#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 XLVII

On your walk through town, you run into someone unexpected bringing news just as unforeseen.

Chapter list

If you blink too often, you will miss it, you think to yourself as you observe Valerius gently resting on your chest one morning as you lay in the pleasant shade of the tree in the garden, a gentle hand on his back as he sleeps. He has already grown so much in the past weeks to the point that you can barely imagine that the infant has ever fit so snugly inside of your belly, even if he would curl up all the way. 

A servant brings you sugared figs you had asked her to get you and you give her a grateful smile as she places the box next to your cup of water. Your recovery has been slow yet steady, but your heart is heavy nevertheless. The days go by without much going on, nor is there any news about Jesus that makes its way around town. Perhaps that He is busy in other cities, you have figured, settling into an almost lazy routine where you allow yourself to heal from your labour, mostly at Quintus’ insistence. 

Your husband has not mentioned anything about his conversation with your father, making you believe that he has forgotten about it altogether, which is good all things considered. Perhaps that your father had been adamant about the wet nurse who could feed your son for you and that Quintus had considered it for a bit until finding out that you didn’t actually require help. At least, that is the conclusion you came up with yourself. A theory that will just remain a theory until it is important enough to be brought up by your husband again.

You are just enjoying the second sugared fig you’ve taken from the box when a servant blocks the light of the sun with his body and gives an apologetic bow of his head when you look up a little disturbed by his sudden presence. “Forgive me for the intrusion, my lady, but Primi Gaius just asked me to deliver this to you.” 

As you sit up with a leaping heart, Valerius is instantly roused by the sudden movement, whining a little as you cradle him gently against your body and take the small roll of parchment held out in your direction. “Thank you,” you whisper, waiting for the boy to leave you alone until you inspect the letter up close. The seal does not belong to Atticus; at least, it is not the ring with the insignia he always uses. Instead, it seems as if someone has pressed it shut with a thumb, a faint fingerprint visible in the wax. It must have hurt to do, you think to yourself as you trace the shape of it with your own finger. 

You shift to gently rest Valerius in your lap, his little feet pointed at your belly and his head between your knees, and you undo the seal with shaking fingers. 

You had not expected Atticus to reach out, so receiving a letter from him in the first place was special in and of itself. How he had known about your labour would have yet to be revealed by the contents. Before you fully unroll the parchment, you look around agitatedly, making sure that nobody is observing you, lest it be some kind of trap set by Quintus to catch you in the act doing something you are not supposed to. 

When your eyes roam over the words, your breath is instantly taken away at the sight of Atticus’ familiar handwriting, knowing that it must come from him. 

“My love, forgive me for how short this is, but neither of us can risk being found in this brief correspondence. I am delighted to hear of the birth of our healthy boy and wish nothing more but to be with you as soon as I can. The Primi has told me about the current situation with Quintus. I swear to you that I will come find you as fast as my duty allows me. I am deeply sorry it cannot be sooner. I love you. Stay strong for me, my Flower. A.” 

It takes you a moment to remember to breathe. You are glad that he knows about both the affair coming to light as well as the birth of Valerius, since now you don’t have to risk sending out word to him. You make a mental note to thank Gaius for his cooperation later. Knowing what you must do now that you have received the message, your fingers hesitate around the paper. You scrunch it up into a ball.

Carefully propping Valerius onto your arm, you stand and head back inside, the rest of your figs remaining in the garden to melt under the heat of the sun, and you walk over to the fireplace to toss the parchment into the flames. You watch how Atticus’ rare words of correspondence to you are consumed by the fire in favour of not being discovered. Your throat feels tight. You miss him.

Running a hand down the side of your face, you look at your son, who has woken up and seems a little fussy. Clicking your tongue, you gently touch his cheek. He squirms a bit, but soon falls back asleep. You wonder if you had been such an easy child, too. 

Still, you crave some distraction outside of the house, no matter how delightful the babe in your arms is. Heading over to one of the servants, you give her a kind yet pleading look. “I am going to run some errands in the village,” you say, even though there are no chores to be completed by you, “Could you please look after my son as I do so?” 

The young woman nods and takes the infant from your arms. The boy instantly protests, causing you to jolt and resist the urge to instantly reach out to comfort him. “I will be back within an hour,” you promise both the servant and your son, and make your way to the hallway, where you take the cloak that you had been wearing on your usual trips outside. 

“Where are you going, my lady?” asks Julius, who is currently stationed at the door of the estate. You halt and look over your shoulder at him.

“To the market, centurion.” 

“Without a chaperone?” 

When you don’t verbally answer and instead look at him for a few long moments, Julius understands the inquiry. With a sigh, he turns to the other guard standing on the other side of the door. “Stay here,” Julius tells him, “I will escort the lady of the house lest something happen to her. Make sure that nobody gets inside.” 

The soldier nods and Julius walks up to fall one step behind you, his gaze on the back of your head as you walk out in front of him. It makes you slightly uneasy, but you can hardly tell him to let you go by yourself. Should Quintus find out you went out to market in your current condition without someone watching over you, leaving your son back home with the servants… Well, you doubt he’d let you out of his office ever again. 

You’d have preferred for Julius to walk next to you instead of behind, but you maintain a professional distance. Even though you are aware the man is a companion of Gaius, you cannot tell for sure what he thinks of you and you aren’t close enough to ask him outright. Deciding to focus on the fresh air instead as well as the rare treat of being away from the premises of the villa, you sigh and traverse the village of Capernaum.

After purchasing a wooden rattle for your son at one of the stands, you wonder if you could take a walk across the shores of the Sea of Galilee to let the wind blow through your hair and sweep away some of the worries inside your heart, but right as you turn to the outer rings of the village to head that way, a carriage not belonging to someone of low class comes to a screeching halt, the driver clad in clothes that are not from around here. 

A familiar woman gets out of it, your heart instantly leaping at the sight of Joanna, a gasp leaving your lungs as you step towards her immediately, “Jo!” you breathe not loud enough for her to hear, but as soon as you see the dejected, distraught look on her face as she frantically looks around with a slip of paper in hand, clenching it to her chest, your brow knits together in worry. She came here in haste, you realise, and not for good reason. 

Your friend begins to pace around, asking townspeople for directions. Coincidentally, she is near the place she has to be, and she adjusts the hood of her purple cloak as she hurries towards a door, instantly hammering on it with a flat hand, calling out: “Andrew!” 

There is panic in her voice. “Andrew, are you home?!” 

The door swings open and reveals the curly-haired fisherman you’ve seen around occasionally, his eyes widening in surprise. “Joanna?”

When she removes her head covering, you see the tears in Joanna’s eyes. Her lip quivers for a beat before she starts to sob, her shoulders shaking. Andrew starts to shake his head in disbelief. “No, no, no…” 

“I’m sorry—” Joanna squeaks as another man walks up behind the fisherman and puts a hand on his upper arm. 

“Andrew, what’s wrong?” 

“No, it’s uh… It’s John…” 

Joanna swallows away the lump in her throat. “Are you Philip?”

“No,” the blue-eyed man states, “I– I’m Judas. Philip is away.” 

Andrew lets out a shaky breath. “I’ll tell Philip,” he mutters. “I’ll tell Philip.” 

There is grief coiling within both him and your best friend, and it takes little else for you to put together what must have happened. It is a punch to the gut, even though you didn’t really know the Baptiser that well. Many letters received from Joanna contained teachings from the odd preacher, which you have taken to heart. She must be heartbroken, having grown close to him over time. 

Judas helps Andrew sit down on the ground, and it occurs to you that Joanna might be in need of comfort, too. Right when you are about to approach her to make your presence known and offer a shoulder to cry on, you are cut off by a few of Jesus’ followers headed in her direction as well. They rush over to Andrew, Simon pulling his brother into his arms to embrace him tightly.

Mary and Tamar find Joanna’s side and for a moment you wonder if she needs you at all, but the sound of her name leaves your lips louder than earlier before you even realise it has formed there. “Joanna!” 

Like one being, everyone turns to face you, a few faces worried, but others gasp in recognition. “(Y/n)!” Joanna breathes, accepting the embrace you give her instantly.

“Who is that?” Nathanael asks. 

“A friend,” Tamar reassures him, “I have known her for a while now. Not only was she at Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount, but she also used to buy my flowers for more than she owed me and refused to take back the change. And… I can see that she’s close to Joanna. She can be trusted.”

Andrew takes a shaky breath. “We knew this day would come,” he states, “We should have been prepared.” You gently hold Joanna’s hand as she lowers her gaze as a brief silence weighs heavily on the group. You let your gaze go through the mourning crowd. You had not expected to be standing amongst them like this, at such a vulnerable moment to begin with. 

“We were,” one of the followers notes, all eyes finding him. “John came to prepare the way… And he did.” It is stated so matter-of-factly that the tension falls away just slightly. “He was not the Messiah, but… John came to bear witness that He would be here soon.” 

A sense of peace comes over the group alongside their grief. The very purpose of the Baptiser had been fulfilled and he deserved to rest. “Now we have to… We have to find Jesus and tell Him.” 

Matthew’s gaze goes to somewhere in the distance as he slowly turns. 

“You don’t have to.” The former tax collector’s voice trembles as everyone pivots to see Jesus approach with show, deliberate steps, ash dusted on his forehead. The sleeve of His tunic is torn at the shoulder to express the state of mourning. The sight of His eyes brings a lump into your throat as Jesus halts a few steps away from the group, and He slowly looks at everyone, one by one, also lingering on you.. 

This was not the reunion with Jesus you had pictured when He said that the two of you would meet again some day. Then again, you doubt that you’d get a word with Him now. Not that you minded, for this was not the right time nor the right place. Wordlessly, Jesus brushes through the group of followers into the house of Andrew, finding comfort with the ones closest to His late cousin. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” you whisper to Joanna, “You shouldn’t be completely by yourself in a time like this.” Before she can say anything in reply, you turn to Jesus’ followers. “I will look after Joanna whilst you go and be with Him, alright?” There is little protest in the group at your offer. The Roman woman next to you opens her mouth to speak, but you put up your hand to prevent her from doing so. “You will be able to speak to Jesus and His followers later. Let us give them some space, first.” 

Joanna lets out a quivering exhale and nods. The sound of spending some time with you doesn’t sound too bad, either. As you step away from the group silently, you see Julius’ curious gaze on you. 

The two of you walk ahead until you sense the shadow of your escort lingering somewhere behind. “How have you been, (Y/n)?” Joanna asks, “How is the…” 

When her gaze goes down to your stomach, she freezes and feels a gasp leave her lungs. “You’re… Not pregnant anymore.” 

You rub your arm and smile at her a bit apologetically. “I couldn’t… Couldn’t really send a letter these past weeks. Quintus has been… Very cautious about things regarding me… Uh… A lot has happened, actually.” 

“The baby?” Joanna breathes. 

“He is healthy,” you tell her, a small, proud smile tugging at your lips. “His name is Valerius.” 

She gives you a look. “That’s not the name I expected. How did you get your husband to agree to that?” Shrugging, you hum and give a small smile. 

“Hm. I just warned him how it could affect his honour if he made his wife break a promise to her powerful brother.”  

Joanna grins a bit at that. “Well, congratulations, I suppose.” She leans a little closer. “And the father, how is he?” 

Your smile falls into a more serious frown as you turn to her, grabbing her wrist. “Come with me to my house here in Capernaum,” you tell her, “We can have wine and discuss… Everything that has been going on lately.” 

The Roman’s eyes widen a bit at the sudden urgency in your tone, but she immediately gives in, trusting you. “Okay,” she mutters, silently heading back to the villa at your side. You thank Julius for his cooperation and he simply bows, heading to the barracks for a well-deserved break. 

When the two of you enter the villa, Joanna removes her hood again and looks around in slight awe. “I mean,” she muses, “Machaerus is pretty, but I wouldn’t mind a home like this, either. It’s the same, but with less business around you. It is… Quite cosy, actually.” 

You hum. “Not as luxurious as you are used to.” 

“Maybe not, but I like it.” 

When you’re about to tell her about your experiences living here, the servant whom you had entrusted with your son rounds the corner and hands the wailing babe back into your arms. “He seems to be very hungry, my lady.” 

You nod and smile at her. “Well, let me do something about that then, hm?” You can sense Joanna’s eyes on the infant held against you and you turn to her. “Shall we go upstairs to my study?” you suggest, “I could feed him there, and we could talk all we want.” 

The Roman woman nods and you turn to one of the servants. “Please, bring us some wine and two cups, and some dates if that’s alright. Thank you.” 

“So, this is your famous study…” Joanna muses as she steps inside after you, causing you to softly laugh and nod. You watch how she walks over to the bookshelves to inspect the titles on them, even though you’ve hardly read any of the classic works you keep on there for quite some time. You settle on the sofa, where a few stains of your labour have not been able to be scrubbed out of. 

“Right,” you muse when the servant brings the food and drinks. “And that is the desk where I write all my letters to you.” 

“I can see why you like this place so much,” she admits, “It’s so nice here. I wish I had a private study like this, but alas, I have to share my chambers with Chuza.” 

You hum and bare your breast, settling your son against you to latch as the door clicks shut, leaving you and Joanna by yourselves. With a small noise of admiration, Joanna watches how Valerius eagerly drinks, large (e/c) eyes looking up at you. 

“He’s so precious,” she compliments, pouring two cups of wine and handing you one. She takes your desk chair and sits near you, giving you the space of the sofa for yourself, which is a gesture you appreciate. You hum softly, rubbing a clean cloth over the dribble escaping over his chin. 

“He is,” you croon, “And he’s such an easy child to take care of, too. At least, he doesn’t cry a lot and he manages to sleep through half the night, so I’m enjoying it while it lasts.” 

Joanna, though childless, lets out a hum and smiles. “Just wait until he’s a toddler. He’d probably be at your bedside every other hour, then.” 

Laughing at the notion, you exhale and gaze down at the newborn in your arms. “So,” Joanna wants to know, “How did it go?” 

“The labour?” 

“Mh-mm,” she hums in acknowledgement, causing you to shift and take a sip of wine as you get a little more comfortable. 

“It was horrible,” you confess, “I mean, I’ve never felt pain like that. Quintus wasn’t exactly helping, either… He…” Your voice trails off as your gaze stares at the flickering flames of the fireplace, where a few remnants of your letter from Atticus stick to the logs. “He knows that he isn’t the father of this child.” 

The fond smile that had been playing over your best friend’s lips fades. “Oh? Does he know… Who is, then?” 

You slowly nod and let out a shaky sigh. “He does still intend to raise this child as if it were his own, though.” There is a hint of regret in your voice. “Atticus knows that Valerius has been born, but it doesn’t make it much easier…” 

Joanna bites her lip as she traces the edge of her cup with a thumb. “I get that.” 

Brief silence. 

“What happened to John?” you suddenly question, causing Joanna to sharply inhale. “If you’re ready to talk, of course.” 

The brunette’s gaze fixes on the face of innocence sitting peacefully in your arms, averting her eyes when you move away the boy to clean and cover yourself up once he’s done drinking. “There was a banquet.” 

You hum. “Of course there was.” 

Joanna lets out a noise. “Nothing new… Except for Salome, the daughter of Herodias, performing a sensual dance for the king…” 

During your time at Herod’s court, you had seen the young woman in the halls or during dinners a few times. You had never exchanged any words with her, but a pang of pity goes through your chest when you imagine the corpulent, unsavoury client king leering at his step-daughter. What unnerves you most, is that her very own mother has most likely been the one to suggest that she should do so. 

“You have seen Herod drunk,” Joanna says, a shudder involuntarily rippling down her spine, “You know how he gets.” 

“He cannot say no,” you whisper, “To anything.” 

Joanna lets out a regretful sigh. “And pleased he was…” A pit of dread forms in your stomach. 

After a brief pause, your best friend finds the right words. “She… Herodias urged her to ask for the head of John the Baptist… On a silver platter.” 

To use your own children like that for such a vile personal agenda is one thing, but this is something you never could have expected. The horror is written all over your face, for Joanna lets out a long sigh and rubs the bridge of her nose. “I know, it is disgusting.” 

“It’s depraved,” you whisper, “I hardly know what to say. I know John was dear to you. I’m very sorry for your loss, Jo.” Reaching you, you grab her hand with yours, squeezing it softly. She gives you a watery smile. 

“I am grateful that I got to know him,” Joanna admits, “I owe him my faith. And that he made me more certain in my faith in Jesus. I’m sure that one day, I will see him again, and then I’ll be able to thank him for it once more.” 

You nod slowly at her, inspecting her face. There is not just grief, but also gratitude. 

“That is a very comforting thought,” you say. She hums and lets her focus go back to the baby you’re holding. Right as she is about to ask if she can keep him in her arms for a bit, the infant’s stomach rumbles loudly, soon followed by the sound of him passing something more than just gas. The two of you burst out into laughter, breaking the mournful tension, and you let out a noise. 

“I understand,” you light-heartedly say to your son as he lets out a small whine, “It’s not a nice feeling whenever you soil yourself. Let me put you into something clean, alright?” 

