealing his divinity. This Jesus had shown his connection with his God, whilst all Jesus felt was agony.
Marcus had seen that Jesus was divine.
He finds his words sticking like coarse grain in his mouth; he can hardly get them out. “It means…”; deeply breathing now “it means…” gasping for survival… he shakes his head, bows it, heaves with sorrow, and pours out the truth like the first pouring of a new jar of wine. “It means I have stood facing a man who was the son of a God with hands like ours…and I have watched him die. That is what it means”
She stands motionless, the tears are coursing down her cheeks, moving into her neck, spreading over her chest and then her hands, in slow motion reach her face and she covers her face, palms of her hands sticky with blood. She is rocking now, the Centurion’s wife, holding her head, covering her face for shame. She stands there, time stops, everything stops, she hears nothing, feels nothing, cannot move or speak or touch or swallow, only the tears flow into her hands. Ages later she removes her hands. He looks up at his wife, his Julia, and takes in a sharp breath. Her hands have left the imprint of his blood. Hand shaped stains, his blood from his life’s work imprinted on her lovely face.
It is too much for him. He is violently sick. She stands and she continues to weep. They are both white with shock. Little Marcia moves silently and un-noticed into the room. She witnesses the scene, the two people who make sense of her life, white with horror, senseless with grief. She picks her way over the broken containers, the cups of wine spilt by the cosmos.
“Mater” she says to her Mother. “Mater, what has happened?”
Silence
Persistent now
“Mater”, “Mater”, “why are you crying?” “What has happened here?
Eternal moments pass, a motionless family caught in time and then slowly the truth crept from the silence of Julia’s mouth
“Our lives have changed forever”
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