#atticus aemilius pulcher

[gabriella0807]

Oh man, I love Atticus and his journey since the beginning, so him saying this line is so important to me. I'm intrigued to see his further character development.

[the-chosen-fanfiction]

Gentile. | Chapter XXXVII

There is no clean water in the village, which makes for quite a crabby Praetor. Tension between Quintus and Atticus rises as the latter sets out for Jerusalem.  Chapter list

Your fingers tremble as they barely hold on to the letter received from Rome written in Lucius’ hasty hand. Tears stain the papyrus, but you don’t care if it bleeds. 

“What now?” Quintus snaps when he sets foot over the threshold of the kitchen, sweat beading on his forehead in spite of it being early in the morning. “Is your pregnancy making you act like this again? It’s getting old quickly, (Y/n), can’t keep giving into it.”

“Lucilla is doing really bad.” you whimper. Quintus narrows his eyes as if he is unsure whom you are talking about, and since you do not expect any better of him, you soon clarify. “My brother’s daughter.”

Quintus’ eyebrows shoot up. “Oh. What’s going on?”

You sniffle and wipe your nose on your sleeve, gathering yourself. Quintus strides over to stand behind you and puts a hand on the small of your back, attempting to pry the piece of correspondence from your fingers. As he lets his eyes go over it, you tell him: 

“It’s her lungs, Quintus, something's not quite right there. She seems to have issues breathing properly. She does manually breathe, but Lucius has to check on her every so often and turn her so that liquid does not get stuck. At least, that’s what the physicians told him to do. They… They’re going to get a few priests involved to get some rituals going.” 

Your husband sighs and hands you back the letter before kissing your cheek. “Don’t you worry too much now, hm? Worry about our baby instead. The more important baby. This one is a boy, I can feel it.” 

Attempting to get yourself together, you wipe the tears from below your eyes with the back of your hand and take a few deep breaths. “So,” you breathe, “What are you going to do today?”

“Hm, going to have a quick lunch and then I’ve got paperwork to sort out.” He huffs. “Always the pesky paperwork. It never ends.” Quintus sighs and grabs the cup of water that the servant has placed on the table for him, bringing it to his lips. “I swear, if I could hire someone I could actually trust to do my paperwork for me properly, I would and–- What in the–-!” 

Out of nowhere, he lunges forward to grab an empty bucket on the floor and wretches into it, the clay cup in his hand shattering on the floor as he releases it out of instinct. You gasp at the sight, a hand over your mouth as Quintus’ face turns red, the sound of him hawking a few more times into the bucket making you feel equally as queasy. 

“What’s happening?” You offer him your own cup of water, and he grabs it from your hands roughly.

“Give that here.” he barks, grabbing the bucket and pouring the contents of the cup into the bucket. A brown, stinking substance comes from it, and Quintus pulls a face. “By Styx, what on Earth is that…?! Did someone try to poison us?” His voice holds an edge of building rage, although it’s nothing but an ungrounded accusation just yet.

“I’ll ask a servant to get us some new water.” you attempt to contain his anger, and you head out of the kitchen before even hearing his answer. “Hey you, young man.”

A boy in his late teens looks up. 

“Could you please fetch us some fresh water? The water in our cups is old and contaminated.” To make up for your tone, you smile at him in a way that Quintus cannot see.

He gives you an apologetic look, bowing his head. “My lady, I would give you all the clean water in the world if I could, but…” 

You give him a worried look when he falls quiet. “But… what?” you softly query. 

“...But the cistern is broken, my lady. There is no clean water in the city.”

You cannot even open your mouth to speak when Quintus barks behind you. “What?! What are you saying, boy?!”

“D-Dominus, the cistern is broken and the sewage has made its way into the water, and—”

“Are you telling me I just drank water with faeces in it?!” 

You have to control yourself by pressing your hand against your mouth to prevent the snicker from escaping you. The idea of Quintus drinking such a substance is rather amusing, no matter how nasty it actually is.

Quintus’ face is flushed and the vein on his temple pulses angrily. “Get me Octavius. Fetch me Octavius, boy! Tell him to come to my office at once.” 

Your husband stomps away to get into his attire, but before he does so, he sharply turns to you. “Come with me.”

“What? Why?”

“I want to keep an eye on you. Can’t be too careful nowadays, with a broken cistern! How will you drink water, huh? It could be harmful to the baby if you were to consume that disgusting stuff!”

Humming, you slightly tilt your head. “Do you really think I’d actually want to drink that water right now?”

Quintus narrows his eyes. “You’d be dumb enough to do so. Now come.”

Knowing better than to argue it, you sigh, taking your cloak to head with him to his office.

His secretary is already in the building as you enter, and you greet him with a gentle nod. He smiles and gives you and Quintus a small bow. 

You take your usual seat and scoot into the corner of your chaise longue, grabbing your embroidery piece that has been collecting dust on the small table next to the sofa. Although you know you should be writing letters instead to both your brother and Joanna, you are aware that you wouldn’t be able to concentrate on it at this very moment. Quintus paces around with whitened knuckles, chewing his nail as his entire form is tensed up with utter frustration. 

“Where is that useless piece of–-”

“—The spokesperson of the local Aedilis is here, Dominus.”

Quintus sighs. “Right. Send him in.”

A middle-aged man with a hurried flush on his cheeks enters the office slightly out of breath, a thin sheen of sweat shimmering on his forehead. His anxious eyes flit from the Praetor to you and back to Quintus again, and he gulps before bowing slightly. “Reporting for duty, Dominus.”

Quintus’ face contorts. “Duty, huh? Seems like you lot have been awfully inept at keeping up with it.”

Octavius doesn’t reply.

Your husband sighs, his teeth grinding together. On the surface, he might seem slightly annoyed. Within the layers thereunder, you know him to be fuming. Dangerous. Perhaps even lethal. One wrong word from Octavius and Quintus would have his head on a pike.  

“This morning, I went to take a drink of water and found something… extraordinarily unpleasant.”

“T-The cistern is broken, Dominus.”

“You don’t say.” the Praetor sarcastically retorts, tilting his head slightly. “I gulped down a mouthful of faeces and gods know what else was in that awful filth because of your incompetence!” 

His voice raises in volume and you flinch in your seat, trying to be even more invisible than you already are. 

Quintus sharply turns to a servant. “Bring me some water.” he snaps, “Bring it to me quickly.” The servant rushes off to fetch said request, and the Praetor turns to Octavius again.

“See her, Octavius?” The spokesperson of the local Aedilis barely dares to look at you, but manages to rest his eyes on your form for a few seconds before he averts his gaze, not wanting any further trouble. “My wife, who is currently six months pregnant with our child. She needs water now more than ever. Do you think I’m going to let her walk twenty miles to the nearest well to draw some water, huh?” 

“Of course not, Dominus. I am sure there will be a solution for this soon.”

The servant returns with a cup of water and Quintus huffs a humourless laugh. “A quick solution, you say? To fix this?” 

Quintus holds the cup in front of Octavius, letting him see the brown sludge. “Look at it. What colour does that look like to you?! And you?! Is it supposed to look like that?” He moves it to show it to the servant, who swallows hard as he looks down. Your husband extends it to Octavius again. “Drink it.” The man does not make any movements to take the cup, causing Quintus’ face to twist into rage. 

“Drink it!”

Octavius is about to reach out to obediently take a sip, but Quintus enragedly hurls it against the wall. You startle at the sound as the disgusting liquid drips onto the floor, the clay cup shattered beyond repair. 

As much as the outburst has made your heart drop in the most unpleasant sense of the word, you suddenly feel it skip a beat when Atticus walks in, unannounced, Gaius in tow. 

The cohorte addresses your husband, a smug air about him. “Quintus. My old friend.” 

He uncrosses his arms as the Praetor shoots him a glare, jaw tense and gaze hardened. The marshall uncrosses his arms and raises an eyebrow. 

“Oh, are you busy?” There is an edge of amusement, maybe even mockery in Atticus’ tone.

Quintus sharply inhales, hands clenched into fists. “Fix the water.” he spits at the poor man, whose flustered state has not left him ever since he stepped foot inside the room. “Fix the water, Octavius! If I see another drop of sewage in my water, I will personally drown you in it, so help me Apollo, Octavius,” he grabs the man’s chin roughly, not much unlike he does to you when he wants you to look him in the eye, “You will gargle sewage.”

As he pushes the worker’s face away, Atticus hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his chestplate. “Vivid… I think– I think he gets it.” He leans closer towards Octavius, who is even more embarrassed than before. “You got that, right? He’s gonna drown you in the… Well, you know.”

Octavius gulps. “I will find the breach, Dominus.”

“I will oversee the project, Praetor.” Gaius mingles.

With a raised brow, Gaius glares at the Primi. “You do that.” 

A beat of silence as Quintus turns back to the man kneeling in front of him. 

“Brown water make you deaf? Go. do it now! My pregnant wife needs clean sanitation.”

Octavius stands and rushes out, not even acknowledging anyone’s presence as he leaves. You sink back in your sofa, hoping Quintus will not instruct you out of the room.

“You can watch the talent leaving their bodies when they arrive from Rome. You can keep time by it.” Quintus bitterly quips, gesturing vaguely in the air.

“Good help.” Atticus comments. 

Your husband’s brow furrows. “It’s these people. This land… It’s going to force me to do something drastic.”

You feel your breath hitch, but it is not noticed by the three men in the room with you.

“Work?” Atticus asks him. 

The Praetor smirks a bit. “I’m capable of anything. Hail Caesar.” He salutes as the cohorte and Primi sit down in front of his desk before he takes a seat himself, folding his hands under his chin. “So… What do you want?”

Atticus inhales and looks at Gaius. As he turns, your gazes momentarily cross, and you cannot help but feel your face heat up, as if you’re not allowed to be seen looking at him. Gaius strangely tenses. 

“Yes, Praetor.” Gaius’ voice sounds strained, “Just beyond the western perimeter of the city, a camp has sprung up.”

Quintus dips his hand into a small bowl of olives, a frown on his face at the touch thereof. “So send them on their way.”

“They’re pilgrims, Dominus.” 

Your husband sniffs his fingers and pulls a strange expression, wiping his hands on a rag. The olives have likely been washed with that same sewage-water, effectively ruining them in the progress.

“Pilgrims to what?”

“To whom.” A brief silence. “Jesus of Nazareth.” 

Quintus exasperatedly rolls his eyes and tosses the rag as Gaius speaks the words.

“He delivered the Sermon on the Korazim Plateau–”

The Praetor raises an offended eyebrow. “Stop. He delivered it? You’re just telling me now?” He tilts his head slightly as he demands Gaius to elaborate further, but Atticus decides to intervene.

“And then He’s building a hut. And now He’s relieving Himself.” The cohorte absentmindedly picks at his nails with a small blade he has conjured from somewhere in his armour. “Quintus, neither Gaius nor myself have that many hours in the day.”

“Don’t speak for the men in my command.” Quintus retorts, adding a half-hearted, “Please.” Atticus shows his palms in defence. “This feels a little more significant than ‘relieving Himself.’ Gaius, what was said?”

Gaius blinks a few times, his entire form still tense. “It sounded like any other sermon, Dominus.” Both you and Atticus look at him a bit surprised at the answer. 

“Is that what you heard, Cohortes?”

Atticus turns to your husband. “Well, now, I haven’t heard that many. Uh, let’s see… Lengthy instructions about, what was it?” He looks at Gaius for feigned support, almost making the mistake of looking at you as well, “Something about animal hooves? Always read from right to left. Jewish stuff.”

You’re suddenly confused. Are both Gaius and Atticus defending Jesus’ Sermon in some way? Are they attempting to steer away Quintus’ attention from the actual contents of Jesus’ words?

“If it was so boring,” Quintus mutters, “Why didn’t they stay on the Plateau?” His eyes suddenly widen. “Did Jesus lead them here?”

Gaius shakes his head. “No, Dominus. No one knows where Jesus is, but many of His followers reside here in the city.”

Quintus looks at the fingers of his balled-up hand, a scowl on his face. “Was our former tax-collector there?”

“Matthew? Yes.”

For a second, your husband seems to think, before sighing. “Well, who cares anyway? Just get rid of them.”

Gaius’ brow furrows. “Dominus?”

“Pack them up!” Quintus says with a raised voice, leaning over his desk slightly, “Force them out! We are still Rome.” 

“Or…” Atticus suggests, “You could turn them into revenue.”

Leaning back in his chair, Quintus blinks rapidly. “How?” 

“Redraw the city boundary to encompass the squatters.”

Quintus hums. ‘They’re not currently on our census.”

“All the better for you.” Atticus counters, “They’re not paying taxes wherever they came from, which means other Praetors’–-”

“–-Ledgers are down, I get it.” 

Atticus grins, the sight of which makes your heart flutter inside of your chest. You’re not entirely sure what all of this means, but you absorb the information shared nevertheless. 

“The pilgrims have been peaceful to this point. I cannot say how they will respond to being taxed.” Gaius says.

Letting out one of his dangerously chipper giggles, Quintus smiles. “You better get some rest then, Gaius. My plan is to redraw the city lines and redraw them fast. We’re behind this month. Shhh…” He presses his index finger to his lips, causing Atticus to huff in amusement. 

“There he is. It is a good plan, Quintus.” Your husband chuckles at the praise of a man he considers a threat to his position regarding Rome, “But, as you carry it out, you may want to consider your future.”

His future. The idea of you soon not being at Quintus’ side anymore fills you with immense relief. You’ll be gone within a year from now. Hopefully.

“My future?” Quintus annoyedly queries. “Don’t be coy.”

“As you well know, the Empire is always concerned with order. The governors are under increasing pressure not to overuse force on the citizenry.”

Quintus thinks for a long moment. “Pressure from Caesar? Hail.” He lets out a long sigh. “Fine. Gaius, I need you to do your job without leaving marks.” He rolls his eyes, then looks at Atticus for approval, who simply smiles. 

“I will instruct the men, Dominus.” Gaius reassures, standing up before bowing slightly, then looking at you. “Lady (Y/n).”

You smile a bit, humming, catching onto the strange look lingering in Gaius’ eyes as they rest on you. He doesn’t give you long enough to fully process the expression, for he turns and exits the office. 

When Atticus doesn’t immediately get up whilst Quintus grabs a scroll on his desk that is long overdue to be read and answered, he glances at the marshall. 

“How about you, Cohortes? Will you be moving along soon?” Your husband attempts to appear smug, as if he is not intimidated by Atticus in the slightest. 

“Yeah, I will be heading to Jerusalem soon.” Your gut unpleasantly clenches, though you knew beforehand that it was only a matter of time before duty would call again. 

“Ah, delightful place.” Quintus muses whilst Atticus stands.

“I owe Pilate a visit.” your secret lover reveals. It wipes the smirk right off Quintus’ face, and you have to bite your tongue to not snort a laugh in amusement at how displeased the Praetor looks. 

“Wonderful.” 

Atticus hums and steps away. “In the meantime, try to keep this mess under control, Quintus.”

Your husband clenches his jaw. “I’m working on it.”

For a second, Atticus lingers. “I will be leaving next thing in the morning.” he says, “If you need me, just send someone to fetch me tonight near the east end of the city. I’ll come and find you as soon as I can.”

Although Quintus picks it up as business, you know these words were directed towards you. An invitation, no less, and you’re more than keen to take it with both hands. 

His eyes flicker to you, a soft smile on his features, before he slightly bows and leaves the room. You let out a long breath and try to compose yourself. 

“Can you believe that man?”

“Hm, what?”

“Atticus.” Quintus clarifies, “He thinks he is so much better than I am. He’s so cocky, too. I stand the guy.” He huffs and mutters an insult under his breath. Your first instinct is to tell him off, but realise right in time how suspicious it would be if you were to defend Atticus in front of your husband, especially under these circumstances.

You force a smile on your face. “Don’t let it get to you, Quin. It will be fine.”

Unconvinced, your husband sighs and opens the scroll on his desk. “We’ll have to see.”

The encounter leaves him, much to your delight, preoccupied with his own mind coupled with his work, and it allows you room to breathe without his constant scrutiny. The day itself, however, creeps by as the evening closes in, and your thoughts are nowhere but with Atticus, who you will definitely be meeting with later tonight. 

_ 

Quintus snores against your neck and you have to keep down an involuntary squirm of displeasure as you ease yourself from under the covers out of bed. 

Getting him intoxicated a second time in order to make him fall into a deep sleep so that he does not notice your absence is not your modus operandi this time around. To your advantage, though, the current exhaustion he is experiencing due to the circumstances around Capernaum has him out cold within minutes after his head hits the pillow.

You put your feet into your sandals and grab a cloak as you brush out of the estate, carrying a lantern in your hand. You’re getting rather proficient at slipping out unnoticed, you think to yourself, smiling a bit as  girlish excitement courses through your system. You feel like a teenager sneaking out of the house to meet her secret lover in the midst of night, and in some way, you are, other than that you’re well out of your teens.

You head for the quarter in the city Atticus had mentioned - the east end. The cohortes is inquisitive enough to find you, you are convinced, and so, you find yourself pressed against the wall in an abandoned alleyway, with only some rats scurrying about the barrels stinking of rotten fish to keep you company. For a moment, you are inclined to extinguish your lantern to prevent drawing attention, when a familiar posture catches your eye at the other end of the narrow passage. 

Atticus walks up to you and without saying a word, cradles your face into his hands, tilting up your chin to bring his mouth against yours. The kiss is sweet, yet some urgency lingers behind his lips. You slightly squirm against the tickling of his beard against your skin, and you smile into it. 

“You’ve really got to trim it a bit.”

“I thought you liked the beard on me.”

“I meant your hair.” you fondly state, reaching up to ease down the wild locks that have become frizzy under the hood of his cloak. 

Atticus grins. “For you, my lady, anything.” He takes your hand and kisses the back of it, giving you a meaningful look. “So… Now I finally have you to myself again. If only for a few minutes…”

Your cheeks turn red and you try to hide it, much to the investigator’s delight, and he softly hums at the sight. “Beautiful. Especially with that pregnancy glow on your face. My love, you always look stunning, but in this light, you look simply exquisite.” 

“Stop it.” you murmur with a smile playing over your lips, “Such a flatterer.”

“What can I say? I like to tease the woman I love by telling her all the things that are true about her.”

You give him a long, gentle gaze that glitters in the moonlight, and Atticus kisses your hand again, then your palm, then your wrist. With a brow that suddenly furrows, you search his face. 

“So, you’re leaving again, aren’t you?”

The Cohortes Urbanae hums and nods, his face growing solemn. “Yes.”

You sigh. “I understand.” you whisper. 

“I cannot say for how long I’ll be gone.” he adds, not keen to leave you with such uncertainty, “But I will come back for you. You know that, right?”

“I know you will.” you tell him. He smiles a bit and caresses your cheek. 

For a few beats of silence, you gaze at one another, and you wish the moment would last forever. The warmth of his being fills you with an intense love mustered towards him.

“Atticus…” you suddenly begin after pondering over something you’ve been turning over and over inside your mind ever since this afternoon, “Why did you defend Jesus’ Sermon?”

His brow lowers into thought. “Well, I wouldn’t exactly call it defence. The contents of the Sermon are of no importance to Quintus. What matters is how he’ll handle the situation.”

“And how do you wish him to respond to it?”

Atticus falls quiet for a second. “I hope he sees to it in orderly fashion, without spilling unnecessary, innocent blood.”

You hum. “So you’re convinced He’s innocent?”

“He hasn’t particularly said anything wrong, just… Out of the ordinary. I had half expected Him to eventually call for a revolt against Rome, but so far, He has been bringing a different message. As long as He doesn’t prove a threat to Rome, I believe He is allowed to stay. Once His message starts to take that turn of possible war, however…”

Gulping, you slide your fingers into his cloak. “You’re not going to arrest Him, are you? Or worse, kill Him?”

“Not without reason.” Atticus reassures you, “And so far, He hasn’t given me any reason to do so.”

You’re not completely convinced yet, but you let it slide for now. After all, it’s not your business to decide what Atticus does and does not carry out for the sake of Rome, nor do you have any personal intelligence regarding these issues. You trust he knows what he’s doing.

Atticus’ gaze contains something else. Something rather… Embarrassed. You open your mouth to ask about it, but it is as if he has been reading your mind, waiting for you to ask the very particular question that had been lingering on your tongue for a bit.

“The Primi knows about our affair.”

Your throat runs dry. 

“What? How?”

“He walked in on us the other day, together with another soldier.”

Blinking, you feel your face heat up. “You’ve… You’ve spoken to Gaius about this?”

“He knows we’ve been seeing one another for a while now. He is also aware that the child you carry is not fathered by Quintus.”

Your face is hot. This could cost you your family’s honour if it was found out. Not only you would be punished, but your parents and siblings as well.

“Aha. What does he think about us?”

“He respects us,” Atticus says matter-of-factly, “And understands why you’d rather be with me than with Quintus.”

“I’d rather be with a slug than with Quintus.”

Atticus chuckles. “I bet you would, my love.” His face falls into something more serious. “It means that he won’t be the one telling on us, but the same can’t be said about the other guard that witnessed our… Intimate moment. Gaius didn’t want to reveal whom he was on duty with at that time.”

You sharply inhale. “So there is a risk of–”

“Yes.” Atticus breathes. “If the soldier decides to talk, that is. Gaius explained that he told the other guard that he should know what is best for him and that this is not something he should meddle in, but we cannot look into said man’s thoughts and intentions. After all, envy is not uncommon amongst the Legion in any branch or position.” 

“I see.” you mutter, averting your gaze.

Atticus sighs. “You know what I think, (Y/n)?” he suddenly breathes, “I think something has been set in motion that cannot be reversed.”

“You mean within our affair, or the presence of Jesus of Nazareth?”

“Both.” Atticus admits. “I’ve… I have just spoken to the Zealot who changed his ways from one radical faith to another. There are loose ends to be tied up, but I cannot help but wonder…”

You inhale sharply. “So, you want to know more, too.”

Your lover slightly tilts his head. “Perhaps not for the same reasons as you, my dear, but yes. I would like to know more. I… I need you to do something for me whilst I’m in Jerusalem. Could you do that for me?”

“Depends on what it is.” Both you and Atticus are slightly taken aback by your hesitation. Under any other circumstance, you wouldn’t have doubted the request, but for some reason, you now cannot promise anything before you’ve heard his intentions.

You trust Atticus, right? Yes, you do. He told you he thinks Jesus has no ill intentions towards Rome… As of now.

“Anything you hear about Jesus,” the cohorte tells you, his voice suddenly shifting from affectionate into a professional one, and you’re not certain if you like the change, “Anything Quintus does in response to Him… Write about it to me. Give the letters to Gaius. He will send them to Jerusalem. I need to know everything there is to know, also the details from inside.” 

He seems to grow aware of the way his demeanour has changed in that split second, because his face softens upon realising the puzzled look in your eyes. “You, my love, have a unique insight in these matters, as well as an insider’s perspective on the Praetor’s behaviour. Not only are you valuable to me as a person, which you are first and foremost, but also within the work I do.”

You cannot help but smile a little, albeit a bit cynically. “I think no man has ever called me useful in business ever before other than my father when he signed my marriage contract.”

The sound Atticus lets out is void of humour. “Don’t think I haven’t forgotten about my promise to you, my love. I will get you out of here.”

“I didn’t doubt you for a second.” you breathe. “Yes, I’ll write to you about any news regarding Jesus of Nazareth.”

The corners of his eyes crinkle up as he smiles at you, and he gently cradles your chin. 

“You may write to me about other matters, too. Your hopes and dreams and about the development of our baby.” He rests his other hand right below your ribs. “About anything, really. It brings me such delight to read any word you write.”

You lean into his touch, showing him a shiver of a smile. “I’ll miss you.”

“And I will miss you, my precious Flower. Try to keep your head down. In my absence, I hope the heat regarding the rumour of our secret relationship will die down, especially with the other guard who saw us.”

“For how long will you be away?”

Atticus hums in thought. “I am not sure yet. A few weeks. Maybe a month. Work will eventually lead me back here, but I cannot promise anything yet.”

You nod, not thoroughly satisfied with the undisclosed amount of time he’ll be gone for, but at least you will have your correspondence over the post. 

“Will you write back to me?”

“I will make time to do so. I will send my letters to Gaius so that he can get them to you. After all, we have to prevent a certain individual from getting his greasy claws on them.” You appreciate that idea.

He rests his forehead to yours and you smile softly at one another. “I love you.” you tell him.

“I love you too.”

The chill of night refuses to creep under your skin when your lips meet, and the soft moment seems to last a lifetime. 

“Shall I escort you home?” Atticus asks upon pulling away. 

“Aren’t you afraid it would spark rumours?” 

He chuckles lightly. “So I’d have to let you walk home all by yourself?”

“I came here by myself too without being spotted, remember?” you murmur, “It’s not difficult if you’re invisible.”

Atticus strokes a thumb over your cheek. “You’d never be invisible to me,” he admits, and you know the words to be true. “No matter what would happen, I feel like nothing could drive my attention away from you.”

His eyes glitter with such intensity that doubting him would be impossible even if you tried. 

Once again, you press your mouth against his, your hearts beating as one, the thin line between hope and fear briefly fading under the glow of moon and stars. Chapter list Next chapter

[cat-blob]

I've put together a list of only one character from shows/movies that I've seen that almost always have food in their hands.

Character - tv they are from

Atticus Aemilius Pulcher - The Chosen

tek - titan a.e

rusty - ocean 11

mark Watney - Martian

chunky - goonies

arthur - merlin

tony dinozzo - ncis

hunk - voltron legendary defender

jack o'neill - stargate sg1

kaylee - firefly

rygel xvi - farscape

Larry - eureka

nemesis - infinite dendrogram

maple - bofuri

pinkie pie - my little pony

sokka - avatar the last airbender

joey - friends

buford - phinease and ferb

Ron - harry potter

tucker - danny phantom

Dakota - milo murphy's law

plagg - miraculous ladybug

bandit - bluey

Peni parker - spider-man: into the spider-verse

[the-chosen-fanfiction]

Gentile. | Chapter XXXVI

You speak to Jesus face-to-face at last. Gaius tells Atticus that he knows about the affair.

Chapter list

The linen of your stole crinkles as you squeeze your clammy palms into the fabric. You can barely comprehend that He is speaking directly to you, and you feel your face brighten up in slight embarrassment. 

“It-It is good to see you, Teacher.” you stutter, slightly bowing your head. Jesus chuckles warmly and nods gently. 

“I’m happy to see you here. Did a friend bring you to My sermon?” 

Something within you is convinced that He already knows, but you answer the question regardless. “The Primi Ordines brought me here per my request, Teacher.”

“I see you have a different chaperone, then.” 

You look over your shoulder to meet Atticus’ gaze, who keeps a cautious eye on you from a distance. Upon seeing you, he tilts up his face, dark eyes curious under his hood, and he gives you a questioning look, as if he wonders if he should come over. When you don’t give him any sign of you being in distress and turn back to Jesus again, the tension in his shoulders slightly deflates.

“He’s just here to make sure I’m safe.” 

“I see.” Jesus hums curiously. “So, Joanna and (Y/n), you’ve spoken to My cousin.”

Joanna breathes a small laugh. “Yes.” Her eyes slightly shimmer with tears. “Yes, John has been telling me that I need to see Your teachings. When word reached Machaerus about this gathering they didn’t think much of it but John thought it would be a good opportunity–”

“–Rabbi, I’d like to visit John.” Andrew interrupts in a whisper. Jesus patiently replies. “Just a moment, Andrew. So… What will you report back to him?” He asks Joanna. 

Your best friend gulps and takes a deep breath before responding. “That I want to support your ministry.” Your heart drops in the most kind of ways, and happiness immediately fills you with the notion. The sound of her voice is sincere as she’s on the verge of tears, and you grab her hand to squeeze it. She looks at you for a second, smiling, then back at Jesus. 

“This has been a…” she sobs and takes a second to gather herself, “This has been a healing day for me, as John said it would be. Thank You.” 

Jesus kindly smiles. “I’m glad to hear it.” 

Joanna touches her own face to keep down her flush of emotions as she steps closer to Jesus, letting go of your hand. “And John wanted me to tell You that he is eager for You to come to Herod at some point. He believes that there– That there is uncertainty in the court about him, and he also says that they aren’t taking You seriously yet.” 

For a second, Jesus looks over His shoulder at Andrew, then back at your best friend, as if slightly amused about John’s words. Perhaps that it is the familiarity of the Baptiser’s character that makes Him smile, you reckon.

“He thinks that– That a strong visit from You soon could resolve both issues… But he also wanted to make it clear that He is trusting in Your timing on ‘soon’.”

Jesus chuckles. “Of course.” A beat of silence. “Thank you for sharing that.” 

As Joanna nods, Jesus turns to Andrew, putting a hand on his shoulder. “So, now that My student here doesn’t grind his teeth into dust, is John even available to receive visitors at the moment?”

Joanna smiles hopefully. “Are You coming to Machaerus?”

Giving a small shake of His head, Jesus answers negatively. “No. I will be taking some time alone. But if you were able to somehow arrange for Andrew here to safely visit John, I don’t know if that’s possible…”

“Uh…” With an unsure look upon her face, Joanna looks over her shoulder back at her wagon, then back at Jesus and Andrew. “I suppose I could make some arrangements.” Andrew nods gratefully. “My men are taking me back to Machaerus in my carriage shortly. You can join me.” 

The curly-haired Disciple claps his hands together and gives a small bow of his head. “Thank you.” he whispers gratefully, “Thank you,” then turns to Jesus, “Thank You, Rabbi.” 

Jesus puts a hand on his shoulder. “You need to rest, and to trust, Andrew.” Joanna smiles at the scene and you cannot help but join in. “But perhaps after spending some time with John, you’ll be able to do both.” 

The men embrace one another, and Joanna turns to you, mirroring your expression.

“Shalom.” Andrew mutters.

“Shalom.” Jesus responds. “Be safe.” The Rabbi then turns to you. “(Y/n), may I speak to you for a moment? In private.” 

Next to you, you can hear Joanna’s breath hitch. 

With widened eyes, you thickly swallow and pivot to look at Atticus. The cohorte steps closer immediately, uncrossing his arms and straightening his back to appear taller, but Jesus simply beams. 

“Greetings, cohorte. I need to speak to the lady for a bit, feel free to observe us from a distance. I know you want to protect her, but I promise no harm shall come to her.”

Atticus hums. “Fine. Make it quick.”

You’re almost inclined to tell Atticus off for his short comment towards the Rabbi, but you’re not keen on losing valuable time with Jesus. Besides, you could always speak to Atticus about it later, instead of in front of a bunch of complete strangers. Joanna squeezes your shoulder and turns away to say some words to Andrew regarding their upcoming departure.

Sending one more glance Atticus’ way, you smile reassuringly at him before heading with the Nazarene towards a more secluded area, the cohorte tailing you from a respectable distance.

“You have been waiting for this moment a long time, haven’t you?” Jesus queries immediately. 

For a moment, you are silent. “I have,” you admit, “I’ve heard so much about You.”

“You seem hungry.” 

“I haven’t had a proper lunch yet and–”

“I mean hungry for Truth, and for spiritual freedom.”

You blink, not really comprehending what He means by that. Jesus takes your silence as a sign to elaborate further. “Your heart is hurt and conflicted. Tell Me more about it, please.”

The deep, gentle eyes of Jesus seem to be looking right into your soul, through your careful mask that you’ve been maintaining in keeping up appearances towards Quintus and the outside world. He knows that time is short, that careful small talk will take too much of your precious moments to conversate with Him. 

“I feel like You know me.”

“Well, I do.” 

“How?” you whisper. Your voice quivers. 

Jesus’ gaze contains something contemplative. “Those are some mysteries that you will not understand just yet.” 