Joanna hums fondly at the sight of you so affectionately speaking to your son, watching how you get up and head for the nearby bathroom to change his nappy. “Feel free to wait here for a bit,” you tell her, “I will be right back.” 

As you exit the room to clean up Valerius, Joanna curiously walks through your room. She notices how the statuette of the Roman deity Juno on your mantelpiece is scratched and dented. It is clear that the damage on the figurine is not a result of a one-time tumble onto the tile floor. It has been thrown with a considerable amount of force and placed back in such a way that its eyes are not turned to the room, but rather to the wall. 

Joanna explores on, seeing a stack of books on your desk, indicating they are your most recent reads. Tilting her head a little, she reads the titles on the backs, and realises something; they are on Jewish culture and meditations.

Right when she is about to reach out and open one of them, you return back sans Valerius. “I put him down for his nap,” you explain, smiling as you smooth your hands down your dress, halting in your step when you notice she is looking at your books. “…I thought I put those away.” 

“Obviously, you didn’t.” There is a soft smile on her mouth as she looks at you. “How is your faith, (Y/n)? I know we’ve discussed Jesus’ teachings in great detail, but… How is your heart?” 

You rapidly close the door and step closer to her. “Promise to not tell a soul.” 

“You know me,” Joanna reassures you, “And you know what I believe. Do you believe?” 

“Yes,” you whisper, “And I want to share something with you.” From your drawer, you take the journal you had been using to write your poetry lately about your newfound faith, and hand it to her. Joanna gives you a look, carefully opening the notebook to flick through the pages. Her eyes widen as she realises the impact of your words, what they mean. Tears spring into her vision.

“You wrote these?” she sniffles a bit, “They are beautiful.”  

“Yes,” you breathe, “You may read them, if you want.” 

Joanna nods slowly, smiling a bit. “Thank you,” she says, before her eye falls onto your collarbone. You frown, bringing your hand there without looking, wondering if you’ve had a little accident during the changing of Valerius’ underclothes, but you find the outline of the amulet Quintus had gifted you in the days after the passing of Valeria..

“You don’t need that anymore,” Joanna says with a soft smile on her lips. You mirror her expression and yank it so hard that the string that holds it behind your neck snaps. 

“I never did,” you say, “Besides… It’s ugly anyways.” 

The two of you turn towards the fireplace as one being. Although the statue of Juno had not been able to be burned to a crisp in it, the necklace in your hand might make for a better kindle. Before you can give it another thought, you toss it into the flames, watching how it is consumed alongside the bits of paper that remain from the letter you had preferred to keep. A sharp contrast.

Joanna gently takes your hand and squeezes, a gesture you reciprocate, and you stand there for a few long minutes, until footsteps head up the stairs and force you into a seated position, pretending to be busy gossiping instead. 

The door swings open and reveals a tired Quintus. “Who is this?” he asks, “Why is she here?” 

“This is Joanna. The friend from Machaerus I often write to.” 

Joanna gulps hard as she sees your husband. The stories you told her about him do not do him justice; the way he glares at her makes her blood run cold. 

“What is she doing here, then? All the way from the court, no less…” 

“I wanted to see your child,” she quickly states, which isn’t a complete lie. “Congratulations, by the way.” There is no smile on Quintus’ lips as he looks between you and Joanna.

“Did you write to her without my knowledge, then?” 

“She hadn’t heard from me in a while,” you say. “She was concerned about my wellbeing.” Still the truth. 

The Praetor hums in that dangerous way he often does whenever he is not convinced of something, but he drops it. “Tell her to go home. It’s late.” 

You nod and wait until he closes the door, turning sharply to Joanna. Your best friend has a horrified expression on her face, letting out a shaky breath. “He’s worse than I thought,” she softly murmurs loud enough to not be heard by anyone pressing their ear to the door. You swallow hard and shrug. 

“I feel like something big is going to happen soon,” you admit, “Perhaps something to do with Jesus. I cannot quite place a finger on it… But as long as I trust in Him, things will be fine. Right?” 

Joanna takes your hand and holds it gently. “That is all we can do. Wait and see.” 

You bite your lip. “I have missed you, my dear friend. I don’t want you to go yet.” A sigh leaves her as she nods in acknowledgement, sharing that sentiment. 

Walking her to the door, you lean against the doorframe as she adjusts her purple cloak. “I will write to you some time soon,” she promises, and you have to swallow the comment that you doubt you will receive anything due to Quintus monitoring your correspondence. 

“Be careful,” you remind her. “And… May God bless you.” 

The words earn you a smile. “God bless you, too,” she replies, loud enough for only you to hear. You watch how she heads out into the street, most likely to where Andrew lives to mourn with Jesus and His followers. You wish you could have come with her.

“Come,” Quintus says behind you, nearly making you jump out of your skin, “Dinner is ready.” 

You step away from the door, looking at the pink and orange sky for a few long moments, before joining your husband at the table.

---

Next chapter (TBA) Chapter list

[scoffingatgravity]

Disclaimer: No spoilers for The Chosen: The Last Supper Part Two (as in I haven’t seen it yet), but speculation for S5/S6.

I’m fairly new to the show (got into it around January), but have become fixated on it and wound up speculating on which other characters are actually intended to be ones spoke of in the Bible (the unnamed players). I think everyone is in agreement that Yussif is Joseph of Arimathea (his name is the Arabic form of Joseph, so it could be a little surprise reveal/built up to), but I’ve seen differing views on which of the Romans would be the one at the crucifixion who acknowledges Jesus as the “Son of God.”

Before S3/S4, a lot of people were hoping for Gaius (which surprised me), but it then shifted towards Atticus. I’m not saying it wouldn’t make sense or work, or it won’t happen, but my bet is on Quintus for quite a few reasons.

1.) Someone pointed this out, but the S4 poster has spears positioned behind Quintus. Yes, it could just be Roman imagery/foreshadow the violence he commits in 4x03, but, considering the moment in scripture with Jesus’s side being pierced by a spear…(also, yes, the one piercing with the spear isn’t necessarily the one who converts, I know, but still!)

2.) Their names. Considering the likelihood that Yussif is Joseph, and the clever name choice by using the Arabic version, it’s clear that names aren’t to be taken lightly (for those they name). In 4x04, we learn Quintus’s full name: Quintus Benedictus Dio. Benedictus = praised; blessed. Dio = God. It could be taken as “praise God,”“blessed by God”, or “blessing God.” Yes, Dio came from Dionysus (wine fan), and Quintus certainly enjoys wine, but Benedictus - especially considering Christian tradition? I can’t shake the conviction is has to mean he’ll convert/reform. Meanwhile, Atticus Aemilius Pulcher’s name is translated along the lines of “noble/beautiful rival from Attica.” That doesn’t mean he can’t also convert, but his name choice…

3.) The line “just don’t make me kill you.” We know Dallas thought ahead on some things (like Ramah’s future death back in S2), and this line was also in S2. He was always intended to be there for the crucifixion. While the switch from magistrate work to being a soldier/guard is a bit odd and the exact position of centurion doubtful based on what I understand of Roman military standards, we know The Chosen isn’t exact on scripture, and there are possible translation errors that can account for it. Also, what would be a better punishment for the man who showed violence, a distaste for Pilate, and the military faction of Rome than being forced into what’s basically grunt work under Pilate and/or Atticus?

4.) I just think redemption/conversion with him would be especially effective and fit with the show’s message. Plus, it could lead to some great conflict and character depth/arcs later on for our disciples - in The Chosen or its planned sequel series focused on the early church.

This all being said: I could be wrong, and one of them converting doesn’t mean the other couldn’t. Everyone’s invited to the party, right? It could actually be quite funny if they both do, but have to work together later to help protect the church while still having all that past in the way.

[gabriella0807]

[gabriella0807]

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Look at him!!! 🥺💛

[gabriella0807]

I was today years old when I found out that Elijah Alexander played Hosea in 2012. 🥺

The movie is Amazing Love and you can watch it here. (<- link)

[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 XLV

At last, your pregnancy ends. You see a vision of Jesus. Quintus doubles down in claiming ownership of the baby. When Gaius attempts to send a letter to Atticus, he is nearly caught in the act by the last person he needs to see.

Chapter list

Everything implodes into one sole point of focus inside your mind; nature takes over as all other thoughts flee your mind. The servant helps you into the chair at your desk and seems a little panicked as she feels at your forehead, as if you weren’t in active labour and instead running a fever. “I’m— My lady, I’m going to get your husband and— and the midwife— Don’t go anywhere.” 

Not that you would be able to go anywhere in this condition, you think to yourself as you are left at the mercy of your very own body doing its thing. You try to focus on your breathing as you feel your abdomen contract in pain. 

Deborah rushes through Capernaum with aching lungs as she bursts into Quintus’ office, rushing past the secretary without as much as a word of greeting. “Dominus!” she exclaims, causing the Praetor to look up in disturbance from his work.

“What is the meaning of this interruption—”

“—Your— Your wife, sir—” she breathes, “She is in labour!” 

The legs of Quintus’ chair scrape against the floor as he sharply stands. “What?! Why are you standing here like that, go get the midwife!” 

“Yes— Yes Dominus!” Deborah runs off again as Quintus points a finger at his secretary. 

“Cancel all my appointments for the rest of the day.” 

The man bows his head in obedience as your husband hurries home. 

When he arrives, he finds you heaving for air. Having made your way to the small sofa instead,  you try to get the servants bringing sage into the room to leave. “No!” you hoarsely bellow, “It’s giving me a headache, get that out of here!” 

“But my lady, it’s to ward off evil spirits—” 

Your gaze snaps to Quintus as he enters and you are almost inclined to shout that the evilest of them all just walked into the room, but you bite your tongue and instead glare at the women, the message loud and clear. Not used to this demanding side of you, they understand that this is not what you need right now. 

It is almost as if you aren’t his prisoner, the way Quintus worriedly crouches down next to you. “Darling, look at me. Breathe. Take it easy, breathe, you’re going to faint this way.” 

“Don’t— Tell me what to do—” you whimper as you groan in pain, which is unlike anything you’ve ever been through. 

“Don’t talk to me that way—” 

“—I’m in labour, I can talk however I want— Oh Hades and Styx!” You claw into the material of the sofa as another contraction shunts through you; they have been following one another quicker with the minute now. 

“You are going to ruin your expensive velvet if you keep laying there—” 

“I don’t care!” you cry out, ignoring all that Quintus is saying so far, huffing and puffing as your head buzzes at how intensely you’re focusing on the fierce, deeply-rooted pain inside your lower abdomen. Your husband sighs, about to open his mouth, but the midwife rushes in with her equipment in hand, a few of her assistants right behind her. It shuts Quintus right up; maybe because the woman in question has a stern line in her brow and has obviously years of experience, her demeanour a little intimidating. 

“My lady, my name is Augusta, I’m going to help you deliver your baby.” 

You writhe and nod. “I’m— Oh—” 

“Her name is (Y/n),” Quintus answers it for you. 

“Lady (Y/n),” Augusta mutters, “Don’t you worry about today. Everything will be taken care of, alright?” You let out a sob and ease a bit as a contraction washes over, already bracing yourself for the next one. The midwife takes the opportunity to get you comfortable in your desk chair. 

“We are going to let nature do its thing, and this goes easier if your pelvis is facing downwards,” she explains to you as she helps you take a nice position with your back against a pillow, your legs spread as her assistants ask the servants for hot water and towels. Then, Augusta turns to Quintus, giving him a look. 

“Per Roman tradition, the man should leave the woman and let her deliver amongst other women.” For the first time in your life, you are grateful for such rituals, for the Praetor tightens his jaw but doesn’t argue as he looks down at your distressed state, whilst another contraction causes you to convulse in the chair. 

With a sigh, he brushes some (h/c) locks from your clammy forehead and presses a kiss against it. “Very well,” he states, “I’ll be praying for you, (Y/n).” There is an undertone to his voice that you cannot quite place, something bitter mixed with genuine worry— After all, he knows the sensitive topic of your newfound faith and the way you’re feeling about the Roman deities now, the ones he’ll be directing his prayers towards, but Quintus is also aware of your current vulnerable state. With Valeria’s death still burnt into both your and his memory, he isn’t keen on letting you out of his sight at this very moment. 

You don’t say anything to him as he withdraws himself from your study. One of Augusta’s assistants dabs your forehead with a damp cloth and shushes you gently, as if it would ease the panic shunting through you in waves as flashes of pain render you immobile. 

The next few hours, you know, will consist of agony and fear. Bracing yourself, you know there is no good way to distract yourself, that your mind can’t drift the way it does in daydreams, for the pain is too excruciating to ignore. With a loud whimper, you dig your nails into the armrests of the chair, allowing the women around you to position you around like a ragdoll, for you can’t focus on a thing they’re saying. Once Augusta has you propped up the way she wants you to sit, she tells you something about checking how far you are dilated. Red hot pain shunts through your nether regions as she touches you without another warning, and you cry out. 

On the other side of the house, Quintus paces back and forth, his prayers long ceased ever since hearing you cry out several times now, wondering how you are doing whilst he nibbles his fingernails into nubs at this point. Every agonising shout that comes from upstairs has him increasingly nervous, thinking back on the tragic labour of Valeria. Even though you aren’t sick like she was, and that her baby was not fully ready to be born yet, unlike yours, something akin to anxiety creeps up on him. It’s a sensation Quintus isn’t used to feeling and he doesn’t like it one bit. 

“Is she alright?!” he demands one of the assistants on her way to get another bucket of warm water, and she gulps heavily upon seeing the strangely enraged look on his face, as if they are the ones submitting you to this suffering, as if he hadn’t threatened to gut you like a fish only a day earlier. 

“She—We are making her as comfortable as we can, Dominus.” The young lady whimpers, circling him to get to the servant who pours the hot water into the wooden bucket she’s carrying. 

“Can’t you make it stop?” Quintus mutters, “She sounds like she’s in pain.” 

Even though the question is stupid, the assistant answers regardless. “Alas, we cannot take away the pain of labour, Dominus. Easing it is all we can do.” She walks upstairs again, Quintus gnawing at the nail of his thumb, and he sighs frustratedly. Another cry from your study makes something churn in his chest. 

Perhaps he’s genuinely worried. Perhaps that part of him is feeling guilty for acting so angrily towards you. Perhaps he’s afraid of losing you altogether. Whatever it is, the Praetor’s presence doesn’t make it better to feel at ease around the villa. You can hear him walking around as you breathe through contraction after contraction, one of Augusta’s girls coaching you through them. 

“You are nearly there,” Augusta tells you, “Here, drink some water.” 

You eagerly gulp down the cup she holds your way so quickly that you nearly choke on it, coughing before bracing yourself with gritting teeth against another wave of intense pain. Even your attempt to focus on a mental image of Atticus is in vain. It’s just you, the pain, immense loneliness. 

Until it isn’t. 

Something grows in the corner of your eye, something that seems like a shadow, engulfed with light, the form of a man revealed. You are suddenly hyper-aware of the way you are breathing as you focus on it, allowing it to take shape. For a moment, you wonder if it is truly Who you think it is; the gentle eyes of Jesus of Nazareth look right into your soul as He smiles. 

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you establish that it is not Him being physically here; of course He isn’t, for how would that be possible? After all, Quintus would never have let Him in, let alone allowed Him into the very room where you’re delivering your child. 

It’s too vague to be a vision, yet too vivid to be a dream either — you are not teetering on the edge of unconsciousness. Above the sound of your blood rushing in your ears, you hear Augusta command you:

“Push!” 

Then, the moment is there to get to pushing the baby out of your body, and you brace yourself against the chair. Your vision, or whatever it is, maintains your focus, and you barely dare to close your eyes as you force yourself to push every time Augusta tells you to do so, pausing whenever it is ordered. Out of breath, you barely feel the pain anymore, so captured by the image of Jesus that your heart feels light and loved. 

“You can do it, My daughter.” His voice sounds in your head, but His lips do not move. The vision is gone, now replaced with a kind timbre that echoes through your head, “Do not be afraid, for I am with you. You and this child will be Mine, doing great things in My Name. I am with you, always.” 

With a final gasp, pressure floods out of you at once. Augusta says something, a shrill cry pulling you out of your daze. You realise that it is your baby crying, your child, and you inhale deeply, sitting up straighter in the chair. When your eyes fix on the grime-covered little person inside Augusta’s arms, you immediately reach out with a breath of relief, wanting to comfort its cold body now that it has left the comforts of your own. “My child—” you whisper whilst Augusta checks its vitals. 

“Perfectly healthy,” the seasoned midwife reassures you with a smile, “With a strong set of lungs inside of it.” 

You want to hold the babe against the warmth of your skin, to keep it safe from Quintus’ reach. An almost animalistic sound leaves you the moment she lowers it to the floor per Roman tradition, and a plea leaves your lips before you even know it: 

“Please—I want to hold it first, please—” Two of the midwife’s assistants keep you seated, telling you something about taking it easy; you have lost a lot of blood after all, now metallic in the air alongside the strangely sweet scent of what other liquids have left you. However, all you can focus on is the uncomfortable manner in which the naked little baby writhes on the floor and the way it needs you. 

