Maximus Read online

  Maximus

  Richard L. Black

  © 2015 Richard L. Black.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher, Ensign Peak®. The views expressed herein are the responsibility of the author and do not necessarily represent the position of Ensign Peak.

  All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Black, Richard L. (Richard Lynn), 1953– author.

  Maximus / Richard L. Black.

  pages cm

  ISBN 978-1-60907-985-7 (hardbound : alk. paper)

  1. Romans—Fiction. 2. Jesus Christ—Fiction. 3. Judaea (Region)—Fiction. 4. Bible. New Testament—Fiction. 5. Rome—History—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3602.L3252416M39 2015

  813'.6—dc232014031146

  Printed in the United States of America

  Edwards Brothers Malloy, Ann Arbor, MI

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For Marian Anne

  Table of Contents

  A Note to the Reader

  Book I: Rome

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  Book II: The Great Sea

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  Book III: Judaea

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  Book IV: Jerusalem

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  Book V: Approaching Passover

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Notes

  A Note to the Reader

  Many years ago I confided in a friend that I had an idea for a story about a Roman general in Judaea searching for truth during the time of Christ. Because I consider myself a student of the gospel of Jesus Christ, certainly not a scholar, my intention in writing this book was to study the gospel more deeply, become familiar with the time when the Savior walked the earth, and explore what it might have been like to witness the events of his mission. That research has helped me immensely to better understand the people and their time. I have made a great effort to be true to actual scriptural events and to the realities of the life people led at that truly marvelous period in the world’s history.

  All characters in this story are fictional except those taken from the King James Version of the Holy Bible. I have done my best to stay true to the characters in the Bible and have based their words on scripture. Citations for those passages are in Notes at the end of the book.

  I have taken the liberty of embellishing three characters from the New Testament: Pontius Pilate, Caiaphas, and a man known only as a centurion, whom I have named Aurelius. I have done so only to help the plot development of this fictional story and without any intention of interpreting scripture. The story is purely my invention of what could have been said or heard or done by someone who could have witnessed or participated in the events.

  I hope you find this story engaging and the descriptions of these events useful in gaining a broader perspective and appreciation for the challenges of the humble people in the meridian of time who chose to become disciples of Jesus of Nazareth. I’m not sure being a disciple today is any easier.

  1

  General Lucius Fabius Maximus rode an impressive dappled gray steed for the last few miles of the long trek back to Rome. He preferred walking with his men, but the walls of the great city were within sight, and he would be expected to display his rank as the great conqueror returning home. Word of the legion’s arrival had preceded them, and he could make out frantic movement in the distance. The legionaries would soon be marching along the Via Sacra to the Forum, where thousands would be waiting to shower them with praise, flowers, and palms.

  The men of the legion had put a thousand miles behind them since pulling up stakes in northeastern Gaul, and the weary legate had a thousand doubts about the continuing imperialism of the Roman empire. Almost two years of fighting fierce Germanic tribes had reduced his legion by a third.

  Maximus looked back at his men. Like him, they were stretched to the limits of their physical strength. Many were wounded, but they were ordered in their ranks and walked proudly, holding the banners of the empire high, their shields forward and javelins straight. Over the years he had lost too many men advancing the avarice and self-righteous imperialism of Rome. He grieved for his men, but strangely, he also hurt for the loss of worthy fathers, sons, and brothers whom the men of the legion regarded as enemies because they fought to protect their families and cultures against Roman expansion. They were good men as well. He adjusted the scarlet cloak over his shoulder, raised his hand in salute to the revelers, and expanded his chest with a pride he did not feel.

  His left calf bore a severe wound inflicted by an adversary’s sword. Maximus looked at the backs of his dirty hands and studied the well-defined muscles of his forearms, made hard by years of wielding weapons. His right hand with its missing finger, another casualty of combat, rested on the wooden pommel of the saddle. He recalled the enemy’s sword coming down, his own blocking parry not quick enough or accurate enough in the tiring hours of battle. The blade caught the outside of his hand just under the hilt of his sword. It wasn’t until the battle was won and the adrenaline sufficiently spent that he realized the finger was gone, cut off at the lower knuckle. The foeman had paid for his brief success by dying instantly as Maximus spun and with full force delivered a backhanded counter blow to his enemy’s exposed neck, cutting deep into the spinal cord. No one was a match for Maximus in close quarters combat. Many, too numerous to remember, had fallen to his sword and proficiency as a warrior.

  Some conflicts, however, were seared into his memory forever. More troubling to the honorable general than the loss of a finger on a battlefield in Gaul was his loss of faith in the philosophies of the empire. He was indignant at the continuing subjugation of peoples. How many cultures did they need to crush and police? Greeks, Gauls, Jews—it never ended, with treasures of gold stolen, treasures of culture destroyed. The campaigns no longer made sense to him, but he kept those thoughts to himself. Voicing them would be treason. His wounds hurt, but his heart hurt more.

