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An bold Roman soldier. a beautiful crucifixion. An not likely romance. an extended warfare and an opportunity reunion—the relocating components that make The Centurion a gripping tale of affection, accountability, and sacrifice.

Lucius has constantly dreamed of army conquest and Roman glory. Little does he understand how a regimen crucifixion will switch him forever.

Curious approximately this “King of the Jews,” Lucius seeks out His fans and falls for one Mary Magdalene. yet all is interrupted whilst Lucius is named to steer army campaigns. There the hardships of conflict, yr after yr, put on him all the way down to approximately nothing.

When Lucius ultimately returns to Rome, town has misplaced its attract. an opportunity come upon checks his allegiances, and he needs to make a decision who he's, what's actual, and what's worthy death for.

This paintings of historic fiction comprises an intensive annotated record of sources.

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They looked to be looking for anything. yet he was once weary of the quest and for a second closed them. while he opened them, he wiped the snow from his fingers, which have been a sew paintings of scars, all sizes and styles, each one telling the tale of a special conflict. He checked out them, figuring out he had forgotten which battles had inflicted which wounds. The tales of the battles themselves have been crumbling, like scrolls of historic papyrus, fragments breaking off, developing gaps within the tale. Gaps of recalling what occurred and whilst. Gaps of figuring out why this conflict used to be so very important. Gaps of accounting the place its cost was once balanced one way or the other opposed to the price of his infantrymen’ lives. 100 for one; 1000 for one more. Who even recalls their names? he puzzled. Who they have been, the place they got here from, who they enjoyed … not to mention the tales they left at the back of? His ideas moved stiffly yet resolutely. inform me, Seneca. This lifestyles, this fleeting lifestyles choked with lots heartache … such a lot of hopes, goals, prayers … dashed opposed to … what? … the detached shorelines of Nature? likelihood? in any case you will have acknowledged, it's my flip to talk. I say … permit now not the loss of life misinform themselves with speak of God. there isn't any providential hand guiding us. and elegantly no longer guiding me. there's in simple terms the lifestyles i've got lived. And what was once the purpose of that? converse, Seneca, if you happen to dare. the nice of the Empire? the consideration of Rome? And whilst it's the Empire’s flip to die, what's the aspect of the existence it has lived? while it's buried and its bones flooring to dirt, of what price is the dirt? And Rome? whilst it's at some point trodden underfoot via a few barbarian horde, the place is going its glory? it's going to slip underneath the horizon just like the environment solar, taking its glory with it, by no means to sunrise back. don't consult me of future. Sleep got here quick, however it was once fitful. He stirred the subsequent morning, overdue, a unexpected numbness waking him. His horse’s chest was once chilly and tough. He sat up, and a layer of snow fell from his blanket. For a second he simply sat there, staring. He brushed the layer of flakes from its shoulders, then from its neck, its face. He was once too drained to imagine, to suppose, to maneuver. His shoulders grew heavy, their weight pulling him ahead. His eyes fell on his arms. His epidermis, as soon as thick and gentle, used to be now skinny and slack and splotched with age. He driven his hand towards his dagger. His arms, mottled from the chilly, may well slightly bend round the hilt. jointly, like a gaggle of assassins, they slowly pulled the dagger from its sheath. introduced it to his chest. driven. yet their energy had left them, and the dagger fell to the floor. He stared at it, with no expression. His eyes blinked, as soon as, two times, then closed. for a very long time he sat in darkness. eventually he opened them. He took his hand and driven away the snow at the floor, as though smoothing the wrinkles in a sheet earlier than mountaineering into mattress. And there he lay himself all the way down to die. fifty three Lucius slept during the subsequent day and into the past due afternoon, which have been warmed by way of the sunlight that had damaged during the low overlaying of clouds.

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