Quintus bursts into the room, a stark contrast in the face of pure innocence, as his gaze goes from your exhausted body to the infant on the ground, and he steps forward. You’re almost overcome with the urge to yank yourself free, to defy these meaningless Roman traditions and to claim this child before the Praetor can, but the women hold you back tightly — be it because they are familiar with such reactions from women who have just birthed their child, or because Quintus had insisted them to do so. 

A dry sob leaves your lungs when he scoops up the child, lifting it in his claws and raising it up to assess it up close, as if it were a piece of meat at the market. 

“A boy.”

He sounds pleased, and Augusta walks closer to take your son from him again so that she can properly clean him and help out with the first latch. When the midwife walks off for a few moments, the women release you and help you with the afterbirth, Quintus walking closer to meet you right behind your chair, his presence looming over you from behind. 

“Well done.” The tone of his voice makes the hairs of your neck stand on end and you are too dazed to register his hands coming to rest on your shoulders as the assistants clean you up in the aftermath of your labour. Everything is sore and aching, but you just let it happen by now. “Transaction or not, this is the first time you have ever been useful.” 

You want to bite something back; something nasty, something vile, something bitter, for what man speaks to his wife like that minutes after she’s been in labour, at the most vulnerable in her life? Nothing good will come from giving him a piece of your mind now, and for the safety of the newborn infant still crying for your comfort only a little away, you need to bite your tongue for the time being, at least until Atticus is ready to get you out of here for once and for all.

“Remember what I said,” Quintus drawls inside your ear, trying to make it look like a loving gesture as the women continue patching you up, “This child is mine. I am the head of this household, and thus, whatever I say will be done. You are going to be his mother, taking care of him like any good wife would do.” 

About the last part, you have no doubt. No matter if Quintus has claimed ownership over your son, you will care for him regardless of what the Praetor does and commands. After all, the boy is not his flesh and blood, although the outside world will be told that story. 

“That is clear enough for you, right?” You tiredly hum in acknowledgement, knowing what he wants to hear. He releases you and steps away, Augusta approaching with the howling baby inside her arms. You perk up, the exhaustion in your eyes making room for instinct, and you slide your dress off one arm to bare your breast to the hungry child. 

Whereas you’ve had little accidents every now and then, it takes some effort for your body to get adjusted to the baby eagerly latching onto your chest. Augusta lays him against you, warm and safe, wrapped up in a warm blanket as the tears fade. Your heart swells with something indescribable as you cradle him against you, smiling softly as you ignore the pang of hurt shunting through your breast as he begins drinking for the first time, the sight of his (e/c) eyes trying to open a little at last causing you to melt at the sight. 

“Oh, he’s perfect…” you whisper. Quintus narrows his eyes at the child, obviously attempting to see if he can somehow still claim fatherhood over its genes. He can’t find any feature resembling his own, his teeth gritting in displeasure as he forces a smile on his features.

“That he is, darling wife.” It sounds strained, uneasy, he doesn’t mean it. 

Tiredly, you watch the child with much fondness, experiencing a strange kind of connection you have never had with anyone else ever before. You press a lingering kiss to your son’s soft forehead, inhaling his unique scent. 

The adrenaline is dying down. A dull ache sits between your legs. “I’ll send out word to your parents,” Quintus tells you, “You rest up now.” He breezes out of the room before you can even respond. Augusta and her assistants rummage around the room. One of them prepares you a light snack whilst another offers to help you bathe. As if suddenly realising how filthy you are feeling, you gladly take her up on it, trusting your son in Augusta’s care.

The warm water that surrounds you when you sink down in the tub has rarely felt so nice. The assistant doesn’t act shyly around your nakedness; she has seen things like these more often than once, and seen you at your most vulnerable. She gently washes you, allowing you the space to wash your private parts yourself, which are hurting and sore. “It will stay like that for a bit,” the assistant’s words are not very reassuring, “Don’t worry if it remains painful for a bit.” 

You hum and let go of the sponge, leaning back in the tub as she gently rubs your shoulders with soap. It is clear that Quintus has spared no expense on the midwife services, aware that the treatment you are getting is likely not part of the regular package. You remain in the tub until you are overstimulated with the water on your skin, craving your bed and the feeling of your son back on your chest. 

“Have you thought of a name for him yet?” the assistant asks, causing you to nod. 

“I have,” you tell her, not revealing anything just yet. Roman culture names their sons on their ninth day, after all. 

“The first of many,” she muses with a kind smile. You know she means it in a light-hearted way, most likely unaware of your troubled marriage with your husband and the paternity of the baby you’ve just delivered, but it serves as a painful reminder of your current situation. “I bet you are very proud.” 

“I am,” you say, which isn’t a lie.

“I have hardly seen such pretty babies right out of the womb. They are usually so ugly in their first hours of life.” She laughs lightly and you feel forced to join her in that. You bet she tells that to every woman she helps out, but you don’t dare say that out loud after she has been great so far. 

In a fresh, clean dress, you settle in the large bed that has borne witness to so many atrocities committed to you. It is quite the difference with the untouched, unhurt body that is laid in your arms again, warm and soft and squirming as your son searches for the warmth of his mother, until he realises that it is you who is holding him. He settles and squeezes his eyes a little tighter, exhausted already. It is not easy being born. Especially in the household of Praetor Quintus.

“Rest,” Augusta tells you, “I will make sure your child is cared for.” You watch her instruct one of the servants to place a bassinet at the foot of the bed. You hold your baby a little tighter. 

“I want to hold him for a while longer,” you whisper, fatigue tugging at your eyelids.

“Alright then,” Augusta muses, keeping an eye on you as she watches you drift into a peaceful slumber.

—-

On the other side of town, Quintus scratches the remnants of hastily pressed wax from his fingers as he makes his way to the post office. The roll of parchment in his hand borders on appearing unprofessional, but he has no patience today. 

“Good afternoon, Praetor,” the clerk takes the letter from him, “I hope all is well.” 

A smug huff leaves the magistrate’s lips. “Perfect, really. My wife just gave birth to a beautiful son.” 

“Ah, congratulations, Dominus. The gods have blessed you greatly. That he will do many great things for the Empire.” 

Quintus hums and nods. 

“Where should I send the letter to, Dominus?”

“Senator Flavius in Rome,” Quintus tells him, “Son of Decimus, son of Claudius.” 

The clerk checks his registers and nods when he finds it, then hums in deliberation.

“What is it?” Quintus mutters, not pleased with the tone in the clerk's voice.

With a wry smile, the clerk attempts to bring the news softly. “The post meant for the Peninsula Italia has just left earlier this morning. There will not be another batch sent out until next month.” 

“Next month?!” Quintus offendedly barks, “No, we can’t have that. This is a very important letter that I need to be sent out, now!” 

The clerk’s eyes widen. “Oh, you should have mentioned that, sir. I’ll see what I can do for you.” 

“When can I expect a reply at the earliest?” 

He rubs his beard in thought. “Uh… Maybe by the end of next week?” 

Quintus clicks his tongue but doesn’t argue any longer. “Very well, get it sent out posthaste.”

When he turns to leave again, he nearly collides with Primi Gaius, whose eyes widen in slight shock. “Gaius,” Quintus mutters, eyeing him up and down as he tilts his head in question, “Didn’t expect to see me here, did you?” 

“Congratulations, Dominus.” Gaius avoids the topic, “A son, I heard?” 

Letting out a low, dangerous noise, Quintus narrows his gaze. “That’s right. A healthy child, the first of many. A strong legacy, hm?” His gaze drops to the letter in the Primi’s hands. “Who are you sending letters to?” 

“Oh, just, it’s nothing.” Gaius muses, waving it off. “Family back at the Peninsula.” 

“I thought you had Germanic origins?” 

“People migrate all the time.” 

Quintus narrows his eyes. “Very well. Send out the letter, then.” He steps aside and allows Gaius to step up to the counter, keeping a close eye on him as the Primi puts the sealed roll of parchment onto the desk. 

“To cohortes Atticus Aemilius Pulcher again, sir?” the clerk asks.

The name makes Gaius flinch as he feels Quintus tense behind him. “Not this time, no.” 

Turning slowly, Quintus glares at the back of Gaius’ head. “To uh… Fortuna, daughter of Julius… She lives in Rome.” 

For a few long moments, the clerk searches the register. The Primi can feel his heart beat inside his own throat. 

“I… See her in the register… But she’s been dead for more than a year, sir. Are you sure this is the right person you need to send the letter to?” 

Gaius swallows hard, at least glad that the name he made up right then and there exists in the first place, as he comes up with another lie: “Yes! I—I mean, I need to reach her daughter, who is a distant cousin of mine, and I don’t know where she lives. I thought that it wouldn’t hurt to try reaching out to her this way.” 

The clerk tilts his head, but buys it. “Alright then… Let’s see… All noted down. That will be eight denarii, please.” Gaius fishes his purse out of his pocket and hands over the right amount of money before wishing the clerk a nice day. 

“Hail Caesar.” 

“Hail Caesar,” the clerk parrots, heading back to his work. 

The Praetor has been waiting for him, an eerily observant look on his face. “Sending letters to Atticus, huh? What about? It’s not like you two are friends, right?” 

Gaius blinks and shakes his head. “Uh, I beg your pardon, Dominus?” 

“Don’t you think that is a little strange? How can I be sure that you and Atticus aren’t conspiring against me?” 

Letting out a small noise, Gaius attempts to appear offended. “With all due respect, sir, don’t you think that’s a little far-fetched? What motives would I have for that?” 

“Why else would you send a letter to that good-for-nothing marshall, huh? What, are you trying to steal my job?” 

“Sir,” Gaius pleads, “All he did was ask for the most recent reports the men under my command wrote about Zealot activity in the streets of Capernaum and I told him that they had been sighted—” 

“—Then why didn’t you arrest them?”

“Because we’d be causing a scene and creating a bunch of martyrs.” 

Quintus’ jaw sets as he realises that the Primi is making valid arguments as to why he would be in touch with the man he so loathed. “Psh,” he huffs, “You never told me your aunt died.” 

“I didn’t think it was relevant.” 

The Praetor grits his teeth, trying to come up with something else, then huffs again. 

“Don’t cause any trouble,” he mutters in Gaius’ direction, “Because when it comes to you, I’m at the very last reserves of my patience. Hail Caesar.” 

Gaius lets out a long sigh when Praetor Quintus pushes past him, slamming his shoulder into the Primi’s upon passage on purpose. Closing his eyes for a moment, Gaius lets a long breath of air escape him before looking over his shoulder, watching how the magistrate stomps home. For someone who has just had the joyous privilege of becoming a father, no matter the circumstances, he seems like he’s on the path for war. 

And perhaps he is, Gaius bitterly thinks to himself before heading back to his house, now needing to write yet another letter to Atticus about your current situation. 

He hopes that the random lady he has sent his previous letter to would not be familiar with your name, nor Atticus’. With a deep exhale, he walks back to his house, heart sinking at the pained coughing coming from the room of his son.

---

Next chapter Chapter list

[the-chosen-fanfiction]

Gentile. | Chapter XLIII

When Atticus meets with Pontius Pilate, the young Governor sees through him, but extends an offer that the marshall will not soon forget. Your solo trip to go and see Jesus in the market square of Capernaum may come to cost you dearly.

Chapter list

Atticus rises with a watery sun, wisps of mist licking the horizon and cloaking the lands of Judea in a mysterious hue of still nothingness. He packs up his belongings and kicks out the smouldering remains of the fire that had served as means of warmth and protection. Mounting his horse, he pats her on the neck and sets out for his audience with Pontius Pilate, about half a day away. Pulling the hood of his cloak over his head, he pushes his heels into the sides of his noble steed and the mare shifts into motion.

As the mist clears, the dew evaporating in the heat of the sun climbing its way higher into the air, the roads turn dusty as the horse canters through the plains. Occasionally, he passes by pilgrims on their way back home from Jerusalem who regard him with wary glances. Somewhere along the way, he takes a brief break and conjures an apple of which he eats half before feeding the rest to the white mare that has been dutifully carrying him halfway across the lands of Galilee and Judea.

It is about midday when he pulls his horse to a halt as he sees the outlines of Pilate’s tent stand at the horizon, a few guards standing at the corners to protect the young Governor. Atticus removes his hood and lets out an exasperated sigh, momentarily trying to make sense of the boy’s seemingly insatiable need to show off his status, before he clicks his tongue and heads up to the scene in front of him.

In the comfortable shade of his tent, Pontius humours himself over a piece of written text in his hands, chuckling a bit as the sound of horse hooves prompts him to put aside the parchment. Perhaps that he’d been snickering about Atticus’ expression rather than what he had been reading. He rises to his feet to greet his old friend with spread arms as Atticus slows his steed. 

“Did I do it?” Pilate quips. 

“Do what?” Atticus rumbles, “Announce your position to any opportunist that happens by?”

A boyish cheer escapes the Governor: “Yes! I wondered: how can I annoy a red-bottomed old man? All it took was six men and this stupid tent.” He gestures behind him as Atticus dismounts and pats his horse on the neck before handing her reins to one of Pilate’s guards. 

“Old man? What can I say? Well done?” He follows Pontius towards the shadows of the tent, eager to get out of the sun for a bit in spite of it being a cloudy day. 

“You know how easy I am to amuse.” Pilate admits.

“No, you are definitely not easily amused. I’m surprised there’s no wine and women.” 

The Governor scoffs in feigned offence. “I don’t drink wine for the effect, and I’m married, so there. But I admit I was reading Miles Gloriosus by Plautus. Do you know it?” Atticus sweeps his cloak over one shoulder and washes his hands in a bowl of water standing on the table. “It’s hilarious.”

“About the vainglorious, swaggering, braggart soldier.” He smiles.

“Yes!” Pontius confirms.

Atticus dries his hands, then folds his hands in front of him, face becoming deadpan as he straightens his back. “What are you saying?” 

Pontius’ smile fades as he attempts to make sense of what Atticus means; had the governor offended the cohortes urbanae in some way, or was there a hidden, ambiguous meaning to the works of Plautus that Pilate was unaware of? 

After a moment of silence, Atticus can’t keep back his amusement. “I had you.” 

“You did not.” Pontius counters.

“I did!” Atticus puts down the towel. 

“Yes, you did,” the Governor confesses, “Why are you charming? Haven’t you been undercover for a year? It’s been a year since I’ve seen you!” 

Atticus takes a seat. “I’ve, uh, had a foil in the last few months.” The wind tugs at his cloak. 

“Some prostitute in Decapolis?” Pilate grins a bit.

“Far less charming, I’m afraid.” Atticus picks at a few grapes that stand on the table, peckish from his travels. “The Praetor of upper Galilee.” Pontius senses the seriousness of the conversation and forces another expression on his features. “He slips occasionally and claims the whole of Israel.” 

“Hmm, I’ll kill him.” Pontius states with an airy demeanour about him as Atticus eats a grape. “Wait, Galilee does well.” 

Atticus finds no good in the idea. “Yeah, don’t kill him.” Something flashes in his gaze that Pontius can’t put a finger on. Letting out a long sigh, the young Governor thinks for a moment. 

“Let me think. His name is Quintus,” he is already aware, “Revenues are strong. He was reprimanded for use of force after putting down an uprising last year.” 

“That’s him.” Atticus takes more red grapes from their stems, perhaps to comfort himself at the mention of the name of the Praetor he so despises, “And he’d be all too honoured about your recital. He’s the kind of man that wants to be remembered.”

Pontius hums as he mulls over the comment, once again registering the look in Atticus’ eyes, wondering if this is personal to the cohorte.

“We are very different, then. See, my problem with his reprimand is that I have been reprimanded for my use of force. So, if word spreads that everyone in Israel is heavy-handed, then I have to be even less forceful.” 

Atticus slowly nods, prying a bit of food from his back teeth with his tongue. Was the Governor really complaining about having to be more sympathetic to the people he rules over? “How was the repartee?” asks Pontius.

“I tormented him… For you, Governor.” Atticus jests with a grin. 

“Just for me, hm? I don’t believe you, but thank you.” 

Atticus chuckles and takes a few more pieces of fruit. 

“What I really want to know… Is what landed you in Capernaum? From the top.” There is a hint of curiosity in the young Governor’s features as he tries to figure out Atticus’ response. “Please, I’ve got all afternoon for this.” 

“Really?”

“No, about ten more minutes.” He laughs. 

Atticus nods. “I’ll be fast,” before popping another grape into his mouth. He shifts in his seat as Pontius pours them both a goblet of wine. 

“So,” Atticus begins, “I had been put onto the task of tracking down Zealot activity around upper Galilee for a while. Capernaum seemed like a good lead the moment that Praetor Quintus was positioned there, due to the momentary unrest that the posting of a new man in power may bring forth; you know how it goes. I had to make sure that the Zealots wouldn’t take advantage of the change of guard, so to speak.” 