  Maximus led his legion into the broad Forum to the boisterous ovations of the crowd, who showered the legionaries with flowers and placed palm fronds in their path. On the long stone steps up to the entrance to the Curia, meeting place of the Senate, stood the dignitaries of Rome waiting to honor them. Seated comfortably in an ornate chair and dressed in luxurious purple robes was the emperor Tiberius Caesar. Surrounding him were senators in white togas trimmed with wide purple borders. Maximus recognized his father among them but did not acknowledge him personally.

  Tiberius held up his hand in greeting as the men of the legion approached, led by their valiant legate, who saluted dutifully.

  “We have returned victorious!” General Maximus announced loudly, stopping his horse and sitting tall in his saddle with his disciplined troops standing like statues behind him.

  As the people cheered, the soldiers pounded the hilts of their swords against their shields with renewed spirit. The long
campaign was complete. Maximus’s simple statement was all that was required today. Meetings with the Senate and the military council would begin in a day or two. The legate reined in his horse and turned to face his tired men and dismiss them with brief but heartfelt praise: “Well done, worthy Romans. Return to your homes.” His words were greeted with cheers from the soldiers directed at their beloved general.

  Maximus dismounted his horse, removed his brass helmet with its pretentious crest, and combed his fingers through his wavy, brown hair. He walked among his men, acknowledging their farewells. He wanted to drop in exhaustion as the mantle of responsibility he had endured for so long was suddenly lifted. But almost immediately the thought of another campaign began to weigh upon him. He knew the wheels of the empire never stopped turning. The rest of the afternoon was a blur.

  2

  Maximus stirred amidst stabs of pain from his bruised shoulder and his wounded leg. His feet were weary from the hundreds of miles of walking, and now his back ached from his having slept without moving for what seemed an entire day. After being relieved of the responsibility for a legion and a campaign he had shouldered for the last two years, he had laid down his head and slept soundly. Through the fog of waking, he saw two young women sitting on a bench at the foot of his bed, watching him. He didn’t recognize his surroundings.

  The one with dark hair addressed him in well-educated Greek. “My lord, we heard you stirring. What can we provide?” Without waiting for an answer, she knelt beside him to check his wounded leg.

  Maximus propped himself up, leaning on his left elbow. “Did you do this?” he asked, pointing to the clean dressing.

  “Yes, my lord. You fell asleep after bathing, and we thought it best to clean and bandage your wound then so as not to disturb you later,” she explained.

  “Where am I?” he asked.

  “You are at the house of the senator Gaius Valerius. We collected you at his request shortly after your return and brought you here to rest.”

  He vaguely remembered entering the city, the crowds, the cheering, the Forum filled with nobles and plebeians alike. He recalled dismounting his horse and being met by two female slaves who had led him to this place, removed his armor, served him good wine, and escorted him to a warm pool of water to bathe. That was his last memory until this very moment that brought him the sunlit vision of two women dressed in white. The dark-haired one still knelt beside him. The quiet one with the large eyes remained seated and silent.

  “My lord must be hungry?” the dark-haired one asked. “What may we bring you?”

  He managed to croak, “Cool water.” His gaze moved to the blue sky that could be seen over the balcony wall. “I’d also like fresh bread and grapes—lots of grapes.” His tone was subdued and melancholy. The quiet slave left the room to run the errand as the other one continued to fuss over the dressing on his leg.

  Maximus watched the sun brighten the transparent magenta leaves of the bougainvillea bush flowing over the wall of the balcony. He longed for delicate flowers and other beautiful things to be a part of his life again. He wanted a wife and children and a farm on which to raise and teach those children. Most of all, he wished for peace in his life.

  Flashbacks of the battlefield recurred in his weary mind. They were in black and white, and they were always cold and dark, even if the battle had been fought on the hottest and brightest of days.

  The fighting in Gaul had been fierce against the Germanic tribes’ incursion. The legion had the upper hand militarily, but the enemy warriors were fighting for their homes. Their intensity reflected in their fight for wives, children, and the way of life they wanted to preserve. Their first attack came from the left out of the thick forest. They poured into the open meadow in a tidal wave of humanity. They had the benefit of surprise and the rising sun at their backs. The legion quickly turned and organized ranks to meet the massive onslaught. Shouting, screaming, and clashing of swords and shields echoed over the pastoral valley turned battlefield. Fighters on both sides clashed for two hours before the enemy began to fall at a faster rate than did the Romans. A seasoned warrior would fight with severe cuts and wounds: it was the nature of combat. In the heat of battle there was no time or place to stop and dress a wound or even tie a bandage around a leg or arm to stop the bleeding; a soldier would simply keep fighting for his life. Adrenaline combined with fear allowed warriors to fight on despite vicious wounds until they suddenly dropped from loss of blood. They either fainted or simply lay down with no strength to carry on; they were the dangerous ones.

