The boy screamed again.
The centurion knelt by the mat, pressing a damp cloth to the child’s burning skin. “Easy, Lucius. I’m here.” Sweat poured from the servant’s body. His legs jerked beneath the blanket. Behind them, thick silence filled the room—no other soldier dared speak.
He was only a servant. That’s what others whispered. The house commander—concerned over a slave?
But this boy had run beside his horse, fetched water for his wounds, stood trembling at attention through whipping winds simply to keep guard.
The centurion gripped his shoulder. “Don’t leave me. Not yet.”
Lucius moaned.
He rose. One deliberate step after another, past the stairs, down the stone corridor, past the soldiers who watched him with wide eyes as if seeing something they didn’t understand.
“Optio,” one called.
But he didn’t stop.
He crossed into the street, each stride pulling him into the chaos of Capernaum’s market square. Dust coiled around feet. Fishmongers shouted names and prices. Somewhere to the east, a group was gathering, murmuring.
“Jesus of Nazareth is here—”
He turned.
The crowd pressed thick around a man walking slowly down the street. The teacher. The healer.
The centurion pushed forward.
A child screamed as he knocked over a basket. A woman scowled, pulling a shawl over her hair like his Roman presence soiled the moment.
He reached the front just as the man halted. Eyes like fire and still waters met his.
“Lord,” the centurion said before his courage fled him, “my servant lies at home, paralyzed—suffering greatly.”
The man—barefooted, wrapped in weathered wool—nodded. “I will come and heal him.”
“No,” he said quickly. Too much. Too forward. He stepped back. “I am not worthy to have you under my roof.”
Gasps scraped the air.
He swallowed hard. “Just… say the word. Only the word. And he’ll be healed.”
His breath came faster now. He knew command. He knew chain of authority. One order from Caesar moved legions. One word—and soldiers obeyed.
And this man… this man held something far greater than any Caesar.
He kept his eyes low.
“For I too,” he said, voice breaking, “am a man under authority—with soldiers under me. I say to one, ‘Go,’ and he goes. To another, ‘Come,’ and he comes.”
The crowd had gone silent.
“If you… if you say he will live—”
He couldn’t finish.
Jesus looked at him, not surprised, but with something like sorrow and joy breaking all at once. He turned to those around him and said, “I have not found anyone in Israel with such faith.”
The centurion stared at the ground, knees trembling.
Jesus stepped closer. “Go.”
His pulse froze.
“Let it be done for you as you have believed.”
No thunder struck. No wind stirred. The quiet returned with terrible power.
The centurion turned.
Each step away from the preacher was a storm. Would the boy still convulse when he returned? Would he see death in Lucius’s eyes, still and gone?
He didn’t run.
He couldn’t.
He just walked—one street, then the next, his sandals scraping dust.
He reached the gate.
A soldier burst from the house.
“Sir!” he panted. “The boy—”
The centurion grabbed his arm.
“He’s alive,” the man whispered. “The fever left him. It was the sixth hour. He opened his eyes and spoke your name.”
The centurion released him, fingers shaking.
He stood in the courtyard, the late sun hitting the walls.
Birdsong returned, soft and stunned.
And something loosened inside him that had been bound for a long, long time.
The boy screamed again.
The centurion knelt by the mat, pressing a damp cloth to the child’s burning skin. “Easy, Lucius. I’m here.” Sweat poured from the servant’s body. His legs jerked beneath the blanket. Behind them, thick silence filled the room—no other soldier dared speak.
He was only a servant. That’s what others whispered. The house commander—concerned over a slave?
But this boy had run beside his horse, fetched water for his wounds, stood trembling at attention through whipping winds simply to keep guard.
The centurion gripped his shoulder. “Don’t leave me. Not yet.”
Lucius moaned.
He rose. One deliberate step after another, past the stairs, down the stone corridor, past the soldiers who watched him with wide eyes as if seeing something they didn’t understand.
“Optio,” one called.
But he didn’t stop.
He crossed into the street, each stride pulling him into the chaos of Capernaum’s market square. Dust coiled around feet. Fishmongers shouted names and prices. Somewhere to the east, a group was gathering, murmuring.
“Jesus of Nazareth is here—”
He turned.
The crowd pressed thick around a man walking slowly down the street. The teacher. The healer.
The centurion pushed forward.
A child screamed as he knocked over a basket. A woman scowled, pulling a shawl over her hair like his Roman presence soiled the moment.
He reached the front just as the man halted. Eyes like fire and still waters met his.
“Lord,” the centurion said before his courage fled him, “my servant lies at home, paralyzed—suffering greatly.”
The man—barefooted, wrapped in weathered wool—nodded. “I will come and heal him.”
“No,” he said quickly. Too much. Too forward. He stepped back. “I am not worthy to have you under my roof.”
Gasps scraped the air.
He swallowed hard. “Just… say the word. Only the word. And he’ll be healed.”
His breath came faster now. He knew command. He knew chain of authority. One order from Caesar moved legions. One word—and soldiers obeyed.
And this man… this man held something far greater than any Caesar.
He kept his eyes low.
“For I too,” he said, voice breaking, “am a man under authority—with soldiers under me. I say to one, ‘Go,’ and he goes. To another, ‘Come,’ and he comes.”
The crowd had gone silent.
“If you… if you say he will live—”
He couldn’t finish.
Jesus looked at him, not surprised, but with something like sorrow and joy breaking all at once. He turned to those around him and said, “I have not found anyone in Israel with such faith.”
The centurion stared at the ground, knees trembling.
Jesus stepped closer. “Go.”
His pulse froze.
“Let it be done for you as you have believed.”
No thunder struck. No wind stirred. The quiet returned with terrible power.
The centurion turned.
Each step away from the preacher was a storm. Would the boy still convulse when he returned? Would he see death in Lucius’s eyes, still and gone?
He didn’t run.
He couldn’t.
He just walked—one street, then the next, his sandals scraping dust.
He reached the gate.
A soldier burst from the house.
“Sir!” he panted. “The boy—”
The centurion grabbed his arm.
“He’s alive,” the man whispered. “The fever left him. It was the sixth hour. He opened his eyes and spoke your name.”
The centurion released him, fingers shaking.
He stood in the courtyard, the late sun hitting the walls.
Birdsong returned, soft and stunned.
And something loosened inside him that had been bound for a long, long time.