Humming in acknowledgement, Pontius takes a sip of wine.

“After it had settled, I was summoned to keep my eye on an area where Zealot activity had been spotted by one of my informants. Once there, I figured out where they were hiding, and followed a specific Zealot on his way to his first assassination in Jerusalem. I had been tasked to tackle any such activity, so killing one in the act was my way of getting them to scurry back into the shadows with the lot of them. That way, I wouldn’t be creating a martyr— Anyways, when I reached Jerusalem, right when he was about to assassinate the Senator he had been supposed to kill, his focus was drawn elsewhere.” 

Pontius snickers. “An unfocused Zealot? Sounds like an easy mission for you, Atticus. It doesn’t explain your presence in Capernaum, though.” 

“I was getting there,” Atticus counters, “And the story would get there faster if you didn’t interrupt me.” Pontius laughs before taking a sip of wine.

“I’m sorry, carry on.” 

“It turned out that he was looking at his brother. A man who had been paralysed from a young age and had been lying at the Pool of Bethesda for decades in the hopes of getting healed by the stirring of the water.” 

“All mere superstition.” Pontius huffs.

Atticus takes a sip of wine and hums. “I went to verify the brother’s condition the day after. I found it odd how that Zealot was suddenly so caught off-guard. There, the formerly paralysed man told me that his Zealot brother thought that the Messiah had come, and that He was the One Who healed him.” 

Pilate whistles through his teeth. “Messiah, huh? People have died for making less dangerous claims…”

“So, of course my interest was piqued, and I follow this Zealot all the way to where he meets with this supposed Messiah. A Man named Jesus of Nazareth.” 

“Nazareth? Isn’t that some—” Atticus glares at the young Governor’s interruption. “Sorry, go on.” 

“I watch from a distance how he takes a knee for this Jesus, and when he hands Him his sicca dagger, Jesus just tosses it into the water.” 

“A pacifist?”

“I’m not sure about that yet. However, I needed to know if this individual was still a threat to Rome, or if he would turn back on his Zealot ways. After all, I needed to draw up a decent report to the Emperor, right?” 

Pilate hums as he watches Atticus with much interest. “So, it landed you back in Capernaum?” 

“It turns out that Jesus, Who is a Teacher as well, spent a lot of time there. And, of course, I had to keep an eye on our dear Praetor Quintus as well to make sure he didn’t do anything rash. Now, a tent city full of pilgrims has sprung up at the edge of the village, and he isn’t doing a whole lot about it yet.”

“Nothing?” 

“Well, he’s trying to tax them, but they don’t have any money.” 

Pontius huffs. “He should have known better.” 

Atticus sighs and runs a hand down his face. “I’m just afraid that his problems are starting to become mine. I need to collect intelligence on Jesus of Nazareth as well. He seems to be peaceful and no real threat to Rome so far, but His popularity is growing by the day.” 

“Are you fearing a revolt?” 

“No,” Atticus mutters, “Not yet, at least.” 

A brief silence befalls the two. Pilate observes the cohortes urbanae for a moment. “Is that all?” Atticus gives him a questioning look for a moment, but doesn’t say anything. 

“You’re hiding something. Come on, out with it.” The cohorte remains tight-lipped about it.

A few beats of silence pass as Pontius narrows his eyes at Atticus, a playful smirk playing at his mouth. Atticus raises an eyebrow in question.

"What?" he asks when Pontius doesn’t speak up.

"Tell me more about her."

Blinking in bewilderment, the marshall nearly chokes on a grape. "Beg your pardon?"

Pontius scoffs a laugh. 

"Oh, please, Atticus. I know a fool in love when I see one, old man. There is something in your eyes, something... Wistful. As if you're missing someone, deeply so. She must live in Capernaum, no? After all, what true reason do you have to hang around that backwater fishing village? Quintus' modus operandi is not that significant that they’d send their most tenured investigator to watch his every move. Come now, don't be shy. I've always told you plenty about my Claudia, it would only be fair for you to open up about your special lady."

Atticus flexes his jaw whilst Pontius keeps on rambling:

"Who is the woman who managed to capture your heart? A prostitute, some Jewish girl, maybe a woman from the-–“

“-–She is Quintus' wife."

It shuts Pontius right up, whose jaw falls open in disbelief. After a moment of gawking at the agent, he attempts to gather himself. "What– Are you serious? You're seeing a married woman?"

"Of course I’m serious. For the record, she is unhappily married." Atticus clarifies, exhaling sharply. "Ah... She was married off to Quintus by her father. Unsurprisingly, Quintus turns out to not be the best husband." 

Pontius raises a brow and smirks. "Tsk tsk, I had not expected you to cross such a line. What got you involved with her? It does explain the way your face contorted when Quintus was mentioned, though."

Leaning back in his chair, Atticus plays with a grape in his palm, taking a slow sip of wine.

"Shared interests at first." he muses, smiling a bit, "Fine poetry and literature. It didn't take long to fall in love with her character. Despite the circumstances, (Y/n) manages to pull through stronger than most would have. Her resilience is inspiring. And she’s absolutely beautiful on the outside as well." Atticus sighs as he vividly pictures you, biting the inside of his cheek.

The Governor's smile softens. "You speak her name so carefully. I can see that she means a lot to you, I've never quite seen such a look on your face, old friend. And now what? Are you going to run away with her?"

Since Pontius meant so in a playful way, indicating nothing but humour, he is baffled to find Atticus slowly nodding in acknowledgement. "What? You're going to do so…? You'd truly risk your career for her?” Pontius lets out a noise when the cohorte hums. “You must love her very much, then.”

Atticus huffs a smile and scrapes some dirt from under his nails with the tip of his dagger, perhaps to avoid any kind of eye-contact. It wasn't often that the cohorte was put on the spot like this.

"Ah... Yes." Atticus mutters, "Very much so. I’ve never quite met anyone like her.”

Chuckling, Pontius gazes out over the plains. “When are you planning on doing so? I could be of assistance, if you need me to help you out. Call it a favour for an old friend, hm? Plus, I would love to meet her, since she is very special to you, and if it means I can play a part in getting to rescue the love of your life from the claws of a man who is proven to be very cruel, well, it would be my pleasure.”

Atticus looks at the young governor with a gentle smile. “That’s kind of you, Pontius,” he states, “And I am sure that she would be safe in Jerusalem for a while, until Quintus would find out where she is… However, I am planning on waiting until… We want to wait until the baby has been born.”

Pontius nearly chokes on his own tongue and his mouth falls open yet again. “Shut up! You got her pregnant?! By Juno, Atticus, you don’t waste any time, do you?”

“It wasn’t planned, really,” he says, “But it just happened. We were reckless, I know that, spare me the lecture, and it certainly made things a whole lot more complicated. However, it made me realise that what I have with her is so much more than a simple fling. I want to spend the rest of my life with (Y/n), if it only weren’t for…” His voice trails off and he casts his gaze on the horizon. “If I could, I would have married her already .”

Pontius hums in slight amusement. “Never thought I would get to see the day that a senile sod like yourself would settle down with a woman. Let alone knock her up.” 

Sharply, Atticus turns to him, though cannot hide the humour on his features. “I’m not that old.” 

“Apparently not.” Pontius laughs with a raise of his eyebrow. A chuckle tears from Atticus’ throat, but his face soon falls into earnesty again.

“This Jesus of Nazareth,” says he, “(Y/n) is interested in Him, too. She’s… I understand her curiosity, for it is growing for me, too.”

Pontius frowns. “Well, so does mine. What more could you tell me about the current state of things in Capernaum?” Atticus takes up the jug of wine and pours both of them another cup. 

“The population of the camp outside Capernaum’s walls grows by the day”

“In the hopes of seeing the peaceful Preacher.” 

“Peaceful and magnetic.” Atticus adds. “I think Quintus is out of his depth.” 

Pontius lets out a long sigh. The two of them look out over the plains of Judea for a moment, taking in the scenery.

“They say this is a backwater, you know? A bad assignment… A punishment, even.”

“I guess we’re sharing the same cell, then.”

“I’m content,” Pontius breathes, “I don’t want to rule over a warring nation in important times. I… I like the sea. I like the people. They’re poetic and complicated. Except Caiaphas-- Horrible, horrible man.” The Governor pulls a disgusted face. 

“For a moment there, you almost sounded like a holy man yourself.” 

Pilate lets out a noise. “I wish. I can’t see ten cubits in front of my own face most days. I just want peace. I want the people to get what they want, for Rome to be sated.”

Atticus mulls over the words, swirling his drink in his cup. “Sometimes peace takes a war,” he reminds the young Governor. 

For a moment, Pilate is quiet, until he whistles at one of his men with a snap of his fingers to get his horse in order before leaning closer to the cohortes urbanae.

“I do thank you for the intelligence, Atticus, and I trust you. If the peaceful Preacher or His movement ever become something I need to know about, I will need your counsel, and I will listen. Unlike Quintus, I understand your interest. Until then, learn all you can.” 

Atticus gives a dutiful bow of his head. 

“Take care of yourself, Atticus.” 

“I will see you soon, Governor Pilate.” 

With a small smile, Pilate takes up his sword that had been resting against his chair and heads towards his horse. Atticus remains seated, processing the conversation for a while. For a moment, Pontius halts in his step and turns to the cohorte. Atticus looks over his shoulder at the young Governor.

“Oh, and don’t forget what I said about (Y/n). If you need any assistance, you can count on me.” 

“I will keep that in mind,” says the agent. Pontius nods and mounts his horse, accompanied by two of his men whilst the others remain to get rid of the tent. 

With a serious expression on his brow, Atticus stays for a few more moments, before standing to find his horse and getting back to work.

—

You wake a while after noon, making you wonder why Quintus let you sleep in this late. Not used to getting up at this time of day, you groggily sit up in bed with a splitting headache. 

After slowly getting dressed, you find yourself yawning as you eat a light breakfast that could as well be your lunch, and flip through one of your novels resting on the kitchen table as you try to start your day to your best ability. Having slept through the entire morning, you are having trouble really getting started with things.

One positive thing about the delayed start of your day is the fact that Quintus has long gone to work and hasn’t explicitly commanded you to come join him in his office today, making it so that you decide to secretly sneak out to the market today in the hopes of catching a glimpse of Jesus, Who once again has rumoured to have been absent for a few days. 

 With your cloak over your shoulders, which has started to become your staple outfit when going outside, you head out onto Capernaum’s streets. It isn’t difficult to find the commotion; Cheering and applause drift through the city and draws you like a moth to a flame, causing you to head towards the noise as fast as your swollen feet are taking you. Jesus has gathered a large crowd around Him, with a large empty circle in the centre. 

Seeing Gaius standing on the sidelines, you waddle up to him. “Gaius, what’s going on—“ you whisper, but he puts up his hand, as if trying to hear what is going on. You crane your neck to see a man walk up to Jesus, tapping his throat whilst wearing a sign with Hebrew letters on there. He points at the sign, Jesus murmuring something to him that cannot be overheard. You hold your already bated breath to see what He will do.

The crowd is silent and watches in anticipation what Jesus’ next actions will entail, as if He would now turn away after healing so many others. The Disciple in the yellow tunic, whom you had seen with the bleeding woman a short while ago, holds out a knife in Jesus’ direction, which the Messiah takes from him. Wordlessly, He begins to cut away the rope that holds the sign around the mute man’s neck, tossing the small tablet to the ground before bringing His fingers to the side of the man’s throat.

For a moment, He holds them there, closing His eyes until a gasp leaves the mute man. Putting a hand over his mouth, he realises that he has been healed and attempts to speak whilst everyone is listening intently to what his first words ever will be.

“I’ve… Never said anything with my own words.” The healed man’s voice wavers with emotion and your heart skips a beat, unable to fight a smile from forming over your lips. Overwhelmed, the man bows his head to the Messiah and holds onto His shoulders. 

“Where would you like to start?” Jesus asks softly.

“Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the universe!” the man proclaims. You feel your baby turn inside your womb, causing you to flinch in discomfort. Primi Gaius gives you a worried look. 

“Are you okay, my lady?” 

You nod and find support on his upper arm. “Yes, I’m fine.” You cradle your stomach as you keep on watching. Simon whispers something to Jesus, and two men appear from behind him with questioning looks on their faces, obviously having waited for a long time to meet with Jesus here.

“Ah, yes. Who do we have here?”

“These are two of Your cousin’s disciples, Avner and Nadab.” John introduces them.

“Jesus of Nazareth,” Avner says.

“That Name I respond to readily, though I’ll not be returning to Nazareth in this lifetime.” 

“The Baptiser has an urgent question for You,” Simon tells Him. A rabbi from the synagogue makes his way to the front of the crowd, pushing aside a few civilians to get a better listen as to what is happening. You cannot see his face, but the tension in his shoulders says that he wishes Jesus nothing good.

“I recognise you from the day John introduced Me to Andrew.”

“Behold the Lamb of God,” Nadab declares, “Who comes to take away the sin of the world.”

“Yes,” Jesus states with a small chuckle, “Good memory. My cousin can get excited. So… What does John want to know?” Simon nods at Avner to speak the question out loud. 

“Simon brought us in haste. This isn’t appropriate here, we can talk later.” 

Jesus turns to His Disciple. “Simon?” 

“I think actually now is the perfect time.” 

Jesus inhales after a moment of silence and turns to the crowd. “Who here has experienced John the Baptiser in some way?” Many hands go up in the air, and before you can stop it, so goes yours. Gaius gives you an odd look.

“You, too? When? How?” 

You smile a little. “At Machaerus. Long story.” Gaius obviously is intrigued to know more, but doesn’t get the chance to ask you about it when Jesus opens His mouth to speak again. 

“I know some of you rejected John, but some of you believed his message. He has had a profound impact on so many in this region and these are two of his disciples, so… Let’s welcome them, hm?” 

A round of applause goes through the crowd and you clap along. “Some of you may also know that John is currently imprisoned by Herod in Machaerus. I think it would be instructive for us to hear what is on his mind in the midst of such challenge.”

Avner leans closer to Jesus, voice reducing to a whisper which you cannot hear, but Jesus puts a reassuring hand on his shoulder, spurring him on to ask it anyways. 

The disciple of John clears his throat and speaks up. “He… Sent us to ask You if You are really the One Who is to come… Or should we look for someone else.”

A few beats of silence. “Say that last part again?” Jesus queries. 

“Should we look for someone else.” Nadab states. 

Jesus hums and nods, pivoting towards the masses around Him again. “For those of you who could not hear, John the Baptiser, My cousin, who has prepared the way for Me, is now questioning if I’m the Messiah, or if maybe we should keep waiting.” Jesus smiles a bit as He turns to his cousin’s followers. “John is getting impatient, yes? It’s one of his quirks.”

“He has been in prison a long time,” says Avner.

Nadab adds: “Word reached our ears about what happened in Nazareth, that You said, ‘The Spirit of the Lord is upon You to proclaim liberty to the captives.’.” 

“If You say You are here to free prisoners,” Avner continues, “Then why does he remain? He rightfully wonders why You would allow his entire ministry to be halted by an imposter king.” 

You wonder what happened in Nazareth, but judging by the way the rabbi in front of you stiffens up, it can’t mean something good.

“Proclaiming liberty to the captives can mean more than just freeing inmates,” Jesus reminds them, “There are many kinds of captivity that keep people.” You swallow hard at the words; feeling like a prisoner yourself in Quintus’ household, no matter how gilded your cage. 

“Is that what we are supposed to tell him?” 

“No, that’s just for you.” 

Avner opens his mouth. “We heard our former comrades, Andrew and Philip, have gone to the Decapolis. Is that where you’re planning to launch the revolution to overthrow Rome?” Next to you, Gaius freezes.

“I have something in mind for the Decapolis,” Jesus tells them, “And it will be revolutionary, but… Probably not in the way you are thinking.” When it comes to the Messiah, the latter part of the statement is not very unsurprising.

“What are we supposed to report back?” Nadab wants to know. 

Jesus purses His lips as He ponders for a second, then straightens up and looks at His cousin’s disciples. “Go and tell John what you hear and see. The blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the mute speak, and the poor have the good news preached to them.” He turns to the rabbi who had been grinding his teeth into dust ever since Jesus started His impromptu get-together, “And blessed is the one who is not offended by Me.” 

“I will always be offended by blasphemy.” The rabb’is voice drips with venom. “As should all of you!” 

“You saw what happened to his daughter!” Simon exclaims, “You know this isn’t blasphemy!” Once again a miracle you weren’t aware of, but you can tell it strikes a chord within the teacher of the law. 

“I did not see what happened,” the Pharisee states whilst Jesus puts a hand on Simon’s shoulder to shush him, “Your supposed Rabbi disrespected me as a holy man, another sign of His evil spirit. And I also don’t know any of the details that happened. He is hiding something, and I cannot stand here and allow you all to be deceived by His sorcery…! Even if I’m the only one willing to protect you.” 