You let out a small laugh. “Well, to be fair, I don’t think I understand anything You are saying, really.” 

The Teacher chuckles. “You’ll get there, trust Me in that.” His smile slowly fades a bit. “The Father sees your heart.” 

“Who’s that? The ‘Father’? I have a father, who lives in Rome. He definitely does not see my heart.”

Jesus hums, dark eyes glittering a bit. “I know. And I also know that the definition of ‘father’ is painful in your experience.” He sighs with a wistful voice. “He has never had your best interests at heart, has he?”

You gulp at the words. Although not meant to convict you, they sting nevertheless. 

“How did You know that?”

“You’ve always had this feeling that you were drowning, suffocating in plain sight. That the people closest to you never saw you for who you truly are. You feel like your fate was sealed the moment your pater signed the contract to marry you off to Quintus. Until the father of your child comes along.” 

You gasp, a hand instinctively rests on your tummy. “W-What? How do You–” You cast a glance over your shoulder at Atticus, who is still watching the two of you like a hawk. He raises an eyebrow in question, wondering if he should intervene, but you give him a small shake of your head before turning back to Jesus, still puzzled. 

“How do You know all this about me, Rabbi? I’ve never… Have you spoken to Atticus or Joanna about it, I–”

“I haven’t. There will come a time that all of this will be made clear to you. We will cross paths again in the future, and I will ask you a very important question. One that will determine your life forever. But now is not that day.”

You breathe a confused breath. “You… I don’t understand– You see things I only feel in my heart and do not say out loud, You do not scold me for having a child out of wedlock, and  You speak to me in mysteries I cannot comprehend. I am left with more questions than answers, Teacher.”

Jesus puts a hand on your shoulder. Behind you, you sense Atticus taking a step in your direction, but Jesus gives him a kind look, and it prompts your lover to not approach any further.

“It will be revealed to you in due time, (Y/n). Right now, you are in no condition to safely travel far. We will meet again under different circumstances, and I will ask you that crucial question.”

“What question?” 

“You’ll see.”

You watch Jesus with a slightly ajar mouth as He squeezes your shoulder and steps back, giving you some space. Your lips move as if you’re trying to say something, but no sound comes out. 

“You must be tired.” Jesus says. “Being on your feet for so long in your condition, and all that without a proper lunch. I suggest you go back to your chaperone and ask him to get you some food before escorting you home.” 

You don’t doubt the question whether Atticus has something to eat on him. He always does, you think to yourself. 

“Thank You for speaking to me.”

“I know I haven’t answered all of your questions. I’ve only caused more of them to pop up inside your mind, but I’m glad that we’ve met today. It was a blessing to finally meet you, (Y/n). One day, we will run into one another again. Until then, keep up your keen, diligent spirit. You’re eager to learn about God, and it has not gone unnoticed.” 

Your face flushes as if you’re a child caught doing something they were not supposed to, and you clear your throat. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything. Just know that I am happy that you and I have found a moment to speak, and trust Me when I say that this will not be the last time we talk to each other. Stay safe, now.”

You give a small bow of your head as you step back. “Thank You, Teacher.” 

Jesus kindly smiles as He nods. “You’re very welcome, (Y/n).” 

You head back to Atticus, who gives you a worried look. “Is everything alright? You seem flushed.”

Nodding, you smile a little. “Yes, everything is alright. Do you have some food on you, by any chance?”

“Do you really need to ask?” He conjures a handful of nuts from his pocket and hands them to you. You happily start eating them, having been peckish for a while now. 

“So, what did you talk about?” He offers his arm and you take it, letting him lead you to his horse.

“Just that He was glad to meet me at last. As if He knew me already.” 

Atticus huffs. “Well, He has seen you before, hasn’t He?”

You hum. “Yes, but… This is different. He knew about my relationship with my father. That my marriage to Quintus is arranged, that… That the child I carry belongs to you.”

The investigator slightly tenses beside you. “How does He know that?” 

Shrugging, you shake your head. “I don’t know. He just did. Which is what puzzles me.”

“How odd…” 

Atticus helps you onto the back of his horse. It takes you some effort to get on, but you manage to do so, supporting your belly whilst wrapping your arm around his waist as he settles into the saddle in front of you. 

“What are your thoughts on Him?” you want to know. Atticus clicks his tongue to get the horse to move forward, and it dutifully steps forward through the trampled field. 

“I have yet to decide whether He is a friend or a foe. I’ve got other things to worry about, too.” 

You hum. “Zealots?” 

“Right.” 

You hold onto Atticus as he lets the horse’s pace quicken into a trot. “Just tell me if I’m going too fast, my lo… lady.” he corrects himself. After all, you’re out in public, and he cannot be caught calling you gentle nicknames. 

“So… Where does your dilemma come from?” you’re curious to know. “I mean, Quintus would already have considered Jesus a foe if it weren’t for his pride that Jesus is not a threat in any way. Although Quintus is starting to get annoyed…”

“Unlike Quintus, I don’t underestimate His influence. And His teachings aren’t violent, as we’ve just established during that sermon.”

“It’s like a backwards world, isn’t it?” You slip your hand into Atticus’ pocket to take out some more walnuts without asking, and he huffs at it amusedly. “I mean, preaching to turn the other cheek. Praying for persecutors. It’s so… Against the current. Do you get what I mean?” 

Atticus hums. “It’s different from what would be a natural response to things.” 

“Exactly.” 

A brief silence falls over the two of you whilst you mull over Jesus’ words. The cohorte slows his horse as you ride into Capernaum. “Pull up your hood, (Y/n).” he tells you, and you do. 

You wonder what Jesus meant with the important question He said he would ask you at a later point in the future. The most important decision of your life, you recall His words. You don’t know what it means, but decide to tell Joanna about it later over the post. Only now, you realise you haven’t said a proper goodbye to her, and immediately, you feel a bit guilty for leaving without looking for her first. 

“Here we are.” The sight of the mansion makes you sick to your stomach, even though you know Quintus is not home yet. Atticus helps you off the mare and makes sure you are steady on your feet. He takes a step back, although it goes against your equal desire to be close to one another. 

“Thank you for escorting me home, cohorte.” you state aloud, making sure to emphasise it to keep any potential gossip amongst the servants at bay. “Glad you could take over Gaius’ task of doing so.” 

“You’re very welcome, my lady. It is my duty, after all.” His eyes glitter a bit as he looks at you. “Now, I shall leave you to yourself. Meet me tomorrow night in your garden.” 

He gently kisses the back of your hand, not much unlike the time he had done so when you first realised you were in love with him. This time around, however, he does it in broad daylight. It sends a wave of girlish, lovestruck butterflies through your system. You have to keep yourself from blushing too brightly lest the rumours spread regardless of your distance.

“Have a good day, cohorte. Stay safe out there. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Likewise, my lady.”

Atticus nods and lets go of your hand, taking the reins of his horse instead. You immediately miss his touch and watch how he mounts the mare, kicking his heels into her sides gently, clicking his tongue. He warmly smiles at you in a final greeting, disappearing into the street, and you hum as you watch him leave. 

Suppressing a sudden yawn, you head inside the house, torn between having some more food or a nap. You opt for the latter, dragging yourself upstairs. The privacy will give you some time to think about everything that has been going on today. 

The sermon, the conversation with Jesus, and whatever He wants to ask you at some point in the far future. 

Needless to say, your thoughts spin for a good while before exhaustion finally pulls you into a dreamless slumber. 

When Quintus arrives home that night, he finds you vastly asleep.

_ 

As the morning sun rises, cloaking the village of Capernaum in the dawn of a new day, Atticus stands with a fresh loaf in hand on the city walls, looking out over the makeshift camp on the outskirts of town, where countless pilgrims have gathered in tents in the hopes of hearing from the Preacher. 

Below, business commences as usual, unsurprisingly crowded. Primi Gaius stands next to Atticus, a deep frown knitting his brow together, and he seems to be sunken away in thought. The marshall tears a piece of bread from the loaf and pops it into his mouth, pondering for a few moments. 

Atticus is aware that he cannot let this slide. He feels like he has cut Quintus enough slack when it comes to saving face, and it is only a matter of time before word of this travels back to Rome. The option of standing idly by is off the table and he must set in motion a string of events regarding the Praetor that will eventually bring back order into the village. Should Atticus decide to remain silent, it might just come back to bite him, and in the light of wanting to run off with you someday soon, he isn’t too keen on creating extra work for himself in the long run. 

He takes another bite of bread, chewing it in thought before speaking up.

“What do you make of this?” 

Gaius does not reply and Atticus’ eyebrows shoot up into a slight frown. “Primi?”

When no response comes, he tears off a chunk of bread to keep for himself before tossing the larger part of the loaf towards the centurion, who catches it against his chestplate, but does not turn to face the cohorte. Gaius eyes the bread for a moment before gaze back at the camp, not eating from it.

“They’re here for Jesus of Nazareth.”

Gaius nods slightly. “It is understandable.”

Atticus chews a few times. “You don’t think this poses a problem to the order of law?”

“Uh, yes, sir, I only meant—”

“Quintus is going to come out of his sandals when he sees this.”

A brief silence befalls the two as Atticus casts an inquisitive glance into the direction of the Primi, who keeps his face averted. Nervously, Gaius exhales, not fond of the scrutiny, especially since the image of the private investigator and you being entangled in a lovers’ embrace is ingrained into his brain. There is no way he can look at either of you in a wholly neutral manner anymore, and he can only imagine the things you’d been up to in a more private setting, judging by the things he had overheard you saying to one another. The thought makes him shudder in discomfort.

“Something in your personal life?”

Gaius blinks and shakes his head slightly, trying to appear confident. “No, sir. I am fit for duty, sir.”

“That’s fine,” Atticus says, nodding. “You know, secrets, like murders, eventually become known…” He pauses for a long moment before emphasising: “Eventually.” 

The Primi feels his heart hammer against his chest and he barely dares to look at the cohorte. Should he reveal that he knows? Or should he keep his mouth shut, although Marcus knows as well, and it is only a matter of time before this news spreads through Capernaum like wildfire?

Gaius is conflicted. Torn between the loyalty he has sworn to his Praetor and the bond of mutual respect he has formed with Atticus over the past months. He likes the marshall, of course with necessary professional distance, and Gaius sympathises with you as well. After all, you have never seemed like the type of person who would willingly marry a man like Quintus, and Gaius has seen tears on your face a handful of times. 

It would only be respectful to let the cohorte know, as a warning of sorts.

Atticus opens his mouth to speak, to tell the Primi to head over to the Praetor to give him a report on the sermon as well as inform him about the tent camp, but Gaius cuts him off.

“Secrets,” he utters, tight-lipped, “Like love-affairs, sir?” 

Frowning in puzzlement, Atticus does not let the sudden skip in his heartbeat get the better of him. “Beg your pardon, Primi?” The cohorte narrows his eyes, curious to find out more on what - and how - Gaius knows about all this.

Gaius takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. “I saw you and lady (Y/n) a few days ago. In the alleyway near the west-end of the city.”

It takes Atticus a moment to remember how to breathe. He isn’t often bewildered, and the feeling of being caught doing something he isn’t supposed to do is not familiar to him either. His lips slightly part, but no sound comes out, until after a few seconds, he sighs. 

“How much did you see?” Denying it is of no use. 

“Enough.” Gaius responds. “I… I wasn’t the only one who witnessed it. I just wanted to… To warn you that the word might get out some day. I’ve told the soldier patrolling alongside me that this is a battle not worth fighting for and that it is none of his business, but I don’t know what he’ll decide in the end. Both of you deserve to know that I know. Although I’ve taken an oath to obey my Praetor, I respect you and the lady, and I will not be the one to tell him.”

Atticus huffs, averting his gaze. Gaius realises it’s the most vulnerable the marshall has ever looked in front of him. 

“I appreciate you telling me this, Primi. I will let (Y/n) know as well.”

When Gaius maintains his pondering expression, Atticus swallows thickly. “Ask your question,” he orders. 

“I know it’s none of my business, but… The baby…”

Atticus pushes his tongue against the inside of his cheek. “It’s mine, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I am.” 

The cohorte hums. “There you have it.” 

“I won’t tell anyone.” Gaius promises. “I… I must admit that I’ve grown rather fond of lady (Y/n). She is a kind person, especially compared to the Praetor. She seems to be content around you. Smiles more, too.”

Atticus nods. “Right.” he whispers, “Good. As you said, it’s not your business. I respect you, Primi, but I implore you heed your own advice that you gave the other soldier who witnessed it as well. You’re intelligent enough to realise that.”

Gaius nods. “Understood, sir.”

“I suppose we have an agreement, then?” 

“That’s right, sir.” Gaius puts a hand on his heart.

Atticus gives him a lengthy stare. The Primi grows slightly uneasy under the sudden scrutiny. For a moment, he doubts if he’s done the right thing, if he should have indeed revealed that he knows about the affair.

But Gaius respects Atticus enough that he should make him aware at least. He’s certain that Atticus will pass along this knowledge to you, so that you may prepare yourself for any upcoming embarrassment regarding rumours or worse.

Gaius has been with the Roman forces for long enough to know. Atticus is tenured enough to know so, too. Sooner or later, it will come to light. Yes, the Primi Ordines is convinced that he has taken the right path. Rather than confront you directly, he will allow your lover to do so. 

It would be foolish to think it could be kept under wraps forever. He fears that by walking in on you two has set in motion a series of events that cannot be stopped. Sending this warning was the least he could do. 

“What’s his name?” Atticus snaps Gaius out of his racing mind.

“Sir?” 

“The name of the soldier patrolling with you.”

Gaius gulps. “You know I greatly respect you, cohorte. But I implore you to not ask this of me, sir.”

Atticus lets out a long sigh. “Fine. Very well, then.” A brief silence before he takes a deep breath. “You ought to be the first to let Quintus know about this new shanty town, yeah? Come.” Atticus pats Gaius on the shoulder and goes out in front of him to head for the Praetor’s office. For a few moments longer, Gaius remains on the city wall, looking out over the tent city, before duty calls again.

Next chapter Chapter list

[the-chosen-fanfiction]

Gentile. | Chapter XXXVIII

You have a heart to heart with Gaius.

Chapter list

A few slow days pass, which eventually melt into weeks. You only measure time by the steady growing of your belly and counting the days you’ve last seen Atticus, which is a number growing painfully larger and larger. There isn’t a whole lot going on lately regarding Jesus of Nazareth — you reckon He is out of town — but it doesn’t shrink the expanding tent village that Quintus had considered imposing taxes on. Judging by his everlasting sneer, you establish that he hasn’t been successful so far.

One thing does change, though. Somehow, Quintus seems to soften towards you, and you aren’t sure why. Perhaps it’s the growing exhaustion visible on your face, the way you are starting to waddle around rather than walk, or maybe it’s the restless tossing and turning at night that has him somehow loosening the usually tight ropes of his control. A cynical part of you wonders for how long it will last. Living with an individual like him, it’s difficult to not be walking around on eggshells regardless of his seemingly more lenient mood.

Your days are filled with writing to your brother and to Joanna as well as scribbling on some poetry, although you hardly find yourself inspired. You often read the book Atticus had gifted you in the shade of the tree in the garden front to back and then again, and you can almost recite it word for word from the top of your head at this point. Perhaps you should pick up something new from the library some day in order to find new motivation to write.

An idea has been dancing around your mind, and although you have been turning it over and over inside your head, you have not decided what to do with it yet.

Through your correspondence with Lucius, you’ve heard that Lucilla is barely getting better as time progresses. Priests and healers have released their treatments, prayers and concoctions onto the newborn, but you can see by the way the parchment is stained with tears that no good news ever comes from Rome these days. Lucius has barely had time to grieve his late wife with the concern regarding his girl, and if he lost the baby, too… 

Something weighs heavily on your heart.

You are overtaken by the inexplicable urge to insist Lucius to come visit Capernaum with his daughters, that Jesus may see her and heal her ailment. You know Jesus’ healings are not exclusive to Jews. Still, there is a nagging feeling in the back of our head which you choose to ignore, one that tells you that He will not care about a Roman child, let alone the niece of the very Praetor who has been making life not much easier for Him and His followers. You’re trying your very best to not pay that annoying little voice any mind.

Another issue remains. You haven’t told Lucius about Jesus yet, and with all the letters to and from him being read by Quintus before he allows you to send them out, you fear you won’t be able to subtly tell him about it. In spite of your husband’s increasing tolerance towards you, this is something he won’t budge on, even if you were to ask him to respect your privacy. You have briefly considered sending secret letters instead like you had done to Atticus before, but you aren’t certain what kind of arrangements the magistrate has made with the clerk at the post office. For all you know, Quintus has set strict rules on letters written by you requiring his personal seal as well before being sent out.

Even Joanna picked up on it, realising that the uncharacteristic superficiality within your letters does not come from a voluntary hand and in turn has decided to switch up her language by referring to John the Baptist as ‘the prisoner’ and her husband Chuza as ‘the strange steward of Herod’. Perhaps you should follow her example and somehow cryptically get the message about Jesus across. 

The Healer. The Miracle Worker. The Preacher. The terms crossing your mind as to refer to Jesus are way too obvious for Quintus to realise Whom you are talking about. So, you decide to approach it differently.

‘Perhaps you should come visit us soon. A change of scenery might do her good. The air here is cleaner than in Rome and the minerals the healers use here come straight from the Dead Sea.’ 

Quintus reads over your letter to Lucius, and his brow furrows. 

“Do you really want to invite them over here? Wouldn’t it be too much pressure on you, seeing that you’re getting closer to your due date?” You’d almost be convinced that he is actually concerned. 

“I don’t see how it would pose a problem.” you tell the Praetor. “If anything, he might be able to help out.” 

Quintus lets out a long hum, narrowing his eyes as he lets them roam over the letter. “I see.” he mutters, not too keen on the idea of having a toddler as well as a wailing, sickly baby under his roof at the moment. “Hm. Very well.”

The smiles you give Quintus rarely reach your eyes, but this time, it’s genuine. 

“Thank you.” you mutter, and he looks up at you with something akin to scrutiny. 

“Hm.” he hums again, observing you. Your smile slightly falls as you look at him in question.

Tucking some hair behind your ear, you straighten your back. “What?”

Your husband dismissively waves his hand. “Nothing. Just… No, nothing.”

Holding the rolled up letter in your hand, you frown a little at Quintus, a pit forming in your stomach. There is something on his mind and he’s not voicing it out loud. You can’t decide whether that’s a good or a bad thing. 

You excuse yourself and head for the nearby booth to post your letter, handing the clerk your ring to seal it for you. A thrill goes through you as you watch him tuck it away for the courier, excited at the prospect of your brother and nieces visiting you, and in turn, Lucilla getting healed by Jesus. 

Thanking the man, you waddle away and hold your hand under your tummy, resting the other on your hip to support your aching back. You wonder if you should head to the marketplace on your own, but decide to ask Gaius to join you instead. Perhaps, if you find an opportunity to mention that you are aware that the Primi knows, you can figure out why he decided to not tell Quintus in spite of his duty and vows.

You find the Primi with a pondering crease in his brow as he sips a cup of water – the cistern is still broken but servants walk back and forth from the well outside of the village – while sitting next to Julius in the square in front of Quintus’ office. 

A few wary gazes shoot your way from townsfolk and soldiers alike, who start to whisper amongst each other. You feel an uneasy pit forming in your gut at the way they’re eyeing you up and down. Instinctively, you put a hand over your belly, but the motion only seems to fuel their mutterings. The glances range from disgusted to curious.

“Lady (Y/n).” Julius immediately greets you as you walk up to him and the Primi, giving you a small bow of his head. You nod at him in greeting and smile, then turn to Gaius. 

“Would you join me to the market, Primi?” 

The whispering ceases as all eyes turn to you and Gaius. He puts down his cup, looking at the people around him for a moment before he gets up. 

 “Of course, my lady. Lead the way.”

The two of you walk off under intense scrutiny and it isn’t until you’ve turned the corner that you dare to speak. “I’d like to see the tent city.” you state matter-of-factly, knowing that the city walls make for moderate privacy. 

No other words are exchanged for a while as you ascend a flight of stairs, which is a task in and of itself now that your baby is getting significantly heavy, and slightly out of breath, you halt right where the tent city is located. Gaius remembers standing here next to your lover a while ago, discussing the same city your gaze is now focused on.

“What was that about?” you ask, slightly breathless, “What were they whispering about?”

Gaius' face flashes with guilt, even though he himself has not been the one who opened his mouth about anything that has been going on.

“As the cohorte may have mentioned to you, there is a soldier other than myself who knows about… You know. And… It so happens that said soldier likes to gloat about anything just to appear interesting to the others.”

One and one is two. You don’t need to inquire further, nor do you have to ask who the patrolling soldier in question was. You could check Quintus’ ledgers to check who was on patrol with the Primi during your little rendezvous that day, but you know better than to bring Gaius’ trust and your budding friendship into peril for something that cannot be reversed regardless of how you’d act. It wouldn’t make a difference to know, anyways.

“I was wondering why you chose to not tell Quintus.” Although you know he respects both you and Atticus, you wonder if the Primi would reveal some other reasons.

Gaius takes a deep breath before responding. “First of all, I have borne witness to several… Quarrels between you and the Praetor. Moments that have made me feel uneasy. Made me feel sympathy for you. I cannot imagine speaking to my wife like that, and I know that you are a bit acquainted with her, so there’s that.”

You avert your gaze back to the camp. “I see.” 

The Primi carries on. “I can see the way you shrink around Quintus. The way your eyes become dull and the silence that befalls you. It’s the complete opposite from whenever I see you around Atticus. Your eyes light up, your body language turns open and bright, and… Well, let’s just say that I can see you are very happy with him.” 

It’s a surprising answer and you turn to Gaius with a mixture of puzzlement, awe and gratitude. “That’s… Really thoughtful of you, Gaius. You owe me nothing, and yet…” 

He smiles a bit and nods. “I do what I can. I may have duties towards your husband, but I choose to omit certain information in this case. As long as he doesn’t inquire about it, I don’t have to say anything.” 

Humming, you slide your hands over the smooth stone of the wall. You lean against it in favour of your aching ankles.

“Thank you.” you say in earnesty, and he gives you a soft, kind look. 

“It’s nothing.”

Gaius seems as if he wants to say something else, but seems to decide to swallow the words instead as he follows your gaze to the tent city. It has only grown since the last time he was here, and he has started to recognise a few faces from here and there, pointing out a few potential troublemakers by sight alone. 

“I also know when to pick my battles. This isn’t worth losing my job over. If Quintus wouldn’t get rid of me, Atticus would do so if he found out that I talked. So I remain quiet.”

A soft smile tugs at your lips as you thumb a particularly sore, itchy spot on your tummy.

“So you’re better off by remaining in Atticus' good graces and risk Quintus getting upset with you for not telling him about the affair, than if you were to tell Quintus just because of your duty and then to lose your position because of Atticus’ influence.”

“Something like that.” 

A brief silence comes over you two as you stand there. You watch the pilgrims for a while. The ambiance coming from the tent city is both peaceful and crackling with anticipation. It seems that everyone around here has been wondering where Jesus has been these past days, yourself 

included.

Your gaze flickers to Gaius, who has a thoughtful look on his face. 

“A denarius for your thoughts, Primi?” 

“It’s nothing.” he counters - too quickly to not be considered overly defensive - and you tilt your head a little in question. Gaius sighs and lowers his gaze. “Just… Trouble at home.”

Your eyes widen. “Livia?” 

He observes you for a long moment, seeing genuine concern in your eyes. It would only be fair to reveal a little about his own issues, compared to how Gaius himself knows all about the skeletons in your closet. 

“In a way.” 

The cryptic reply doesn’t answer anything. He rubs his forehead in an attempt to ease the sudden tension growing within his skull in an attempt to get rid of it before it turns into a raging headache.

“There uh… We have this servant boy… He’s been ill for a long while now, and no doctor seems to be able to help him. We’ve tried everything. I… I fear the worst.”

You swallow hard. “A servant boy, you say. What does this have to do with Livia?”

“Because the boy is my son.” Gaius confesses, causing your heart to drop. You had always perceived Gaius a man to be faithful to his wife, seeing his unwavering duty to the Empire in spite of his Germanic origins, so the revelation makes you feel a pang of sadness. “He comes from a mistake I made in the past. I had this… Brief fling with one of our slaves and got her with child, and then she died during labour. I felt guilty towards both my wife and the servant, felt obligated to take him in as a servant. It’s… It has definitely put a strain on our relationship. We don’t… We don’t really talk about it.”

“Do you feel like you are allowed to worry about him, since he’s… Would he… Would he be considered a bastard child?” you question out loud.

Gaius stares off into the distance and shrugs. “It’s complicated.” When you don’t open your mouth, he realises you’re waiting for an answer. “I can no longer deny that he is indeed my son and I cannot pretend to refute it, either.” 

There is vulnerability in his shoulders as they slump a bit. 

His situation is a bit like your brother’s, different in a way, but you understand the pain he must be going through. Seeing Lucius go through it as well, you know how heavy it must be on him. 

What better advice to give the Primi than the exact same advice you’re planning on giving to your brother? 

You breathe in to speak. “Gaius, I want to ask you a question and I want you to answer me honestly.”

The Primi lets his gaze flicker to you, puzzlement visible on his features. “What is it, my lady?”

“What do you think of Jesus of Nazareth?”

You know that he has had some kind of interest in Him, especially since Matthew has started to follow this Teacher and in turn left everything behind, but you haven’t asked him about it upfront. Hoping to find some common ground, you give the Primi a gentle smile.

“He is a charismatic Teacher. I can understand their interest.” 

“And you, Primi?”

“Pardon?” 

“Does He have your ear?” 

Gaius’ lips slightly part when he looks at you. “My lady, I do not know how to answer that question.” 

“You know you can tell me, right? It’s not like I’d be one to talk.”

“So you’re interested in Him and His teachings?”

You huff a small smile and wince as you feel a painful kick against your bladder. You hope to find a lavatory soon. 

“Ah. I thought that I was pretty obvious in my interests.”

The Primi gives you a concerned look.

“Are you alright, my lady?” 

You realise there must have been a strain your voice at the moment you spoke, and you nod your head. 

“I’m fine. Just the baby being very active at the moment. But please, Primi. Don’t avoid my question or change the topic.” 

Letting out a long sigh, Gaius’ gaze goes back to the camp, taking in the ever-growing perimeter as he wonders what he should or should not tell you. He knows he can trust you in spite of your rebellious advances towards the man he serves. There is genuineness in your voice as well as on your face, and truth be told, Gaius could indeed tell that you had been interested in Jesus of Nazareth, judging by your behaviour and insistence to be present at the Sermon on the Mount.  

“I suppose that we can both say that we have seen things that we cannot properly rationalise when compared to our own understanding or our Roman deities.”

You hum. You have visited the home of Gaius and Livia once or twice and seen the altars to the gods in their hallway, adorned with candles and fresh fruits.  

“I’ve been thinking the same thing. Our own gods, what have they ever done for me? How do they compare to… To Jesus? To that Father God He speaks of?” 

“Are you saying that you believe He is divine?” Gaius asks. 

You think for a long moment. Your silence does not confirm nor deny. After all, you are still trying to figure things out, despite your heart already hammering inside your chest at the notion.

For a while, the two of you digest the heaviness of the statement as it lingers between you. Gaze focused upon the crowd, you hold your tummy and slide your palm over it.

“I think…” Gaius whispers all of a sudden, “…I think that I should go see Jesus about my son.” 

Your heart rears as you turn to the Primi with a shocked expression on your face, trying to comprehend what  he is implying exactly, and you look at him with parted lips over which come no words, although so many questions well up inside your mind.

Then, you take a sharp breath when Gaius does not explain himself any further.

“He would not deny you.” 

A small flicker of something seeps into the Primi’s expression and he smiles, as if some kind of understanding has just taken root between the two of you. The same kind of thing you feel whenever you are discussing Jesus with Joanna. 

Gaius is looking at you in a way that convinces you that he has not encountered another Roman before who shares the same beliefs about Jesus as him. It is almost as if the Primi had expected you to shun him for what he thinks is true.

There is a silence for a long while.

“Perhaps I should bring you home... I mean, to your house.”

There is a certain edge to his voice that you appreciate when Gaius corrects himself, as if he is fully aware and understanding how the mansion you share with Quintus is not a home to you. 

“Yeah, maybe I should head back.” You do not wish to test the limits of your husband’s newfound and most likely fickle compassion. 

The two of you take the slow, long route back, over the city walls. Part of you wants to ask the Primi about Atticus, but you reckon he knows as much as you do. You ignore the dull ache in your ankles as you walk. 

“Can we stop at the public lavatory?” you request, the pressure in your abdomen growing stronger. 

“Of course.” Gaius says, and leads you to the nearest Roman bathroom so you can relieve yourself.

Once done, you fix your skirt and readjust your stole, exiting the space at the back of the building and taking a moment to rub your sore shoulders, not wanting to head back to Gaius and thus to Quintus just yet. Letting out a long sigh, you stand for a few seconds, taking in the hustle and bustle of the city. Right as you are about to turn and head back to the front to meet with the Primi again so he can escort you home, a Jewish woman nearly bumps into you. Her dark eyes widen in surprise as she looks at you.

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“No need, all my fault.” you reassure her. A relieved smile forms over her lips and she lets her gaze go over you, taking you in, and you think for a moment that she recognises you from somewhere and that you should recall her face, too, but instead her eyes go to her belly. The faintest of hums leave her as something glitters in her eyes, her own hand going to her tummy as well, and you don’t even need to ask to know that she’s likely expecting too, although not yet showing.

It is a moment of brief, intimate understanding. Something that goes far beyond wealth, religion and culture.

“Bye, now.” the woman breathes before brushing past you, and you watch her leave for a moment before sighing, smiling a little before it falls again. Then, you head back to Gaius, your gut twisting unpleasantly as you know you’re headed back to Quintus, not necessarily keen on spending yet another evening with him.

[the-chosen-fanfiction]

Atticus | More To Life Than This | Platonic

Requested: Yes

When Atticus finds out that you’re quitting your job as his assistant and instead start to pursue Jesus, he is confused. You have a little heart to heart with him.

The task is clear as day and you can almost smell your promotion as you repeat the mission Atticus had given you inside your mind. Tail the Zealot and report back what he is up to. It gives the Cohortes Urbanae some time to figure things out whilst you keep a close eye on the target in question.

Using your surroundings to your advantage, it is not difficult to seek out the place where the odd Preacher the Zealot has been pursuing is currently speaking to a crowd; you follow the flow of people towards the market square whilst sticking to the shadows to your best ability. After all, the main Romans walking around the village were soldiers, and you, as a young woman wearing something less feminine than what was usually seen in your culture, would stick out like a sore thumb if anyone took notice of your presence, no matter their background.

It is crowded but Jesus stands out as always, with a certain charisma around Him that you can’t quite place yet – it is as if something draws you to Him, and you aren’t sure what to make of it.

You find a place in the shadows, your eyes flitting everywhere in hopes of spotting Simon the Zealot - former Zealot - and you find him attempting to usher a few eager individuals away from Jesus, attempting to calm them down with words. Leaning against the wall, you cross your arms and smile slightly, taking a mental note. It seems that your target has occupied himself by acting as some sort of bodyguard.

That promotion is going to be served to you on a silver platter. Your heart stutters proudly at the sheer notion, for you have been in pursuit of it for a long time. 

As the apprentice of no one less than Atticus Aemilius Pulcher, you’re both envied and feared amongst your peers. He had been hesitant to take you on as his assistant at first, but he warmed up to your keen eye and sarcastic quips eventually. You could even say that you have developed a friendship overtime. And now, he is sending you out on a trip that seems easy enough, and it will certainly land you a higher position in the Roman ranks once this investigation is brought to a close.