  Maximus’s wound had been inflicted by just such a fallen warrior after the battle was already won. The foe immediately around him had been slain. Various singular conflicts raging within yards seemed mostly under control. Moving to aid a small group of his men, the legate looked down into the open eyes of a fallen enemy. He saw that the last breath of life had not yet escaped the bloodied warrior but discounted the foeman’s ability to strike. Yet the warrior summoned his last bit of strength and, fueled by his hatred for the Romans, slashed with his sword at Maximus. The sword cut deep into his right calf, stopping only at the bone. Maximus howled and went down from pain and exhaustion. But battle adrenaline had not completely left him. He pushed himself to his feet and looked at the attacker lying on his back, completely spent but still alive. The attacker spat at the Roman who stood above him. The black, bloody spittle dribbled down the side of his dirty cheek. He smiled as Maximus sliced off the top of his head with a powerful forehand strike of his battle sword.

  Maximus was brought out of his stupor by the soft voice of the quiet slave: “My lord.” The linen of her long white tunic rustled as she knelt beside him with a wooden tray holding a vessel of water, bread, and the grapes he had requested. He closed his eyes and took in the sweet smell of her feminine cleanliness, polar opposite of the smell of sweat, urine, and death that emanated from a battlefield. The dark-haired one smoothed from his callused feet the remnants of the long, dusty road. Too tired to talk or eat, he lay back and fell asleep.

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  Why is she kicking me?

  Maximus awoke groggily.

  “Brother! Get up, you lazy swine!”

  “Stop!” Maximus groaned, trying to roll away.

  “I’ll stop when you pull your lazy backside off your bed!” a masculine voice responded. Another thump had Maximus reaching for his sword.

  “Get up, brother. Time to get back to work.”

  Maximus’s vision and coherence finally returned. He found himself looking up at the looming hulk of Lartius Androcles, his primus pilus, leader of the first cohort of the legion and Maximus’s closest friend. They had returned from battle together, and Androcles’s foot was now firmly planted on Maximus’s backside. “Get up! The Senate awaits your report.”

  Maximus, still groggy and stiff from his long night’s sleep, propped himself up on his elbow. “Why do you look as fresh as the morning, yet speak with a voice of thunder?” He held both his hands against the sides of his head, squinting as the sunlight penetrated his fully dilated eyes.

  Now in their thirtieth year, Androcles and Maximus had fought alongside each other since they were boys. Maximus came from the privileged families of Rome—his father was a senator, and his mother was from a leading senatorial family. He had enjoyed the best education and a comfortable childhood.

  Androcles was from the Etruscan highlands. His father, Mamercus Lartius, had been a blacksmith, one of the best in the empire. Years before, Mamercus had happened upon a slave from the Indus Valley who shared with him a unique knowledge of metallurgy that made the blades of swords stronger and sharper. Mamercus soon found favor with the emperor Augustus for his improvements to the empire’s weaponry. He could have lived near Rome and plied his trade closer to the military center of the empire, but he elected to stay in the highlands.

  Androcles was the youngest of Mamercus’s four sons. They had learned blacksmithing from their father. By the time he was ten ye
ars old, Androcles was wielding a hammer with the strength of someone twice his age, pounding out the various shapes of the swords and spears his father designed. His young arms developed the sinewy muscles that would become the massive, powerful arms he had now as a man.

  “We go to the Curia today to make our report. The campaign was a great success, and you are to be honored—and we of the legion with you.” Androcles beamed. “It’s a great day.”

  As Maximus donned his purple-bordered white toga and prepared for the meeting with the Senate, he knew deep inside he no longer subscribed to the idealism of the empire. He had seen too much death and killed too many men who had fought valiantly for causes his own reckoning deemed more worthy than Rome’s. His fighting fire extinguished, he was physically and emotionally spent. He didn’t have a plan for what to say to the Senate about the campaign or, more important, to his father, whose bidding he had unquestioningly done his entire life.

  3

  It was a good walk from the house of Gaius Valerius to the Forum. Maximus recalled seeing his father at the top of the steps of the Curia with a group of senators standing near the emperor two days before as he had made his brief report to the cheers of the crowd. After he made his full report today, he would be able to see his father and the rest of his family. His mother and two young sisters would be anxious for his return. He relished the thought of engaging in the normal activities of his family’s household. His father often chastened him for not leading the typical life of a promising Roman legate and senator, residing in the city to make his name known and his legend grow. In that respect Maximus was more like his mother, who decried the pretentiousness of pampered life in Rome.

  Maximus had no interest in self-promotion. He delighted in time away from the duties of a legate and the politics of the Senate. So much nonsense: ambitious men huddling around tables displaying different maps of the known world and debating the merits of capturing some section of a particular map for the betterment of Rome. Which section of the map made more sense? What peoples and resources did the empire need to feed its ever-increasing avarice and gluttony?