Jesus steps closer to John’s followers. “Go, relay to My cousin what you have seen and heard here today, and add to that, the dead are raised as well.” A murmur goes through the crowd and you feel your heart skip several beats at the implication of Jesus’ words. This is unlike anything you’ve ever heard, unlike any priest or prophet that has walked the face of the Earth. “And tell John I love him.”

He gives them a bit of a sad smile as they turn to leave. As Avner and Nadab make their way out of the crowd, Jesus turns to His audience. “Did my response to the Baptiser’s disciples sound to any of you like a rebuke?” 

“Yes,” the follower with the ochre tunic states bluntly. 

“I can always count on you, Nathanael.” Jesus answers with a soft smile. “Many of you were baptised by John. I Myself was baptised by him. You heard how strong he was, how passionately he believed, and yet now… Even he has questions. When you went to the wilderness to see him, did you expect to see a reed, shaken by the wind? Someone in fine clothing like those in kings’ courts? Or did you go to see a prophet?” 

Jesus lets His gaze go through the mass of people around Him, slowly turning to face all sides every once in a while. 

“A prophet!” someone shouts. 

“A prophet, yes!” Jesus replies. “And I tell you, John is who Isaiah and Malachi spoke of. What did they say, Big James?” He turns to one of His followers.

“‘Behold, I send my messenger before You, who will prepare the way before You.” 

Jesus agrees. “Yes, and this should tell you something. Among those born of women, none is greater than John, and even he has questions.”

“Another demon-possessed blasphemer, and You call him great,” the Pharisee taunts. “He called Your religious leaders, Your men of God, vipers!” 

Jesus raises His eyebrows and shrugs. 

“Are You going to say something?!” For a long moment, Jesus stares at him. 

“I think His silence is His response,” Simon notes.

Jesus inhales to speak again. “And here’s what is so wonderful, though, none are greater than John here on Earth. In the Kingdom of God, the one who is the least is even greater than he. And John himself would say the same. So please, listen carefully… Do not waste the time right now to hear the truth that I have for you.” 

He points at the sky, an authoritative and powerful gesture. “The Kingdom of heaven is at hand, yet so many in this generation are missing it!” Sadness passes through His gaze. Jesus looks at the rabbi again. “Do not miss it.” He emphasises. 

A short bit of silence as the words sink in. “Those of you who have rejected John’s message of repentance, and those who are now rejecting Mine… You remind Me of the children in the marketplace that play games while the adults are busy. And you know how they pretend to be adults in a wedding, or even a funeral. You are like the children who refuse to play. Whether it’s a happy game or a sad game, it doesn’t matter what it is. And like Aesop’s fables, the others say, ‘We played the flute for you, and you did not sing. We sang a dirge, and you did not weep.’”

Jesus’ gaze once again fixes on the Pharisee.

“You and those in your order say John has a demon because he lived in the wilderness, preaching repentance while refusing bread and drink. And now the Son of Man comes preaching salvation while eating and drinking and dancing… And I’m called a glutton and a drunkard, a friend of tax collectors and sinners… It doesn’t matter what is put in front of you, you will reject it!”  

The words make your breath hitch, for Jesus says them with certainty, the rabbi angrily furrowing his brow yet not saying a word. “Beware of this,” Jesus continues, “Wisdom means nothing if it’s not acted on. Wisdom is justified by all her works.”

Then, He turns to someone standing behind you, and for a moment, you look over your shoulder to see a group of men standing with puzzled looks on their faces, one of them keeping a hand on the dagger on his hip whilst you recognise one of them as one of Jesus Disciples. 

“As you see what is happening to those around you, as you see the lives being changed by repentance and salvation,” for a moment, Jesus’ gaze lingers on you as you stand next to Gaius. It lasts for only a split second before He looks at the men behind you again. 

“Do not ignore the evidence of the Kingdom of God. Woe to you if you do not receive it.”

The Pharisee steps forward, wanting to start a verbal argument, but someone steps forward. “Pardon!” he calls over the crowd, “I would like to remind everyone, um, that Quintus has imposed a limit of twenty-five people for all outdoor gatherings in the latter part of the day.” You grit your teeth at the sudden, unexpected mention of your oh-so-benevolent husband. “By my estimate, uh…” The Jewish man starts counting heads and then checks the position of the lowering sun, “We will very soon be at risk of detainment.” 

Gaius steps forward. “That man is right!” You are forced to release his arm, your only form of support, so you waddle to the nearest wall to lean against it. “All of you, return to your homes and shelters immediately.” When no response comes, the Primi who is usually so reserved bellows a command: “I said, immediately!”

“Let’s return to our homes!” another Pharisee urges, “It’s all right!” 

The rabbi who was so eager to put up a fight calls after Jesus as He is led away by two of His disciples. 

“I will report all of this! You are deceiving—!” 

He is cut short as Gaius’ gladius sings as it is unsheathed. Although not held in a threatening manner, the message is loud and clear. “I said: ‘go home’.” Confronted with sharp steel, the Jewish teacher backs off. For a moment, Gaius looks at the man who had interrupted the looming argument earlier by mentioning the curfew Quintus had put up, before he steps back to find you still leaning against the wall. 

“Let me escort you home, my lady.” 

“Alright,” you sigh, supporting your stomach as you accept Gaius’ outstretched arm. 

The walk back to the villa is silent and a little tense, as if there is so much to say, yet neither of you sees this as the right time to address it. A moment of silent, shared faith, if you daresay, both of you touched by the words of a Man Who exceeds everything you had ever heard. 

“Here you go,” says Gaius as you halt at the door, and you give him a small smile. 

“Thank you,” you whisper, exhausted in spite of your trip being so short. He nods at you in greeting and watches how you walk back inside, taking a moment to gather himself. 

“You know, I don’t understand how you are so kind to her in spite of what she has done. If I didn’t know any better, I’d almost suspect you of having something with her as well.” Marcus’ voice sounds unexpected behind Gaius and the Primi slowly turns to face the centurion. 

With narrowed eyes, Marcus approaches, having run into the two of you whilst on patrol and following you back to Quintus’ residence. 

“The lady just needed someone to escort her home. With the current unrest going on inside the city, would you reckon I should have let her walk on her own, in her condition? You’d have done the same.” 

Marcus grits his teeth. “The wife of our Praetor, whom we have sworn our duty to, is unfaithful to him. Why are you endorsing it?” 

“I am not endorsing anything.” 

“Well it definitely seems like you are. I saw you speaking to Cohortes Atticus the other day. You’re friends with him, too?” 

Gaius sighs. “Marcus, as I said, pick your battles. This is not worth sticking your nose into. It will cost you your job if anything—” 

“—Quintus will thank me for this.” Marcus hisses, “I won’t stand idly by whilst you just allow this to happen!” 

Before the Primi can get another word in, the centurion brushes past him with an angry glare in his eyes. With a hammering heart, Gaius feels his gut sink, and he shadows the patrolling soldier who had been witness to your affair with the very agent Quintus so despises.

Much to his relief, Marcus walks past Quintus’ office, not storming in to reveal the truth. 

Still, the Primi isn’t feeling at ease about it, pondering about the situation as his gaze remains fixed on the doors to Quintus’ workroom, getting an inkling that everything will change very soon.

---

Next chapter Chapter list

[the-chosen-fanfiction]

Gentile. | Chapter XLII

Quintus confronts you about your behaviour whenever Atticus is mentioned. Your body gets ready for labour.

Chapter list

Something is amiss; no letter from Rome has arrived yet, and you know that Lucius would never leave you without any kind of response for such a long time, even if it is the shortest of messages to update you on Lucilla’s condition. You don’t dare to ask Quintus about it, not wanting to risk unnecessary wrath over yourself by accusing him of omitting correspondence, although it would not be beyond him.

“Writing a letter again?” Your husband has applied perfume under his ears and on the insides of his wrist with larger quantities than usual, causing you to involuntarily gulp behind your cup as you take a sip of water. The cistern has been fixed by Gaius and Simon, so owing to their hard labour, you tend to drink more of it now that the servants don’t have to walk into the open fields outside of the city under a glaring sun. 

“Lucius hasn’t responded to my previous one yet,” you say, “Perhaps that it got lost somewhere, so I’m making sure that he will receive it.” 

Quintus rolls his eyes as he slides his freshly cleaned and recently sharpened gladius into the sheath on his hip, the steel dangerously ringing a little as he clicks it into place. He takes his magistrate’s neckchain and slides it over his head, securing it into place; a sign he still proudly wears in his duty as Praetor. You observe him getting ready for yet another workday as he completely seems to ignore your concerns about your brother not replying to your letter, his gaze averted as he readjusts the deep red sash on his shoulder, tugging it into place. 

“Could you get it sent out for me later?” you try to get a reaction out of him.

“Sure,” he states, “Just stop by my office whenever you are ready. Speaking of which, I’d prefer you sit with me today.” Quintus finally looks at you, something dangerous in his gaze. “I can’t be too careful with you nowadays. For all I know, you’re going to run off and get involved with Jews again.” 

You swallow the bile creeping into your throat as you resist the urge to roll your eyes. If it were up to him, he’d have you locked up in your room by now, and part of you fears that he might do so sometime soon. Turning back to your letter, you let out a shaky breath. “I’ll be with you soon, then.”

“Don’t take too long.” He halts behind your chair and tips up your chin so that you have to look up to face him upside down, and he inspects your face before he hums. For a second, you are afraid that he will press a rough and unforgiving kiss to your lips, but he releases you with a certain strain in his jaw. Tension flickers, and it is definitely not the good kind.

“I’ll be expecting you,” he promises, and leaves you to your writing. 

You dally on writing your letter for as long as you can, until you are sure that he is growing suspicious of your lengthy absence, and after another bathroom break, you find your way to Quintus’ office, an unsealed letter in hand. Upon handing it to him, you sit in the stuffy room and support your stomach as your gaze momentarily lingers on the large map of the Roman Empire hanging on the wall opposite you with an absentminded stare. 

“Do you really think Lucius has time for all this?” Quintus mutters as he holds up the letter with disinterest. “I’m glad that my sisters never send me letters like these. They sound like a waste of time.” 

You swallow at the mocking intonation. “You aren’t as close to them as I am to Lucius.” 

He sighs and puts the letter with his other papers. “Have it your way. I’ll get it sent out later today.” Unconvinced, you hum and take a novel from the bag you have placed on the floor, attempting to get somewhat comfortable in spite of the looming strain between you and your husband, as well as the deep ache in your lower back.

The morning drags on slowly, sweat beading on your forehead and underneath your stomach as the baby twists and turns. You have been experiencing new symptoms, a strange hardening in your belly and phantom contractions lasting for about thirty seconds at a time. Every so often, you flip the page, causing Quintus’ eyes to find you at the mere rustle of paper. He is on edge.

You grit your teeth and hiss as a painful wave shunts through your lower abdomen. Quintus looks up half-exasperated from his work, but his hard expression fades into concern as your book falls from your lap onto the floor. Quintus sits up straighter and leans towards you. “Are you alright?” 

You’d almost believe he’s worried. “Is the baby coming?” Of course not. You shake your head at his question without letting your discomfort show too much on your face. He hums and turns back to the paperwork in front of him. He hasn’t been out for fieldwork lately, apparently too busy with administrative tasks around Capernaum. Sifting through documents seems to be all he is doing these days, his patience growing thinner. You haven’t dared to ask him about it yet, but you doubt it is good news. 

When your pain seems to visibly subdue, Quintus stands and walks over to one of the side tables, grabbing the carafe of wine and pouring two chalices full to the brim. Taking them in his hands, he heads your way and offers one in your direction. You refuse it with a shake of the head, causing him to deeply sigh in what sounds like irritation. He places it down on his desk with such force that the dark red liquid spills over the edge onto the hardwood of the table. The gesture makes you jump in your seat and you look at your book laying open on the floor. Your husband picks it up and lets his gaze flick through the contents, causing you to mentally sigh in relief as you thank yourself for opting for romance novels around him instead of religious texts, just to be safe.

Wordlessly, he hands it back before pacing past his desk to look out the window that is not obstructed by your chaise longue, bringing the cup of wine to his lips to take a long sip. Some of the tension seems to leave his shoulders for the briefest of seconds, although an awkward air lingers between the two of you. You observe him as he gazes at the semi-translucent drink, swirling it around in the goblet before taking another swig, footsteps approaching causing you to straighten up in your seat and appear busy.

Primi Gaius enters the room, seemingly summoned by the Praetor. He clears his throat to gain Quintus’ attention. “Dominus.” 

Releasing the small curtain he had pulled aside, Quintus downs the rest of his wine, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“Do you have brothers, Gaius?” You feel your heart drop at your husband’s tone and Gaius closes his eyes for just a moment, seemingly sensing his dour mood as well. It is plausible there is a lecture coming. 

“Yes, sir, one.” 

“Germanic origins and you only have one?” Quintus slowly turns.

“Yes.”

He hums and slowly paces back to the desk. “Older or younger?” 

Gaius remains silent for a second. “What?”

“Your brother!” He places his cup next to your untouched one. “I could have you drawn and quartered for not answering me the first time.”

You flip the page of your book, pretending to not pay attention. “Younger.” Gaius replies.

“Ah.” Quintus takes a candle between his fingers, bringing its wick to the burning oil lamp on his desk to light it. “And did he ever tell on you if you broke a dish, stole a fruit, did something with a girl?” He turns to the altar of Mars behind him, starting to light the candles resting in the candlesticks of the altar to Mars. 

“I do not often reminisce, but yes.” 

“—Atticus is meeting with Pilate in Jerusalem, and he’s telling on me, like a meddling little brother.” He shakes the candle in his hand so that it goes out. Gaius gives you a look from the corner of his eye, your focus immediately drawn back into the conversation. “He’s there right now, slandering our oversight of Capernaum.” 

As Quintus turns around to continue explaining to Gaius why he had called him in, he catches the Primi before he is able to turn back to the Praetor. Your husband’s gaze finds you for just a moment. You visibly gulp, but he doesn’t mention the moment of silent contact between you and Gaius. There is a narrowing in his eyes. 

“I need Pilate’s endorsement if I ever hope to get a promotion.” The candle falls back into its copper bowl with a clank. 

“Your record speaks for itself, Dominus.” Gaius flatters. 

“You have utterly failed me in the tent city.” 

The Primi grimaces. “I will do better,” he promises. 

“—You’re not enforcing the ordinances I suggested, and worst of all, they have no money… Zero! No one works. They’re waiting around for a spectacle from the Preacher, Who I might add, I thought we were done with.” He points an accusing finger at Gaius. 

The soldier collects himself, remaining calm in spite of Quintus’ obvious agitation. 

“And jailing them costs money, so.”

“How can I make it right?” Gaius asks after a moment. 

“You could kill Jesus of Nazareth,” Your heart drops at the cold, unfeeling suggestion, nausea creeping sourly into your mouth at the idea, “Make a very public display of it so they have no reason to stay.” Quintus pauses and sighs. “But…. Then they will revolt, and it gets bloody, and I hate the wailing.” He shakes his head. “Oh, I do hate the death wailing, I don’t know how Pilate does it. Anyway, we are not savages.” The Praetor seems to believe the words himself; he’d be the only one in this room to do so. 

A brief pause. “Let’s get rid of the tent city.” Quintus suddenly concludes. 

“What… How can I do that?” Gaius asks with uncertainty to his tone, as if he fears what your husband will offer, and rightfully so. 

“Gaius! Use your imagination!” He turns back to the recently lit altar sharply, gesturing at it. 

“If you see a damaged home…” Quintus licks his fingers and pinches one of the flickering candles to extinguish it, “Tell them it’s not up to code and tear it down. If you see somebody who’s sick,” he snuffs out a second candle, “Arrest them for spreading pestilence. Somebody selling wares…” He quenches the final flame, “Tell them they don’t have permission and shut them down.” 

Quintus turns and once again points at the altar, now void of light. When the Primi doesn’t respond, your husband’s volume increases in frustration, “Put out the fires, Gaius! Until it’s too cold, dark and miserable to stay…” The same description could be applied to living under the same roof as the Praetor, you bitterly think to yourself.

A dangerous flicker dances in his eyes, his brow lowering as he observes Gaius and his silence for a moment longer, taking a few steps in his direction. “Primi?” he presses with a lilt to his voice that makes the hairs of your neck stand on end. You have fallen victim to that tone of voice often enough to know that Quintus is growing suspicious of something.

“I know what I must do, Dominus.” With a determined step back, Gaius turns to leave, his gaze momentarily flickering over to you and softening before he leaves the room. Your husband stands in silence for a second, overthinking the words.

“Hm.” He grabs the chalice of wine you had denied earlier, taking a slow sip. “Why do you always do that, (Y/n)?” 

“Do what?” you ask, a puzzled look on your face.

“Freeze up whenever Atticus is mentioned.” 