You pull over your hood a little further in the hopes of disappearing from anyone’s attention, yet your gaze remains on Simon, the man your superior wanted you to scout for a while to see what he was getting up to. Atticus had first encountered him when the Zealot had been about to assassinate a Roman Magistrate, but Simon had become distracted by his formerly paralysed brother who walked past him. According to Atticus, the scene had been utterly strange, but mostly incomprehensible. The Zealot discarded his oath to his former order and had instead taken to follow a Rabbi from Nazareth, a Man named Jesus Who had garnered fame over the past weeks in the fishing village. Part of you understands, for every time you catch a glimpse of this Jesus, your heart strangely patters against the inside of your chest.

Suddenly, the air is tense. Someone in the crowd shouts over the others, loud enough to pierce through bone. It takes you a second to register that the source of the noise is behind you, and you pivot to see a man with a gigantic growth on the side of his face approach you. Your eyes widen at the familiarity of him; it is a former Roman soldier, whom you recognise from the outskirts of the city. You can see why he had been exiled, for his eye is swollen and his mouth hangs open on one side, seemingly unable to close fully.

Out of disgust, you wrap a hand over your mouth, the stench coming from him terrible enough to make your breakfast almost creep back up your throat.

“Jesus, take pity on me!” the man wails, the surrounding people parting to make a way towards the Teacher, so appalled by the strange liquid oozing from his eye that they don’t even bother fighting him to the back of the line. Your eyes narrow at the scene as Jesus appears in your field of view more clearly now, and for a moment, your gaze flickers to Simon the Zealot, who does not seem to move away from his current location. It gives you a moment to observe the Jewish Preacher without losing track of your actual target, your curiosity peaked at the way He watches the man walk up to Him. 

“Teacher, please, do n-not turn away from me! My-My family did, my friends did, and-and-and–” 

As the man chokes up, Jesus puts a hand on his shoulder. “Easy there, friend. What is your name?” 

“Titus.”

Jesus hums. “Titus. It is good to meet you here today.”

You frown at the odd scene, surprised that He doesn’t push away the former soldier simply for his affiliation.  “I beg you, please, my growth, it’s… It’s so painful! I know You can heal me.”

Jesus smiles. “You’re a Roman.” “Yes, Teacher.”

“And you came to see me, a Jewish Preacher, to seek healing.”

Titus nods and swallows thickly, the crowd starting to mutter amongst themselves, indignance on their features. “Silence, please,” Jesus quiets them down, and their attention shifts back to the scene taking place in front of them. 

“I prayed and made sacrifices to the Roman gods, but they have left me. Please, take pity on me. You are my last hope.”

With bated breath, you watch how Jesus’ smile grows. “I know,” He states, “I know that you have been in pain for a very long time, ever since that wound inflicted by someone you through who was your friend started to get infected. Your greatest battle is not this injury, but the one inside your heart.”

Titus shivers and nods, fighting back tears, for the saltiness thereof would certainly sting inside his infection. “Yes.” he whispers, “I don’t know what to do with myself. I have heard stories about You, about how You heal people, right? The Miracle Worker.”

For a split second, you turn your focus to Simon to see if he is still there, and to your relief, he is. The last thing you want right now is to have to turn away from this, curious to see where it will go. 

“And you come to Me. Realising that the Roman gods have nothing for you.”

“They have turned away from me.”

“And I will not turn away from you.”

Jesus’ eyes go over the crowd. “In the entirety of Galilee, I have rarely seen faith like the one this man displays. There are more Romans listening today who should take his words to heart.” The second His gaze lands on you, it sticks, and it is as if He is staring right into your soul, “To pursue Me is the greatest purpose one can ever go after. No career will compare.”

Your heart skips a beat, two, three, and you nearly forget how to breathe as Jesus finally tears His attention away from you, whilst He looks back at Titus, who is looking at Him expectantly, with a pleading look on his face. 

“You came to Me in spite of where you come from. There is a place for everyone at God’s table, as long as they are willing to submit themselves in the way you have displayed today. Your faith is beautiful, and I hope that many others will draw inspiration from it, and follow Me.”

Jesus closes His eyes and puts His hand on the large infection, not even bothered by the pus that seeps from it. It does not seem to hurt Titus, who seems to lean into Jesus’ hand further and further, whilst the growth shrinks. 

For a second, you wonder if you are being deceived, but right in front of your very own eyes, it clears right up. Not a trace of the wound remains, and Titus’ swollen eye opens again. A wide grin spreads over his face as he clings to Jesus’ shoulders, gasping. Your legs feel oddly weak in your confusion, your head spinning in puzzlement. 

“Oh, thank You! Thank You! What is the name of your God, Teacher?”

Jesus chuckles. “The Father and I are one.”

“I don’t know what that means, but praise Him! I have been healed! I am a Roman and this Jewish Man healed me! I can barely believe it, but it is real! He must be the One True God!”

The words pierce you like a hot iron. 

The people around erupt into divided responses, some unsure of how to react, some beaming with glee, others scornful towards the fact that He healed a Roman of all people. You put a hand on your chest in an attempt to calm your racing heart, but Jesus’ gaze meets yours again, and He smiles. He smiles and nods at you, your entire form filling with an unknown kind of warmth, as if your very spirit is touched in that second.

Simon the Zealot draws you from your current state as he touches Jesus’ arm in an attempt to lead Him away from the crowd closing in on Him, vying for His attention. For a second, Jesus diverts his focus away from you, but then, it turns back.

At that moment, you make a decision. 

You must follow Him. These words about pursuing Him instead of a career had been meant for you.

Returning the smile, you watch how Simon escorts Him away from the town square, where He disappears into a house.

Allowing yourself a moment to gather yourself, you manage to get your legs to properly work and carry you towards your superior, who is still waiting for you. You know the village like that back of your hand, so seeking Atticus out is no hard task. In your current state of mind, you are glad you don’t have to search for long.

You wonder how he will react, for it would definitely strike a nerve somewhere.

You find him in the alleyway you had agreed to meet in, where Atticus is just conjuring a handful of figs from his pocket and about to put one in his mouth, but he halts when he sees you. 

“Back so soon, (Y/n)? Do you have a report for me?”

Gulping, you gather the confidence to say the right words, but realise that there is no way to not upset the cohorte, no matter how you bring the news.

“I need to talk to you, sir.”

He frowns and turns to you. “Of course. It sounds serious.”

“That is because it is.” you admit, “I… I am going away.” 

For a moment, Atticus seems almost relieved. “If you need to go to a different town to continue your pursuit of the Zealot, you’re free to go.”

“That is not what I meant, sir.” you clarify. “I meant that I am going to pursue the Jewish Teacher.” A small smile forms over your lips as you speak the words out loud. It feels almost freeing to say them. “I saw Him perform a miracle that I cannot simply ignore. He healed a Roman soldier.” 

Atticus looks at you for a long moment, as if you have just said something ridiculous. 

“I have told you before, (Y/n), if you are in need of space to investigate certain trails, there is no need to be hesitant to ask me. I understand that we need to adapt to our circumstances. If pursuing the Preacher will bring you closer to our target, then that’s more than fine, even if it takes another week or so. It would also give you more intel on that interesting Teacher, so it’s like killing two birds with one rock.”

“Forgive me for being straightforward, sir, but you are misunderstanding me.”

Atticus frowns. “Then please, enlighten me.”

For a moment, you try to find the words. The smile that had been so small now broadens, your eyes sparkling at the idea. “All this, this work. It gives me nothing. So… I am leaving. Everything.”

“What do you mean, you are leaving? Why would you leave all of our progress on the mission behind like this? You know that you could get a promotion out of this, and–”

Your smile grows and you hold up your hand to get Atticus to halt in his speaking. “With all due respect, there is no use in protesting my decision. I’ve made up my mind, sir.”

Atticus cannot help but let the corner of his mouth curl upwards. Ever since travelling with you, he’s learnt a truth about you: “And once you’ve made up your mind, nobody can change that. Not even me.”

You reciprocate the smile and finger the small Roman brooch that keeps together your cloak. 

The cohorte looks at you with an expression you’ve seen on him plenty of times, one that tells of deep thought and scrutiny, with a hint of curiosity. 

“Sir?” you query.

“Tell me, (Y/n),” he starts, “What is it about this Man that made you decide on this? I understand that you’re interested in knowing more about Him and his so-called miracles, but… Leaving like this? We’ve been travelling together for a long time and I respect you, but this cannot be left unreported.”

You swallow away the sudden lump of emotion in your throat, for you had indeed built a decent relationship with the otherwise mysterious and reserved Cohortes Urbanae over the past years, so you were certainly going to miss him, and you fold your hands on your back. 

“I just feel like there is more to life than this. More than…” You pause, tilting your head slightly, wondering if the words you’re planning on saying will put you in peril on the account of treason. “To Rome.” you finish your sentence, regardless of the outcome. “To my career. To this.”

Atticus’ face softens. He watches you for a long moment, as if he is probing into your mind in an attempt to understand your thoughts. 

“What I saw,” you clarify your statement, “What He did to that man, I think you and I both know very well that this isn’t some kind of trick. And then, He looked at me, saying something meant for me, something He couldn’t possibly have known. There is no subterfuge, whatsoever. It would make any sense for them to lie about this. Don’t you understand that, Atticus? Jesus is not just a Man… He is way more than that!”

His eyes narrow and he sighs. “I do agree with you that He is unlike anyone else we have ever seen in our line of work. I’ve seen many Preachers, but He does not seek fame nor glory, asks for nothing in return for His services. But it’s a puzzle that I’m still trying to put together, and I would like to advise you to do the same. Don’t rush into things, especially not things like these. This could put you into grave danger if Rome found out, and neither of us would enjoy the outcome.”

You gulp firmly, yet plant your hand on your hip to appear taller than you are. “I am willing to risk it.”

Atticus’ face twists once again. “Truly?” he queries in something akin to disbelief, “Everything you’ve ever worked for, thrown away just like that? I don’t have to tell you how hard you’ve fought to get where you are right now, hm? How am I ever going to explain to Rome that you’re… That you’ve left. To follow a Jewish Preacher.” 

A sudden surge of confidence hits you and you step forward, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Sir,” you firmly state, “You know very well what I am talking about. You are the one who tried to get through to Quintus about the potential threat that this Preacher may pose to the order of Rome in spite of His pacifistic approach, and I have followed your movements and searched for answers myself. I greatly respect you, sir, and all I did was follow your lessons, and this is what I found out. I can no longer remain here when what I’ve discovered about this Preacher is so prominently evident.” 

Pushing his tongue into the inside of his cheek, Atticus narrows his eyes at you. He attempts to find the words, you realise, for you can see the process of thought behind his dark eyes. Then, they slightly glitter as he smiles.

“Okay,” he says, “I cannot argue with that. If that is what you want, then I shall not keep you against your will. I have never had a student like you, so I must admit that I will…” He pauses, nodding as he pats your shoulder, squeezing it firmly, “I will think back fondly on our endeavours as well as your excellent stew.”

You beam back and give a small bow of your head. “I am forever grateful for the opportunity you’ve given me to travel along with you, sir. I have learnt a great deal from you, and I greatly respect you. And, well…” 

Reaching for your brooch, you unclasp it and look at it for a second, watching it shimmer in the light of the sun for you’ve always polished it so carefully, before handing it over to the cohorte, sighing. 

“Thank you, sir.” you whisper, “For everything.”

“You are a strong woman, (Y/n),” he states, “And if you ever change your mind, know that you can always seek me out. You know how to reach me.”

Nodding in agreement, your smile grows. “I will not change my mind, sir, but thank you.” 

Atticus chuckles. “I am convinced that you won’t.”

After a brief silence, you take a deep breath. “So… I’ll try to find them now. I suppose they are in for a surprise when a Roman asks to join their group.” 

Exhaling through his nose, Atticus nods. “Stay safe. And who knows, we might see each other around one day.”

You smile, giving him a small bow. Stepping away, a few rocks crunch under your sandals, and you turn to head towards the crowd again, hoping to find anyone to introduce you to Jesus. 

A sudden thought pops up in your head and you halt in your tracks, a grin making its way onto your face. Casting a look over your shoulder, you find Atticus slightly confused as he gives you a questioning expression. 

“I have a feeling that we might run into one another soon, sir. Perhaps you’d join this side, too.” 

Atticus laughs, but not in a mocking way. Still, he shakes his head. “I doubt that, (Y/n), but the last few weeks we’ve established that miracles do happen.”

Chuckling, you nod. “They indeed do, sir. Take care, now.”

“So long, my friend.”

As you walk away, your mind continues on that thought for a few more moments, and you are suddenly quite certain that you will cross paths with Atticus again soon – maybe sooner than either of you realise.

[the-chosen-fanfiction]

Gentile Navigation Post

Disclaimer: This story touches upon possibly distressing themes, such as domestic abuse, infidelity , racism and non-consensual intercourse. Period typical attitudes do not represent the author's personal view. Reader discretion is advised. Whilst you're trapped in an arranged and loveless marriage to Praetor Quintus, a chance meeting has you spiralling into an intense and passionate love affair with the most tenured agent of the Cohorte Urbanae.

When you find out you are pregnant with his child, it's only the beginning : Nothing you've ever known remains intact when a certain Preacher reaches the ear of Capernaum, including yours.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

[the-chosen-fanfiction]

Gentile. | Chapter 1

Disclaimer: This story touches upon possibly distressing themes, such as domestic abuse, infidelity, racism and non-consensual intercourse. Period typical attitudes do not represent the author's personal view. Reader discretion is advised.

Story description: Whilst you're trapped in an arranged and loveless marriage to Praetor Quintus, a chance meeting has you spiralling into an intense and passionate love affair with the most tenured agent of the Cohorte Urbanae.

When you find out you are pregnant with his child, it's only the beginning : Nothing you've ever known remains intact when a certain Preacher reaches the ear of Capernaum, including yours.

Chapter summary: Arriving in Capernaum, you realise that your arranged marriage to Quintus might never know a true breakthrough.

Chapter list

Your husband, you know better than anyone, is a volatile man, and despite the decent amount of time you have known him for, his mannerisms are still thoroughly unpredictable to you.

Praetor Quintus removes his heavy helmet with a sigh, a thin sheen of sweat shimmering on his bald head, and steps out in front of you to take in the sight of the chamber that he’d call his office for an undisclosed period of time. “It’ll have to do,” falls from his lips, a statement that might be deemed neutral to some, but you know that tone. He’s displeased with the size, the decor, and perhaps even with the plasterwork. He is, all in all, critical of everything.

You, on the other hand, can’t care less. The room is still half-empty, but the small chaise longue you usually rest on during days that Quintus wants you in his office is already standing in the corner, a little daylight streaming in through the window. It makes for the perfect spot to read some books, although you’d prefer a bit more privacy.

“We’ll be settled in no time,” you reassure him, causing him to look at you with a raised brow. 

“Of all places, we’re stationed in Capernaum. Don’t think it will be easy around here, dearest.” The nickname makes the hairs of your neck stand on end. How could a word usually so loving be spoken in such a cold way, you think to yourself, for there is no comfort in his drawling voice. You’re certain that the man hasn’t even grown fond of you, despite your second wedding anniversary rolling around in a few weeks from now. 

Not that you had been too keen on marrying him, either, for you are naught but a pretty thing on his arm. Being your father’s property, alas, you had no choice.

“As long as I have my books, I will be satisfied everywhere in the world.” you told him earnestly.

He scoffs. “You and your books.” With a roll of his eye, he tosses his helmet onto his desk with abandon. “It would have bored me out of my mind ages ago.”

You hug the bag that hangs over your shoulder a little closer to your body, the familiar outlines of your leatherbound journal pressed against your chest. “Well, I quite like it, thank you very much.”

“As long as you don’t keep them lying around.” he chastises you like a father addressing his daughter with a distant edge to his tone, and it causes you to shrink. 

A thought pops up in your mind - he had promised you your own little sitting room where you could store your books and write on your poetry - and you open your mouth to ask him about it, but a sudden stranger on the threshold causes the words to get stuck in your throat.

A middle-aged man clad in red takes off his helmet and holds it under his arm, one hand against his chest. “Hail Caesar,” he says, catching your husband’s attention, who eyes him with characteristic suspicion.

“Hail Caesar.” Quintus replies, not satisfied with the fact that he had not yet given the centurion permission to speak, but he doesn’t mention it. “And you are…?”

“My name is Gaius, Dominus.” the man explains, his gaze momentarily falling on you, and he gives you a slight bow out of respect. You nod at him in response before his attention shifts back to your husband. “I oversee part of Capernaum when it comes to—”

Quintus smiles one of his oddly fake grins and holds up his hand, giving a small shake of his head. “Don’t even bother with that right now, Gaius. Can’t you see my wife and I are busy unpacking? You may return in half a day or so, once we have settled at least a little bit.”

“As you wish, Dominus. Forgive me for the intrusion.”

He turns to leave and you are finally able to ask the question you had been meaning to bring up. “Quin,” you pipe up with a pet name that wholly replaces your calibre to call him darling, or dear , or love , which are three terms you are certainly not assigning to him for neither fits his personality, “I would like to withdraw myself to our residence, if that is alright.”

Your husband looks at you with a furrowed brow as if you had just asked the most ridiculous thing you could have, but raises his voice to call back the guard that had just left the chamber, “Gaius!”

The summoned guard once again appears with a dutiful look on his face. “Yes, Dominus?”

“Please escort my wife to our new residence at the end of the street. Make sure no one gets their filthy paws on her - even better, make sure that no one so much as looks at her, do I make myself clear?”

Gaius’ eyes shift to you. “Of course, Dominus.”

“I will see you soon, darling,” Quintus says, walking closer for a kiss. When you don’t move your head to meet his lips, he presses one against your cheek before withdrawing, resting one hand on the small of your back, “Tonight.” 

There is a look in his eyes that alerts you of what he wants and you shudder unpleasantly, dread already setting in the pit of your gut. The fact that you have not yet borne him an heir is often subject of your domestic squabbles, even though it is unfair that he blames your barrenness on your character and nothing else.

“Naturally, Quin.” you breathe before following Gaius outside, who soon halts to have you catch up to him. There is a certain stiffness in his shoulders that makes you wonder what he is so nervous for. 

“Tell me something about Capernaum,” you query, Gaius looking at you from the corner of his eye. “What is it like?”

“Restless,” Gaius replies with a tight-lipped expression, as if he is afraid he will say the wrong word, “Things have been worsening around here ever since our previous Praetor… Prematurely retired.”

You hum, letting your eyes fall on a pair of orphans that sit on the edge of the street with a cup in their hands. The denarii in your pocket are burning against your leg, pity making you feel sick to your stomach at the sight of their fallen, pockmarked cheeks. 

“My husband will live up to his reputation,” you state matter-of-factly, knowing that there must be a reason that Quintus had been selected and sent all the way from Rome. “I am sure that things will become better around here, soon.” The promise is perhaps a wish, for you miss your friends and family, whom you had to leave behind in favour of Quintus’ profession.

Gaius gestures to the right to have you turn the corner. You follow his instruction and are met with a decent house made from dark basalt stone, groups of slaves moving chests of items inside. A few of them gawk at the pair of you, causing you to drape your Palla over your hair to cover up a little, feeling scrutinised.  “Hurry along!” Gaius barks at one of them lingering in the doorframe. They all scurry away, continuing their work. 

The residence is not large but spacious enough, and when you mention the room that Quintus has promised you, Gaius helps you find it. He is a silent man and attempting to start a casual conversation is off the table almost immediately, prompting you to follow him in silence.

“This must be it,” you tell him upon entering a room that contains most of your chests, where a few tall shelves have already been placed against the walls. There are two windows, which look out over the town square. Despite the village being cramped, you can count yourself lucky with a corner room like this one, which gives a false sense of space. Gaius nods, giving you a small bow with a hand on his chest, and leaves you to yourself, the only sound left being the men downstairs carrying furniture into the house.

You sigh and look around the still quite empty space, but soon envision where you want your sofa to stand as well as your desk, and you begin to unpack your belongings that are already standing on the floor. You finger the brass SPQR etched onto the small chest, unsure of how much to unpack. After all, you have no idea for how long you will be staying here.

Inside are your golden clips, hair pins and other jewellery. You store them in your desk, that has been shoved against the wall where you don’t want it standing. Taking a mental note to ask Quintus to get it moved later, towards a spot where you’d have more natural light coming in, you continue the task at hand, getting installed to your best ability.

Your tunics are already neatly hanging in the wardrobe, several pairs of sandals stored at the bottom. Somewhere during the afternoon, a female slave brings you water and some figs, which you thank her for. The dullness in her eyes causes the money on you to weigh down on you again, but you know that Quintus would be livid if he found out about you secretly slipping some money their way.

The lowering of the sun has already cloaked the fishing village in hues of pink and orange when Quintus finally appears on the threshold of your room, dark circles under his eyes. “Finally,” he murmurs upon seeing you, and you look up from your thoughts, an unopened book resting in your lap. “If everyone is as incompetent as the workers I’ve seen today, I doubt I’ll have any employees left by the end of the month.” Knowing him, he’s given at least five of them the sack already.

When you don’t reply, Quintus clears his throat. “I hope that you’re satisfied with your room here, darling.”

“I am,” you tell him with a genuine smile, “I love it.”

“Good.” he retorts with a rather sarcastic edge to his voice, adding: “It’s the best room in this place, you better be thankful.”

“I am.” you repeat, although different in tone this time, with your smile falling from your lips.

Quintus crosses his arms over his chest, observing the way you have put away your belongings. He drags a finger over a shelf that had already been hanging on the wall and looks at the dust that gathers on his skin with chagrin. “Would have expected them to deliver this place clean, at least. Moving to Upper Galilee is bad enough as is, with all kinds of vermin scurrying about. Let me know how you want your furniture arranged, I’ll send someone over soon enough. For now, follow me, dear.”

You rise to your feet and put your book away before heading after your husband, who leads you through the residence that is already fuller than it was when you entered hours prior. A few slaves that are still unpacking cower at the sight of him, falling silent in their whispered chatter, not daring to make a noise. He leads you to your shared bedroom, a rather large space with an adjacent, open washroom containing a small basin as well as a polished mirror on the wall above a small dressing table, where your perfumes and powders were already on display. 

“This is our place,” says he, already taking off the heavy pendant necklace that sits around his shoulders. “We will sleep here together.”

You give him a tight-lipped nod, swallowing the comment that you had already figured that out by the sight of the large bed, and you fold your hands in front of you expectantly.

Quintus clicks his tongue and steps forward, cupping your cheek in his hand. You resist the urge to move away from it, enabling your usual habit of just closing off your mind to the disdain that seeps through your veins whenever he touches you.

His fingers are already on your Palla , and he unravels it with ease, like he has done plenty of times before. “How is your cycle?” he quizzes. You are unable to sell him the lie that you are in your infertile days of the month, sighing deeply before responding.

“Fertile.” 

“Good,” Quintus breathes, letting go of your cloak, letting it pool around your ankles. “Undress and join me on the bed,” he mutters with his lips against your temple, pressing a cold kiss against your skin.

And you do as you’re told, shutting your mind off, fulfilling your marital duties to the man you loathe so much, distancing yourself from your own form as he takes you.

Once done, Quintus pushes you away with a disinterest that he doesn’t even bother to cover up. You turn away as he steps out of the bed, not wanting to see his naked form withdraw to the bathroom, where he washes himself without so much as a word of thanks.

Defiled in the sheets, you force back your tears, drifting away into a slumber that teases the hope that he’ll be gone once you wake up, so that you can cry properly without his judgemental sneers.

A waft of cologne tickles your nose and a readily dressed Quintus appears in your field of vision, prompting you to look up. 

“Did you hear what I just said?”

“No.” you say apologetically, “Sorry.”

He lets out a sound of slight indignance before repeating the comment you had apparently missed: “I said, I am planning on throwing a party tomorrow. I’ll be inviting the men amongst the higher ranks. Gives me a chance to introduce the new rules I’m planning on issuing around this mess of a village. As for you, you better show up looking your very best. Didn’t marry you for nothing.”

You hum and give him a small nod. “Of course, Quintus,” you tell him, knowing that saying no is not an option, and you lay down back on the bed, closing your eyes. He sighs, turning towards the door, where he momentarily halts on the threshold. 

“Oh, (Y/n).” 

You once again look at him. “Yes?”

“Don’t wear your purple stole tomorrow. Can’t look too rich around here.” 

As if the residence itself isn’t ostentatious enough as is.

“Of course, Quintus.” you comply

He mutters no final greeting, the pad of his sandals becoming a distant sound as he leaves. 

You allow your tears to flow freely now, sliding down your face towards the duvet, where they are absorbed by the rough linen that was witness to your misery, sobs of agony shaking your desecrated form.

Next chapter Chapter list

[the-chosen-fanfiction]

Atticus | Rare Beauty | Romantic

Your horse bolts, but a handsome stranger comes to the rescue, who turns out to be irresistibly charming.

With his head held high, the stallion steps on around the walls of Jerusalem, on edge from all the scents and sounds around him yet obedient enough to stay close to you, as you lead him on the bridle towards the place you’d been instructed to bind him. A few mares cast a curious glance his way as he whinnies, before they continue to graze again, and you pat the dappled stallion on the neck to calm him down. 

“Trust me, Emperor, you won’t be rejected much longer.” you say softly and with amusement in your tone, wrapping his reins around a pole in the ground to secure him. “I’ll miss you, though. You’re a good boy.” 

Standing next to your father’s trusted steed, you feel powerful. With your back straightened, you smile at potential customers on their way to buy a horse. The person next to you is selling three young mares today, and on the other side someone claims to have the most prized goats in all of Israel. 

The sun is almost at its highest position and you stand in relative shade. You’re certain you’ll be back on your way to the stables your father owns before the afternoon is halfway over. Roman soldiers pass by, but not a lot seem to be very interested in purchasing the dappled horse.

Emperor is a fine steed, a very sought-after animal, and it is finally time to put him up for sale to make place for a younger stallion. Although you’re sad to see him go, your father’s word is law and the extra income is more than welcome, and so, you patiently wait for people to take a look. 

Perhaps that the noble steed seems intimidating, for at your first hour of standing there, only three potential customers have taken a look and startled back at the price of three-hundred denarii, and even though this is indeed a high price, when taking into consideration the amount of promising offspring Emperor had produced in his prime time, it was an absolute steal.

Alas, with your mother’s illness, you were short on money and in desperate need for some more. 

Dragging a hand over the soft spotted coat of the Arabian horse, you sigh with a sad tone to your voice. “I’m sorry, boy.” He whinnies, moving his head up and down impatiently. Standing still for so long, tethered in the full sun as it moves through the sky, eliminating all chances for some more shade, it is only a matter of time for him to grow restless. 

“Hey,” a soldier walks up to you, “That’s a beautiful horse you’ve got there.” 

You look up and smile, patting Emperor’s neck before nodding in agreement. 

“It is, sir,” you tell him, “He’s fathered my pater’s greatest steeds. He’s quick on his feet, too.”

The potential customer rubs his chin and looks over his shoulder to face the woman he’s with, who is giving him an unsure look. 

“I’m not so sure, Axius. It seems like a wild one…”

“Well, darling, just think about the speeds I can reach with this stallion. I’ll be promoted in no time for delivering fast work. Plus, I’ll look good whilst doing so.” He places a hand on his hip, the sword hanging there dangerously shifting at the disturbance. Emperor snorts loudly at the sight, jerking back although held tightly into place by his bridle. 

You put your hand towards it to calm him down, shushing him immediately. The centurion’s eyes widen and you manage to keep the stallion under control, calmly patting its neck whilst pulling down the reins gently. “Easy, boy.”

“He seems to listen to you.” the soldier says, amused. 

“I’ve trained him well.” you say, “It’s a family business after all, so I know what I’m talking about. This steed is one of a kind.” Emperor pushes his snout into your palm and you scratch your fingers over the soft tissue. “His offspring have become very prominent in chariot racing back in Rome.”

The soldier hums. “What are you doing here, then? Are you married?”

You shake your head. “No, but my father saw an opportunity and we moved here when I was little. Been a citizen of Jerusalem for over thirty years now.”

He hums and eyes the horse curiously. “Right, so you know what the soil can be like and what the horse needs in this environment. I trust a bumpy road is not an issue?”

“Not at all, sir.” you say with a determined intonation, “He is very adjusted to the climate around here.”

The centurion casts a thoughtful look onto the stallion’s posture and then steps forward. “Would you mind… Mind me testing the waters to see how it feels to ride him?”

You smile and pat Emperor’s neck. “By all means, sir, do what you must. He might be a little intense to ride at first, especially now that he’s been standing tethered for a while with so many mares around, but trust me, once he is used to your riding style, he will never bolt.”

Prying loose the reins and untangling them, you prepare the horse to be ridden. With a soft tutting of your tongue you keep it under control, his hooves stomping only a few times as you put the saddle onto his back carefully, moving his mane from under it. “Be a good boy, now.” you tell him as if he’d understand you before giving the potential buyer an expectant look. “Come on, sir, hop up.”

The soldier looks proudly at his wife, who is still not convinced, and steps closer, circling you to reach the horse’s flank. You almost flinch at the lack of grace he has whilst mounting the steed, wobbly and unstable, without letting Emperor even sniff his hand at first to get familiar with his scent.

Emperor stands his ground, only murmuring a small protest when you click your tongue to get him to step forward, and the first few moments are going splendidly.  The soldier adjusts himself into the saddle and hums, nodding appreciatively. Carefully, you release the bridle, and Emperor halts.

“This horse is very comfortable to sit on, it seems to be very well on its feet and– Woah!” 

With flaring nostrils, Emperor picks up his head roughly, immediately startled by something in the distance. It happens in a split second, so before you can even react, Emperor is gone, rushing away. With a painful thud, the soldier lands on his rear in the dust. You’re sure you can hear something in his spine shift upon impact.

“Hey!” 

“The horse!” 

The wife of the soldier stands with her hands clasped over her mouth and lets out a squeal before rushing over to her husband. It takes a moment to register what has just happened. 

Besides you, as everyone is distracted by the sudden chaos, a cloaked passerby grabs one of the mares of your neighbouring trader and hops on, pushing his feet into the sides to coax it to run. The merchant cries out: “Stop that man, he is stealing my horse!”

Watching the stranger take off, you can’t help but gawk at the sight of Emperor disappearing into the distance, leaving nothing in his wake but havoc, dust and sand clouding the air. Desperation settles within your gut and a painful grunt draws your attention elsewhere. 

The centurion, against all odds, manages to scramble to his feet and turns to you with a deep frown on his face, rage dripping off his features. With a bright crimson shade on your cheeks, you put your hands over your face. “S-Sir, I’m so deeply sorry, I didn’t know he would–”

“I don’t care about your apologies!” he spits, “Forget about your overpriced excuse of a horse, you’d be dumb to think that I am still interested in buying that piece of— Darling, come on, we’re leaving!” He barely as much as casts a look at his wife before stumping off, dust covering the entire backside of his armour. Luckily, his injuries appear to be minimal.

The man selling the mares who was standing next to you before the incident walks up to you, and for a split second you’re glad to have someone who can support you in this difficult and utterly embarrassing moment, but it fades when he opens his mouth to speak: “So, what are you going to do about my stolen horse?”

Closing your eyes, you feel like crying. Not only had you lost your father’s most prized horse, you had also caused enough of a distraction for one of this stranger’s mares to be stolen from right under his nose. 

“I have no money, sir.” you whimper, fighting back tears, “That stallion that just bolted, he was supposed to be sold to get medicine for my mother. I barely have enough denarii on me right now to buy myself a drink, let alone pay off whatever your horse is worth. I… I don’t know what I can do to make it up to you, but I–”

The man narrows his eyes at something behind you, his anger twisting into confusion. “Wait a second… There she is. And your stallion as well, so it seems.”

Pivoting on your feet, your eyes meet with a hooded stranger who is riding the mare he had just taken away from your fellow trader, with in his hand a bridle leading forward Emperor, tame as a lamb. You let out a breath of relief and put a hand over your mouth at the sight, rushing forward to assist the man who had been so kind as to run after your horse. 

“Please forgive me for that,” he tells your colleague with a voice that’s pleasant to listen to, with a deep rasp to his tone, and he dismounts the mare, “I needed to be quick enough to catch up to this beautiful creature here.” 

The trader huffs and shrugs but is grateful enough to have his horse back, which is better than having it taken from him in the first place, and leads the young mare away from Emperor, who seems way more interested in pushing his snout against your shoulder. Caressing his nose, you swallow away the lump in your throat as you turn to the kind stranger. 

He removes the hood of his cloak and drags a hand through his dark hair, a charming smile gracing his lips. A pair of dark eyes sparkle lightly as they meet yours and you once again feel your breath hitch for different reasons altogether. “Are you alright?” he drags you from your thoughts, and you nod.

“Yes, just a bit shaken, I suppose,” you mutter, “You… You don’t know me and did not have to do that. So… Thank you, sir.” 

The stranger smiles and gives you a curt nod. “It’s nothing.”

“I… I have nothing to pay you with, but I owe you a great deal. At the moment, I’m short on money, but please, give me details on how to contact you. Once I’ve sold the horse, I can send you a cut of the profits.”

The man chuckles and shakes his head. “No, no, that won’t be necessary, really. It’s not every day that I get to help out such a beauty.” He pats Emperor’s neck, who seems oddly comfortable with the stranger’s presence, but he keeps his eyes on you. It takes everything in your being to not fluster, for you’re unsure of whom he means with ‘beauty’, Emperor or you. 

“Emperor seems to like you,” you try to distract him from your abashedness caused by his ambiguous comment, and he hums absentmindedly.

“It’s a wonderful animal. Very strong, I’ve noticed. Took me quite some effort to catch him. You must be asking a good price for a horse like this, hm?”

You lower your gaze and sigh. “Ah, it’s an expensive one, but he has brought forth a lot of fruitful offspring, so it’s an investment that will pay off in the long run. For context, my father used to be a breeder. He’s been retired for a few years but still dabbles in trading and some light breeding here and there, so I help him out from time to time, like right now.” 

The man lets out a small noise. “Well, how much do you want for it?” He reaches for the pouch on his hip and you smile, shaking your head slightly. 

“I– You don’t have to buy it out of pity, sir, although I appreciate it.”

“It’s not out of pity.” he states matter-of-factly. His dark eyes are serious and you fall silent. “I just had to steal a horse from another dealer just so I could chase after yours. If I’d ever buy a horse it would be because I need one.”

You swallow thickly and open your mouth to speak, stumbling over your words for a second. “Let me… Let me at least give you a discount, sir. As a sign of gratitude.”

The man smiles kindly and you feel your gut involuntarily flutter; it had been a while since a man had looked at you with such interest. “I insist.” says he, “Please, let me pay the price you wanted in the first place.”

You’re almost ashamed to say it. “Three-hundred.” you whisper. “But I will also accept two-hundred—”

The stranger holds up his hand to halt you in your speech and the rest of your sentence dies on your tongue as he rummages through his purse and takes out the requested amount of denarii, and then some more. “I–I can’t take this.” you whisper, “I–I cannot, sir.”

He gently takes your open hand and folds your fingers over the money, lingering there for a while as he smiles at you. “As I said, I insist. Since you couldn’t pay me anything right after I brought back the horse, it means that you need it. I do not need to know what for, because that is none of my business. Of course I will pay full price for such a beautiful stallion bought from such a beautiful lady who clearly takes care of her animals very well.”

Emperor is nudging your shoulder, vouching for your attention, but all you can do is stare at the handsome stranger who has just concluded the sale of a lifetime.

Blushing brightly, you silently hope he’ll never let go of your hand. Alas, he does, and he reaches over to introduce himself to the stallion properly. “It’s a strong one,” he notes, “What did you name it?”

“E-Emperor.” you stutter, and the man smiles. 

“Emperor. I like that.”

You hum and attempt to discreetly look at him from the corner of your eye as he bonds with the horse, but within a few seconds, he catches you staring at him, and he winks, which in turn makes you shyly avert your gaze. 

“He seems to like you.” you breathe, “He’ll be in good hands with you.”

The stranger lets out an amused noise and tilts his head slightly, looking from the horse to you. 

“Certainly. I will take good care of him, I can promise you that. Are you from around here?”

You meekly nod, and the man’s eyes glitter. “Then we might run into one another again every so often… In case you would like to give this horse a treat or two.” He massages the horse’s neck, which lets out an appreciative noise, and you momentarily brush your fingers over the dappled coat. 

“We might indeed, ah…”

“Atticus.” he introduces himself. 

“Atticus,” you try it out, smiling a little. “Nice to meet you. I’m (Y/n).”

He smiles charmingly. “Pleasure is all mine. Well then, I suppose you’d like to get your money to a safer location. What would you say to me escorting you home? After all, I’ve got a great steed to carry us both right now.”

Although under any other circumstance, you’d have declined kindly and said that your father’s farm was not that far away, but in this instance, you can simply not deny yourself another few minutes in the handsome stranger’s presence. 

With a grateful smile, you accept Atticus’ offer.

[the-chosen-fanfiction]

Gentile. | Chapter 35

On the Korazim Plateau, Jesus' sermon pierces your heart, and you finally see a chance to speak to Him.

Chapter list

The day of the sermon creeps closer and in turn you become a tad anxious.

Although you do not doubt Atticus’ ability to get you out of the estate on the outskirts of the Roman Quarter, your husband has been on edge in the past days albeit because of different circumstances regarding the performance of several of his subordinates. You fear that he will not let you out of his sight once he finds out the village is in quite the state of agitation. To your relief, no soldiers have deemed it serious enough to report the whispers amongst the townsfolk.

Gathering the courage on the morning of the sermon, you approach Quintus who is penning down a report with his characteristic look of annoyance on his features, alerting you of his current state of mind. Taking a deep breath, you know that not asking him anything will not be an option, and so, you speak your mind.

“Can I go to visit the market today?” you query. “I’ve been craving sugared figs.”

Quintus dips his pen into the inkwell and frowns. “I thought you didn’t like these anymore since you fell pregnant.”

Your throat runs dry at the crumbling of your excuse. “Ah, well, I wanted to try them again. You know that feeling that you’re craving something you don’t actually like? I’ve read about it in my romance stories, there are some people who hate one another yet cannot help but seek each other out, because some kind of force just seems to be bringing them back together—”

“Fine.” Your little reference to a sappy romance novel you once read is working wonders to bring Quintus to clench his jaw and give you a miffed stare. “You can go.” he drawls. “Be back before dinnertime. Oh, and bring Gaius with you as your chaperone.” You aren’t sure why he specifically chooses the Primi to accompany you, but you don’t dare question it. “Tell him that he is to keep an eye on you closely and that he should deliver you back to me personally at the end of the day.”

It could not have turned out better, you delightedly think to yourself, giving your husband a small bow before wishing him a good and productive day. You have to fight the grin that threatens to spread over your face and you seek out the Primi, whom you had seen leaving for his patrol whilst on your way to Quintus’ workroom. As if on cue, he returns from his rounds just as you enter the Roman Quarter, stepping in front of him to have him halt in his tracks. Gaius looks at you a little confused.

“Ma’am?” he queries. There is something strange in his eyes that you cannot put a finger on.

“Quintus requests that you accompany me to the market.” you quip, “As my chaperone.”

The Primi turns to the centurion walking with him, nods into the distance, and the man seems to understand that he is to continue walking. Now alone with him, you slightly smile at Gaius. “Today is the day of the sermon that has been advertised everywhere. Are you planning on going there?”

“Well, I was planning to, but it seems that another task requires my attention instead.”

“Good.” you breathe, planting your hand underneath your tummy. “I wish to join you as well.”

Gaius deeply frowns, shaking his head slightly. “Why?” he questions. 

For a second, you consider playing the distant answer that your interests are none of his business, but you acknowledge being close enough to the Primi to reveal that little bit about yourself, although you leave out the most of your curiosity towards Jesus by using a more general statement: “I’m interested in knowing more, since I witnessed Quintus speak to Him that one day after you and the Cohortes Urbanae arrested him.”

At the mention of Atticus, Gaius gulps and adjusts his stance to appear more confident, and he does not protest your request any further. “Of course, my lady.” he mutters before gesturing towards the direction where the rest of the people seem to be heading. 

Knowing your secret lover, he would be tailing you already, knowing that you’re on your way to the Korazim Plateau without requiring him to get you out of Quintus’ sight. You are relieved that you don’t have to be together with him in the same space as your husband at the moment, because you aren’t certain how you would have taken it.

The village is quickly draining its people towards the location of the sermon, and it seems that people are coming from all directions. With a hand on his sword, Gaius walks at your side, both keeping an eye on you as well as on the citizens. As soon as you arrive on the outskirts of town, Gaius finds his horse, a mare with a dark coat, and mounts it swiftly. Reaching out a hand, he looks at you expectantly. 

“The Korazim Plateau is a fair trek away, ma’am. Given your current physical situation, I’d suggest you sit behind me and hold on tight.”

You nod in agreement and take his hand before grabbing his shoulder, rather ungracefully managing to get yourself onto the back of the horse. Sitting with both of your legs on one side of the mare due to your dress not really allowing you to sit on the steed like one usually would, you grab a firm grip on Gaius, feeling a little awkward as you wrap your arms around his waist. 

“Are you ready to go, ma’am?”

“Yes.” you squeak, a tad nervous. Gaius clicks his tongue and lets his horse take off into a trot. You’re glad you’re holding on tightly.

The ride is a few minutes long. Around you, people flood towards the field where the sermon will take place, with a beautiful look on the Sea of Galilee. You let out a small noise when the horse makes a strange move and Gaius gently apologises, slowing down until it takes a slow step forward, inching through the crowd as people move aside lest they be trampled. 

You peek around Gaius’ form and let out a soft gasp upon seeing the sheer amount of people who have responded to the notices scattered around Capernaum and anywhere beyond, pouring in from all sides you can see. On one end, there is a large stage built from wood and ropes, with a few large off-white sheets blowing in the wind, obscuring what is behind it. You reckon it to be Jesus who is there with a few of his followers, and there are also disciples busying themselves with organising the masses. 

“I had not expected this.” Gaius frankly admits, “So many people…” 

You hum in agreement. “Neither had I.” 

Slowly, the horse steps on through the grass, and a familiar posture catches your eye, your heart leaping inside your chest. Although he is hooded, Atticus is recognisable to you, with his arms crossed, and he is just swallowing a bite of apple as the two of you pull up next to him, Gaius tugging on the reins to halt his steed. 

Atticus lets his gaze go to Gaius almost offendedly, for this blows the cohorte’s cover, but as soon as he sees you, his eyes soften. 

“Hello.” the marshall greets. “You here as well?”

“Mhm.” Gaius hums. “I have to keep an eye on the crowds. Can’t have the same issue we had a few months back, with that stampede.”

Atticus does not respond. Instead, he looks at you from the corner of his eye. “Surprising to see that Quintus allowed you to bring the lady along.”

A tad flustered, Gaius sighs. “He is not aware that she is here.”

Chuckling, Atticus uncrosses his arms. “So I reckoned.” He removes his hood and turns to you. “Shall I help you down, ma’am?”

“Please,” you breathe, taking his hand immediately when he puts it forward, standing close enough to support you hopping down the horse. He catches you as you nearly lose your balance, almost standing chest to chest in a public place. Atticus quickly steps back so as to not draw attention to how close the two of you are standing together, but the Primi is already tensely watching everything. 

Atticus feigns neutrality. “What brings you here today, my lady? The Primi being here is understandable, but you, without Quintus’ knowledge?”

Although he grins almost invisibly at you, his voice remains fairly flat, and you let out a small hum before voicing your reply. 

“He is busy and I wanted to visit the market together with a chaperone, however, Gaius was already preoccupied with going here, so I decided to join. Right, Gaius?”

The Primi’s eyes flutter in slight confusion and look from you to Atticus with something that makes your gut unpleasantly drop, and for a split second, you wonder if he suspects something. The feeling soon fades when he gives you a tight-lipped smile and a curt nod. “Yes, my lady. Glad to be of service.”

Turning to the horde of people, you inhale through your nose. “Isn’t this wonderful?” you muse, taking in the view, “So many people, here together, going to listen to this… Intriguing and peculiar Preacher!” 

“We’ll see what He has to say,” Atticus acknowledges, “We should report any discrepancies to Quintus.”

“Of course.” Gaius establishes.

The three of you fall silent and you cradle your stomach gently through your tunic, thumbing at it whilst waiting patiently for Jesus to arrive.

Jesus’ followers usher people into the right directions, where some sit down to claim their spots. You briefly consider doing the same but fear that you’ll miss seeing Him in the process, so you force yourself to smile through the ache that has started to form inside your ankles. 

The sun isn’t too bright today, which prevents you from having to squint, and in silence that is rather awkward, you spend some time focusing on the movements of your baby inside of you, which makes your heart pleasantly flutter, for Atticus is standing so close, and you’re almost tempted to tell him to feel your tummy.

Then, a ripple of brief unrest goes through the horde of people, as if something is about to happen, and indeed, the curtains on the stage part to reveal the very Preacher you had been hoping to see. 

He appears on the stage and you feel your breath hitch. Jesus’ gaze goes through the crowd as the chatter dies down, people taking a seat on the grass below if they hadn’t done so already. You still remain in your standing position, however, with Atticus beside you and Gaius a little away yet close enough to keep an eye on you. 

Even though you’re a fair bit away, you are taken aback by the sheer allure that hangs around Jesus. He is wearing a royal blue sash that sits around His right shoulder paired with a beige tunic, not a lot unlike the one He had been wearing when speaking to Quintus a few days prior. You’ve never heard a mass of people fall this silent before and you grab a hold onto Atticus’ arm as if to tell him to pay attention, feigning having to regain your balance. You don’t need to do this, for the cohorte’s eyes are equally as curious as they settle on the Preacher, Who opens His mouth to speak. Gaius’ prying gaze goes unnoticed.

“It is good to see you all here today. Being here in such large numbers, well, I insist you to listen to what you hear from Me today and spread this word to the ends of the Earth.”

Jesus takes a deep breath until finally, He starts the sermon everyone had been waiting to hear.

“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven. Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted. Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the Earth.” 

As the words drift through the air, you can’t do anything else but listen on in awe. The sentences fall from His lips like water, everyone focused on Him.

“Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be satisfied. Blessed are the merciful, for they shall receive mercy. Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God. Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons of God.” For a second, your mind goes to John, who sits imprisoned back in Machaerus, and a mixture of pity and guilt forms inside your gut. “Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness' sake, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven.”

You barely forget to breathe as you take in Jesus’ sermon, wondering for a moment if it is meant for you at all. The Kingdom of Heaven – John had mentioned it before when he stormed into the palace – was still a mystery to you. What could Jesus ever mean with this?

“Blessed are you when others revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on My account. Rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in Heaven, for so they persecuted the prophets who were before you.” 

You feel almost ashamed at the pang of disappointment shunting through you, for you know yourself to not be Jewish and thus are not part of the target audience for these otherwise relieving words. You tilt your head slightly, drinking in His words regardless, wondering if your own Roman gods would ever preach a similar message.

Atticus puts a hand on your lower back, giving you a concerned look. “Are you alright?” he whispers, but soon lets his gaze go up to Gaius, who is eyeing you suspiciously. He clears his throat and steps away at a respectful distance, repeating his question: “Are you alright, my lady? Do you need to sit down?”

You shake your head meekly, cradling your stomach. “I’m fine.” you breathe. 

Focusing on the sermon again, you tilt your head slightly, taking in everything He says.

Gaius’ horse snorts next to you and the Primi pushes his heels into its sides to have it stomp on the ground to let go of some energy, its bridle slightly chiming at the disturbance.

“Therefore I tell you, do not be anxious about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, nor about your body, what you will put on.” Jesus calls out over the crowd. “Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing?” He gestures at His tunic, and then up at the air. “Look at the birds of the air; they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they?” 

He briefly pauses, a solemn look on His features before He carries on.

“And which of you by being anxious can add a single hour to his span of life? Therefore do not be anxious, saying, ‘What shall we eat?’ or ‘What shall we drink?’ or ‘What shall we wear?’ For the Gentiles seek after all these things, and your Heavenly Father knows that you need them all. But seek first the Kingdom of God and His righteousness, and all these things will be added to you.” 

Jesus’ gaze crosses yours again, and an inexplicable warmth courses through you. Who is He, to speak with such authority when it comes to something divine? Who is this God He speaks of, the God of the Jews, Who seems to care so much more than any of the Roman gods you’re familiar with ever appear to do?

“So whatever you wish that others would do to you, do also to them. for this is the Law and the Prophets. Judge not, that you be not judged. For with the judgement you pronounce you will be judged, and with the measure you use it will be measured to you. Why do you see the speck that is in your brother's eye, but do not notice the log that is in your own eye? Or how can you say to your brother, ‘Let me take the speck out of your eye,’ when there is the log in your own eye?”

Hypocrisy was not something called out within your own culture, especially of men. You want to grab Atticus but are suddenly aware of Gaius’ scrutiny, turning yourself away from the cohorte.

Jesus raises His voice, increasing the volume. “You have heard that it was said, ‘An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.’ But I say to you: Do not resist the one who is evil. And if anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn and give him the other also. And if anyone would sue you and take your tunic, let him have your cloak as well. And if anyone forces you to go one mile, go with him two miles. Give to the one who begs from you, and do not refuse the one who would borrow from you.” 

Although you had not expected Jesus to call for violence, this kind of approach towards one’s enemies was different altogether. “What is this message?” you murmur in amazement, “That He calls for His followers to not resist, to refrain from brutal acts even if one gets assaulted?” 

“He seems to not be out for blood, then.” Atticus hums, before adding: “Yet…” 

You give a small shake of your head. “He does not seem to strike me as the kind of Person to want this regardless. The way He speaks… Have you ever heard anything like this, Atticus?”

The cohorte lets out a noise. “Not even close.”

Suppressing your smile, you revert your gaze back to Jesus.

“Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.” Your eyes widen at the familiarity of the name you had read in the scroll on Jewish history you had purchased from Rome the other day, “But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which today is alive and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will he not much more clothe you, o you of little faith?”

For a moment, your mind drifts off as you mull over His words, wondering whether they are a rebuke, wondering if you’re even allowed to be here in the first place, for you are not at all familiar with Jewish culture nor their prophets, and you let your gaze flicker to Atticus, who is still invested in the sermon. With slightly parted lips and a deep frown, he takes in everything Jesus is telling the crowd, clearly unsure what to make of it.

Suddenly, Jesus’ words pierce right through you as your attention is almost forced back to the sermon. With your eyes fixated upon Atticus, you hear the words loud and clear: “You have heard that it was said, ‘You shall not commit adultery.’ But I say to you, everyone who looks at a woman with lustful intent has already committed adultery with her in his heart.” 

Dumbfounded, your gaze snaps to the Preacher. Jesus happens to look your way, be it by coincidence, be it on purpose. Even more, what He says pierces your heart like a hot iron, and your gut swivels unpleasantly.

“If your right eye causes you to sin, tear it out and throw it away. For it is better that you lose one of your members than that your whole body be thrown into hell. And if your right hand causes you to sin, cut it off and throw it away. For it is better that you lose one of your members than that your whole body go into hell.”

You must have paled, for Atticus frowns at you. “(Y/n)?”

Flushing red with shame, you let your eyes flutter shut before nodding. “Y-Yes, I’m fine.” you tell him, “I’m just… Not sure what to think. What to make of all this.”

“Do you want me to bring you home?” Atticus whispers.

You let out a soft sound of disagreement and shake your head. “No, no, I want to stay.”

With a spinning head, you look back up at Jesus, Who is still going on with his sermon. Your heart slams against your chest, worry and guilt making you feel thoroughly uneasy, as if you’re a fraud, not even allowed to even be in His proximity. You are suddenly overcome by the conflicting desire to both run from Him to avoid confrontation and to speak to Him, to ask what He means, how these philosophies hold up when it comes to Gentiles like yourself, and how it should be interpreted in case of a forced, arranged marriage to an abusive husband you had never consented to in the first place.

“–Your Father knows what you need before you ask Him. Pray then like this: Our Father in Heaven, hallowed be Your name. Your kingdom come, Your will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our debts, as we also have forgiven our debtors. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For if you forgive others their trespasses, your Heavenly Father will also forgive you, but if you do not forgive others their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses.” 

Estranged by this kind of prayer, your heart hammers against your chest. Within the kind of religion you were familiar with, sin wasn’t at all discussed in this way. A few sacrifices to the right gods could make a lot right regarding your conscience, although you personally never felt like you owed them anything. 

You had read about sin in the scroll you had bought, about a holy and solemn day where the High Priest would ask forgiveness for all Jews – at least, if you recalled correctly – but the kind of forgiveness this Teacher preaches seems to involve no priests at all. The position of sin within Jesus’ teaching is altogether different, and you yearn to ask Him more about it, for the words about your adultery towards Quintus seem to have struck something within you, and it coils deep inside your core.

“Everyone who hears these words of Mine and does not do them will be like a foolish man who built his house on the sand. And the rain fell, and the floods came, and the winds blew and beat against that house, and it fell, and great was the fall of it. And everyone then who hears these words of Mine and does them will be like a wise man who built his house on the Rock. And the rain fell, and the floods came, and the winds blew and beat on that house, but it did not fall, because it had been founded on the Rock.”

Astonished, you watch with a racing heart how He concludes the sermon, withdrawing Himself behind the curtains again. People start muttering amongst each other, the followers of Jesus positioning themselves in such a way that they block them from following after Him, asking to keep their distance for the Teacher is tired.

Suddenly dismayed at the thought you might not yet get to speak to Him, you turn to Atticus slowly. He gives you an expectant look. “And, what do you think?”

“That was… Intriguing.” you breathe. Atticus hums in acknowledgement.

“It’s clear that it has touched you, and I understand, these are words that are quite unique. You must be tired, too.”

Although you’d rather stay for a while longer, your ankles have started to ache beyond your ability to ignore it. You meekly nod, letting your eyes go to Gaius, who is staring at the two of you a tad strangely, then focuses his gaze upon the distance. 

“Do you want me to escort you back home, my lady?” There is a teasing edge to Atticus’ voice at the mention of the title he publicly addresses you with, and you have to fight a smile. 

“I wouldn’t mind staying for a few more minutes,” you breathe. 

Gaius clears his throat. Turning to him, you give him an expectant look, but when he doesn’t speak up, you focus your attention on the crowd again. “Look at them,” you murmur, “They are with so many, coming from so far away to see this Preacher.” Swallowing thickly, you look at Atticus. “Can you get me close to Him? Please, cohorte. I’d love to meet Him face to face this time and ask about some things.”

The investigator hums and rubs through his stubble, giving a small shake of his head. “I fear that it wouldn’t be the best of ideas, my lady. After all, you must remain under the Primi’s supervision.”

Atticus’ tone alerts you that he only says this to keep up appearances for Gaius, whose eyes are still drilling into you. Feigning distance from the man you so desperately love is proving more difficult with the minute, and you fear that you might slip up one of these days.

“Alright.” you sigh with faux defeat in your voice, and Atticus gives you an apologetic look before brushing past you towards Gaius to exchange a few words. 

The Primi is oddly quiet and seems to be sunken away in deep thought, as if he is mulling over the words Jesus had said.

“Well?”

Gaius simply grunts.

Atticus lets out a huff. “My thoughts exactly. I’ll see you in the morning then, for our report to Quintus.” 

“Mhm.” Gaius hums. 

Chuckling, Atticus nods. “Good chat.” he amusedly mutters, “Tell you what. Why don’t you stay here to keep an eye on the crowd, make sure that nobody steps out of line. I’ll escort lady (Y/n) back home, for she should get off her feet soon.”

Gaius’ brow furrows. “Ah, that is kind of you, but Praetor Quintus has given me the task to look after her personally. I don’t want to get in trouble. Plus, you don’t have a horse and she cannot walk that far.” 

Atticus gestures towards the village. “My horse is hitched just a bit over there, she doesn’t have to walk far at all, I’ll make sure of that. And although your loyalty to Quintus is applaudable, you know that I, too, take my job very seriously and will make sure that nothing will happen to the lady.”

The Primi pushes his tongue against the inside of his cheek, knowing that he cannot let on too much of what he knows – yet – and hesitantly agrees to let you go with the cohorte he had witnessed to be having an affair with the very wife of the man who he has sworn his loyalty to. Conflicted, Gaius mutters his response. 

“Alright, then.” he states, “But I don’t really like the fact that I might be getting in trou–”

“You won’t, I’ll make sure of that.” you interrupt him. 

Tight-lipped, Gaius gives you a nod. “Much obliged, my lady. Have a safe trip home.” 

“You stay safe, too, Primi.”

Atticus pulls over his hood and instructs you to do the same with your cloak, and follow this command to shield yourself from any unwanted onlookers. After all, now that you’re not sitting on a horse, you’re much more vulnerable to the crowd, who aren’t necessarily keen on Romans like yourself. 

“This way,” states your lover, and you veer left, nearing the back-stage area where Jesus and His followers sit. Your heartbeat picks up speed rapidly and you crane your neck in the hopes of catching a glimpse. 

“What did you think?” Atticus muses, not revealing his thoughts just yet.

Your eyes momentarily go to him as the two of you halt just far enough to stay out of Gaius’ field of view. “It was very emotionally moving. I… I still have to process the words, really. What did you think?”

Scratching through his beard, Atticus smiles. “Hm… Perhaps the same thing, I still need to reflect on it, too. So, darling, what would you like to do? Are we just going to stand here, or shall I instead bring you home?”

You lean closer to him with raised brows and flushed cheeks. 

“Be careful with your nicknames in public, please… Somebody could hear us! And… The house that I live in with Quintus is not much of a home. Rather, it’s you I consider to be my home.”

Pleasantly surprised by these words, Atticus gives you a charming glance. “Hm, that’s very poetic of you, my love.” Putting emphasis on the sweet name, he manages to turn the compliment back to you.

Upon opening your mouth to speak, your words get stuck in your throat when your eye falls on Jesus, Whose followers are packing up their belongings. His blue sash has been removed and He seems about to be leaving as well. 

A tad taken aback by how casual He appears to be in this very moment, you suddenly see a sliver of red, alongside the sound of chiming jewellery. You sharply turn towards the source of the noise, and a familiar scent fills your nostrils – her perfume. 

“Joanna!” you breathe, and she freezes in her tracks, seemingly just on her way to do something else altogether as she takes notice of you. Over her arm is draped a crimson scarf of fine shahtoosh that you remember from the outfit she had been wearing during the banquet.

“(Y/n)!”

“You made it!” you quip.

Joanna grins and puts a hand on her chest, grinning widely at you. “You, too!” Atticus does not intervene when she wraps her arms around you tightly, trusting the situation. Embracing her firmly, you momentarily forget that you’ve got company. 

Upon pulling back, you look at her whilst smiling from ear to ear, still in disbelief of seeing her here. She mirrors it, holding your hands in hers, and she cannot stop beaming. “Oh, (Y/n), that was incredible, wasn’t it? So eye-opening! I… I must speak to Him!”

“How? We will never get close to them!” 

The two of you turn towards the area where Jesus and His Disciples are hanging out, and just now she seems to realise that Atticus is standing there, albeit shielded by the hood of his cloak. She does, however, not question it right now, preoccupied with matters way more important. 

“We should mention that we know John the Baptiser. After all, I’ve got a message for Jesus that I must deliver to Him personally.” 

With widened eyes, you let out a yelp when she grabs your hand and pulls you along. You immediately sense Atticus’ presence behind you, shadowing you enough to stay out of focus yet close enough to spring into action should things turn sour. 

You approach three women, one of whom you instantly recognise to be Tamar, but you have no chance to greet her when Joanna speaks up already. 

“Excuse me,” she catches their attention, “You’re followers of the Teacher, yes?”

“Yes, shalom,” a woman with a pink scarf over her hair greets you. She is familiar and you suddenly realise she is the woman who had been present when the friend of Tamar was healed, but you cannot remember her name. 

“Yes, may I speak with Him?”

Tamar gives the two of you an apologetic look. “He’s about to leave.” she states, “We all are. It’s been a very long day.” When her gaze settles upon you, something flashes behind it, as if she is attempting to remember who you are.

Joanna takes the shahtoosh scarf from her arm. “I want to give you this.” 

“Uh, I-I don’t… Uh… Thank you, what for?” the woman with the pink veil stutters, clearly taken aback by the offer. 

“It’s an offering.” Joanna clarifies matter-of-factly, “There was no collection taken?”

The woman in the middle who is wearing a red scarf on her head shakes her head slightly. “He didn’t ask for that.” she states, “This isn’t a way to get to speak to Him.” 

Tamar reaches out before Joanna can respond to it, touching the delicate fabric. “Is that shahtoosh?” she murmurs incredulously. 

“Yes, from Nepal.” Joanna breathes, handing it over to her. 

“And you’re donating this to His ministry?” 

Joanna nods in agreement. “Yes, and there will be more.”

The woman in the middle narrows her eyes slightly. “And who are you?”

“My name is Joanna,” she says, “And this is my friend, (Y/n). I bring greetings to Jesus from someone, so if I could just only have a moment…?”

“From who?” the woman with the red headscarf suspiciously asks. 

For a second, Joanna pauses, swallowing thickly. “I come from Machaerus. I’ve spoken with John… The Baptiser.” 

The woman with the pink veil turns over her shoulder, all three of them clearly bewildered with this sudden statement. “Andrew? Come over here.” 

A man with dark curls trots towards the group and you realise you have seen him before, when you were at Matthew’s booth a long time ago, when he and his brother had claimed to have business with your husband. 

“She says she’s spoken with John in Machaerus.”

“Both of us, actually,” Joanna clarifies, gesturing towards you. 

Andrew’s face twists into shock. “When?! How?! You’ve–You’ve seen him?”

“Yes, my husband works in Herod’s court, so I’ve had the opportunity to speak with John since he’s been… Since he’s been brought in.” she explains, and momentarily looks at you. “With my friend, (Y/n), too. We were intrigued by his words, and…”

Andrew stumbles over his words. “You’ve talked— Is he okay– What-What did he say?”

A soft smile graces Joanna’s lips. “You’re Andrew.”

“Yes.”

“Yes.” she whispers. “He mentioned you. You were a follower of his?”

Andrew nods firmly. “Yes, is he… Is he hurt?” 

Joanna sighs. “No…Well, uh, yes, I… It’s not a great place for him to be. He’s upset some important people. But he wanted you especially, Andrew, to know that he is in good spirits.”

Relieved by this message, Andrew firmly nods. “Can I see him?” he queries.

However, Someone behind the fisherman interrupts the conversation. “This is Jesus,” the woman with the pink veil states, and both you and Joanna are momentarily dumbfounded.

“Yes, of course!” Joanna whispers as He steps forward to stand in front of the two of you. 

Your heart is beating rapidly inside your chest as nerves course through your entire system, with a throat that runs dry as you look at Him, finally face to face with the Preacher you had been so intrigued to speak with. 

“I saw your teaching.” Joanna states. 

Jesus smiles, looks at her, “Hello Joanna,” then lets His gaze go to you. 

Once He catches it, you feel your breath hitch inside your lungs. Preventing yourself from gawking at Him, you run your sweaty palms down your dress, hoping you will not faint.

“And shalom, (Y/n),” He says your name. It sounds kind and gentle, void of any accusation of why you are here in the first place.