Your throat runs dry as your heart skips several beats inside your chest before it starts to race instead. Caught completely off-guard by the question, you know you cannot hide that same reaction at the very moment, seeing a dark look pass through Quintus’ eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“I just think it’s… Strange. Especially with the rumours circulating about. I meant to confront you about them earlier, but I had to discuss other… Matters with you then.” 

Your jaw tenses and for a moment you wish you had accepted the cup of wine even though you haven’t liked the bitter liquid in quite some time now, if only for the fact that you could have hidden your embarrassed flush behind a long sip of the drink. “They’re just rumours, Quintus.” 

“Sometimes, they hold truth.” 

“You know how people are,” you whisper, “I… Might have an inkling who has helped it into the world. It must be Cecilia. She has been trying to slander my name in front of you, just as she did with the Jewish texts.” 

It’s a poor excuse you’re just making up on the spot and Quintus narrows his gaze at you. “So far, all of her findings have been trustworthy.” 

“She’s just trying to impress you.” 

“Why would she do that?” 

You raise an eyebrow. “Maybe so that you will give her husband a promotion. Maybe she has a thing for you. How would I know her motives? All I know is that she has been foul towards me ever since arriving in Capernaum, even before I met her in the first place.” 

Quintus’ features soften. For a moment, he seems younger than he actually is, and lets out a sigh, almost as if he is feeling guilty about it. “Please, don’t stress me out right now. I can’t handle it with this… This baby in me!” You gesture at your huge bump. The tears you don’t have to feign, for they present themselves rather naturally. Your frustration regarding your situation bubbles up and you sniffle, causing Quintus to step forward and cup your chin in his hand.

He tilts it up to make you face him. “I’m sorry. As I said a few days ago, I just don’t want to lose you.” You are certain that he means that he needs to maintain his control over you rather than keep you close to him as a person, but you don’t say that out loud. “Stop giving me reasons to be suspicious of you, alright?” The question feels so strange that you can’t help but shudder. He leans down and kisses your forehead.

“I want to go and rest in my room,” you sniffle, wiping your nose on your handkerchief. The urge to cry has left you as fast as it had welled up. Quintus hums and gives a curt nod. 

“Go on,” he says, “I will be back home later.” 

You tuck a bookmark between the pages of your book and place it down on the side-table next to the chaise longue before standing up and brushing out of the room, pulling your cloak a little tighter around your shoulders even though it’s not cold at all. 

With discomfort shunting through your abdomen, you find your study and reach for the book of poems you had been writing down. Lately, you have started to add your prayers to them as well, pouring them onto the pages with heart and soul. They have been pleas, proclamations, expressions of hope. Every so often, you have found yourself writing as if speaking directly to the Father, as if you were a child rambling about what they got up to that day. The way that Jesus had called the woman who had been bleeding for twelve years ‘daughter’ has been spinning around in your mind for a while now. 

It still confuses you a little. You had always imagined the concept of fatherhood as a stranger with an iron fist claiming to know what is best for his children whilst being away constantly. It somewhat shifted when Lucius became a pater and you saw him interact with Aurelia, but now everything seems to be thrown from its axis.

Everything you have known all your life is rapidly shifting into motion; the more you learn about Jesus and God, the more you realise how little you actually do know. 

You flick to one of the prayers you’ve written down and start to pray it inside your mind, the discomfort in your tummy already becoming less. “Father God, I am Yours, the breath in my lungs is Yours, the heart in my chest belongs to You. Please let Yourself be known to me, Father, that I may find comfort in You, that Your greatness may fill me and give me strength in my hour of weakness.” 

Every so often, when you write down your prayers to Him, you find it more difficult than writing poems. You reckon this a strange and almost humorous thing; your usual writing doesn’t require you to step away from verbose wax poetic, but a prayer to God needs to be so raw that it’s stripped away from all that you’re used to, a bare-bones version of what you’d usually write down, the opposite of what the prayers to Roman deities contained. It’s a shift in culture in many ways, from pleading towards a pantheon of gods to only One, from garrulous drivel to genuine whispering. 

The way you pray, you find out, is just as much in need of transformation as the rest of you. With a sigh, you put the journal down on your heavy belly and tiredly scratch the underside of the bump. You huff a laugh when the infant suddenly kicks, causing the little book to nearly fall off. “Alright, I got the message.” You take it up again and start flipping through the pages. “What would you like me to pray for, little one?” 

In an attempt to get more comfortable on the sofa, you shift on the small seat, when you nearly bump your head into the corner of the mantlepiece. You flinch and hold your head even though the impact was barely a graze, and you look up at the area above the fireplace to make sure you aren’t putting yourself into any unnecessary danger. 

Then, your eye falls onto the small statue of Juno; it is dented from when you had thrown it against the wall a while ago in your fit of fear and anger. You grit your teeth and grab it, inspecting it up close. You don’t recall putting it back up there, so one of the servants must have done that for you. Biting your lip, you momentarily look down at the fireplace. The flames warm your face and lick the sky around it with orange tongues. Your gaze flicks back to the statue in your hand. 

For a second, you consider tossing it into the fire, but you know that it would most likely not melt at this temperature. However, you know it would be satisfying to see it wither away right in front of you, the very presence of the so-called goddess affected by something so insignificant and physical. With a sigh, you place it back onto the mantlepiece, knowing that you’d get questions if a soot-covered statuette from Juno was to be recovered from the ashes later on.

You take a deep breath, taking your journal again. “Right, the prayer—Hah!” 

Dropping the leatherbound journal from your grip, you immediately grab hold of your tummy as a deep, harrowing pain goes through your legs and lower stomach. It knocks all air from your lungs and you stumble to your feet, hoping that it would make the excruciating ordeal more bearable. 

Sweat beads on your forehead as you lean against your bookcase, which creaks at the disturbance, but you don’t pay it any mind. It takes you a moment to remember how to breathe, and you heave for air as you feel your unborn child twist and turn, visible through the skin of your belly under your dress. “Oh—!” you yelp as your legs nearly give out beneath you, and you turn back to the sofa, your heart stuttering inside your aching chest as a wet spot sits on the plush. You reach over to touch it and smell your fingers — it’s not urine that accidentally escaped you, which has happened over the past few weeks more than once, but it isn’t blood, either. 

It isn’t your water, that’s for sure, but whatever it may be, your body is preparing itself for labour, your baby eager to get out of your tummy. Bitterly, you would almost wish it to stay for as long in the safety of your womb as it can, staying out of Quintus’ claws for just a little longer. 

The pain subdues as you force yourself to breathe in and out through deep intakes of air, your head spinning less. Once you’ve calmed down again, you head for the bedroom to get yourself a clean dress, and tidy yourself up, finding a bit of spotting in your underthings. A rush of nervousness hits you right in the chest, nearly causing you to whimper as you lean into the sink, looking up at your expression in the mirror. Fear shimmers in your eyes.

You doubt that you will ever be ready, but nature will have its way. 

Exhausted, you finish redressing and slide under the comfort of the covers for a bit, glad to have the entire bed for yourself.

---

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[the-chosen-fanfiction]

Gentile. | Chapter XLI

Jesus is back in Capernaum, where you witness yet another miracle. Quintus apologises during a rare moment of vulnerability.

Chapter list

Your tongue has been sticking to the roof of your mouth for the past hour no matter how much water you consume, your head spinning as the baby has been uncomfortably twisting and turning. A servant noticed the lower position of it whilst helping you tie your sandals earlier this morning, yet another cause of concern for you. Your due date approaches more rapidly than you can handle, having wanted a better world for your unborn child. 

You allow yourself to grab a cloak to head out into the city without an escort at your side. You had considered trying to find Gaius but found Marcus at his post instead, who had given you an odd and judgemental look that consisted of a hard line in his brow that you figured wouldn’t leave his features any time soon. Instead, you had made sure to not appear too visible to the crowds by donning something less expensive although you doubted you didn’t stand out like a sore thumb, and led yourself through the roads of Capernaum without the safety of a chaperone at your side.

The streets are abuzz with something tense — a spark in the air, as if something big is about to happen. You munch on a light breakfast consisting of a handful of dried apricots and some nuts as you traverse the village where everyone seems to be too preoccupied to pay your hooded figure any mind, causing you to take a seat on a small wall just outside the synagogue, a part of town where you don’t often go to, to rest your sore back. 

With a sigh, you caress your itching belly, trying to relieve some of the straining skin that has been killing you no matter how much oil you’ve been applying to it. Your dresses have risen up your body to the point that your ankles are visible now. You don’t mind the cool breeze it allows under to help you with the spells of profuse sweating you’ve been suffering through. It is clear Quintus doesn’t like this exposure of your legs, but he doesn’t say anything about it. Perhaps that he’s seeing reason for once, or he doesn’t want to order a dozen new outfits just for the final stretch of your condition. 

You sit there for a while, drinking in the sunlight no matter what it might do to your skin. You enjoy the less familiar scenery, watching the people navigate the streets as they go about their day, but you keep your eyes peeled for Jesus nevertheless. Even though nobody seems to know where He is currently at, you are just as excited to catch a possible glimpse of Him. 

After sitting in the sun for a while, flipping through a book that you’ve brought with you but finding little energy to actively read, you hear a familiar voice fly over the synagogue wall, belonging to someone you didn’t really expect to find there. Tucking your book back into the bag over your shoulder, you stand up and waddle over to the front gate of the synagogue, where the main yard is located.

There, Primi Gaius sits with one of Jesus’ main students, fixing the cistern. They seem to be in conversation and you don’t mean to impose, so you wait for a while, leaning a bit against the wall to support your stomach. Your current condition makes it so that not even the rabbis give you a weird look for using the gate for support, figuring you a heavily pregnant woman simply passing by and resting in spite of her surroundings.

“You have gods, festivals, no?” the Disciple of Jesus asks. If you recall correctly, his name is Simon. Quintus had mentioned him a few times and you had pieced two and two together with your few visits to Matthew’s booth back in the day. You can barely believe that these outings are nearly a year ago, now.

“Yeah, sure,” Gaius breathes. “But not anything like you. Just… Parties, auspices.”

The two men are busying themselves pushing mortar between heavy bricks. 

“We have parties, too.” 

Gaius scoffs and smiles a bit. “From what I can tell, they do not look as fun as ours.” 

“Depends on the definition.” Simon finds, “Another thing we have is prophecies.” 

“So I’m told,” says Gaius.

“I’m beginning to think I’m living in one.” 

Gaius pauses in his actions. “What, with the Preacher?” 

“No uh, this.” Simon gestures at the cistern in front of them, “Our prophet Jeremiah, he said ‘My people have committed two evils. They have forsaken Me, the fountain of living waters, and hewed out cisterns for themselves. Broken cisterns that can hold no water.’” Simon concludes with a little chuckle as he loads another bit of mortar onto his trowel. They continue working for a few seconds before Gaius looks up again, a frown on his features.

“That sounds like a riddle.”

“You know, you’d make a good Jew.” You have to stifle a laugh at Gaius’ expression. “We love riddles. We call those ones metaphors.” Being an avid reader and dabbling in writing from time to time, your interest is piqued; after all, you’re no stranger to the phenomenon of metaphor.

“So, have you?” 

“What?” Simon questions.

Gaius clarifies. “I mean… Forsaken your god of water? It sounds like your god identifies as a source of water and the broken cisterns are a sign that you turned your back on him.” 

You understand Gaius’ perspective. It is a common concept within your culture that if something goes wrong, it is likely because one of the many deities you worship is displeased about something. 

“We only have one God. Of water, fire, wind and everything else.” 

“That’s efficient,” Gaius mutters, “Maybe a little boring.” 

“It’s a lot easier than a pantheon.” You can’t help but agree to that, you think to yourself as you consider letting your presence known to them. After all, you’d love to join in on the conversation to find out more just what exactly Gaius believes. 

“They’re not that hard to keep track of. Jupiter, Juno, Mars, Mercury, Neptune, Venus, Apollo, Diana—” 

“—All right, all right, stop. I’m exhausted already. What… Sacrifices to all of them?” 

Gaius shrugs. “It depends on what you want. I mean, uh… Safe travel, Mercury. Victory in war, Mars. Fertility, Juno.” 

The Primi continues working whilst Simon gives him a curious look. “A big catch of fish?” 

“Neptune.” Gaius immediately knows. 

Brief silence between the two of them. Before Simon can speak up again, as he is about to do so, you step forward. “Gaius? What are you doing here?” 

The Primi, as if caught red-handed doing something he is not allowed to, stands up quickly, straightening out his back. “My lady.” You smile a bit as you look him up and down, not used to seeing him out of his usual set of armour. “What are you doing here?” 

“I just asked you that same question. I was just out and about, taking a different route this time.” 

Gaius clears his throat. “I’m helping this man fix the cistern, per your husband’s request.” 

For a moment, you look at Simon, who gives you a wary look. You give a small smile in return. “I can see the two of you are making good progress. Are you working together well?” 

“Of course, my lady.” Gaius says, “You can report back to Praetor Quintus that—” 

“—I’m not here on Quintus’ behalf.” 

A sigh of relief seems to flood him. It is almost as if he has forgotten about the careful friendship you’ve been trying to form with him.

“Good. Then what compelled you to take a detour this time? I don’t see an escort with you.” 

You smile a bit half-heartedly, your gaze going to Simon, who is watching you with a suspicious narrowing of his eyes. 

“My husband doesn’t have to know everything I do, nor my reasons behind my actions.” You turn to the former fisherman. “You’re Simon, right?” 

He gives you a small nod. “Yeah?” 

“Did you hear anything from my friend Joanna lately?” 

“Joanna…?” Simon seems to turn over the name inside his mind a few times. “I know her… She’s a Roman, like you.” 

“Roman, like me,” you parrot with a small smile. There is no judgement or anger in your voice, nor disdain or mistrust, which is odd to Simon. He tries to make sense of it, as well as of your confident stride into the yard of the synagogue, even though you aren’t really allowed here. Usually, Romans would turn from here at any given opportunity with a look of disgust on their face.

“Your friend, you said?” 

You nod, smiling a bit. “Yes, she’s my friend. I was wondering if you know anything about any upcoming sermons so that I could inform her about them.” Frankly, the question is meant for yourself more than for her.

“How do you know that she—” 

“—As I said, she is my friend.” 

Simon’s jaw tenses a bit. “Look, how can I know that you aren’t just here because you are trying to get intel on her, hm? I know how you snivelling Romans can be—” he points at Gaius, “—Not you— but I can’t know for sure whether I can trust you. You’re Quintus’ wife, right?” 

Gaius steps forward. “Simon, I know her better than you do. Lady (Y/n) has been displaying an interest in your Preacher for a while now, and—” 

“—And she might be handing all that information right into the Praetor’s lap.” 

You sigh and lower your gaze. “Look, I get it. I wouldn’t trust me, either, especially someone in a position like myself. But I have genuinely started to look forward to Jesus’ sermons, and—”

You are cut off as restlessness suddenly seems to swell over the city, the people rushing through the yard towards the streets. 

“Woah, woah, woah, what’s going on?” Simon mutters, the three of you turning to a man stumbling by, who is leaned onto a walking stick. 

“Where are you going?” Gaius calls out to him. 

He halts and pivots towards you. “The Preacher! They say He’s going to do a miracle!” Simon instantly jumps to his feet as you feel your heart skip a beat at the mention of Jesus being back in town, “Even you should be there.” The man’s enthusiasm is contagious and you smile, supporting your tummy as you turn to Gaius. His expression is equally as puzzled.

Simon meets with two of his friends, fellow Disciples of the Messiah. “James, John, what is this?” The more often you see them, the more names you learn. 

“We don’t know more than you do,” the tallest of the two admits.

“Come on!” urges the other with a gesture of his arm.

“Primi,” you say when Simon speeds away and Gaius shrugs on sash over his tunic, “Will you bring me with you?” 

A small smile spreads over his features. “Of course, my lady.” The two of you head right towards the commotion, both of you curious to catch a glimpse of the Rabbi. 

A crowd has gathered around Him and your heart sinks upon realisation, knowing that you’ll hardly get a look at anything He will say or do. Amidst the chaos, one of His followers is  pushed over and nearly trampled, quickly brought back onto his feet by Matthew. There is shouting, people desperately trying to reach out, vying for the Messiah’s attention. 

You hadn’t been the only one waiting for His return. 

“Look at them,” Gaius mutters, “They barely know what to do with themselves. Of course He won’t hear you better if you yell over all the other shouting…” 

“I understand,” you admit, “After waiting for Him for so long, you’d be keen to see Him again too, no?” 

Gaius nods and halts in his step underneath a small stone archway. “You wait here, my lady. Stay away from the masses. I need to see if I need to intervene or not… Duty calls.” You hum and lean against the wall, giving a small smile. 

“I’ll find my own way back home later,” you tell him, and he gives a small nod. 

“Just make sure to call for my aid if you need it.” 

You nod and support your stomach as the Primi rushes off, the crowd drawing closer to you as Jesus moves through the streets of Capernaum. Two men and a woman pass by and halt in their tracks right in front of you. “What’s going on?” one of them asks as they worriedly gaze at the unfolding chaos. 