A beat of silence as he kindly observes you before opening His mouth to add something:

“It is an honour that I finally get to speak to you.”

Next chapter Chapter list

[the-chosen-fanfiction]

Gentile. | Chapter 34

You find literary inspiration in your grief. Word of Jesus’ upcoming sermon reaches Quintus. An unsuspecting centurion bears witness to something not meant for his eyes.

Chapter list

‘Shed it from your shoulders, that hurt, let it drag me under in your stead. No agony can match how your misery makes me feel, o, what sweeter burden than to take away your torment. My heart burnt and bled with you when you reduced to ash, scattered in the wind like a flock of countless birds, carried by their wings into nothingness. Your absence leaves me frantic but o, my love, be free, though it spells my—’

You start when Quintus’ fist bangs loudly against his desk, and you watch with misty eyes how the ink from your pen bleeds into the papyrus you had been holding, staining the paper beyond saving. The final words of your unfinished poem blot out.

“I can’t believe it! That new tax collector Gaius found is just… He’s just inept, (Y/n)! Look at these numbers! I’ll need to speak to him about it soon.” The nasal drawl of Quintus increases your annoyance and you slowly put down your pen, trying to keep yourself together. 

For the first time in weeks, you had found yourself comfortable enough to take up your writing again, and this poem had been meant for Lucius, inspired by recent events, yet your husband dragged you out of that state with his usual reckless abandon. “It makes no sense at all, darling! Every day I am reminded that no matter how beautiful this city is, no matter how delicious the fruits are, the people are and will always be utterly revolting and incompetent! A reform in education is necessary at this point, for who writes their ledgers like these? Not us!” Quintus keeps on chewing without even casting a glance your way and you quickly dry your wet cheeks on your sleeve, sighing deeply.

Something in your husband’s demeanour momentarily shifts. “Hmmm… Perhaps that isn’t such a bad idea after all.” He grabs a slip of paper and pens down a few notes. “What if I just… Requested the proper tools and funds to set up a system that allows this strange folk to actually learn something useful… Don’t you think that is a good idea?”

You open your mouth to reply, but a painful rush of discomfort shunts through your oesophagus. Putting a hand on your chest, you huff back a serious wave of heartburn, and to your relief, it fades just as quickly as it had appeared. Quintus frowns at you. “Are you okay?” His voice is unusually caring. 

“I’m fine,” you say, slowly rubbing your palm over the top of your stomach. “Just some indigestion I’m dealing with.” You hiccup and your husband raises an eyebrow.

“Right…” he utters before pointing at his letter. “Anyways, what do you think of that idea?”

“Educational reform?” you query, and Quintus nods. It is surprising to have him ask for your opinion. “Do whatever you think is best, Quin.” 

He rolls his eyes and gives a slight shake of his head, tossing the letter aside. “The one time I ask you something, you don’t even make yourself useful.” When you don’t reply to his snippy comment, he exhales and turns back to his work. “As soon as my son is born,” he suddenly pipes up, “How will you spend your days? I presume you aren’t planning on sticking your nose into your silly books every day, hm? You can still sit back now, but things are going to change.”

You slightly narrow your eyes. “Of course I am going to care for the baby. What are you talking about?”

He waves his hand in the air to dismiss it. “Oh, just making sure. You’re writing your poems again, so I was worried for a moment.” His dark eyes flicker over to you and he narrows them, “No more daydreaming, understand?”

“I am not daydreaming,” you counter, “This is a letter for Lucius.”

“You and Lucius….” Quintus clicks his tongue, “When will you realise that his abandon regarding our culture has caused this tragedy to happen? If it were up to me, I’d rather not have you see him at all. But I’m not that cruel.”

Your eyes widen at his tone, as if he expects you to be grateful to be in touch with your own flesh and blood. Biting your tongue, you cast down your gaze, not wanting to enter a confrontation right now. Instead, you choose to let your mind settle on the idea of your brother lovingly smiling at your letter, reading it out loud to his little girl, who beams with joy after hearing from you. With slightly trembling fingers, you start a new draft, getting rid of the damaged one.

You have barely written the first sentence when footsteps approach – one set you’ve grown almost embarrassingly familiar with – and you quickly adjust your palla to look more presentable, sitting up straight and tucking a few (h/c) locks behind your ears. Atticus and Gaius enter the incense-clouded space with in their possession a notice containing Hebrew text that you do not understand, and Quintus’ eyes skim over it quickly upon taking it from the centurion. 

“What’s this?”

“Jesus of Nazareth.” is all Gaius needs to say to have your husband sigh deeply in annoyance. Your heart flutters as you listen intently to the conversation. 

“About?” Quintus presses, miffed. 

Atticus hums. “He’s planning on hosting a sermon nearby.” 

“When?”

“Soon.”

Your husband’s eyes shoot up and a scowl settles itself onto his features. “A potential crowd, then. Bah, I don’t think a lot of people would be interested to listen to Him, anyways. I want you to temporarily increase Roman presence on the streets, just to deter people from going. I’m sure it will be fine.”

Across the room, your eyes momentarily meet Atticus’, and he smiles almost invisibly. You cannot keep yourself from returning it, and you duck your head when Quintus turns to you slightly, then back to the two men standing in front of him.

“I will make sure of that, Dominus.” Gaius obediently states. 

“If any of them run amok, arrest them at once. The last thing we need in this place is a riot.”

He bows his head slightly and steps away to leave the room. Atticus lingers.

“Cohortes?” Quintus mutters in slight question, “Can I help you with anything?”

Atticus hums, rubbing his chin in thought, slightly smiling. “I’m just curious to see how things will play out. You don’t seem too concerned about it all.” 

“Because I am not,” Quintus retorts. “I’ve got everything under control.”

The marshall chuckles. “We’ll see.” he whispers, then casts a final glance your way, desirous in nature. Your husband falls silent, estranged by the gesture, yet does not open his mouth to ask. You feel yourself inhale deeply and a fluster reaches your cheeks, for something ignites in the air between you and your secret lover that goes perhaps not even unnoticed by the Praetor.

It is the closest Quintus gets to suspecting anything, for when Atticus withdraws himself from your field of vision and a shivering breath tears from your lungs, your husband does not investigate further than a thorough observance of your abashed expression. 

As he returns to his business, you mull over the words as a question pops up inside your mind. Even though you already know the answer, it leaves you before you can give it another thought. 

“Can I go see the sermon?” you ask. Quintus’ jaw flexes at the insinuation and he slowly turns his head, the vein on his right temple already throbbing with unspoken frustration. 

“What do you think?” he rumbles with a miffed grin on his lips, “I thought we had already established that He has nothing for you. Why are you so interested in Him, anyways? Worry about the baby instead, and pray enough to the gods lest they become displeased with your blasphemous sympathy for that Jew.”

Swallowing thickly, you grind your teeth together. “If He has nothing for me, there is no harm in going there, hm?”

With an annoyed roll of his eye, Quintus slams his pen onto the table. “Will you stop your stupid whining? I cannot care less about what you think is interesting. Your father was right when he said I should keep you under better control, because you’re starting to look like your sister-in-law!” You feel all air leave you at the disrespectful mention of Valeria, “Speaking against me, trying to change my mind, doubting my judgement. Who said that you could act like that, huh? Just because you are pregnant does not mean you can say whatever you want!” 

You do not counter his ungrounded anger. Instead, you find yourself calm enough to stand up, steady despite your aching ankles, and run your palms down your tunic. “I will excuse myself to my room,” you say with a wavering voice. The miffed scowl he sends your way tells you everything he is feeling right now.

“I think not. I have had quite enough of your rebellious behaviour lately, (Y/n)!” The legs of his chair scrape against the floor as he stands and he paces towards you. “I will not tolerate this.” His shoulder tenses and you slightly cower.

Gulping, you brace for impact. It does not come. Instead, his palm cups your cheek. “Look at me.” Quintus mutters, “Everything I do and everything I decide is for you, you know that? It is for the sake of this child, the sake of our future.” He ghosts a hand over your tummy and you have to resist slapping it away.

Patience, you tell yourself, stay strong, for Atticus will get you out of here soon. The last thing you now need is your husband’s suspicion lest he fight against the plans. 

“I love you.” Quintus states with a certain edge to his tone that you’ve rarely heard from him. “I love you so much.”

The worst thing about these words is that he believes them himself. Though, maybe they are actually true, and they are his personal, twisted perception of what love actually means.

“I love you, too.” you respond, although the words are void of meaning. They feel alien on your tongue when addressed to him, so different from whenever you direct the same words to the man you actually love, and it takes everything within you to not look away from Quintus, who tilts up your face to meet your gaze. 

“Don’t do anything stupid, (Y/n).” Once again, his expression of adoration is laced with something that establishes his control over you. “Whatever idea you have about that Preacher, and about that sermon, get it out of that pretty head of yours. Don’t meddle in things you don’t have enough capacity to think about, do you understand me?”

You give a small nod and push away your immediate reaction of disgust when he brushes his lips against your forehead. “Now go rest,” he says, “You are clearly struggling with your hormones, speaking up like that against me, hm? After some sleep, I’m sure you’ll be good as new.” His mouth quirks upwards and you mirror it with a feigned grin of your own, softly whispering an affirmative answer. 

As he steps back, you let go of the breath you had been holding, grab your writing materials and turn to the exit without saying another word, apparently having convinced him of your obedience. Passing by a few guards, you step out into the village and turn for the estate. With your parchment under your arm, you walk into the estate, where a servant immediately queries whether you’d like a cup of water, which you gladly take.

In the kitchen, you take a seat and slowly drink from the cup, allowing your ankles some rest. The slight swell as well as the painful strain that has started to plague your limbs since a week or so causes discomfort every so often and you wonder how these ailments will develop throughout your pregnancy. 

On the table stands an empty vase that is highly due for a refill and you press your fingers against your lips in thought. Reaching into your pocket, you find a few denarii that you take out. You look over your shoulder to find the nearest servant, the same woman who had offered you the water, who is still standing with a jug in her hands, awaiting further command. 

“You, please, come over here.” you call her over, not knowing the young woman’s name. She rushes towards you, already lifting the jug to pour you another serving, but you shake your head, smiling. “No, that’s not it. I have another task for you.” You hand her the money and nod towards the vase. “I would like you to go to the marketplace and find an Ethiopian woman who is selling flowers. Get a nice bouquet to stand on the table. Pay the amount of money she wants for it, and what is left of it, you can split between her and yourself, alright?” 

Her eyes widen in puzzlement. “Ma’am,” she whispers, “I’m not allowed to accept–”

“No one has to know.” 

The young woman’s face lights up with a slight smile, a tad confused still but gratitude shining through.

“A-At once, my lady.” She heads out immediately and you hum in amusement, glad to hear that you’ll be able to support two people at once despite your husband not allowing you outside of the house.

Once you finish your water, you plod up the stairs with heavy steps. Turning into your small study, you take off the outer layer of your garment and toss it onto the small sofa before sighing deeply, massaging your neck for a second. When you pivot to your desk and see a small folded letter on there, your heart stutters, for you know of only one person who would leave such a thing for you. 

Your letter to Lucius can wait another day.

You grab it and quickly cast a glance at the door to see if anyone has appeared there, and to your relief, nobody has. With trembling fingers you unfold it and let your eyes scan the familiar handwriting, your heart soaring at the short but sweet note. ‘I want to see you. Go wherever, I’ll find you. Yours, A.’

Blushing, you hold the letter against your chest for a second before tucking it away in the bottom drawer of your desk hastily, rushing towards the bathroom adjacent to the bedroom to check yourself in the mirror. 

A few spots darker than your own skin colour have appeared on your cheeks which you’re certain have to do with your pregnancy and your (h/c) hair is shinier than usual, which you smile at. You unbind it, take your brush and run it through it a few times before putting your hair up again, dabbing some perfume behind your ears and fixing your garment, momentarily considering adding some jewellery but realising it would only raise suspicion.

On your way downstairs, you contemplate on how to sneak out properly without alarming any guard keeping an eye on you, but just as you turn the corner in an attempt to grab your cloak, you nearly bump into the servant who you had sent out earlier to get flowers, who profusely apologises.

“My lady, I-I’m so sorry for bothering you, I didn’t mean to–”

“It’s alright, calm down!” you say with a reassuring smile, “I’m not mad.” When you notice her hands are very much empty, you frown. “Hey, was everything alright at the marketplace?”

The servant girl barely dares to look at you and holds the denarii you had given her in your direction with a bowed head. “My lady, the flower merchant wasn’t around. When I asked about her, they said she went to follow some Preacher after her friend was healed.” 

Your breath hitches and your eyes widen. “Are you… Are you sure? With whom did she go, did they tell? What preacher is she following? She— She isn’t Jewish, right? If she is following the Preacher I suspect she is following, what sense would that make?”

Her cheeks flush and she clears her throat. “I-I am but a messenger, my lady. What I just told you is all I know.”

You nod slowly and fold her fingers over the coins in her hand. “Of course. Thank you, and keep it. For your troubles.” 

Her dark eyes meet yours and she is visibly startled. “My lady, I cannot… I cannot take this… I don’t want it.” She pushes her hand into yours and suddenly finds confidence to do so. “I appreciate the gesture, but I won’t keep money that has been made over the backs of my own…” 

Her voice trails off when she realises what she is saying and her free hand goes to her lips to cover them, fear suddenly shimmering on the brims of her eyes. “I-I– My lady, forgive me, I didn’t– Didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine.” you tell her, “Don't worry, everything is okay.” You pocket the denarii into your own tunic, not at all offended at her rejection. How could you blame her? “I’m sorry if I put you into an embarrassing situation, it was not my intention.” 

It is obvious that she isn’t used to being regarded kindly by Romans, for genuine surprise falls over her face. “N-No harm done,” she says, not used to hearing apologies, and shows you a ghost of a smile before stepping away. “I-I will check again for you tomorrow, my lady, perhaps that there are other flower merchants at the market, then.”

You give her a kind smile and nod. “I would appreciate that. Thank you.”

Flustered, she brushes past you into the estate to continue her work, and you momentarily look at her in thought. Once you remember that you had been on your way to meet with Atticus, you shift into motion.

You throw over a cloak and pull the hood over your head to shield yourself from any direct contact and head for the back door, where the guards have been slacking off in your past weeks of regular absence and are instead busy playing a game of knucklebones. You nearly kick against one of their helmets that stands near the door and barely evade getting noticed, but neither of the men seem to be alarmed at all, likely taking you for another servant. 

Heading around the block of houses, you soon find your way into the fishing village, attempting to enjoy your surroundings for the sun is bright and the birds are chirping, though your mind is set on just one thing – getting to the roof where you had met a few weeks prior whilst remaining unseen. 

A few familiar faces pass you by, but none seem to take note of your presence, for your hooded figure is one of many and you have grabbed your oldest cloak to fight unwanted eyes, trying to blend in to your best ability. In spite of the lack of attention, your heart beats against your chest loudly, spurred on by the painful strain in your limbs and ribs, and you are slightly out of breath when slipping up a few flights of stairs, hoping that you remembered the route well. After all, it is light outside right now, and you suddenly realise that the place where you had met Atticus before might not be as private now as it had been at night.

You stand still for a moment, looking around to see if anything catches your eye – any alleyway, remote area hidden away by barrels – anything. 

“Looking for someone?” 

You nearly faint as your gut drops into your sandals at the sudden voice behind you, and with a hand on your chest you turn towards the source of the noise with genuine offence on your face, and you raise your hand to push away whoever it is, but Atticus’ charming smile meeting you under the shade of his own hood makes your arm slump back to your side. 

“Atticus!” you cry out, and he chuckles lightly, shushing you by pressing a finger against his lips.

“Not too loud, love. Sorry about scaring you, I just couldn’t resist.”

You click your teeth and roll your eyes, playfully stomping his arm. “You fool, you’re lucky that I love you.” 

He lets out an amused sound and takes your elbow into his arm to guide you to a more secluded area, where he turns you with your back against the wall, removing his hood. You reach over to sort out his tousled hair, which has started to grow wild again as time passes. 

“You look handsome.” you purr. 

“Not half as much as you are beautiful.” he counters, ever tantalising. You blush and put your hands on his shoulders, slipping them around his neck lazily. With a soft murmur, Atticus presses his mouth against yours, stubble longer than last time you kissed him. 

It lasts a few seconds but is long enough to calm your nerves as well as your racing heart, which now settles into an easier pace. You notice how comfortable you’ve grown around him, with the butterflies and weak knees still present, but in a way that is more calm than before, for he is the only person around whom you’re not walking on eggshells.

“So, you’re here.” you whisper, “The day after you left, the night of the banquet, strange things happened.”

“The Baptiser.” 

You hum in agreement, a little puzzled. “You know him?”

“I witnessed him say goodbye to Jesus.” 

Your eyes widen, and Atticus soon clarifies. “I had been shadowing the Zealot before coming to visit you, remember? He was on his way to Machaerus.”

Searching his face, you wonder if you should tell him about what John the Baptiser has insisted on. Atticus cups your chin, scrutinising your expression, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

“You want to go to the sermon,” he states. It’s not a question, because he’s certain, and you don’t even need to ask him. You slowly nod, smiling sheepishly. 

“I would like that very much.” you say, “I’ve… I’ve spoken to John the Baptiser after he had been taken into custody, and he insisted I should go.”

Atticus’ brow knits together. “Oh? And what did you think of him?”

You let your eyes fall to the ground for a moment, fingers fiddling with the amulet around Atticus’ neck. “Well, I… It was odd. He… He knew everything about me. About us… He–He mentioned my confusion, and that I’m unhappy in my own marriage, and that… Well… That I am chasing the wrong kind of love.”

Atticus lets out a scoff. “What could that possibly mean? How could he ever know that? It’s nothing, darling, it’s likely a wild guess, hm?” He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear and caresses your cheek. “What you and I have is more true than anything either of us has ever experienced. How can that be wrong?”

Your eyes flutter back up to him, and then you look away in thought. “Hm… He talked about love found in God. But one does not pursue a romantic relationship with God, right? That would be strange and hardly appropriate. Like… Me chasing a different kind of love? One that is not romantic?”

“I must admit that I don’t know how to answer that question, (Y/n),” Atticus sighs, “But I can understand why you’re curious about it. Although I’ve never even considered having a personal relationship with any of our gods. How does that work, huh? Darling, I know you’d rather not hear this, but please be mindful when listening to a man like that. After all, he’s considered a bit of a – and forgive me for lack of better term – lunatic. He’s been living in the wilderness for years, who can attest to his claims?”

Atticus’ expression is patient as you look up at him pleadingly, searching his face. “I’m aware,” you say, “But please, I am dying to find answers. That Preacher, He cannot just be a nobody. You know it, too. You’ve seen Him, you’ve witnessed things as well, aren’t you interested?”

“Of course I am.” he instantly replies without hesitation. “He intrigues me. I think Quintus is being naive in writing Him off as nothing but a threat. Following His actions has made me aware that He cannot be an ordinary Rabbi.”

“Then let me please go with you to the sermon. Please.” 

Your fingers tighten in his cloak and Atticus hums softly, contemplating the answer. “You know that it won’t be easy to get you out of your husband’s supervision,” he says, “But I can try my best.”

You grin a little. “I’m here now, am I not?”

He nods slowly and puts his forehead against yours. “You’ve outsmarted him, darling…” 

Giggling, you chew your bottom lip. “This time.”

Lowly humming, he gently puts a hand over your throat and brushes his lips against your jaw, your chin tilting upwards as his nose grazes your cheekbone. “I’ll sneak you out to that sermon, don’t you worry now. I could even try to convince Quintus to let Gaius bring you, that would make it safer for you.”

“Thank you,” you reply, breathless, fingers wrapping around his wrist whilst he gently pecks your cheek, smiling against your skin.

“We will figure it out,” he promises, “We always do, don’t we?”

“Like having secret meetings in alleyways?”

“Mhm… Come here, love, our time is short and I cannot let this opportunity pass by without having properly kissed you.” he hoarsely murmurs.

You melt against him, arching upwards, softly sighing at the affection whilst he softly kisses you.

The sensation of his whiskers scratching your lips, his fingers wrapping around your throat carefully, playing with the dynamic in a way that sparks no panic, the intoxicating scent of his perfume makes you forget about the world around you, as if the only people in existence are you and the cohorte.

It is enough to momentarily forget about Quintus.

It is enough to let down your guard for just a few minutes.

Secluded, both of you believe yourselves to be safe. 

However, a wordless patrol of Quintus and Marcus, laced with awkward air between them that makes it so that they exchange no small talk, approaches through the alleyway, and what was originally an uneventful routine soon turns into something incredibly unexpected. 

The second they turn the corner, Gaius staggers back in shock whilst Marcus lingers a second longer, jaw hanging open at what he is witnessing, and the Primi pulls him back into cover, equally as dumbfounded. 

“What in the—”

“Sssh!” Gaius shushes him, “You want to get in trouble? Don’t speak so loudly.” Carefully, Gaius cranes his neck to peek around the corner – to see if what he had been seeing is not just his own mind playing tricks on him – and indeed, he has not been fooled, for there is no doubt that he has just caught the very wife of his superior in an utterly compromising position with the spy of the Cohortes Urbanae he had been conversing with almost amicably mere hours prior right before detaining Jesus. Confusion floods him and he tears away his gaze, not necessarily wanting to continue seeing the image that is now permanently engraved into his brain, and he wonders for how long it has been going on.

“We must tell Praetor Quintus.” Marcus immediately hisses, “That–That whore belongs in the Red Quarter–”

“Not so fast, Marcus. And… Don’t call her that, be careful with your words.” Gaius cuts him off, voice a low volume. Neither you nor Atticus appear to be aware of the two witnesses, and a soft croon from you drifts through the air alongside a love-confession that was meant to remain private, and Gaius closes his eyes in aversion, pity, discomfort and conflict. “Since Dominus answers to the cohorte, we might get in trouble with Rome if we tell on him.” He isn’t certain why, but the Primi can see why you’d be attracted to the marshall over Quintus, something he otherwise never would have considered.

“But we have sworn our loyalty to our superior, have we not?”

“Marcus, consider it for a bit longer. Both of us might lose our jobs in the long run if we tell on the cohorte.”

The other soldier gestures towards you. “But the lady–”

“What lady (Y/n) does is not important. She’ll give Quintus a child regardless of what is going on there right now, we know nothing of what is happening. Trust me, I’ve seen people get demoted for being tattle-tails. Praetor Quintus may praise you for it, but a man like Atticus will find out who talked. He’s one of Rome’s most experienced agents, you don’t want to get into his business, trust me.”

Marcus’ jaw flexes and for a moment he peeks around the corner to see the two of you still entangled in an embrace that is far from just friendly, and his gaze hardens. “How can we… How can we possibly not report this?”

Gaius sighs, shaking his head. “Think about what I said, okay? What is happening there,” he points at what’s taking place right behind him, “Is not our problem.”

Marcus opens his mouth to reply, but the voice of Atticus prompts both men to shuffle a little away, close enough to hear what is going on yet far enough to not be spotted after him taking two steps. 

“I promise to come get you before the sermon, alright?” Atticus tells you, and you nod eagerly. Gaius’ brow rises at the words. “Any moment in between now and then, if you need me…” 

“I know where to find you…” you finish his sentence, “Or the other way around. Just to steal a kiss…”

Atticus deeply chuckles and adds: “Or something else,” followed by a shy laugh from you.

“Sweet-talker…” you murmur before sharing another languid kiss. It makes Marcus visibly cringe and his shoulders tense up.

Gaius, equally as put off by the vivid image that has just been sketched, puts a hand on Marcus’ arm. “Just… Pick your battles wisely.” the Primi concludes one last time, “This is not worth losing your job over. Let’s continue our patrol before the others wonder where we are.” 

On that note, the two soldiers continue their walk, and blissfully unaware, you remain with Atticus for a few extended moments before you have no choice but return home lest your husband find out that you’re gone.

Next chapter Chapter list

[the-chosen-fanfiction]

Gentile. | Chapter 33

John the Baptiser explains his mission. Sooner than expected, you come face to face with Jesus upon returning home at Quintus’ behest.

Chapter list

You can hear a pin drop in the seconds of silence that follow. 

“You know Him?” you whisper, “All the way from–”

“Yes,” John smiles. “He’s my cousin.”

“Your…” You wrap your hands around the bars of the cell, not caring at all about the filthy grime that sits on the iron and even less about what Joanna might think. “Jesus is your cousin?”

John chuckles and nods, gesturing towards you. “I can see that mentioning Him piques your interest. So, you know Him as well.”

Rapidly blinking in confusion, you try to gather yourself. “I come from Capernaum– I mean, my husband is the Praetor, and… Well, Jesus has been causing unrest as of lately. I’ve seen–Well, heard–Him perform a miracle. A paralysed man was healed! And ah, there was the night on the roof.” Your cheeks flush red as you leave out the details of your endeavour that night, “He saw me. His eyes are so…” With a voice that trails off, you look at John pleadingly, your heart beating inside your chest tangibly. “Tell me everything about Him. Please.”

A tad puzzled, Joanna puts a hand on your arm. “(Y/n), are you okay?”

“I am,” you breathe, “Jo, I have been meaning to tell you about a Man Who I’ve been seeing around Capernaum a lot. He’s a Preacher, but different. I-I know that I’m not Jewish and neither are you, but there is something special about that Teacher. Like He would help us out, too.”

John lets out a noise and gives you a small smile. “That’s why the Spirit drew me to you. The moment I saw you, He made me aware of your inner conflict.”

“A Spirit? Are you possessed or something? A-And… My inner conflict?” You almost sound offended, but instinctively, your hand goes to your tummy. 

“The child you carry does not come from your husband.” John states, “Hence why I directed these words towards you. I came here to speak to Herod, and I did, but then I received words just for you, (Y/n). You have met the One Who has come to save the world. Although he seems to surround Himself with Jews mostly, He will not turn away from you. The Living God sees your pain and can heal you. It is not your lover you need to pursue in order to find peace, and the Lord knows how much you love him. But true love is found elsewhere.” 

Your jaw falls open as you struggle to find the right words to say, so a small sound leaves your throat. “I-I don’t get it. Which Lord?”

“That’s alright,” John says, “You’ve got time to learn things. But our time here is short. First, the other lady. You seemed very adamant to speak to me.”

Joanna steps forward and you take one back to give her some personal space. 

Her hands fiddle together as she inhales deeply to speak words that have been weighing heavy on her. “Why didn’t you call out my husband’s adultery?” Her face falls into a deep frown and you’re almost inclined to intervene lest she become more upset. “You tell my friend that there is a way to find salvation from her anxiety regarding her relationship and child. You tell Herod to change his ways, otherwise he will invoke the wrath of your God. But Chuza has been… Has been guilty of the exact same things. When I try to speak about it, my husband doesn’t want to listen.” 

Joanna sounds nearly offended.

John takes a moment to think and then smiles. “If I had done so, would you have come here to speak to me tonight? Would you have pursued me so that we could speak face to face?”

Your friend stares at him in slight disbelief but awaits further explanation.

The odd stranger shifts closer to the door of the cell. “I know of Someone Who will set you free from the yoke you live under.” he whispers. “Both of you.”

“You mentioned a ‘Kingdom of Heaven’,” you say. “What does that mean? I… I barely know a thing about your God. But I’m interested to know more. I’ve read a scroll that I’ve purchased from Rome on Israelites and there is just something that… Pulls me to it, I guess.” A little abashed, you let your gaze fall down to your feet. Joanna’s jewellery chimes at the movement as she looks at you in question, for you hadn’t revealed these things to her yet.

Letting out a soft laugh, John nods slowly. “I can see that. You’re very serious about this, aren’t you? If you go see Jesus, you will not be disappointed. You two should visit an important upcoming event to hear Him speak. He will give a sermon soon around Capernaum. (Y/n), you shouldn’t have a problem heading that way. Perhaps you could invite your friend over as well.” He nods towards Joanna, who is still not fully convinced. 

“When?” you stutter, “A-And, I’m not sure if Quintus would allow me to go, let alone have a friend over.”

John hums and tilts his head slightly, looking from you to Joanna. “You’ll figure something out, I’m certain of it. It has been good to speak to you two. I can sense that God is working and making a way.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Joanna breathes, “But if you say so.”

The dishevelled man hums and scratches through his beard. “It is not a mere coincidence that you are here. I must implore you to go to the sermon. Then, everything will become a lot more clear for you. Until then, feel free to visit me from time to time. On one hand, I can teach you all I know about the Kingdom of God if you want to know more, and on the other, I won’t be so lonely.”

Joanna softly laughs and looks at you with an expectant glimmer behind her eyes.

“I sincerely hope that I can attend.” you earnestly tell them. “I have no knowledge about your God. How can Jesus be interested in speaking to me if I don’t even know anything?”

Chuckling a bit, John shrugs. “Well, lucky for you, He is not searching for followers who have attended beit midrash.”

“Attended beit-what?” you quiz, and John waves it off.

“Ah, nothing. Jewish school. Just go to Him as you are. God requires just that to change your heart. You will find that true freedom is not found with the person who you love, but with God alone.”

You swallow thickly. “Forgive me for not taking you at your word, John, but I haven’t been feeling loved by the gods at all lately.”

“He knows.” John mutters, “He does, and He sees you. Go see Him. Please.”

Taking a deep breath, you nod. “Okay.” you whisper. “I’ll try.”

Behind you, a change of guard takes place, and alarmed, Joanna casts a glance over her shoulder. “We must go now, John. Thank you for your words. And… I will come and speak to you again, okay?”

John smiles. “Of course. I’m looking forward to it. Enjoy the rest of the party.”

Rushing back upstairs, both you and Joanna don’t feel like heading back to the festivities. Despite the rough interruption of John, the banquet is still going on like nothing ever happened. Slightly out of breath, you turn to Joanna, who stares at you with widened eyes. 

“I’ve got no idea what just happened.” you admit. “I’m confused, conflicted and exhausted.”

Carefully, Joanna puts a hand on your arm. “I’ll escort you to your room. You must rest for your baby.” 

Despite the fact that your mind is not yet done running rampant with countless thoughts, you allow her to do so. Even though you’d rather speak to her about what the meaning of this all could be, a few hours of sleep are way too necessary to pass up on.

Exhaustion pulls you under easily, but your dreams are far from uneventful. Your night is filled with short terrors about Valeria’s pale face, Quintus’ wrath and Atticus turning on you, all in between gasps of air as you startle awake drenched in sweat. Although you try to stay awake for long enough to push away the horrific images, you are too tired to fight it for long. 

Near the end of the night, another image appears in your dreams – a Figure cloaked in light Who embraces you tightly. You are not sure Who it is supposed to resemble, but you find yourself seeking it during the nightmares, and once you set your attention to that Light, the dreadful parts of your dreams seem to fade away. 

You awaken feeling oddly rested despite the clammy feeling of your nightgown sticking against your bare skin, and you slip out of bed to get dressed. Observing yourself in the mirror, you prod at your cheeks, which have healed nicely compared to when you had scratched them open in your grief. The bags underneath your eyes have somewhat lessened and a healthy glow makes your skin look radiant. 

When on your way to seek out Joanna, freshly dressed and ready to talk about whatever has been going on yesterday for you’re curious and in desperate need of answers as to what this strange Baptiser really wanted, a servant heads your way with in his hands a letter bearing Quintus’ seal, and you are far from pleased to find how quickly word has travelled. Taking it, you head over to Joanna’s room and knock on the door, where she appears on the threshold with around her shoulders a palla you had not seen on her before.

“Good morning,” she says, “Last night was quite something, wasn’t it?”

“It was,” you reply and show her the letter, “I’ve received something seconds ago. It carries my husband’s symbol. May I come in?”

Joanna clears her throat and steps back, only to reveal that Chuza is still present. He is just fixing his armour, getting ready for work, and his brow is knit together as he tosses his pillow onto the chaise longue he has obviously slept on last night. Your friend’s deep sorrow etched on her features tells you that they’ve been fighting and have not yet fixed this issue. Wordlessly, Chuza nods at you in greeting as he brushes past you, heading out for duty. 

Once inside, you close the door behind you and give Joanna an apologetic look. “I’m sorry to see that you two aren’t on the best of terms.”

She gulps thickly and averts her tearful gaze. “I gave him a piece of my mind yesterday when he came back from the banquet. He was quite drunk… I’m considering seeing John about that, soon, to see what he has to say.”

Sighing, you put a hand on her arm. “I’m sorry that things are going like this. I sincerely hope that you will figure things out, Jo. You do not deserve such treatment from the man who is supposed to love you.” Although these words could be applied to your own marriage as well, they feel stronger towards Joanna. After all, you’ve got Atticus, and she has nobody outside of her husband. 

“We must find the Preacher.” she suddenly pipes up. “John and I spoke about Him. He said that we might learn something from listening to Him. Something about ourselves that we can bring with us in our hearts, for this world of ours is not necessarily friendly to us.”

You blink in surprise. 

“I’ve seen Him,” you say, and Joanna opens her mouth to speak, smiling a bit.

“I meant to ask you about that.”

“Jesus performed a miracle in Capernaum. I-I didn’t see it, but I heard the commotion. A paralytic man was walking on his own two feet. It was… I was so unsure of what to think, but… I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I wanted to learn more about this Preacher. One night, when… Well, when meeting Atticus, I saw Jesus, too. He was having a conversation with someone and our gazes crossed.” You put a hand on your chest and take a deep breath. “It was almost as if… As if He was looking right into my soul, could see all of my secrets, and He still smiled at me kindly.”

Joanna’s eyes glitter in amazement. “I really want to go and see Him, now.” she breathes, “He sounds like He could change things for the better.”

“I want to find out more about the Jewish God.”

The words leave your lips and Joanna stares at you almost incredulously. “What?”

“Jesus and-and-and John are both Jewish. I want to know what is going on with that.” You step forward, a pleading look on your features. “Joanna, what have the Roman gods done for me? And for you?”

Your best friend sighs. “I understand that one cannot go without the other. But let us not rush things, alright? Let us find out about Jesus first. Then I’ll decide whether investigating this would be worth it. I’m… Not really sure what to think, either. I don’t want to let emotion take the better of me now.”

Cradling your stomach, you shift back and forth on your feet, for your ankles don’t feel comfortable. “Your letter.” Joanna suddenly states, and you only now remember that you’ve been tightly holding onto it, crinkling the papyrus and almost making the ink bleed onto your skin. The pair of you take a seat on the available chaise longue and you open the parchment, unrolling it. 

It’s the hand of Quintus’ secretary and states that he has heard of the unrest around the banquet yesterday evening, which makes you wonder if he has some kind of spy that lingered around during the event that reported back right away when it happened, but no matter the fact that he knows so quickly, what the letter contains is a short notice that he’ll get you escorted back to Capernaum within two days. He prefers to have you home, his correspondence states, and that exposing you to such lunatics would not be preferable for your pregnancy. Quintus’ standard greeting on the bottom is cold and distant, and you toss it away with reckless abandon.

“Why does this not surprise me at all?” you query rhetorically, “Of course he is having me escorted back to Capernaum at the slightest mishap.”

Joanna wraps an arm around you and pulls you against her. “Hey now, we will see one another again soon. When seeking out Jesus, you know? John said that He is preparing something to share. A sermon of sorts.”

“Quintus will never let me go.”

“Who says you need his permission?”

You cannot fight the slight smile that spreads over your lips at the mention and chuckle. “Right. I’ll find a way.”

“Good.” says Joanna, “But before you’ll be picked up, let us enjoy this time together, okay? After all, we’ve got a lot to talk about.”

_ 

You’ve almost learnt the way back home by heart at this point. After saying your goodbyes to Joanna alongside the message that she should go speak to John as often as she can, you were transported back by wagon to Capernaum. Excitement regarding the likelihood of seeing Atticus again surges through your system, but there is also curiosity when it comes to the sermon Jesus is apparently preparing. You wonder how you can sneak out in order to listen to it. But first, you suddenly remember, you might see Him face to face in Quintus’ workspace.

Incense clouds your husband’s office and you gulp at the strength thereof, standing a little awkwardly in the middle of the room as you wait for him to notice you. 

Once you clear your throat, he turns to you as if offended at your presence, but when he sees it is just you, he sighs. “You do understand that I won’t let you go anymore as easily after this incident with that lunatic, right?” The first words he says to you set the tone for his wish to remain in control in this very moment, so you resist the urge to speak up. 

“Did you pray at all?”

“Of course I did.” you lie. “You’ve told me to do so.”

Quintus narrows his eyes and taps his fingers against the desk. “I don’t believe you. How often?”

“Twice a day.”

He pushes his tongue into the inside of his cheek as he observes you for a few silent moments. You grow uncomfortable under his scrutiny. 

“In the light of what happened to your sister-in-law coupled with that strange story from what happened at the banquet, I think it would be best if you stay around my office. Do I make myself clear?”

“Quintus, you know how I feel about being locked up–”

“Think of your pregnancy,” he hisses, “Think about my son.” He steps around his table and approaches you, laying a hand over your belly before you can even step away. His other hand takes your chin and forces you to look at him. “I cannot risk your safety just because you feel like you’re inconvenienced by the situation. Many women would commit murder to be in your position. You’d do good to show some gratitude.”

You wonder if your father has influenced him to tighten the grip he has on your life already. “Allowing you to go was a mistake. Something could have happened to you.” Quintus’ words are cold despite the attempted expression of care, although something softens in his gaze. You swallow thickly and let out a small noise, growing anxious at the way he is still holding your chin. 

The Praetor exhales and releases you at last, flexing his jaw. “I just… Worry about you. You know that, right?” He certainly has a poor way of showing it, if these words are true at all, though you doubt it. “Atticus and Gaius are arresting that street Preacher we’ve been hearing about. Jesus of Nazareth.”

Your heart stutters and you cannot fight the widening of your eyes as you look at Quintus in slight disbelief. It turns out that Atticus had been successful in his plans of getting Jesus here so far. 

As your husband turns away, you dare to let out a breath. 

“You may stay if you want to, provided you keep your mouth shut.” He raises an eyebrow. It confuses you that he allows you to be here at all during the upcoming interrogation, but you decide to not question it. Part of you already realises that it might be just because Quintus thinks Jesus poses no threat and that he wants to show you that this Preacher is just a regular nomad with no true impact. 

You, however, know better.

Without saying a word, you head over to the small sofa at the side of the chamber where you often read, and take a seat whilst fiddling with the lion pelt that is draped over the back of it, dragging your fingers through its mane. 

A strange sense of both excitement and anxiety bubbles within your gut. You will come face to face with both Atticus and the Man you’ve heard so much about and Whose eyes keep appearing in your mind over and over again, alongside an inexplicable stirring of your heart. You aren’t certain what it is, for it feels unlike anything you’ve ever sensed before.

From underneath the chaise small sofa, you grab your long-forgotten embroidery piece and shake off the layer of dust that has gathered upon it. Quintus sighs, turns to the shrine behind his desk to light the candles, and then sits. 

“Fetch me a drink,” he tells the servant lingering in the corner of the room, and his gaze momentarily shifts to you, “And for my wife as well.”

As the servant nods, you speak up: “Ah, for me just water, please.”

The boy hurries away and Quintus fingers the letter on his desk, his eyes drilling into you from the spot where he feels most powerful, and clears his throat. 

“Just water?”

You hum. “I cannot handle wine anymore.”

“Are you ill?”

You shake your head. “Just pregnant.” Touching your tummy, you are relieved that he seems satisfied with your answer, but his eyes soon narrow.

“Are you wearing your amulet?” he queries suddenly. Your throat colours red. You had pocketed it whilst dressing up after your night with Atticus, having taken it off the evening prior and not wanting to be reminded who you’d return to once it was over, and you must have forgotten to bind it around your neck again. 

“I forgot to put it back on,” you say in semi-earnesty, and he hums, tapping his fingers on the table. “The tunic it is in is in my study.”

Quintus leans back in his seat. “Do not forget to put it on again. Neither of us would like to see you in Valeria’s position, hm?” 

“Of course.”

Your husband lets out a hum that you cannot quite place, whether he’s content with or unconvinced of your answer, but he turns his attention away from you to read the letter, taking an olive from the bowl on his desk. You thread the needle and make slow progress on your uneven stitches, for your mind is far from present with the embroidery piece in your hands. 

The servant returns with two clay cups on a tray and hands you your water. A few sets of footsteps are heard in the hallway just as he strides over to Quintus to hand him his drink, and your husband quickly waves him off at the approaching business. Your heart stands still inside your chest as you watch with bated breath, and you quickly put down your cup lest you drop it on accident.

Quintus rises as three men walk in – Gaius, holding Jesus on His arm to lead Him forward, and Atticus soon follows, momentarily putting a hand on Jesus’ shoulder. Your eyes meet Atticus, who strides over to stand next to you, something your husband does not second-guess.

“Did he resist?” Quintus inquires.

“No, Dominus.” Gaius reassures him. 

Quintus binds the letter he had been working on shut. “And his followers?” 

“Peaceful and compliant.”

Your gaze is fixated upon Jesus as you inspect Him. In the daylight, you can see that He is wearing a beige garment with a short-sleeved purple tunic draped over it, with dark brown hair that falls just above His shoulders. His eyes are equally as dark, a spark of curiosity within them, and you can’t help but stare at Him.

With a gesture of his hand, the Praetor points out the chair in front of his desk. “Have a seat.” Jesus does as He is instructed.

“Leave us,” Quintus states after a brief silence, and Gaius bows his head before walking away. Your husband sits back down on his chair and smiles smugly, leaning back in a casual way. 

“Jesus of Nazareth… We finally meet!” He shows his palms in an attempt to appear amicable, but you know better. 

“Here I am.” Jesus replies with a warm voice. Hearing it so close makes your heart flutter inside your chest. There is wisdom in its timbre.

Quintus reaches over and grabs his small bowl of olives, “I thought you’d be more…” he starts, briefly pausing. “Sort of…” He waves his hand in the air.

“...Taller–?”

“–Crazier looking?”

Jesus breathes out: “Ah.”

“Wild hair and animal skins,” your husband pops an olive into his mouth.

“Glad I could disappoint you.” 

You have to stifle the sound of amusement threatening to leave you. Atticus slightly turns to look at you and smiles softly, subtle enough for only you to see. Your fingers come to rest on your belly, your other hand on the chaise longue, close to Atticus’ leg.

“The first story I ever heard about You,” Quintus muses, spitting the pit into an empty cup, “I didn't believe it.” 

“That’s usually how it goes.” Jesus replies.

Quintus frowns a bit. “It wasn't about religion, or preaching, or God. It was about fish.”

“Ah, another common theme.”

The Praetor turns to Atticus, and your hand instinctively pulls away, even though you hadn’t been touching him.

“It was an impossibly huge catch, Atticus. It settled the largest debt in Capernaum's ledger. You’ve heard about it too, (Y/n).” Quintus holds out a hand towards Jesus. “Did You meet Atticus? He's Cohortes Urbanae. They're like Caesar's personal detectives. Mostly in Rome, but they go wherever.” 

The two men look at one another and give each other a respectable nod, but Atticus’ arms do not uncross.

“He's especially interested in you. And of course, my wife, (Y/n). She’s also been hearing about You. She’s been having silly ideas inside her head that You’re interesting enough to know more about, so she can stay to see You’re not that special. We’re not Jews, why would she care, right?” 

Quintus chuckles as if he has just said something amusing, but neither of the other men in the room join him in that laughter. For a second, Jesus’ eyes meet yours, and He also gives you a greeting nod alongside a gentle smile. You mirror it.

“Have You ever visited the Far East, Jesus?” your husband asks.

“I have received visitors from there, but ah, never been there Myself.”

The Praetor leans closer, shifting in his seat. “They eat their fish raw. Peel off the scales, cut off the heads

and tails, and… Take a bite.” He pulls a face. 

Jesus just raises His eyebrows slightly. “That’s quite something.”

“They eat the flesh and spit out the bones.” Quintus clarifies.

“Of course.”

“If Simon had not settled his debt, that could've resulted in my demotion. That was flesh.” Quintus’ grin falls and he leans on his arms onto the surface of the table, tilting himself towards Jesus. “You create a public disruption that results in damage to property, a stampede, and a blight on my personal reputation. Hmm… Bones.” With a slight tilt of his head, Quintus shows a scowl.

“You seduced the single most brilliant and effective tax collector in the entire Upper Galilee. Also, bones.”

Slowly, Quintus turns towards Atticus, and you’re almost inclined to cower away so that your husband does not see you, as if you aren’t allowed to even be seen in the proximity of the marshall, but you remind yourself right in time that Quintus knows nothing.

“And now, the most tenured Cohortes Urbanae in the history of the Roman Empire tells me he personally witnessed You disarm a Zealot sicarii. Well…” Reclining back, Quintus widely smirks. “That’s flesh. That's flesh!”

Jesus, having taken it all in, words His reply: “Sorry to have caused so much confusion for you over flesh and bone.”

Your husband shakes his head. “Confusion? No, no! If Your race weren't so repugnant and odious, I'd offer You a job!” he breathes with a huff of amusement. 

The Preacher tilts His head and pulls a doubtful face. “I cannot take that as a compliment.”

“Jesus, this whole thing is very simple. You seem to be splitting your time between creating headaches for Rome and victories we could not achieve ourselves.” 

“That’s a little reductive.” protests Jesus.

Atticus suddenly cuts in. “You've doubled your following since leaving Capernaum. Then again, You returned a violent man, who had been terrorising Jericho to his senses.” The final word comes out as a whisper and you dare to gently touch his leg at last, and for a second, the gaze of the cohorte falls to look at you, a softness over his features, but it tears away just as quickly as it had settled onto you.

Quintus doesn’t seem to catch onto the soft touch between the two of you. “But word of Your ‘miracles’ or whatever has spread all through Syria and they start coming over here. Do You see my problem? I don't know whether to eat You or spit You out, to stick with the fish metaphor.” When he sharply turns to you and Atticus, you quickly withdraw your hand from the back of his leg, “We're probably past that now.” Atticus gives a small shrug.

“I'm saying I don't know what to make of You.”

Jesus calmly replies. “That's going to be a lot of people's problem with Me.”

Quintus, dropping the friendly façade, leans threateningly close. His chair creaks a bit. “No more bones, Jesus. Follow me? No more draining my talent pool, creating spectacles, crowds... No more meddling, hm?” His smile is dangerous and contains no kindness in its depth and instead holds disdain, you recognise, for you’ve seen it many times before, whenever he speaks to you after you address your concerns about something, or whenever he talks to Lucius.

“I cannot promise any of these things.” Jesus earnestly tells him. A very short silence follows.

Your husband’s face drops. “Then I cannot promise You won't stop breathing.” 

With stuttering lungs, you feel your throat run dry. 

“Well, it sounds like we're clear on what we can and cannot promise.” 

It is refreshing to see Him standing up to your husband, something you never would have dared to do yourself. You are intrigued by how calm and collected His demeanour is in spite of your husband attempting to coax Him into a verbal attack of sorts.

Quintus cackles, a treacherous noise including no humour. Jesus simply smiles, perhaps a tad amused.

“I honestly…” your husband squeaks with feigned playfulness, balling his hands into fists, “Oh, Jesus of Nazareth, I like You. We're on the same team. Just don't make me kill You.”

Jesus smiles. “I won't make you do anything. But My Father, on the other hand…”

Sitting up straight, Quintus’ mind is obviously racing. “I don’t know what that means, but let’s leave on a high note. I-I think we have an understanding here. You're free to go.” 

Your jaw falls nearly agape. Quintus letting Him go had been the last thing you had expected. Atticus tenses next to you, equally as surprised by this decision. Jesus stands and turns slowly, and you have to resist the urge to stand and hurry after Him, wanting to speak to Him still.

Before Jesus has the chance to get away, however, Quintus brings up a sore point. “Oh, sorry about Your cousin, by the way.” Jesus halts and pivots to face him. “Marching himself into Herod's court and moralising was not a very wise or brave thing to do. My wife was there when it happened. According to her, it turned really messy.” 

Jesus finds your gaze across the room and you have to fight the instinct to shake your head, for the words the Praetor had just put into your mouth were far from true. However, the kind eyes of the Preacher make you realise that He must know that in one way or the other already, and you let out a shivering breath, holding onto that gaze for a while longer.

“He knew what he was getting himself into.” Jesus tells your husband.

“Do You… Know what you're getting Yourself into?”

The Nazarene looks at Atticus for a moment, then at you, then back at Quintus.

“It was a privilege to speak with you today, Quintus.” He concludes. However, His attention lingers on you for a while before he finally pivots to leave, then shifts to your belly, to Atticus, and back to you. An instinctive hand comes to lay on top of it and Jesus slightly smiles, then leaves. A shivering exhale leaves your parted lips.

Atticus steps slightly forward to watch Him leave, still baffled by Quintus’ decision. 

“Well,” Quintus quips, “That was fun!” He grabs a few items to continue working again. 

The cohorte lets out a huff. “So, nothing about Him concerns you, huh?”

“If it did,” your husband clarifies, “I wouldn’t have let Him go. He'll be a nice diversion for the people for a while.”

Atticus shuffles towards the desk slightly, a chuckle building inside his lungs. He lets out a laugh as he takes an olive from the bowl, earning a strange look from the Praetor. Before he leaves, dark eyes meet yours, soften, and you hope you’ll meet him soon, for butterflies swarm your gut at the sight. 

Once the marshall is gone, a waft of his perfume and oil lingering in the air, Quintus turns to face you. “See, darling? Nothing to be upset about, nor interested in. He’s just a rogue Preacher. Don’t let that little interest of you waste your time. He’s got nothing for you, trust me.”

Quintus resumes his work, yet you are too stunned to continue on your embroidery.

The rest of the day, your mind runs rampant, not even one mundane chore reaching completion.

Next chapter Chapter list

[the-chosen-fanfiction]

Gentile. | Chapter 32

Atticus reveals why he came to see you and Joanna sees something she ought not have. During the banquet, a strange man shows up and calls you out on your behaviour, but upon further investigation, you find out that he might just be the key between you and the Preacher.

Chapter list

The air between the two of you crackles with affection in the afterglow of your intimacy. Atticus’ lips brush against your bare shoulder whilst you exhaustedly croon against him, covers sticking to your naked skin, no inch left unkissed. 

“Thank you for letting me see you,” he earnestly whispers with a face that twists into solemnity. “I love you, (Y/n). You take my breath away…” You thumb through his stubble and smile. “Why the sour face? We will be together soon, no?”

The solemn shimmer makes place for a confused frown. “What do you mean, love? I thought you weren’t going to ask your brother about fleeing Quintus…”

Swallowing thickly, you realise you have barely exchanged a word with him ever since he set foot over the threshold. “I meant to tell you,” you say, “But… We got carried away doing other things.”

Atticus cannot help but chuckle at that and he shifts his arm so that you can nuzzle comfortably into him. “We kind of did,” he huffs, burying his face into your neck and kissing you under your ear, inhaling deeply. “By Juno, you smell delicious… I could sit like this all night and day. But please explain, for what I’m hearing sounds like music to my ears.”

You smile but it soon falls into worry. “Ah… It is only due to something tragic, though, so I’m conflicted.”

The marshall knits his brow together in confusion. “Darling?” Only now, you realise that there are tears shivering on the brims of your eyes and you blink them away, scooting impossibly closer into Atticus’ naked form, seeking comfort as you start talking. His skin upon yours is unlike anything you’ve ever experienced before.

“My sister-in-law was ill for a long time. Whilst we were there, Lucius promised to not say anything about the affair to Quintus after I opened up to him about it. But… Valeria, that’s her name, she got very bad one night. Got called out of bed to pray and care for my niece. There was so much blood, and…” 

A sob leaves your throat and your hand goes to your belly out of instinct. You didn’t mean to burst the bubble of the afterglow, but you cannot stop the tears. Atticus does not pressure you, holding you gently as your bottom lip shivers, his breath intermingling with yours, slightly calming your sorrow. “She didn’t make it,” you whimper, “I… I saw her die, I saw how it broke my brother. The baby made it but is vulnerable and sickly.” You sniffle, “I cannot imagine the pain Lucius and Aurelia are going through.”

Atticus hums and cradles your stomach. “I’m deeply sorry to hear that, my love. You’ve got my condolences. I wish there was something I could say to take away that pain, but I fear that I don’t know the right words.”

“You don’t need to,” you whisper. “Sometimes, it is better to feel the pain and learn to live with it rather than to pretend it is not there. But there is light at the end of this all. I had a heart to heart with my brother after the cremation.”

The cohorte’s eyes find yours when your gaze grows determined. “Lucius promised that we only need to say the word. He will take his girls and flee Rome so that Quintus cannot find them. I… I brought forth the point that I don’t want to be selfish, but he said that I needed to hold onto what I have with you, that I should cherish it and not take it for granted.”

Atticus’ face relaxes and he closes his eyes in relief. “I… Can barely believe my ears, love. I don’t know what to say.”

You cannot keep yourself from grinning, letting out a small giggle. “We’ll find a way. I cannot travel too far right now so I propose to wait until after the baby is born, but we will figure it out.”

He takes your hand and kisses the tips of your fingers, eyes glittering in the light of the oil lamp on your nightstand. “I love you, (Y/n). I have never felt this way ever before.”

“Neither have I.” you breathe, gut swirling with butterflies, and he moves to press his mouth against the nape of your neck, drawing a soft whimper from you, but you gasp “Wait,” as Atticus snakes his fingers over your thighs, which deserves you a questioning hum. His hair tickles against your skin as he pulls away and you smooth it out with your palm before speaking up

“I’m curious what has brought you here,” you murmur, “Other than just… This…” You caress his upper arm and he huffs a tender laugh, kissing you briefly. 

“Very well,” he muses, “I’ve… Happened to investigate a Zealot who was planning to assassinate a Roman magistrate in Jerusalem. I aimed to kill him in the act, but something happened. He… He stumbled upon his brother who used to be paralysed from a very young age.”

“Used to?” you query, and Atticus nods. 

“I went to speak to the Zealot’s brother. Turns out, he ran into a Man Whom he claimed has healed him, and that he thinks He is the Messiah. Afterwards, I sought out the Zealot, who was now in pursuit of that Messiah, and what do you know? It’s that Teacher you’ve been taking an interest in.”

You sit up slightly, leaning onto your elbow, looking at him in slight shock. “What, really?”

Nodding, Atticus traces his fingers up and down your hip. “Yes. However, I’ve heard that your husband is searching for an audience with Him. I’m not sure if he likes Jesus’ activity at all.”

Letting out a noise, you roll your eyes. “That would be an understatement. Right after we returned from Rome, he immediately went back to work. He seemed keen about me leaving for a few days only so that he can focus on his responsibilities without having to worry about me.”

Atticus clicks his tongue and shakes his head. “He makes it very clear where his priorities lay.”

Sighing, you relax against the cohorte again. “So, what did you need to see me for, then?”

“I’m going to seek out Jesus of Nazareth.” 

Your eyes widen. “What?”

“I’m… Curious to see what He will do when coming face to face with Quintus. More specifically, how He will react to being taken captive.”

“What?! You can’t do that, Quintus will–”

Atticus puts a hand on your shoulder. “I know you’d say that. Darling, please, do not meddle in this. I’m just interested to see what will happen.”

Sudden anger coils within you. “Your search for intel does not justify taking an innocent Man captive!” 

“How can you know that, my love?” Atticus mutters, “That He is innocent? What do you know about Him?”

For a second, you stare at the marshall, dumbfounded, until you realise that he is right. “Nothing.” you say. “I know nothing about Him.”

With a gentle brush of his fingers against your jaw, Atticus smiles. “So, make sure you’re there when Quintus questions Him. See what you can find. I know you’re just as curious about Him as I am. See it as an opportunity to get to meet Him.”

You accept his outreached hand and your fingers intertwine, and you play with the rings on his fingers. “Can you promise me that nothing bad will happen to Him?” you whisper. 

“That part of His fate is out of my hands. But I thought I’d let you know about my plans so that you can perhaps learn a bit more about Him.”

The pair of you look at one another for a long moment, the silent moment only broken when you exhale softly and smile. “Thank you,” you murmur.

“Of course,” Atticus says, “Any time. And… It means that I will be around Capernaum soon. Although I’m not sure for how long I will stay yet, you may seek me out at the market square or on the roof, or in any dark alleyway. I won’t be far.”

Grinning, you snake an arm around his waist, bringing your face in front of his. “Oh? What should I seek you out for, then?” 

An amused huff leaves his lips and he rubs his nose against yours, pressing his knee between your legs. “Need a reminder?” he huskily whispers, and you gasp when he rolls you over so that your back is against his front, his body warm against you. 

“Please,” you giggle, wincing softly when he nibbles the part where neck and shoulder meet, and he gladly ignites these memories within you.

_ 

It is barely the crack of dawn when you awake from shifting on the other side of the bed, but when you reach out, the pillow is unpleasantly cold. 

Bleary-eyed, you find the shape of the cohorte sitting at the edge where he laces up his sandals, already fully dressed. A pang of disappointment shunts through you and you let out a soft sound, which causes him to look at you. 

“Where are you going?” you croak.

“I didn’t mean to wake you.” he whispers, “I’m sorry, love. I’ve got no time to stay.”

You sit up slightly and Atticus cannot help but let his eyes go to the marred skin that falls exposed upon the covers sliding off of you. He chews his bottom lip and gives you an apologetic look.

“But the banquet!” you protest meekly, still half-asleep. 

Atticus leans over the disturbed covers to put a hand on your leg and sighs. “I did not come here for the banquet.” His flirtatious tone is enough to halt your objections, “It’s time for me to go to Capernaum.”

You give him a small pout and arch your body towards him. “You don’t even have time to say a proper goodbye, then?”

A charming grin tugs his lip upwards. “I didn’t say that I would leave you like this. As I mentioned, I didn’t mean to wake you, but I was going to. In a different way than making noise, that is.” He crawls over the bed as your mouth falls ajar at the notion, and he presses a lingering kiss against your knee, a flush colouring your cheeks bright red. “Let us make the best of these moments” he whispers, “Even though we will see one another again sooner than we think.”

And although that is true, you cannot refuse such an offer when murmured so convincingly.

Once done, it is quite early in the morning when Atticus wipes you clean and smears a royal amount of aloe cream on your stretch marks before he truly has to leave. He kisses you longingly at his departure, gently cradling your face. 

“My love,” he whispers, “We will find a way to be together. I will see you soon. Please, stay safe here.”

“You, too,” you mutter, “Be mindful about Quintus, even though I know that you will. I love you.”

“I love you, too.” he sighs, and presses one lingering kiss to your lips. You have to resist the urge to chase after him once pulls away and steps back and you watch, still entangled in the sheets, how he heads for the door, casting one final look over his shoulder before he unlocks it.

However, the moment it swings open, a loud gasp is heard. Joanna, in the process of knocking, stands in the doorframe with her hand raised up slightly. With her jaw agape, she stares at Atticus, then at you, and you rapidly pull something over your body to cover your naked form. With rosy cheeks, you stare at her wide-eyed.

Atticus clears his throat. “Excuse me.” he gives you one last look and winks before he walks past her, leaving both of you in a state of shock. 

Joanna casts a glance into the hallway to watch the cloaked cohorte walk off before rushing into your chambers, slamming the door behind her and locking it up tightly. 

“(Y/n)! What did I just walk into?!” Her face is pink, but so is yours, and embarrassment claws at your throat. Quickly grabbing your robe, you pull it over your shoulders, but it is barely enough to hide everything. Still, you get up on your feet, albeit with slight discomfort both from your tummy and how sore you are.

A wide grin spreads over Joanna’s face as she approaches you. “What did I walk into?” she questions again, this time with amusement lacing through her tone, “(Y/n), talk to me!”

You find your voice at last and you let out a shy laugh at her enthusiasm, covering your lips to fight it. “Ah, he paid me a surprise visit after I withdrew to my room last night. I didn’t know that he’d come, but… He left again. He only came to see me.”

She raises an eyebrow and chuckles. “Well, not just to see you, friend. I heard the servants whispering about strange noises coming from your bedroom last night, and I thought they were just nightmares. As it turns out, you haven’t been sleeping much at all.”

You let out a noise of embarrassment and cover your face with your hands, which prompts a fit of laughter from your close friend. “Oh, don’t worry about it, (Y/n). My lips are sealed and I’m nothing but happy for you that you’ve met someone like him.” 

She sits down on the edge of the bed and you dare to look at her from the corner of your eye, giving her a small smile. Joanna leans her arm against yours, giving you a challenging look. 

“You and I had an appointment to go to the bathhouse today, hm? Think you can walk?”

Clicking your tongue, you slap her arm playfully with an abashed: “Jo!” Under her cackles, you stand to dress yourself as well as wash your face, and you feel like a hopeless teenager besotted with her first real crush. 

“Not sure if you should show up there fully nude with all these marks on your skin–”

“Joanna!” you cry out, splashing water from your basin her way, but she covers herself and bursts into a fit of laughter. 

“I can’t help myself, friend! This is way too hilarious.”

Letting out a noise of feigned indignation, you continue making yourself look presentable and clothe yourself in a thin tunic paired with a palla that matches its colour. Once ready to go, Joanna stands to head out for breakfast.

Once done with the first meal of the day, you go to the bathhouse at last. With the guests for the banquet pouring in, it is busier than last time, and to your dismay, there isn’t anyone available to give you a massage, although your back has been killing you.

Joanna and you slip into the warm water and your annoyance regarding the lack of backrubs immediately washes away the moment you feel the support it gives your heavy belly. “I hadn’t even noticed my baby has grown this heavy,” you breathe in delight, “It feels so different right now. I can barely remember what it felt like to not have a huge bump on the front of my body, weighing me down.” 

Your friend smiles and wades up next to you. “I have no trouble believing that, my friend. It must be tough to carry that around all day.”

With a brush of your hand over your stomach, you nod in agreement. “It isn’t easy, but I’m sure it will be worth it.”

Joanna raises an eyebrow and smiles. “You will have to write to me more often. I need all the details on the baby, and of course about your… Plans.” 

You hum pleasantly. Despite the grief you’re still going through when it comes to Valeria, things finally seem to be somewhat going better for you. Not only do you have the chance to flee with Atticus, the man in question might be waiting for you in Capernaum already. You wonder what he is up to, why he needs to seek out Quintus and what will come of the planned arrest of Jesus. Something akin to guilt sparks within your gut, but you are too curious about Him to let it grow.

Relishing in your momentary weightlessness, you float in the water for a while whilst Joanna talks your ear off about her current projects. With an occasional hum to reassure her that you’re listening to her, you sometimes let your mind wander to Atticus, who you plan on seeing the moment you return home. But first, you think to yourself, it is time to relax and enjoy the banquet that is at hand, if not for the food, then for your welcome company.

At last, a servant is available to give you a massage, but since the tables aren’t meant for pregnant women, she offers to take care of your feet and shoulders instead, so that you can sit in a chair whilst she works. You agree to this whilst Joanna has the luxury of laying down on her stomach, enjoying the attention her muscles receive in that way.

“I really should try to convince Quintus to start working here,” you murmur in amusement even though you’ve got no intentions of staying with him for long. If all goes well, you’ll be away from him as soon as the baby has been born. 

“Hm, I can ask Chuza to convince him.”

“Please do. I can live with massages like these every day for the rest of my life.”