“Simon’s house…” the other mutters. 

After a moment of observation, the woman seems to catch a glimpse of Jesus’ face. “It’s Him. It’s your Rabbi!” There is a paleness on her face that makes you wonder if she is ill. She nervously looks at Jesus’ followers, who rush in His direction. 

“Stay here,” the one wearing a yellow tunic says, leaving her behind for a moment. 

For a few moments, she stands there, noticing your presence behind her and she offers you a wary look, which you answer with a small smile. Her eyes turn to your stomach, then back up to your face, realising you are no threat in spite of being Roman, and turns back to look at Jesus. “Teacher!” she suddenly calls out, her arm reaching over the crowd as if it would be long enough to touch Him, “Teacher!” 

The group of people pushing and pulling one another draws closer, desperation on the woman’s face, the hollowness in her cheeks showing in her sorrow. “Teacher…!” she once again exclaims, defeat on her face as her lips part. The woman reaches for her lower abdomen, pressing her legs together. “No, no, no…” she whispers, “Please, no… Not now…” Stranger or not, you are inclined to comfort her, only held back by the fact that Gaius told you to stay here and not get closer to the crowd. 

She then straightens her back. Taking a deep breath, she whispers something to herself and you resist the urge to step closer to hear what it is, until a bit of it carries in your direction through the wind: “Just the fringe. One touch.” 

In the distance, you notice Gaius instructing the soldiers to keep their posts and not intervene just yet. Seeing him still out of his usual uniform, you feel some relief wash over you. The woman stands with her gaze suddenly fixed on the Rabbi, a line in her brow that resembles determination. 

“Just the edge,” the Jewish woman in front of you mutters, “Only a thread!” 

Suddenly, a man points accusingly at her, “You! I know you! Get away from Him!” 

“No— No, stop it, please—” 

The man tries to call out to one of the rabbis of Capernaum whilst the woman tries to stop him. “Rabbi Yussif! Rabbi Yussif!” 

A Pharisee clad in black and white heads your way and you take a step back to stay out of sight, in spite of your instincts to comfort the woman being accused of something terrible.

“This woman bleeds. She is unclean. We removed her—”

“Please, I promise, I won’t touch Him, I just need—” 

The Rabbi cuts her off. “—Woman, please, we can help, but not now.” 

She shakes her head at Rabbi Yussif, not giving in just yet. Just at that moment, the Disciple dressed in yellow passes by the gate. “Sorry, we’ll try tomorrow,” he apologises. 

“No, please, just a moment!” The Jewish woman is crying now, “Just His garment!” 

Before she can be stopped, she rushes forward, and a gasp leaves your lips at the sight. She pushes her way through the crowd with an outstretched hand. For a moment, you lose sight of her in the crowd, just looking at the back of Jesus’ head, until He halts, shoulders and arms moving in a way as if all air is being pushed from Him. 

Everyone draws to a stop around Him, His followers holding His arms to steady Him as Jesus holds onto their shoulders. “Back everyone!” 

All shouting instantly ends as people wait with bated breath. Against Gaius’ wishes, you step closer to the crowd to hear what is going on. A circle forms around Jesus as He converses with His Disciples, one of them suddenly crying out: “Everybody, back!” 

Slowly, Jesus turns around. “I asked a question. Who touched Me?” There is such authority in His voice that you nearly shrink in your position at the back of the masses surrounding Him. Silence as many gazes fall onto something — or rather someone — sitting on the ground next to Jesus. Simon leans closer to his Master and mutters something you don’t catch, but Jesus doesn’t agree with him. 

“Someone touched Me. I felt that power went out of Me.” Now, His gaze also lowers. You walk past the back of the group of people, finding a small gap through which you can see the woman who had just been so desperately crying out for the Teacher seated on the sandy road, a small smile on her face, immediately seeming healthier than she did a minute before. 

However, a feeling of guilt creeps over her face as she looks up at Jesus, Who steps closer to her. “Whoever touched Me, come forward.” He asks, even though it is obvious that He knows. 

You flinch in slight discomfort as you feel a sharp kick to your ribs. You breathe away the sudden heartburn. 

“Teacher…” Rabbi Yussif mutters, but Jesus simply gives him a small nod. 

“It was me,” the woman admits. “Just the fringe of Your garment, only the edge, I promise. You are not unclean.”

Jesus bites His bottom lip for a moment before approaching her further. “Why My garment?” 

“I’m sorry,” the dark-haired woman whispers, “I know I should have asked. But if You touched me, it would make you ritually unclean according to the law. I—I was sick. I was sick for twelve years… I bled and no one could stop it.” Your heart clenches at how much she must have been hurting all this time. “But I believed if I could just touch a piece of your garment…” 

She suddenly laughs through her tears. “And I was right, I was right. Thank You.” Jesus smiles down at her, letting the silence hang a bit. 

“Who told you I could heal?” 

“A man from the Pool. And he was right,” she sobs, “The blood has ceased.” 

Jesus crouches down in front of her, locking eyes with her. “My daughter.” He whispers, and the words go straight through you. Even though they are not directed towards you, they make your eyes water. Your heart thumps as He sits in front of her and you swallow the sudden lump lodged in your throat. 

The woman shakes her head. “I’m no one’s daughter anymore.” 

“Look up.” 

Her eyes gingerly flicker up to meet His. “Yes you are,” He reassures her. She beams through her tears, smiling and crying at the same time. “Daughter... It wasn’t My piece of clothing that healed you.”

She confusedly shakes her head a bit. “But it was instant, I felt it right away.”

“I know, but it wasn’t this… It was your faith.” At that, she smiles broader, and you rest a hand over your hammering heart, your head spinning with emotions at the display taking place in front of you. 

The rabbi from earlier, Yussif, speaks up. “Teacher, she was bleeding so long. We can take her—”

“—She is clean.” Jesus firmly states with a gesture of the hand, before looking at the ground for a moment, fighting His emotions before looking at her. “You have blessed Me today. And I know, My daughter, I know it has been a fight for you for so long. You must be…”

“Exhausted,” they then say in unison. Jesus looks at her for a moment. 

“Go now in peace. Your faith has made you well.” She laughs at the words, her eyes sparkling with a happiness she hasn’t known for a long time. “I wish I could stay here longer. But I have business to attend to. Someone else has faith like yours.” 

For a moment, they look at a man waiting patiently for the Messiah to come with him, and they smile at one another. He cups her face gently, making her instantly melt into the touch, for it had been long that someone had so affectionately acted towards her. “But I’m so glad that we found each other.” She puts her hand over His before he gently thumbs at her tears, then stands and addresses the crowd. 

“Please, I promise, I will speak to all of you soon. And my students and I will take care for your needs. But right now, there’s something very important that I must do, and I kindly ask you to let Me go, so I can take care of this urgent issue. I promise, I will see you, but right now is not possible.” For a moment, His gaze falls on you, and your heart skips several beats inside your chest. At the moment, you don’t need more, already having been uplifted by witnessing this healing take place right in front of you. “Thank you for your understanding.” 

The crowd dissolves as everyone leaves Jesus alone without any issues, the Messiah instructing a few of His followers to tend to the woman. You step away from the masses, thinking it best to head back to the safety of your home to rest, but you halt when you see Gaius still in the same spot, contemplating what he has witnessed just now. For a second, your gazes meet, and you smile, giving a small nod.

He mirrors it. 

As fast as your swollen ankles can carry you, you rush back to the villa.

—- 

Dinner at the residence is tense, the only sound being the cutlery against the plates and Quintus’ occasional sighs. Even though your entire system is buzzing with what you had witnessed this afternoon, you know you can’t speak to him about the miracle, no matter how much you want to pour out what your heart is overflowing with.

He glares at you as he takes a long sip of wine. You shrink in your seat as you pop another piece of beef into your mouth and chew it. It’s quite tough, but you refuse spitting it out, maintaining the awkward eye-contact across the table. “How was your afternoon?” he suddenly asks, his genuineness coming across as forced. 

“It was fine. How was yours?”

“Honestly, not as good.” He lowers his gaze before standing up sharply. 

There is tension in his shoulders as he briskly walks past you, his cologne stinging in your nose. He says no word and heads for his home study, leaving you to finish your meal in lonely silence. Not that you mind his absence at all. You don’t finish the rest of your steak. 

The rest of the evening you spend in your sitting room, pouring your heart and soul into a few new poems about what you had witnessed today, and you explore the topic of daughterhood when it comes to God compared to what your own father had done to you throughout your life. There is hope and renewal in your words, with lingering yearning to have the same for yourself visible in your words. You wonder if you will ever be able to follow Jesus as openly as you want to. You imagine yourself in the place of the healed woman from today, picturing what it would feel like to have all your sorrows done away by a single touch of the Messiah.

The moment your candle is nearly fully out, you close your journal and stretch your sore limbs. With a sigh, you hide it inside the drawer and head for the bedroom, grabbing your nightgown as well as a towel, stepping into the adjacent bathroom. 

Once you cross the threshold, you freeze in your spot, a small gasp escaping you as you see Quintus submerged into the soapy water, heat radiating into wisps of warmth floating above the surface. He opens one eye and hums. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to walk in on you.”

“That’s fine. Come join me.” 

You turn back towards the door. “I’ll just take my own bath later—”

“—I said, come join me.” You realise it’s not a request, but rather a demand, and your heart sinks into your gut. “I need to speak to you.” 

Thickly swallowing, you put down the items of clothing before starting to strip down. At least your husband has the decency to close his eyes again, the air heavy with the scent of thyme and camomile. You put up your hair lest it get wet. Quintus doesn’t look up again until you step into the tub, his gaze mapping out the expanse of your naked form, making you instantly feel nauseous. “You look beautiful.” A rare tone of affection directed towards you; or rather that he is attracted to your body at least. A fickle token of his love for you, no matter how shallow. You gulp visibly.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to have you,” he mutters as if he reads the fear right from your features, and he reaches out as you sink down into the hot water, a bit of water spilling over the edges with the added mass. The water brings comfort to your heavy stomach. “Come here.” 

The water is so hot that it stings your skin. You hesitantly, reluctantly push yourself towards him. He wraps his arms around you, turning you so that your back is facing his front, and pulls you into his lap. Your body tenses as he rests his chin on your shoulder, hands coming to rest around your tummy. You swallow once again, trying to relax and not let your unwillingness shine through too heavily.

“How are you feeling, darling wife?” 

You let out a small noise. “I’m fine. In pain, but it will pass.” 

“Good. Is the baby well?” 

You nod. “I think so.” 

He hums into your neck, unpleasant goosebumps rising to your arms in spite of the scorching bath. “I needed to say something to you,” he mutters, his jaw tensing as a line forms in his brow for just a second. “I… Shouldn’t have yelled at you this afternoon.”

The furrowing of your eyebrows ceases for a second. But just when you were about to receive a sliver of an apology, or at least the very start of one, he bashes down that hope with just as much force. “…But you shouldn’t let yourself in with a Jew, especially one like Jesus of Nazareth. He’s popular because He preaches pretty words. Women, like yourself, are gullible.” 

“I’m not gullible. I know what I’m talking—”

“—That’s what they all say.” Quintus hisses inside your ear, kissing the nape of your neck right after, a stark contrast between the two actions. The sharpness of his teeth grazes the skin, making you swallow hard and bite back a wince. “But trust me, darling, I’m just looking out for you. Those Jews would lynch you without a second thought just for being a Roman. Jesus may not appear that way, but I’m certain that His followers wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to kill you instantly if He gave them a sign.” 

You turn a bit to face him, his eyes meeting yours way too closely for your liking, but his grip on you is vice-like. There are so many things you could tell him in protest, things that could make this bathtub your tomb, but you bite your tongue instead, wordlessly staring at the Praetor. 

“I love you. You know that, right? I wouldn’t know what I would do without you,” he mutters, and for a moment, there is a flicker of vulnerability in his gaze. You are almost inclined to believe him for just that split second, no longer. “Do not waste your time on Jews, my love. Got it?” 

He pulls you back into his shoulder so that the back of your head is resting on it. The essential oils in the water sting in your stretch marks, but you don’t shift. When you don’t respond, Quintus sighs, resting his chin on your shoulder as you sit like that until the suds of soap have vanished and the water has grown tepid.

---

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[the-chosen-fanfiction]

Gentile. | Chapter XL

Quintus confronts you about the notes on Jesus from Nazareth found in your room. You run into the same woman on the streets again. You find something meaningful to do with your love for writing.

Chapter list

The news of Jesus’ followers being back in town spreads like wildfire amongst the soldiers, allowing you to remain somewhat in the loop in spite of spending your days in either your personal study or Quintus’ office. Jesus is conspicuous by His absence and hasn’t been seen in a while, even by His students. It seems that nobody knows where He is and when He will return from His journey, causing the people of both Capernaum and the rapidly expanding tent city to grow restless and impatient.

You find yourself taking half-hourly trips to the lavatory at this point in your pregnancy. With the broken cistern you attempt to keep your visits to a minimum in order to not strain the servants too much, but your unborn child does not seem to comprehend your moral considerations but knows perfectly where to aim their kicks in order for you to rush out of the office again. Despite his usual sour mood, Quintus seems to find the whole ordeal quite humorous, huffing in amusement whenever you hurry away. Yet another way he appears to be enjoying the way you suffer, you bitterly think.

A few days pass, nearly a week, and you have almost forgotten about your encounter with Cecilia during the party. It isn’t until one morning that you enter your husband’s office and find him with a particularly hard line in his brow, but before you can ask him what is on his mind, Gaius enters the workroom with heavy steps.

“You wanted to see me, Dominus?” The Praetor has apparently called in the Primi for an audience before your arrival so you find your usual spot in the corner of the room, sinking into the plush upholstery of the chaise longue that has started to take the shape of your body at this point, the imprint on the sofa barely visible to the naked eye until one takes a seat and finds its shape slightly altered. 

Quintus’ gaze snaps up to meet he man in question with a glare that indicates thorough displeasure. 

As Gaius turns and leaves the room, Quintus has a thoughtful frown on his otherwise sharp features. “I thought you took on the task of repairing the cistern, no?”

“Yes, Dominus, we are still waiting for the materials to arrive from Jeru—” 

“Well, wait faster.” Quintus gestures towards you, “I’ve got a pregnant wife, remember? She needs the cistern more than anyone.” That isn’t necessarily true but your bite your tongue.

Gaius’ jaw tightens. “I understand, Dominus. I will inquire about its status as soon as I can.”

With a sharp wave of his hand, Quintus sends him on his way dismissively. 

A brief silence lingers between you and your husband as he grits his teeth. Something is on his mind and you wait for him to speak it out loud. Tension grows — crackles — as he points at the chair in front of his desk.

“Sit.” 

You frown, sitting in your chaise longue already. As you open your mouth to mention this, your husband repeats, firmer this time, “I said sit. There.” 

He narrows his gaze when you stand and walk towards the seat he is gesturing at. You fold your hands in your lap under your belly as you sink into the less comfortable wood, trying to make yourself appear as small as you can. 

“I do so much for you. You know that, right? I make sure you’ve got a roof over your head, the best food on your table, the prettiest dresses imported for you…” He doesn’t look at you as he traces the edge of his desk with his finger. There is a dangerous glower on his features, “I did your family a huge favour by accepting your father’s offer. For what it’s worth, I could have refused and found myself a different wife instead, but here we are.” 

You tilt your head, not liking where this is going, even though the conversation — monologue this far, really — hasn’t really taken a definite turn yet. 

“Every woman in this entire Empire would kill to take your place.” Quintus lets out a humourless chuckle. “I’m being serious here, (Y/n). They’d stab you in the back if they saw an opportunity!” 

You try and swallow the words, you really do, but they escape you no matter how hard you try to fight them. “Women… Like Cecilia?” 

Quintus sharply stands, the legs of his chair scraping loudly against the tile floor of his office, which makes you shrink and pull up your shoulders as if it would block out the penetrating sound. “I found out something about you, (Y/n). Something… That could get you killed.” 

Your heart rears inside your chest as you look up at him, eyes widening. 

“Tell me where I went wrong!” he exclaims, glaring at you across his desk, “Tell me how it happened, that my wife, who lacks absolutely nothing in her lavish, lazy little life, where everything is being done for her, tell me where she gets the gall to find religious texts from the Jews, brings them home and then meditates on them!” 

All air leaves your lungs at the hatred that lingers in his unforgiving intonation, the way Quintus’ eyes glitter with unvoiced hatred towards everything Jesus is — “That my own wife, my insolent, puerile and spoiled little wife, feels the need to commit such blasphemous acts regarding a Preacher Whom her husband has been trying to banish from the streets he is supposed to keep safe!” 

He paces around the desk and traps you between his body and the chair you’re sitting on before you can even rise to your feet. His breath stinks as he leans closer to you, eyes wide-blown with adrenaline and unbridled rage. “How will I even explain to Caesar that my wife has left me for some— Some infatuation with a Jew of all people!” 