Alas, way too soon, it is time to prepare for the banquet. Even though you aren’t very hungry and don’t particularly like most of the foods served, you doll up for a fun night regardless. Clad in shahtoosh you find yourself reeking of perfume, your eyes lined with kohl, and you wonder why you’re even trying so hard to look pretty. After all, the very person you’d ever attempt to impress has left this morning whispering a promise you’d rather take him up on right away. 

Tetrarch Herod Antipas enters under much upheaval with on his arm his bride-to-be. Joanna whispers in your ear that it is the former wife of his brother, which is a scandal you’d thought only ever happened in your romance novels. It is not like you are too much of a saint yourself when it comes to matters of the heart – and the flesh – but marrying your sibling’s spouse is a whole other thing.

Herodias, you learn her name, flaunts her expensive dress as she floats around the room to mingle with guests, and you stand a little awkwardly by as Joanna converses with someone you have not yet met before, but it turns out to be an important asset within the court, for the topic soon shifts to business instead of leisure. With a hand wrapped around a goblet containing lukewarm wine that you don’t even like the smell of, you look around the room, the air heavy with drink and perfume.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again. Where’s Quintus?”

The voice of Silvius Gemelius is suddenly so close to your ear that you nearly jump out of your skin. You turn to glare at the man in question, whose gaze falls upon your tummy almost immediately, and his smug grin falls. 

“Praetor Quintus is not here,” you say, planting a hand on your hip, and Silvius clears his throat, a little flustered. 

“You’re having a child, then?” 

“Obviously.” you reply dryly. You take a sip of wine even though you loathe the flavour. 

Silvius hums. “Congratulations, I suppose. Where is he, if I may ask?”

“Back home. He had more important matters to attend to.”

The envoy tilts his head and huffs. “Right.” he says, “I still find it quite odd that he’d send you here like this on your own.”

“I’m not on my own,” you state, “I’ve got my friend Joanna who keeps me company. It’s better than sitting at home all day.”

Narrowing his eyes, Silvius downs his goblet of wine in a long gulp and looks around in search of an immediate refill. “Well, enjoy your evening,” he says quickly, and before you can respond, he leaves you behind, something akin to embarrassment on his features. 

The fact that you’re here whilst pregnant, you suddenly realise, is a gigantic increment regarding Quintus’ reputation. Seeing that your relationship has – on the surface – proven fertile to bring forth offspring, people will speak of him differently, whispering about an upcoming heir that might one way inherit his position within the Roman Empire and perhaps even climb higher up that ladder. Even though Quintus was as much a pawn to Rome as anyone else, the rank of Praetor is decently desirable. 

Certainly, your husband has sent you here to visit your friend and leave him more room to tie up loose ends back in Capernaum without having your presence around him constantly, but he has also done it to improve his own image. You aren’t used to anything different from him, though.

Joanna appears next to you and smiles, putting a hand on your arm. 

“Have you met my husband yet?” 

Behind her stands a man that you’ve seen walk by a few times but had never spoken to before.

“I don’t think so.”

Joanna gestures from you to her husband. “Chuza, this is (Y/n), wife of Praetor Quintus of Capernaum.” He takes your hand and kisses the back of it, something that takes you aback for you aren’t necessarily appreciative of it, “And (Y/n), this is my husband Chuza, who fulfils an important role in Herod’s court.”

You curtsy at him in greeting and force a smile on your face. “It is good to meet you, Chuza.”

“Pleasure is all mine, my lady,” Joanna’s husband says, “It’s good to finally put a face to the stories Joanna has told—”

The words die on his tongue as a loud cry draws the immediate attention of everyone in the room. A few men are shouting after something – or rather someone – barging into the room like he owns it. Confusion unfolds and causes a complete shift in dynamic. 

A man no firmer than skin and bones halts in the middle of the room where everyone can see him. Messy, with long hair and an unkempt beard, wearing naught but animal hides stands a man whose skin has seen better days. Chuza rushes away from his wife towards the soldiers in the room, perhaps to ask what is going on.

“Woe is you, Herod Antipas, who delights in his own sin!” the man shouts, the tetrarch in question standing at once and narrowing his eyes, “You filth, who dares to promote such an adulterous, abominable agenda! To marry the very wife of your own brother, what corrupt dregs of the underworld you resemble! Do you not see the consequence of your own sin? All of you will have to answer before God!”

The strange man now turns to the audience and your breath stutters inside your chest, whilst a few soldiers are looking at one another in confusion, awaiting further orders. “And woe are you, blinded by your own sin, who take satisfaction in your earthly pleasures and suppress the morality the Creator of the universe has put within your hearts, and woe is you who reject Him!” 

There is something about him that makes your heart slam against your chest, as if you are drawn to what he speaks of, but you aren’t sure how to respond. Joanna stares at him all the same, taking in every word with widened eyes, and the guards move forward at the behest of Herod.

“The Kingdom of Heaven is at hand! This is chastisement as much as it is a warning, for there is still mercy to be found in these days!” The dishevelled man’s eyes contain a fire that you cannot quite identify. He is either possessed or spurred on by an external force that you have never witnessed before. “You, who think you are doing the right thing yet feels conflicted, so close yet so far away from Truth, find the One who is the only one Who can save you!” The second he locks eyes with you, something stirs within you, as if you suddenly realise that the words might be meant for you, “Caught in your own world and your confusion, caught in a battle between your heart and your mind, step into the light!”

He is drawn from your field of view when the guards finally take a hold of him at Herod’s behest, who roars at the preacher that he will regret ever setting foot into the fortress. The scruffy stranger simply smiles, allowing himself to be dragged away by soldiers. 

You turn to Joanna, who is looking at how he is escorted out with a thoughtful look on her face, and as the room starts to continue their festivities around you, neither you nor your friend seem to be ready to do so yet. Instead, Joanna grabs your arm and deeply frowns at you. “I need to speak to that strange man.” she says.  

With your heart skipping a beat, you stare at her. “Really? Why?”

Her gaze is pleading. “Come with me. Please.” 

Your lips part slightly as you try to come up with the right words, but you simply stutter: “Okay.”

“Let’s wait a few minutes.” Joanna says, making herself appear busy by grabbing two pastries from a platter and handing one to you, “We can pretend that we are going to take a walk. I will explain then.”

You nod and sink your teeth into the dough of the strangely crispy food, not certain if you like it or not. Regardless, you polish it off whilst your mind runs rampant with the thought as to why Joanna could possibly want to see this man – and why he had delivered a message to you specifically as well.

Was it that visible in your demeanour, that you were confused and unsure of your future? Did you display such strange behaviour that anyone who would ever cast a glance your way could see your entire struggle within a mere glimpse? Had he caught sight of Atticus slipping out of your room whilst in the knowledge you were married to another?

The minutes that pass seem to last hours, but finally, Joanna grabs your arm to guide you towards the dungeons under the premise of needing some fresh air. The unrest that occurs every time a new prisoner is thrown into one of the cold and uncomfortable cells has died down and you head down the staircase, the cold air chilling you to the bone. You shiver involuntarily and adjust the drape around your shoulders to cover a bit more skin, for goosebumps appear all over. 

Men whine and wallow, reaching through the bars of their cells in an attempt to touch you, and you cower away in both disgust and fear, much to the hilarity of the prisoners. “Don’t mind them,” Joanna whispers, “They’ll be like that. Whatever they say, don’t pay attention to it.”

With a heavy coin purse in hand, your best friend tells the soldier guarding the latest addition to the prison that the two of you were never here. He understands the message and lets you through, giving you some privacy by leaving you be. 

Joanna goes in front as you slowly approach the unkempt stranger, who still seems to be full of adrenaline, widely grinning and muttering something to the sky, and as she clears her throat, the man immediately whips his head towards the two of you. 

“Who are you?” Joanna inquires. 

Instead of the snide remark you had expected, he smiles. “My name is John.”

“Your words, John,” Joanna presses immediately, “What do they mean? Why didn’t you mention that my husband–”

“Wait just one second.” the dishevelled, odd man bearing the name John interrupts, and his gaze shifts to you. “You. You have seen Him, haven’t you? The Spirit draws me to you.”

Narrowing your eyes in confusion, you shake your head slightly. “What? I… I don’t get it, know Whom?”

John breathes the Name, and the moment he does, you feel yourself gasp. 

“Jesus of Nazareth.”

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[the-chosen-fanfiction]

Gentile. | Chapter 31

You travel to the Decapolis and meet your friend Joanna again before the banquet. Someone unexpected shows up.

Note: This chapter starts with a short graphic description of a nightmare containing violence, blood and cutting. If you aren’t comfortable with reading this, skip the italicised part (the slanted text) and move ahead to where it ends.

Chapter list

Your throat feels tight and you bathe in blood, Quintus clawing at your throat as foam appears in the corners of his mouth. His voice, hissing as if he were a snake, whispers in your ear in a language you don’t understand. Immense pain shunts through your lower abdomen and a dagger slices tortuously slowly from left to right, peeling through the layers of skin, fat, until the blade reaches the outer part of your womb. The eyes of the gods are onto you, staring you down as you writhe and scream, only to find yourself unable to do so. It’s unbearable, your airways squeezed shut and you call a soundless cry for him to stop whilst your husband lifts up the baby, bloodied and dripping with a dark sludge, a repulsive, stinking blob of mass that has no true shape. “Disgusting!” Atticus’ voice trembles through your core, “What an abomination! Quintus should kill you for that!” Tears leak down your cheeks as you frantically shake your head, loud laughter from all sides mocking you, “No, no!” you manage to croak, “Please, no!” Ravens come to pick at your exposed organs, their claws and beaks digging into your skin as they caw to join the cacophony of malicious sounds, and you squeeze your eyes shut, hoping it would just—

Gasping for air and soaked in sweat, you shoot up in your bedroll and find yourself under the canopy that does a poor job blocking out the sunlight. The moment you realise you’re safe as is, on your way to the Decapolis and not bound to a bed by Quintus doing unimaginable things to you, you let out a sigh of relief. Once you catch your breath, you rub your clammy forehead and reach for the nearest waterskin, gulping it down greedily.

The nightmares have come ever since Valeria died and you hope they’ll leave you alone soon, but sharing these deep discomforts with your husband is naturally off the table. You know that he’d only laugh at you, mock you for your so-called weakness, and brush it off as if it is nothing but a light-hearted joke. However, you know better, and the dreams are way too vivid for your liking, as is the pain that comes with them.

The wagon jerks from left to right as you pass through an indent in the road and the driver promptly apologises. You don’t respond to him, instead crawl out of your bedroll to scoot closer to the end of the cart, which is guarded by two men from the cavalry Quintus had instructed to escort you all the way down to Machaerus. You’d much rather have Atticus to be your chaperone on your way there just like last time, and fond memories cause a soft smile to tug at your lips, a flush creeping over your cheeks before you can realise you’re thinking about him. Gently cradling your tummy, you think back on the moments with Atticus you had experienced these days. Reaching out to him has started to grow rather difficult, now that he is constantly on the road. You don’t even know when – and if – you are ever going to spend a night with him again.

The baby moves inside of you and sparks a soft daydream about domestic life with Atticus. At the moment, it is your best way to pass the time, for the literature you’ve brought lays already read in the corner of the wagon and your motivation to continue on your embroidery is far from present.

The trip to Machaerus is shorter this time around, for two drivers change back and forth, not much unlike the men who had brought you and Quintus to the harbour the other day. Why he suddenly has the soldiers available to look after you for days on end is a mystery, but you’re glad that he didn’t deem it necessary the first time you went to the Decapolis. You had left yesterday in the early morning and you could almost see the large fortress of Herod Antipas if you squinted at the horizon.

Your attempts to make smalltalk with the drivers have been in vain so you spend your time both fantasising about Atticus and taking eventful naps, in which Quintus comes to you in your dream state. You fear the coming night, that you will spend alone, with the statuettes of gods and goddesses in the windowsill to judge your every move.

Slowly but surely, Machaerus appears in your field of vision, and one of the men rides forward on his horse to announce your arrival. Excitement bubbles inside your gut, for you are looking forward to seeing Joanna again. And, if you’re lucky, you might even get to spend some time in the bathhouse with her, so that you can wash away the grime and sweat that makes you feel filthy underneath your palla.

The dust of the desert has made you parched and you drink the remainder of your water before preparing yourself for your arrival, sorting out your hair and tugging straight your clothes, for even though Joanna has seen you at your worst, bent over a bin as you were throwing up rather ungracefully, you want to appear as proper as you can.

More guests seem to be on their way to Machaerus as well and under the watchful eye of a few of Herod’s soldiers, you are escorted into the gates of the fortress until you halt in the centre of the atrium. Not a lot has left ever since you left here a few months ago, although it is busier than before.

Joanna waves off the soldier attempting to help you down the wagon and she shows you a beaming grin. You gasp, immediately rushing towards the end of the cart so that she can assist you in climbing out. “Joanna!” you cheer, and she laughs, calling your name and embracing you tightly. The scent of her perfume stings inside your nose.

“It’s so good to see you!” she murmurs, soon pulling away and stepping back to take in your form. “Oh, look at you! The baby is growing so fast.”

“Right?” you breathe, relieved. Her high spirits bring you into a state of content and relaxation. “I’m nearing my final trimester. It’s going really fast now.” You cradle your tummy and smile. 

Your friend lets out a sound of delight and cups your face before kissing your cheek, leaving a red mark there, which she thumbs away with a laugh. “You look so good and healthy, too. You’re glowing, my friend.”

After a moment of looking at her, your face drops. “Ah… It’s not like my life has been entirely uneventful lately. Some things happened that have left quite the scar, actually. I’ll… I’ll tell you all about it.”

Frowning in concern, Joanna puts her hand on yours. “Oh, dear. No need to rush into it. You’ll need to settle in for a bit and… You look like you can use some rest. Let us talk about it later, whilst enjoying a good goblet of wine at the fireplace. For now, let’s get you off your feet.”

Straightening your back, you let out a sound and shake your head. 

“Believe it or not, Joanna, but I’ve been off my feet for long enough. This trip here has been quite the ordeal, actually.” She leans closer, her voice a whisper as a knowing glint glitters behind her eyes. “Oh, maybe because a certain someone hasn’t been the one escorting you?”

Flushing red, you almost choke on your own saliva, but your attempt to protest it is in vain. You soon sigh and turn to her, reducing your volume. “Yes, that’s part of the problem here.”

With a smirk plastered on her features, Joanna leads you to the room where you will be staying. “I’ve managed to get you the chambers where you’ve resided during your previous stay. I reckoned that you’d appreciate that, familiarity and all.”

Gratefully humming, you support your stomach whilst she unlocks the door, leading you inside. “You have probably brought only a few belongings, so I think that the servants will carry these upstairs in just a bit. For the rest, nothing has changed, really.”

“Thank you, Joanna. I’ve barely been back and you’ve already helped me out so much.”

“Of course,” she breathes, “You are a very dear and genuine friend after all, and those are rare in places like these. It’s my pleasure.”

You put a hand on her arm and smile, which she mirrors with her own lipstick–painted beam. “It’s good to see you again.” you murmur.

“Likewise, (Y/n).” Joanna says. “Let me suggest something. How about you go rest for a bit. Freshen up, take a bath, settle in. If you’re done before dinnertime, come find me in the gardens. If not, I will come pick you up before we go to the dining hall, and after that, we can enjoy some good drinks in the comforts of my private quarters, how does that sound?”

Humming, you nod. “Thoroughly enjoyable, Jo. Thank you, again.”

She winks and gestures towards your bed. “Get some rest, (Y/n). I’ll tell the servants to drop off your belongings at the door, so that they will not disturb you whilst you sleep.”

Despite you having slept for quite some time during your journey here, your body feels sore from the uncomfortable wood of the wagon, so sleeping in the plush mattress a little away does not sound like too much of a punishment.

Even though you dread the terrors that torment you in your dreams, you allow yourself to shut your eyes for a while. Exhaustion has overtaken you to the point that your nap remains without any vision at all, and you awaken after an hour or two feeling surprisingly well-rested. 

A note has been slipped under your door and you realise that it must be about the small chest of belongings you’ve brought on your trip here. It stands against the wall. You manage to pull it inside albeit with some grunts and groans of discomfort. The longer your pregnancy carries on, the more difficult it starts to become to carry out trivial tasks, like tying your sandals or picking up laundry from the floor. Out of breath, you stand up straight for a second whilst attempting to gather yourself. It takes several moments until you find the courage to bend down and take out a clean tunic, for the one that has been clinging to your form reeked of two-day old sweat. 

The water in the basin is clean and lukewarm. You wash your face, armpits and intimate parts before slathering some fatty substance all over your tummy. It smells strongly of aloe and reduces the itching of your stretch marks, and you’re certain that it must have been Joanna’s consideration. 

Now that you’re feeling the most refreshed you’ve found yourself in days, you take Joanna up on her offer to seek her out in the gardens, where she sits writing on some parchment to whatever business needs her attention. When she hears your footsteps, she looks up and smiles gently, tidying up her work. 

“There you are.” she murmurs, “Looking way better than you already did.” 

With a roll of your eye, you mirror her expression. “Stop it, now. It’s the best sleep I’ve had in days.”

She stands, tucking her writing materials into the crook of her arm to carry it before gesturing further into the garden. “Shall we walk?”

You nod and walk next to her as the pair of you take a stroll between the trees and flowers, although the blooms seem in a different stage of life than they were when you were here last time. “How have you been, Joanna?” you query before she can ask you the same, and she exhales audibly. 

“I’ve been… Fine, I suppose. My husband, Chuza, he’s… Been busy lately. You and I can be open about anything so I trust you completely with it. I’ve told you before that he’s been unfaithful to me, but when I went to confront him about it, that it bothers me, he just told me to not make such a big deal out of it. He says he married me for my political wit and for children. If I had known that before I’d have chosen his brother over him.” 

At the end of her sentence, her voice almost breaks and goes up an octave. You give her an apologetic look and click your tongue, putting a hand on her arm. “I’m so sorry to hear that, Jo. You don’t deserve that.”

“I’ll be fine.” she says with a deep breath. “He’ll realise one day what he is missing out on. So, enough about me. For the rest I’ve got nothing to tell you, anyways. You said something happened recently. If you are ready, I will listen.”

“My pregnant sister-in-law passed away.” you force out quickly, not keen on bursting into tears. “She… She was ill. Quintus and I went to visit, and… One night, something happened. I’m not sure what, because she wasn’t yet due to give birth, but she did. In the process, she lost so much—” You choke out a sob and put a hand over your mouth to fight it, and Joanna pulls you against her immediately without hesitation, The papyrus of her letter crinkles between your bodies as she squeezes you against her, but she doesn’t seem to care about that now. 

Rubbing circles over your back, Joanna lets out a sound of distress. “Oh, (Y/n), I’m so sorry.”

“My brother is devastated,” you tell her, “They loved each other unconditionally. My niece… Poor girl, left without a mother. T-The baby made it, by the way. A baby girl. Lucilla. Very fragile, still, and she has trouble breathing.”

Joanna lets out a distraught noise. “I will keep her in my prayers.”

“Quintus is more protective now.” you explain. “Hence why I carry this ugly thing around my neck.” You tug the amulet out of your tunic and Joanna clasps a hand over her face to prevent herself from snorting out loud. 

“Did he make that himself or something?” she squeaks, fighting a laugh. 

“It’s hideous, right!” you say with a growing smirk. “Well, I’ll wear it if it prevents him from getting mad at me.”

A rather heavy silence befalls you two as Joanna’s smile drops. “Does he still…” She doesn’t finish her sentence, but you know what she means, and you nod. 

“Though he has been more lenient now that I’m pregnant, once this baby is born, I fear it will only be a matter of time for him to become his usual self.”

Joanna chews the inside of her cheek. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” you say, “My brother promised me that he’d run if… If I were to…” You can barely get out the words, but the glittering behind your eyes speaks volumes, and Joanna’s mouth falls open in a gawk. 

“You’re going to run away with him? Oh, that’s such good news! When are you… Going to?”

You put a hand under your tummy and shrug. “I don’t know yet. Travelling has started to become more taxing, so I am afraid we must wait until the baby has been born. But I’ll have to discuss that with him. If I ever get around to seeing him again, that is…”

Joanna falls suspiciously silent and looks at you with narrowed eyes. For a moment, you’re about to ask her what is wrong, when her mouth curls upwards in a smile. “I was going to keep it a surprise,” she muses, “But I can barely keep it to myself. I’ve taken a peek at the guest list and noticed a particular someone amongst the invitees.” 

You blink in confusion. “Atticus has been invited to the banquet, too?” 

When your friend nods, your heart stutters inside your chest. “Oh! But that means that he…” Trailing off, you shake your head. “No… There is no way. He is way too busy. I’m sure that he won’t come.”

“Why not?” Joanna quizzes. 

“He hasn’t even written me a letter in weeks, Jo. The chances of him showing up all the way here in the Decapolis are very, very low. He will never travel all the way from Caesarea, Bethany, Jerusalem, wherever he is right now, for just a night…” Disappointment must have painted your features, for Joanna lets out a soft sound and pulls you into an embrace again. 

“Forgive me, friend, for I didn’t mean to upset you by mentioning that your love could be here tonight but that he’d likely not—”

“It is okay, Joanna,” you murmur against her shoulder, “You meant well. I will meet him again sooner or later, I’m sure of that.”

“If it is meant to be, fate will find a way.” Joanna reassures you, and even though you aren’t certain if you could take her word on that, you hug her a little tighter.

After a second, you pull away and continue your stroll through the gardens. “If we find the time,” you breathe, “I would love to take a dip in the bathhouse.”

Joanna lets out a soft noise and nods. “I reckon it would feel lovely to have some relief on your hardworking body. However, judging by the position of the sun, I fear that we will not have time before dinner. Afterwards, we could either enjoy that, or open a bottle of wine.”

“Why not both?” you suggest, and Joanna’s eyes light up at the idea.

“This is exactly why you and I are friends, (Y/n).”

Laughing lightly, you keep on chatting about little things, and at a certain point, the baby moves and Joanna queries if she can have a feel too. Even though you haven’t shared such a moment with Quintus yet, you agree with her putting a hand on your tummy and giving her an expectant look when the child moves inside of you, but she answers that she could sense nothing. It will come eventually.

As per her estimation, dinner isn’t far off and you’re glad that you aren’t sitting in the dining hall with damp hair. A few faces you still recognise, but there are some new members who have joined Herod’s court after your departure, and under hushed whispers, Joanna fills you in on the latest news in between mouthfuls of food. 

You can barely stomach anything today. You prod around your vegetables and end up eating some leeks and a few bites of goose and nothing else. Although the official banquet is still a day off, it is clear that Herod has considered that early guests would already be joining dinner tonight due to lengthy travels and has thus served a rich and creamy pudding as dessert, but you barely touch that, either. Joanna gladly polishes off your portion and gives you a grin whilst you watch her enjoy the sweet substance. You smile and rub your tummy, scratching absentmindedly at the itchy marks.

“Did you find that aloe-infused cream at your basin?”

“I did,” you say with a grateful smile, “Thank you for that. It felt so wonderful and I’ll certainly apply another layer before bed.”

“You are very welcome, dear friend,” Joanna states, “If you ever need more of it, just let me know.”

After the meal is over, you retreat to her quarters that have barely changed other than that a pillow and blanket are folded on one of the chaise longues. The moment Joanna sees that you’ve noticed, it gives her quite the start, and she rushes over to get it back to the bed. “I’m– So sorry about that, let me just– Sit, (Y/n), please.” She gestures at the now empty seat, but you frown at her behaviour.

“Is everything alright?”

“Yes.” Joanna breathes with a voice that is way too high-pitched, and with a defeated sigh, she pushes some hair behind her ear. “Ah… Wine, first.” 

Striding towards the small table holding said drink, she pours two goblets full of the crimson liquid and brings one to you before taking a seat, shakily bringing it to her lips to nip at it. 

Reclining in your seat, you don’t break eye-contact, waiting for her to tell you what is going on. “Joanna,” you mutter, “Something is bothering you. I can tell.”

She puts down her goblet and folds her hands inside her lap, fiddling with the rings on her fingers, and with her bracelets. Taking a few shaky breaths, she avoids all kinds of direct contact. “You needn’t tell me, Joanna, if you don’t want to talk about it, we could just chat about something else—”

“Chuza and I are sleeping apart from each other.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “Oh?”

“Yeah, we… Had a fight the other day. About his infidelity.”

Your heart sinks. “I see. I’m sorry to hear that.”

Wryly smiling, Joanna shrugs and looks at you, feigning relaxation. “Well, nothing to be done about it at the moment. All we need is time. We’ll figure it out.”

Unconvinced, you take a sip from your wine but cannot fight the flinch that escapes you. With a concerned expression, Joanna reaches out to you, but you shake your head. “It’s the wine. I’m certain it’s my pregnancy that makes me dislike it. There are so many things that I used to indulge in that I cannot stand anymore. Wine is one of them.”

Joanna clicks her tongue and stands at once. “Oh, (Y/n), you could have just told me. I would have prepared something else altogether. I wouldn’t have taken offence to it, that’s for sure. How does juice sound?”

You agree with that offer and she pours you another drink, which you do enjoy way better.

It is like no time has passed ever since you left now that the two of you stare at the fireplace, in which she tosses a few logs to keep it alive. With a content hum on her lips, Joanna draws your attention. 

“What is it?” you query.

“I just had a funny thought.” she shrugs it off.

You smile. “Care to share?” 

Joanna takes a long drink from her wine and then traces the rim with the pad of her thumb, staring into the flames. “Wouldn’t it be fun if Quintus came to work for Herod’s court? You and I would be able to spend so much time together.”

You huff a small laugh at the notion. “That is a wonderful thought, Jo. However, I’m certain that Quintus wouldn’t give up his position for anything.” 

Joanna’s smile falls. “I can imagine. But still, people can fantasise. I’d much rather see you run off with your lover.”

Blushing, you scoff a giggle and throw back the remainder of your juice.

“I just remembered that I promised you that we’d go to the bathhouse after dinner.” Joanna suddenly pipes up. 

You shake your head slightly. “You didn’t exactly promise it, but I don’t mind it if we were to push it forward to tomorrow. I’m quite tired and am looking forward to finding my bed.”

The Roman woman gives a small bow of her head. “Naturally, (Y/n). Tomorrow we still have some time to kill before the banquet, so I have no issue with that.”

You stand and stretch, putting a hand on your lower back. “One of these massages would be incredible right now.” you muse and Joanna smiles. 

“That can be arranged.” She rises and walks you to the door, where she asks you for a hug. 

“It is so good to have you here again.” she says. “My dearest friend.”

Your eyes water a little at the compliment. “I have truly missed you. You are a perfect hostess, Joanna.”

With flushing cheeks, she pats you on the arm. “I’m only doing my work.”

You snort. “You’re only my friend because you’re getting paid for it. I see.”

The two of you laugh for a moment before she finally ushers you out of the door. “Go get some rest, (Y/n).” 

“I will,” you say, “Good night.”

The halls of the fortress have cooled down and moonlight streams through the windows. Your sandals pad against the floor as you walk, your chambers only a little away. Once you arrive, you head inside and deeply sigh, yawning behind your palm. 

You relieve yourself – the baby has been pushing into your bladder more often than you’d like to admit – and freshen up before bed one last time, slathering another layer of the cream onto your belly and putting on your nightgown before brushing out your (h/c) hair. 

Walking over to the bed, you feel at peace for once, all on your own, far away from Quintus. You wonder how he is doing but the thought fades in a split second, for you do not wish to allow him inside your mind right now, when all your troubles can be briefly imagined to be non-existent.

Nearly settled under the blankets, you move to turn off the oil lamp that stands on your nightstand, but a knock on the door halts you in your movements. A little confused, you wonder if you’ve accidentally left something of yours in Joanna’s room or if she forgot to tell you something important. Grabbing a sheer robe, you pull it over your shoulders against the cold and unlock the door, swinging it open to see what your friend might have to tell you. 

The moment you realise it is not Joanna, your face contorts into confusion before it twists into pure shock within a split second. 

A pair of dark eyes accompanied by a charming smile look back at you. He has brought the stars from outside and has contained them in the darkness of his irises, glittering with an inexplicable kind of excitement. 

“Atticus?!” you gasp, your knees nearly giving out underneath you. 

“Hello, my Flower.” he muses, “May I come in?”

You wordlessly step aside, heart racing inside your chest. He passes the threshold and tugs off his hood whilst you close the door, locking it before leaning into the heavy woodwork. 

“What are you… How…?” 

He turns to you with a small smile. “I can’t stay for long, my love. I actually have rather pressing matters to attend to, but…”

It feels unreal that he is here, and that the scent of him floods your system, and for a second, you are convinced that you must have fallen asleep already and that this is nothing but an intensely vivid dream about him, although his touch feels true when he cups your cheek and snaps you out of that thought immediately.

“First, I had ignored the invitation that I stumbled upon by pure coincidence when I checked my inquiries in Jerusalem. I was headed to Capernaum on certain business when I noticed a carriage being escorted by Roman soldiers that contained a certain beautiful lady whom I happen to love very much… Without her husband. All I did was follow from a safe distance, wait in the shadows until I could see you on your own, and here I am.”

He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear and you’re sure that you’ll faint if you don’t start breathing normally again soon. Still dumbfounded, you listen to his explanation. 

“I actually shouldn’t be here,” he mutters, “I’ve got so much work to do, but… How could I resist? It is not often that I can see you without Quintus only a breath away. There is another reason I came to see you, but first…” 

His voice catches in his throat but you don’t need him to finish his sentence to know that he wants to kiss you, and you want to kiss him. The moment his lips meet yours, you melt into him with an appreciative hum.

There is no need to rush this time around. Atticus gently cradles your face and shows his affection in a languid, welcoming way, where your heart evenly raps in quickened staccato, your knees feeling like mush. One of his arms closes around your waist, drawing you against him, and you can feel the tension of his body, his breaths growing heavier. When you dare to brush your tongue against his, Atticus lets out a delicious murmur that sets your core alight, your heart skipping a beat. The cohorte pulls away at once, a look on his face that is almost apologetic. 

“I’m sorry,” he hoarsely tells you with flushed cheeks, “I didn’t mean to… To be so overbearing.”

“You’re not.”

“I’m not? Hm, that’s alright. In that case, we should just…” Atticus connects his mouth to yours again and backs you up without breaking the kiss, until the back of your knees hits the bed. You jolt at the thought and you allow yourself to fall into the plush, where he crawls over you, your form cloaked in the shadow of his build. When he withdraws himself to kiss your neck, stuttering breaths escaping your swollen lips, you are suddenly struck with the notion that this is the first time within utmost comfort together, in an actual bed for once, and for a beat you are again convinced that you are dreaming.

Atticus catches your gaze when you least expect it, his dark eyes intensely on you. “My love,” he croaks, cupping your face. “I… I’m not sure if I’ll ever get another chance to do so, so if you’ll allow me… I… I want to see you. All of you.” 

All air is drawn from your lungs at the idea and you gasp, your body suddenly feeling weak with emotion. Although you had laid with Atticus several times, you had not yet been fully naked with him before. There had always been a layer of fabric in between you and draped over your intertwined bodies – you in your nightgown, a blanket hiding the place where you became one with him, and he had crawled into the darkness of the furs and pelts to get naught but a glimpse of your exposed inner thighs – some distance, respectful, as if there had to be a barrier in between you still. 

But with nothing left unsaid between the two of you regarding what you meant to one another, there is nothing left to lose. 

For a second, you think of the marble figurines that stand judgingly at the side of the room, staring at the two of you from their shrines. Juno, Apollo, Minerva, Venus. They don’t care about you, and nor does Quintus.

Atticus does. He patiently watches you as you contemplate your answer, until you know that there is nothing you need to keep.

“I want to see you, too,” you tell him at last. “And I want you to see me. Everything, Atticus.”

He does not need any more confirmation.

Kissing you, his warm hands touch your bare skin as they slip underneath your nightgown, this time to linger longer, and to unearth like treasure undiscovered.

Next chapter Chapter list

[the-chosen-fanfiction]

Gentile. | Chapter 30

Quintus gives you something to protect you. You make a promise to your brother before you set sail back to Capernaum.

Chapter list

The days that follow are a blur and void of any coherency. Arrangements for the funeral are being made and you float back and forth through the estate to either help out your mother, stay at Valeria’s side to wake and to take care of Aurelia as she does not understand why her mater permanently sleeps.

You find something with Quintus that you wouldn’t have sought him out for under any other circumstances - comfort - and he gives it to you in a way that you have never received from him. Even a man like him turns out to be shaken by circumstances like these, although you cannot stop but wonder for how long this uncharacteristic soft side of him will last.

You don’t find the right headspace to even think about Atticus. Forcing your mind to not wander, you know that you’ll end up feeling giddier than you should be feeling. No, daydreaming about the love of your life is not something you can afford to do now.

Lucius busies himself with organising everything and has hardly looked at the baby yet, who is now in your mother’s care. He needs to warm up to his daughter yet has no time to do so, not in the eight days of mourning that follow Valeria’s death.

Her cremation creeps up slowly but surely. You aren’t sure how he does it, but your brother keeps himself together. You can’t allow yourself to break down in the way your mother and Julia did, who hollowly stare at the youngest addition to the family, taking turns in looking after the babe.

Aurelia sleeps in between you and Quintus for a few days. Your husband had protested this but you insisted, and after some convincing from your father’s side, he accepted eventually. 

The girl lays vast asleep, entangled in your sheets, a doll held tightly to her chest. Her lunula still sits around her neck to protect her and you make a mental note to take it off of her later lest she accidentally injure herself.

Dark circles run under your eyes whilst you watch her in the mirror as you brush your (h/c) hair before bed. Scabs adorn your cheeks from where you’ve scratched at your skin till you bled.

Tomorrow is the day Valeria will be cremated and you aren’t certain how Aurelia will react to such a sight, but you’ve already thought of some ideas in case she grows inconsolable, like she had been the first day after her mother’s passing. As heavy as your own heart weighs inside your chest, you need to stay strong, for her.

The door creaks open and reveals an exhausted Quintus with gentle features. His usual scowl has made place for eyes that are almost kind and you could be fooled into thinking that the man is attractive to look at. 

“You’re not asleep yet?” His voice is a low hum so as to not wake the young girl snoozing in your bed, and you answer with a small shake of your head as you make eye-contact through the reflection. He steps forward and closes the door behind him, slowly heading your way, the pad of his sandals louder than anticipated against the floorboards.

Once he has approached you, he puts his hands on your shoulders and you look at one another in the mirror, wordlessly weighing one another’s state of mind. It is strange to connect with him like that, but perhaps that it is naught but a moment of vulnerability that brings you closer together. “I wouldn’t…” he breaks the silence, but can’t find the right words the moment he says them. He pauses, thinks for a second before starting over. “I wouldn’t know what I would have done if that happened to you. I’d be left without an heir.”

There it is. Just when you think that a fraction of him actually cares, especially when seeing the way he’s looking at you right now, he reveals his true self, as if it is a part of his ego that he cannot hide no matter how hard he tries, something that is so foul and despicable that even the man himself couldn’t tuck it behind a mask if his life depended on it. 

“I’m certain that it won’t happen.” you tell him with a sigh, although a bitter and almost unbelievable thought follows that if you were the one to be as ill, you would only be so lucky as to die if it only meant not having to grow old with Quintus. The notion repulses you so much that it physically takes you aback and you blink in shock, earning an odd look from your husband.

“Are you okay?” he queries, and you quickly nod to assure him that you are, and he sighs before reaching into the pocket on his tunic, wrapping his fingers around something whilst starting to explain. “I’ve brought you something,” he tells you, “A gift.”

You frown at the idea, for it isn’t common that he gives you something unless there is some kind of hidden meaning behind it, so you brace yourself for disappointment. He withdraws his hand and shows it to you.

“An amulet,” he says, “I bought it after seeing what happened to Valeria. She wasn’t wearing anything of the sort, which means that she might have angered the gods, which in turn led to her death. You know how they are, your brother and sister-in-law, I mean. Way too liberal, which leads to this as a punishment, chastisement for not praying and for betraying the very core of us being Roman.” 

He drapes it around your neck without asking and you stare at it as it rests between your collarbones, swallowing thickly at its weight. The pendant is asymmetrical and ugly. “Juno will protect you,” he says, “This amulet will bless your pregnancy.”

“Thank you.” you say.

Quintus hums and puts his hands back on your shoulders, thumbs digging into the nape of your neck. He squeezes , nails leaving indents into your skin. “You do understand that this means that I’ll be making sure you pray enough, hm?”

You give him a small nod to prevent further questions. 

He presses a lingering kiss to your cheek from behind before pushing himself away from you, stepping back and heading for the door again. “I’ll join you later,” he says, letting his eyes momentarily go to the sleeping girl that lays snugly in the covers with rosy cheeks.

“Be silent when you return, Quintus,” you tell him in a whisper, “She’s just peacefully—”

Pausing as Aurelia stirs and rolls over, the both of you stare at her as she shows signs of rousing, bleary eyes barely opening whilst she holds her doll close to her form. Her gaze settles upon your husband, who has his hand on the doorknob already, and you stand immediately. 

“Quinty…” Aurelia suddenly croaks, and you have to put your hand over your mouth to prevent the loud snort that builds inside your nose at the sudden look of horror on your husband’s face. She reaches out her doll to him and wiggles it, “ Avunculus Quinty, play with me!”

“Don’t call me that.” Quintus hisses through gritted teeth. He looks at you from the corner of his eye, squinting. “That’s not funny, (Y/n). This is the exact reason that I don’t want a daughter. Women are so… Simple.” With a deep sigh and a shake of his head, he exits the room before you can even respond to it. You stare at the door as it slams shut, Aurelia startling at the noise.

“ Amita (Y/n)?” You’re next to her the moment you hear her shivering voice, “ Is avunculus Quinty angry with me?”

“No, sweetheart,” you murmur, crawling onto the bed with her to pull her into an embrace, and you kiss the top of her head, inhaling the calming scent of her soap, “He is just a little mean sometimes.”

“My papa is never mean to me.” 

You close your eyes and gently play with her braid. “I know.” you whisper, thinking of the kind of father your child would have if it turned out to be a girl. 

Aurelia’s small hand comes to rest on your belly and she experimentally presses down on it. “Do you have a baby in there? Just like mama does?”

Smiling softly, you pull away from the hug to watch her tiny fingers prod at your bulging stomach. “Yes,” you say, “Just like mama .” 

“ Mama ’s tummy is bigger.”

You fight the tears blurring your vision. “It is, darling.”

“Can I see my sister?”

“No, little one.”

“Can I see mama ?” 

You cannot hold back the sigh of sadness that escapes your lungs and you blink away your sorrow. “You cannot see her, either. I’m sorry, Aurelia. She is still sleeping.”

“When will she wake up?”

Your lip trembles and you swallow hard, pulling her into another hug to prevent her from seeing the few tears that leak down your face. “I don’t think she will, sweet pea. Mama is just very, very tired. So tired that she will sleep forever.”

“I’m never that tired. Is it because she played for too long? Or because she didn’t eat her carrots?”

Brushing your mouth against her forehead, you sniffle. “ Mama was sick. Sometimes people get so sick that they never wake up again.”

“But there was a doctor!”

“Sometimes a doctor does not have the right medicine.”

Her face contorts into deep thought and you watch her for a moment, stroking a gentle thumb over her freckles. She looks so much like her mother that it is almost painful to look at her, with the same hair that looks like a raging fire when brushed out and the striking green eyes. Her mouth and nose look like Lucius’ and in turn like yours, you realise upon inspecting her with great scrutiny.

Aurelia yawns. “I’m tired, too.” she says, nestling herself underneath the blankets. “Do you think I will wake up tomorrow, amita (Y/n)?”

“You will,” you promise her, taking off her lunula and putting it onto the nightstand. “Because you are a very strong and healthy girl. Close your eyes, sweetheart. It’s important that you rest.”

She pulls the sheets up to her chin, giving you a pleading look. 

“Can you stay with me until I am asleep, amita (Y/n)? Please?”

You smile at her politeness and nod. “Of course I will,” you tell her, “I’ll be here.”

With a look of content on her face, she grabs your hand with her small one, getting comfortable before closing her eyes. She is gone in an instant, still holding onto you, and it leaves you space to let bitter tears roll down your face, staring at the little girl whose pain you’d take upon your own shoulders in a heartbeat.

_ 

The air reeks of rotting carcasses. Sacrifices have been made and left to decay in the scorching sun in the days up to Valeria’s procession. 

It has been an ordeal to witness Lucius so torn between mourning his wife and celebrating his newborn, who is currently under Julia’s supervision. Through your tight bond, you can almost physically feel his pain, and you refuse to delight over the feeling of your child moving inside your womb.

After watching Valeria be cremated under thick smoke and loud wailing, coupled with a eulogy written by a priest that was so impersonal that it made you want to scream at him, a feast follows. Back at the estate, people have gathered to stuff themselves with food and dance, and even though it is meant to assist Valeria’s soul to go to her next life or whatever lays beyond, the house is cold and heartless, as if a gaping hole has been left at her departure. 

Lucius has withdrawn himself to a quieter part of the garden, where he sits against a wall, staring somewhere into the distance. You find him with a heavy heart, breathing his name once you set eyes on him.

He looks up at you with a sorrowful frown and says no word. Instead, he cries silently, brow tightly knit together. 

You sink down next to him and open your arms. He accepts it without hesitation. The embrace is warm and you wrap yourself around him a little tighter, allowing him to whimper against your shoulder, not caring about the stains it leaves on your palla . 

“I just don’t know what to do!” he hiccups, fingers digging into you, “I’m… What have I done to deserve this? I’ve been faithful to the gods, have I not?! I’ve made my sacrifices, said my prayers, I’ve done everything I could to please them! I’ve fought for Rome! Have I not been enough?! Have I angered them that much?!”

You just let him rant, knowing that he needs to get it off his chest. He doesn’t need advice – of course he doesn’t, for he has just lost his wife – so you rub circles over his back, allowing him to wail until he calms down, exhaustion audible in his voice. “(Y/n),” he croaks, “My dearest sister, tell me. Do you think this is punishment from the gods?”

For a moment, you stare at his hollow eyes, void of their usual life, of their (e/c) sparkle. Slowly, you shake your head. “I don’t know,” you earnestly admit, and his shoulders slump.

“I just… I need answers.” Lucius sighs, sniffling. “I…” 

He swallows and closes his eyes, a few fat tears rolling down his cheeks. 

“We were going to name her Lucilla. After me. But now… I’m not so sure anymore. I think Valeria would be a good name too, would it not?”

You give him a wry look. “Wouldn’t it cause pain, brother,” you whisper, “To have someone so close to you carry that same name? I… Let me promise you something, Lucius.” 

Putting a hand on your stomach, you cradle it carefully. “If mine is a girl, I’ll honour your wife.”

“And if it is a boy?”

“Valerius.” you tell him, “But only if you are comfortable with that.”

Lucius nods and gives you a wry smile. “Thank you.” The two of you look at one another for a few long moments. “You know, I’ve done some thinking this week” your brother suddenly pipes up, “About your dilemma. Your future.” He leans closer, reducing his volume in case unwanted ears happen to stumble upon your conversation. Your heart stutters inside your chest and picks up speed right after. “Things will never be the same anymore. I… When you say the word, I’ll take my girls and leave this place.”

Your eyes widen and your gut drops. “ Really ?”

He nods and gives you a tight-lipped smile. “First I wasn’t certain about leaving behind my career and connections here in the city. Father would be furious, too, for you know how important my role is within the army. But now… Now that I’ve lost the love of my life, and seeing how pater reacts to it, I both remember what matters most at the end of the day, and that you should have a chance to pursue what I have lost. I want you to take it, (Y/n), and I want you to never let go of him. If you and him are truly meant to be, then you will find a way.”

Now it’s your turn to sob, but tears of gratitude instead of woe. You fling yourself around his neck, causing a laugh to tear from his throat, the first genuine one that has come from him ever since Valeria’s last breath.

“Thank you,” you whisper, “ Frater , thank you. I can never repay you.”

“You’ve already repaid me tenfold, (Y/n),” Lucius reassures you, “The way you hold yourself together around my little Aurelia, the way you looked after Val before she died, the letters you always write to me. You owe me nothing, dearest sister.”

Not knowing what to say, you remain in this position, just embracing one another in silence until darkness creeps over Rome. Then, the pair of you stand up and head back to the feast, where the name of the baby is to be announced at last, like a bittersweet spark of light concluding a heart-wrenching day.

_ 

Your gaze remains fixed upon your brother, parents and nieces until they are nothing but a dot on the horizon. Setting sail for Judea, you are left with more questions than answers, for although your brother has agreed upon leaving everything behind to allow you to build a new life with Atticus, it almost feels wrong to do so.

For the first time in days, you allow your mind to wander to Atticus. In the light of the past week, the longing for him is suddenly excruciating, and your brother’s words echo inside your mind, that you should grab a hold of him and cherish him with everything you’ve got. 

A swarm of butterflies suddenly coils inside your gut at the idea – you can barely wait to see him, for there is so much to talk about. Your heart drops, for you realise how much you’ve been craving his comfort, actual genuine warmth in his arms.

On the journey back, you avoid Quintus as much as you can, but at the moments that you can’t, like when he crawls beside you in bed at night, you turn away. He tries nothing, much to your relief. 

After two days of spending most of the time alternating between drinking juice in some sunlight at the stern of the vessel and reading in the private cabin below deck, you are glad it is finally over. The moment you feel solid ground beneath your feet, you let out a sigh and stretch your limbs. Although you wish you could have remained in Rome to support your brother where requested, it is strangely nice to be back at the place that you had somehow started to call home in the past year. Even though your husband has not been the reason for this sentiment, it is the place where you had met Atticus as well as where you’d see him pop up again sooner or later.  

The pair of you head to Capernaum by carriage back the same way you had travelled to the harbour and despite your absence only being a little over a week, it feels as if you’ve been away for months. Upon return, you hear the whispered name of Jesus of Nazareth amongst the soldiers, and something within the gaze of your husband hardens instantly. His work, so it seems, reels him back in right away.

“You head home and rest, my dear.” Quintus says. Calling you by such a soft name is the first time he has shown affection towards you ever since giving you the amulet. His fluctuant behaviour proves to be ever so unpredictable.

He doesn’t need to tell you twice. Heading back home, you silently pray for a letter from Atticus on your desk, and you walk into Gaius on his daily patrol around the village. 

“Hail Caesar,” he says with a small bow, and you repeat his greeting before speaking up: 

“How are you doing, Primi ? Have you found a decent replacement for Matthew yet?” You’re genuinely curious.

Gaius clears his throat and looks at the ground for a second. “I fear that he cannot be so easily replaced, ma’am. I ah…” His brow knits together, “Your husband had written us a letter about the situation back in Rome. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

You give a small nod. “Thank you, Primi .”

“If there is anything I can do for you, just let me know. Have a good day now, ma’am.”

“Have a good day, Gaius,” you tell him, and he brushes past you to continue his business. For a second, you mean to call after him and ask about Jesus, but you decide against it. You head into your residence and greet a few servants who are busying themselves by sweeping the floor and painting one of the walls. The flowers that you had put on the table a bit over a week ago sat dead and nearly decayed in their vase. It gave off a strange stench.

Heading up the stairs, you quicken your step in the hopes of finding a letter from your secret lover. The moment you see a roll of parchment laying on your small desk, your heart leaps inside your chest, but it sinks in disappointment once you see the seal does not belong to him. The red wax does, however, contain the imprint of Joanna’s ring, and with newfound excitement, you pry it open to unroll it.

It is short and straight to the point, but you do not mind, for you realise that it isn’t just a letter – it is an invitation, personally signed by Herod Antipas, per Joanna’s promise to you. “A banquet…?” you say to yourself, conflicting feelings swirling through you.

Of course you want to see her again, and to enjoy the food for a few days, away from Quintus. But your grief has barely had time to settle and you hope you aren’t moving away from it too soon, even though the days of formal mourning have passed. On the other hand, it would be a great distraction. Deciding right then and there, you smile slightly and nod, finding the date at the bottom of the parchment, near the seal of Herod.

Your eyes widen in shock: It’s in two days already and you haven’t had the time to respond to it. Quickly, you take your inkwell and pen as well as a spare slip of paper to write back a small note in the hopes of sending it with a courier in time. 

Not even awaiting Quintus approval, you send it out before he can return back home, and when you break the news to him, he agrees against all odds, stating it would be good for you to spend some time with your friend. You know it is likely just so he does not have to deal with you, to enable him to focus on his work for a few days, but you don’t mind it. 

With fresh delight surging through you, you start to pack a few necessities as well as an expensive garment to wear, looking forward to meeting Joanna again.

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[the-chosen-fanfiction]

Gentile. | Chapter 29

Tragedy befalls your family.

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You envy Valeria’s thick, red hair. It isn’t like you think your own hair isn't beautiful, but it’s different from what you’re used to and you know it had always caught your brother’s eye when their betrothal was about to be finalised.

Their relationship had been an exception to the rule. Whereas you would be married to the highest bidder, your oldest brother was so lucky as to find a woman within the social range that he had grown to love long before they married. You recall countless letters exchanged between them, the first time you found out about their relationship by catching your brother red-cheeked after a talk with her, the moment Lucius entrusted you with endless hours of gushing about how much she means to him.

Alas, for your own marriage, that cannot be said. 

Father had been adamant about you binding yourself to someone of his choosing, and, for the record, didn’t necessarily fully approve of the liberal marriage between Lucius and Valeria, either. He had always told you, a woman should be grateful for the time of day she received from her husband, and Lucius would soon grow to learn that treating a woman in the way he treated his wife would only lead her to rebel against him.

You always kept your mouth shut. Speaking up would get you in trouble and you feared that he might redirect that anger to your mother in the long run. As the older son, Lucius had been given the benefit of the doubt, and as the older daughter, you had become leverage for tight and fruitful business within the Empire.

So in complete honesty, you muster envy towards them. Both of them, for being so happy together, for their connection rooted in love instead of convenience. Certainly, you’re happy for them, but it stings regardless. 

“Are you okay?” Valeria asks when you take a particularly long time to brush one part of her wonderful locks to the point it has started to become frizzy at the ends. You snap out of your spiralling thoughts, blinking in confusion.

“Huh?”

Her brow furrows and she angles herself to look at you, green eyes filled with worry. “(Y/n), is everything alright?”

“Of course,” you breathe, “I was just daydreaming for a bit. We have travelled far to get here.”

Humming, she turns back so that you can continue on her hair, starting on the final section. It is soft between your fingers as you slip them through it and you’re almost tempted to braid it. 

“You seem like you’re doing better,” you admit, “The medicine, I mean. The colour is back in your cheeks, I can see your freckles again.” 

“I’m feeling pretty good,” she tells you with a smile, rubbing over her tummy. “Little tired is all.” 

You swipe the boar bristle brush through her locks one last time before putting it down, sighing deeply. “That looks way better.”

“Thank you, soror ,” Valeria muses - always calling you ‘sister’ and not adding the ‘in-law’ at the end. She hoists herself to her feet before you can get up to assist her and she grunts, supporting her bulging stomach that is extremely visible underneath her tunic. You wonder how obvious your tummy appears to the outside world at your stage.

You watch as she makes her way over to her bed to plop down and get comfortable. Exhaustion is visible underneath her eyes and you grab the scroll of text you had brought along. “I copied some poems I found at the library,” you preface your recital. “I hope you’ll like it.”

Valeria hums and nods as you get comfortable at the end of the bed, pulling up one of your legs.

“That’s something I envy about you, (Y/n),” she takes you aback. With a raised brow, you wait for her to clarify, which she soon does: “You know just how to select your literary works with such ease… And whenever you write to us, I’m often… Ah, I keep all of your poems together and I sometimes read them when I feel uninspired.” 

Your cheeks flush. “That means a lot.” you whisper. 

“You’ve got talent, (Y/n). In another life, you could have been a poet.” 

You laugh lightly at the insinuation but she appears to be serious. A tad abashed, you clear your throat and unroll the parchment. “I’ll… I’ll just start, okay?”

Valeria sinks a little further into her pillow and smiles. “Please.”

And so, you fulfil your promise to her. You recite both romantic and dramatic poems, pouring everything you can into your intonation and dramatisation. Your sister-in-law seems to almost draw the words from your lips from the way she is watching you with bated breath, curious to hear what comes next.

For a while, you don’t have to think about the fact that Quintus, Lucius and your father are speaking to one another a few rooms over, perhaps already discussing the education of your child even though it has not yet been born. The stories are as wonderful to you as they are to Valeria, although her brow starts to fall the longer she observes you. 

“(Y/n),” she interrupts you halfway through the second-to-final poem and the words die on your tongue, your gaze meeting hers. Despite her face having a healthy flush again, the white of her eyes appears yellow. “How are things going with your pregnancy? And with Quintus?”

“What?”

She sighs. “Lucius has told me about the letter.” 

You nearly drop the scroll and are overcome with embarrassment. When you don’t respond and instead look away, Valeria sits up and reaches over to put her hand on your arm. “It’s okay, you can trust me. Is something the matter? I want to help you.”

“You can’t.” you whisper matter-of-factly, “I-I appreciate the concern, but this is something I need to solve by myself. I’ve spoken to Lucius about it, and he’ll make sure that Quintus doesn’t get to know and… Things will be fine. Truly.” Even you don’t sound persuaded by your own words. Valeria exhales and sits back again.

“I just…” you sigh, folding your hands inside your lap. “I need… I need time to think, to sort things out. I’ll be fine.”

“If there is anything you need to get off your chest, seek me out.” Valeria does not pressure you into confessing your troubles. “I meant to bring that up and wanted to do so earlier. I don’t know why I just interrupted you, but… Carry on.”

With a shivering exhale, you nod and wrap up the recital of the poems before rolling the parchment back up, tying the leather shut again. 

With a tired smile, Valeria smiles. “Thank you for that, (Y/n),” she gratefully breathes, “Thank you for your time and your creativity.”

You scoff a laugh. “All I did was read some lines I didn’t create myself.”

“Yet you chose to read them to me, considered whether I’d like them or not, and they were very engaging to me.” She gives a reassuring grin. “There is no need to be shy about it. Take a compliment for once.” With a wink, she gestures you into an embrace.

“Thank you, Val,” you murmur, “For your attention, and your sweet compliments.”

When you pull away, she flinches and puts her hand on her stomach, prompting you to hum in worry. “Something the matter?”

Your sister-in-law gives a small shake of her head, smiling wryly. “The baby has just woken up again and decided to kick into my organs as a means of entertainment.” 

The face you pull causes her to chuckle. “Ah, good luck with that once your pregnancy gets to that stage.” Her voice contains humour. “You don’t really get used to it but it’s part of life.”

“Thanks for the reassurance.” you tell her in good spirits. “I’ll leave you alone for now so that you can rest. Do you need me to send in Lucius?” 

“Please.” she muses, “And thank you, again.”

“My pleasure.” you state, standing and heading for the door, giving her a final glance over your shoulder. She smiles tiredly and gives you a small wave, which you return before brushing out of the room.

The men of the family have gathered to drink wine whilst your mother and sister are entertaining Aurelia at the other side of the room. You greet Julia with a brief embrace and promise to tell her more about your pregnancy later upon seeing her surprise, but you head over to fetch Lucius first. Intersecting yourself into the circle by standing in between Quintus and Lucius, you grab your brother’s arm. 

“Luci, Valeria is about to go to sleep for tonight and requests your presence.”

“Hm, I’ll go there at once, my wine’s almost gone.” He flushes it back quickly and you give your other brother a small nod as a greeting. Marius returns it before resuming his conversation with Julia’s husband, seemingly uninterested in how you are doing and discussing business instead. 

Quintus’ perfume stings in your nose when he catches your elbow in his hand. “Why don’t we call it a day too, my dear?” he queries, “You must be exhausted.” Even though it is a question, you know pretty well that it is not meant as such, and you hum in agreement. 

“Very well.”

“Excuse me gentlemen, we will withdraw ourselves to our chambers to turn in for the night.”

They all mutter a goodbye and you give your mother and sister a quick wave, rushing over to peck Aurelia on the forehead before Quintus calls after you with slight annoyance in his voice. You pursue him to the bedroom, glad that you’ve tucked away your forbidden scroll of Jewish history beforehand, and sit down on the bed to rid yourself of your garment whilst your husband gets himself some water. 

With a sigh, you close your eyes and rub your straining neck. Quintus does not ask about Valeria and it irks you thoroughly, for he has only spent his time here vouching for the attention of your father and likely chewing out Lucius for any information on the letter.

“You know,” you start, swallowing thickly as he locks eyes with you through the reflection of the mirror. The knife slices against his skin tightly as he shaves his cheeks, ridding himself of any hair that grows there. “Valeria is doing better thanks to the doctor, in case you were wondering.”

“I wasn’t.” Quintus huffs, “What matters to me is that you aren’t sick in her stead.”

You frown deeply and open your mouth to reply, but you know that protesting will only get you in trouble, especially since you are around your father these days. You instead lay down under the covers, which are itchy against your skin at the unfamiliarity thereof, and you wait for Quintus to finish up, the room filled with the scent of lavender soap. 

“Aren’t you afraid,” you inquire, “That it might happen to me, too?” 

Quintus scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Not at all. Nothing will happen to you, unless you do something that causes the gods to grow angry at you. If anything happens, that’s on you. As long as you aren’t hiding anything from me and in turn earn the gods favour, you’ll be fine.” 

You gulp thickly and grit your teeth, holding your breath as you dare to ask: “What did my brother tell you when you asked him about the letter?” 

“There is nothing to be said.” He huffs in utter annoyance, unable to hide it from his features. “He is adamant about having made a mistake in his judgement. Gone here for absolutely nothing. If you had only been a bit more persuasive, I’d have trusted you.” Of course he was going to put the blame regarding the scratch on his ego on you. 

You do not reply, instead try to make yourself comfortable as Quintus tucks himself in next to you, awfully warm and far from welcome. Still, the business of the day has exhausted you, and so, it does not take long for you to drift off, dreams filled with images of Atticus, scrolls and babies.

_ 

“Wake up! Open the door!” 

Roughly pulled from your sleep by fists slamming against the door, Marius’ panicked voice tears through the bedroom. Groggily, Quintus protests, but you’re on your feet before you can even properly open your eyes – your heart crawls into your throat and hammers faster than you’ve ever felt it beat before, anxiety tightening your chest. 

You drape a robe over your shoulders and unlock the door, and Marius bursts inside with wide-blown eyes, out of breath. Your legs feel weak underneath you at the panic beaming off of him, for this means no good news. 

“Come! Come! We need to— To—” 

“Marius,” you whimper, “Calm down, we can’t understand you if you–”

“Calm down?! (Y/n), we need to run! Pray! Pray! Valeria, she– She is unwell! Lucius, he–He told me to–”

“What?! Take me to him, now!”

You don’t even wait for your husband before you run through the mansion barefoot, following your brother. Adrenaline relieves the pain in your ankles and abdomen. 

Servants are running around, carrying buckets of water. Pacing back and forth in front of her bedroom, you find Lucius, his face drained of colour. “Lucius, what is going on?!” you exclaim, and you have never seen him this scared before. He gestures to the door with a sound of agony.

“She’s– She’s fighting in there, (Y/n), she’s–” 

Valeria’s cry of sorrow splits the air in half and makes the hairs of your neck stand on end, “I-I’ve brought in the midwife and-and-and priests, and they’re— (Y/n), I–I need you to take Aurelia so that mater can go to the temple to pray and to make sacrifices, Julia has already gone, and– O-Oh, I’m so scared!”

“Of course,” you immediately accept, “Where is she, let me take her, I will make sure that nothing will happen to her, I—” The door to the bedroom cracks open so that a healer can slip out and another back in, and in that moment, you catch a glimpse of Valeria.

All air leaves your lungs at once. Drenched in sweat, she twists and turns in the sheets, the mask of death already turning her features grey. Pained wails stream from her throat, her fingers gripping the blood-sodden sheets as she arches off the bed, three healers trying to keep her down as one chants a spell, hoping it will both calm her as well as make her better. The door slams shut again, and with a shivering breath, you rush over to seek out your niece, wanting to keep the distress from her innocent ears.

You scoop her up and drag her away from the cries of agony that chill you to the bone. Aurelia wails just as loudly, far from understanding as to why her sleep has been so roughly disturbed. Her little fists claw themselves into your nightgown as you rush to the other end of the estate, as far away as possible. 

There, you hold her for a while, staring out of the window as she kicks her feet and places muffled whimpers into your shoulder, crying for her mother’s embrace instead. You ignore the few painful thumps that end up against your stomach, the baby within protected enough from the far from forceful attack, but you huff regardless in discomfort. Snot and tears soak your gown, yet you don’t care about it, not when your sweetest niece is falling apart in your arms. You endure it all, until she finally calms down, tears drying on her chubby face as exhaustion takes over. 

Swaying her back and forth, you hear muffled shouts and screams from the house. They intensify and panic builds inside your chest. Tightly shutting your eyes, you whisper a plea to whatever goddess might guide Valeria through. “Oh, Lucina, show mercy on Valeria, Juno, do not let the unripe fruit of her womb fall away from us…”

Quintus barges into the room without knocking, startling Aurelia and sending her back into another bout of crying. Whereas you had expected him to scowl, there is defeat on his features as you turn to him. He is as pale as a sheet and just holds out his arms. “Give her to me.” he mutters without explanation, “Hurry. I’ll look after her.”

Whereas you’d usually have hesitated to do so, you don’t even give it a second thought before prying loose Aurelia’s fingers from your robe before lifting her into your husband’s arms, dashing off as quickly as you can. Spurred on by adrenaline and panic, you approach the sound of howls and moans, halting dead in your tracks when your parents stand in a rare embrace, your mother finding conditional comfort in his arms.

“What?” you whimper when a few eyes go to you, and you push through the crowd of servants and people you have never seen before, until you end up on the threshold of Lucius and Valeria’s bedroom.

Your heart sinks into your gut. The stink of iron waters your eyes and prompts a sour flavour to creep into your mouth. 

In a puddle of crimson blood, Valeria lays motionless. From between her parted legs, a midwife takes a wailing baby. 

Lucius stands crushed with hanging shoulders in the middle of the room. It is the first time you have seen him so vulnerable, so broken, and he falls to his knees. Grey with death, like ash, Valeria’s face falls into a horrible imitation that resembles relaxation, her lips awfully purple. Her hair that you’ve so beautifully brushed is like a curtain around her face, beautiful still, adorning her lifeless features.

Behind you, people lament, but no sound leaves your throat other than a choked sob. 

The midwife turns and slowly lowers the crying, writhing babe to the floor. It’s tiny, too tiny, though its lungs would not imply such a thing, the screech of it chilling you to the core. 

“A girl.” the midwife announces. 

A strained sound you’ve never heard from your brother before escapes him. Then, his shoulders straighten out as does his back, his posture hardening. He crouches down, scoops her up, holds her with an expression that remains unreadable. 

“I’ll get everything sorted out.” you hear your father whisper behind you. 

Everyone shuffles around, afraid to make a noise, but you remain frozen in your position, staring at Lucius’ back, then finding Valeria, painfully beautiful, the stench of her blood settled deep within the room.

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