“It’s not an infatuation!” you defend yourself, “Jesus’ words and teachings are everything I’ve ever needed in my life! This empty, hollow and meaningless life where I am locked inside a gilded cage—” 

“A gilded cage?” Quintus guffaws, “It is obvious that you know next to absolutely nothing about life itself, (Y/n), but to accuse me of keeping you prisoner is a very bold and dangerous claim.” 

“It is not up to you how I feel about my life! You can’t dictate what — or Whom — I do or do not believe in!” 

Quintus steps away, turning his back to you sharply as he paces towards the window. It gives you a moment to breathe before he sharply turns to you again, pointing a finger at you. “I warned you about that Man, and yet you went to see Him?!” 

Before he can trap you against your chair once more, you stand on wobbly knees, the baby taking the worst moment to turn inside your belly, a wave of nausea causing you to gasp and support yourself against the table. 

“You never warned me about Him. You said that His popularity would blow over! It was Atticus who warned you about Him instead!” 

“Oh,” Quintus’ brows rise, “I thought you always listened to what Atticus said. It seems like his judgement is way more important to you than mine!” 

You narrow your eyes at your husband. “Well, obviously I didn’t follow Atticus’ advice!” The words exchanged between the Praetor and the investigator concerning Jesus had been way different from what you had discussed with Atticus, but Quintus didn’t need to know that. “I am my own person, and so I can decide what I find important in my life!” 

“Unless it brings you, or worse, my reputation in danger!” 

“So you give the key to my study to some woman for her to snoop around through my belongings?!” 

Quintus brow lowers. “I was right to distrust you,” he hisses, “The means of my investigation are none of your concern.” 

“They are of my concern, since you’ve invaded my privacy!” 

He snorts. “A husband and a wife shouldn’t keep secrets from one another, darling. Don’t force me to dig through your room again to find out what other things you are hiding from me.” 

Panic suddenly claws at your throat as he glares at you, stepping closer until his face is right in front of yours. “Don’t think that just because you’re pregnant, you can say everything to me that comes to mind. This time, I will let it slide, because it might be your hormones telling you that whatever this Jesus of Nazareth is preaching is what you want to hear, but… If I find out you are listening to His sermons again, or have spoken to Him or any of His followers, or…” 

He pauses, your heart stuttering inside your chest as fear increases the pressure in your abdomen tenfold. “Or if I find out anything else that I don’t like one bit… You can make sure I’ll lock you up in that precious little study of yours and not let you out of my control again. Do I make myself clear?” 

You let out a shaky exhale. No mention of the rumours regarding Atticus, at least. 

“Plenty,” you whisper coldly. “Can I go? I need to use the bathroom—”

“Fine. I can’t stand the sight of your face right now, anyways.” 

That makes two of us, you want to say, but decide it would be best to let the words die somewhere between your throat and lungs, where countless other statements directed towards him had been caught overtime, known by you and God alone. 

Without saying any other word, nor in greeting, you hurry out of the office as fast as your aching ankles can take you. You make it to the lavatory just in time, red hot embarrassment colouring your cheeks as you sit to relieve yourself, remaining there until you’ve calmed down your racing heart. 

Of course it would have come to light sooner or later, you think to yourself as you clean yourself up. Heading back to your study would be too stifling to you right now, causing you to take another road instead — the one leading to the local library, where you will hopefully find some comfort in written texts.

The librarian gives you a once-over when you enter sans escort. It has been awhile since you were here and your stomach is obviously way larger than when she last saw you. You can barely recall the last time you were here, but a fond memory of standing trapped between the shelves and Atticus’ body comes to mind, flushing your cheeks into a shade of pink. 

Your fingers slide admiringly over the spines of the books. You inhale deeply, the scent of parchment, ink, leather and wax filling your nostrils like a soothing balm for the soul. Looking over your shoulder, you check to see if anyone has their curious gaze on you. When you find the librarian busy with something else than paying attention to you, you slip into the section with religious texts.

The selection of Jewish literature you find is greater than back in Rome, and you slide something with ‘Rabbinic midrash on the Lamentations’ written on it out of the pile before opening it up, letting your eyes scan over it. Five meditations on five chapters, one longer than the other, and you immediately notice the implication of these laments. A plea to God, a cry for help whilst also maintaining Jeremiah’s guilt towards Him, sketching a vivid image of a broken world. The Rabbi wrote down his meditations on how the texts highlights the importance to focus on God, or ‘Adonai’, no matter how dark things might get in life, and a clear yearning for redemption lingers through his commentary.

The Lamentations themselves seem to be dark and desperate, but you find hope and renewal when trust is put in the Lord. Something tightens inside your chest and creeps up towards your mind, where it brews for but a moment until it forms an idea. Or rather a strong urge, you realise upon closing the written work in your hands. 

The librarian at the counter gives you a strange look when you walk up to her. “Could I please have a journal, some ink and a pen?” She looks you up and down and opens her mouth to speak, when you already take your purse from your pocket and slide a few denarii her way, more than the items you requested would ever cost you. “Keep the change.” You have noticed how easily you give away money that isn’t really yours. One of the few ways you can hurt Quintus is by spending his income like water, but you’re not materialistic enough to keep up with draining his funds.

You sit down at the table, happy to be off your feet for a bit since your ankles have been killing you for a while now, and flip open the crisp, leather-bound book in front of you. For a moment, your teeth sink down in the back of the reed pen as you think what to write first. 

Overcome by a sudden burst of inspiration, you put the nib into the ink before setting it against the fresh parchment, starting to scribble over it without really thinking about it.

“Entangled in the cold of darkness my soul drifted into nothing but despair. Warmth enveloped me when Your hand found me and tore me away from the claws of desperation. My whispers reached Your ear although I did not name You, but You knew mine and breathed it in the darkness, where I said Yours, a foreign language, yet familiar to my very soul.” 

You lift your pen to refill the ink, and whisper to yourself as a small smile spreads over your lips. “Adonai…” you murmur before continuing to write again.

“Your ways are a mystery, unknown to my sorrowful heart. Yet it seeks Your path like the desert chases the drops of dew landing on her surface, like the rain descends from the heavens to the Earth with invisible strength, finding its way. In the blackness of night, Your light burns brighter than my wounds, it is here where You will make me whole.”

For a moment, you sit up straight and sigh as the baby kicks your bladder. “Not now, little one,” you mutter to yourself more than to your unborn child, for the last thing you want right now is to have to rush to the bathroom once again, and you force yourself to go back to your work.

“And at the same time, I feel like I’ve known You forever, just like how You have known my soul forever. My Lord and my God; if I may call You that, for I do not comprehend all that my heart is saying. All I know is that You are all I’ve been yearning for, the One Who heard my call in my darkest hour.” 

A second Psalm — song — poem, whatever you’ll end up calling these. You had filled journal after journal about your experiences with Quintus, the desperation and lack of relief you have come across under his control. There have been poems about those you love, about your nieces, your brother, about Atticus. But now… These are for the God you have just met, and yet believe.

Jesus’ words are unfamiliar, yet you know them to be true. Wax poetic has meant little to you in your time of need, and you have always wondered if there was something wrong with you for not feeling connected to the Roman deities. 

“You are the One true God, and Jesus Christ is Your Son.” 

The moment the words are jotted on the page in your very own handwriting, you drop the pen from your fingers with a sudden gasp. The sentence stands there, black on white, indelible, an indisputable proclamation of faith that has left your wrist before fully realising that the words were being formed by your hand. 

It feels as what you are writing down are not your own words, but sent through your system by a higher power, as if revealed to you by divine intervention. You don’t even know what the name ‘Christ’ means, yet it has appeared right there, written in your hand, in clear Latin.

The ink does not bleed through the paper. You slam the journal shut and put the cork back on the inkwell, only bringing the book along as you rush out of the library. Your own decree of faith seems to have shaken you, as if it is just settling in. 

Quintus had been right to be suspicious about your interest in Jesus of Nazareth. He could have you killed for this. Your feet carry you back to the villa as fast as you can, where you are eager to lock yourself up in your room to let your mind run amok with everything that is going on inside your very heart and soul at this very moment—

—You nearly collide with someone face-first, and you profusely start apologising. 

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t look where I was going.” 

“Neither was I,” a woman breathes, stepping back as she looks you up and down. There is something familiar to her. “I’m sorry, too.” 

Something solemn falls over her features as her eyes lock onto your stomach, and you put a hand over it as you realise that she had made that gesture towards her own belly, too, when you last ran into her. The very same Jewish woman you had almost bumped noses with only a few weeks ago. Your gaze travels down and find no evident swelling of her abdomen. Your heart sinks at the realisation. 

“You’ve lost your baby,” you whisper with so much emotion that the woman seems both touched and taken aback at your words, and a frown falls over her brow. “I’m so sorry for your loss.” Then, it twists into something sadder. She doesn’t need to ask, just as you do not need to know more. You reach out, taking her hand in yours, and she squeezes.

A second chance encounter, two complete strangers who knew nothing of each other besides that they are supposed to be one another’s enemy. Yet connected intimately through motherhood — or lack thereof, and the pain that losing it brings forth. 

A tear rolls down your cheek when you see the heartbreak on her face. “Aside from my mother, nobody knows.” She whispers, her face turning red as her brown eyes swim with tears. “You are a complete stranger, a Roman at that, and yet you read it from my face.”

You swallow hard lest you start crying harder at sensing what this woman must be going through.

“I feel like I know you from somewhere,” the woman says, “Are you from around here?” 

“I live in the Roman quarter,” you state the obvious. “I… I visit the market on a regular basis.” 

She nods, sniffling. “Well, maybe we have ran into one another there at some point.” 

You can’t help a small smile from forming. “It seems that we’ve got a knack for that, of literally colliding with one another.” 

The Jewish woman lets out a small, light-hearted giggle. You can tell it’s been a while since she genuinely laughed. 

“Perhaps we will meet again, then.” 

“Yes, who knows? Once again, I’m so sorry for your loss.” 

She gives you a small bow of her head, her face falling into solemnity again, until she walks past you and disappears around the corner just the way you nearly had slammed into her. For a moment, you consider calling after her to ask for her name, but a sharp kick in the bladder prevents you from doing that.

With a heavy sigh, you once again make your way over to the restroom, suddenly on the brink of peeing yourself.  

Once you are home again, you head for your study to lock yourself up, bitterly considering getting the locks changed without Quintus knowledge, and take a seat at your desk before grabbing your brand new journal again. With your own pens, ink, and personal environment, you hope your inspiration to flow more freely, although you find that your first poems - Psalms, hymns, whatever they may become — have turned out quite nicely. 

You draw the Roman numeral III on the left of the page, thinking for a moment. Your first two poems had been about redemption from the dark pit you had been in. Perhaps the next one could be about…

…You press an ink-filled pen against the surface of your journal and start scribbling without a second thought. 

“Proud and cold stand the marble statues of Vesta, Jupiter, Minerva, as unyielding as their unforgiving hearts, to worship, pray more, shout harder, wail louder. Requiring sacrifice for an ear unhearing, draining my soul, from which I pour until there is nothing left. Then, I whisper a prayer in the breeze, a simple word is all it takes, for You, my God, to hear and listen, and answer not in a storm, or a fire, but in a breath that fulfils everything.” 

Finding your flow, you start on another one. For a second, you look out the window in thought, listening to the sounds of Capernaum drifting through your window. 

“In untainted light I stand exposed and seen at last, with every nerve and wrongdoing bare and open, vulnerable, deserving nothing more but my shame. But there You are, and You see, and You smile.” 

A heavy familiar tread that you know like none else draws your attention from your writing, and you quickly shut the journal without leaving it open to dry, shoving it into your drawer before grabbing a random book from the shelf, settling on your sofa in an attempt to appear busy. 

Just as you sink down in the pillows, Quintus opens the door without knocking, ready to catch you in the act of anything, really, until his eye falls onto your reading form, causing his shoulders to relax and his accusing finger drop back to his side. “Oh, you’re just reading. Dinner is almost ready.” 

“I’m not hungry,” you state, which isn’t a lie. He narrows his gaze at you and sighs.

“Suit yourself,” says he, and heads back downstairs. 

Only when his footsteps are audible from the kitchen, you dare to exhale again. Snapping your book shut, you bite your lip in thought, momentarily looking at the closed drawer, which isn’t that good of a hiding spot, as last week had proven. You might have to find a different location for your secret papers, you conclude.

With an aching back, you stand up and stretch, deciding it is best to get something to eat regardless of your lack of desire for food. 

-

Chapter list Next chapter (TBA)

[the-chosen-fanfiction]

Gentile. | Chapter XXXIX

Quintus throws a party, the perfect breeding ground for rumours. A certain interest of yours threatens to come to the surface.

Chapter list

There are new flowers in the vase on the dinner table that do not hold a candle against Tamar’s vibrant blooms. The servant you had approached about it a while ago told that you a new merchant had started a stall of their own recently, but these flowers are a far cry from the colours you’d grown to miss. One morning, you’re standing in the kitchen, picking at a few withered petals to clean up the quickly thinning bouquet.

The weeks go by slowly. Your belly grows as does your longing for your secret lover. You wonder how Atticus has been, what he has been up to and if he’s thinking about you as often as you think about him. You’re just daydreaming a little whilst rubbing your dress over the itchy skin of your tummy in an attempt to soothe it when Quintus walks into the kitchen freshly out of the bath. He reeks of camomile and you are a bit puzzled as to why he has grabbed one of your soaps instead of his own.

“Don’t you have any dresses that fit you a little better?” You turn to him as he asks this and he raises an eyebrow at you. “I am going to host a party here next week. I want you to look your best.”

“A party?” you ask with a voice that wavers a little. You’re not keen to socialise now, especially with the rumours circulating at the moment. 

“Yes,” Quintus explains, “To celebrate that you and I are going to have a child soon.” He rests a hand on your tummy and kisses your forehead, at which you are forced to smile a little. 

Then, you finger your dress, lifting up the skirt for a moment to look at it. It is indeed quite tight around your belly and digs into the flesh of your ribs. “I’ll see what I can do,” you say, “After all, I can’t get a dress tailored in that amount of time.” 

“I’ve taken the liberty of getting it done for you.” Any other woman would have been swooning over her husband getting her a custom made dress without her even having to ask for it, but in this case, it just makes your skin crawl. 

“Thank you.” you say dryly.

“You’re welcome.” Quintus leans in for a kiss and you can’t avoid it. Still, upon pulling back, he frowns at you a little strangely, as if noticing your hesitation.

“Are you alright?”

“Just a little tired.”

He feels your forehead and sighs. “Go rest.”

At that, you head up the stairs to your little study, supporting your tummy as you walk. With a heavy sigh, you take a seat on your small sofa and grab your journal, flicking through the pages to see if anything inspires you enough to get to writing, since you have been experiencing a dry spell when it comes to that. Your head spins with possible scenarios of what might happen during the celebration Quintus hadn’t even considered discussing with you beforehand. But then, he was still convinced you owed him everything.

You dance with the idea that the whispers will only intensify as the evening progresses and people grow more loose-lipped the more wine they consume. For how much longer will Quintus’ suspicion will remain just that — suspicion, not belief — and what could you say to keep any possible escalation at bay? It’s not a question if the topic regarding your rumoured affair will be mentioned, but when, and if you play your cards just right… 

Unpredictable as he may be, you have learnt to use your pregnancy against him over the past months. Every time he attempts to bring up the topic of intimacy, or possible names he has chosen for your offspring, or whenever he goes onto one of his long rants regarding his legacy now that he has an upcoming heir to carry on the family name, you manage one pregnancy ailment after the other, and he buys it time and time again. However, every so often the name Atticus falls in conversation be it with you, Gaius or other soldiers in the room with you, and it catches you off-guard every time in such a way that Quintus can’t do anything else but narrow his eyes at you. 

Perhaps he can read something on your face and in your mannerisms. Guilt, or embarrassment, or something else altogether. Of course you cannot inquire about it, but you are anxious how the mere mention of his name affects your entire body language without your knowledge or consent. You have to master the skill of hiding it before next week, because there is no doubt that Atticus’ name will be said sooner or later, and that all eyes will be on you the second that it does. 

The dress arrives a few days later. 

Not much unlike the amulet Quintus had purchased for you upon Valeria’s passing, it is hideous as it clings to your form. The colour is not too unflattering, but the way it falls around you just doesn’t sit right. Perhaps he had ordered it just a few sizes too large, instead of mentioning it was meant for a pregnant woman. There is no time to get it fixed. 

The night of the party rolls around eventually.

“You look beautiful.” Quintus says. There is a genuine undertone. You halt in brushing your hair and give him a wry smile through the reflection of the mirror. 

“Thank you. You look handsome.” It isn’t necessarily a lie. 

He hums as he observes you, watching how you tie up your hair into something fancy. 

“What do you think of the dress?” 

“It’s… Definitely different from what I’m used to.” 

Quintus lets out a sound at the vague answer and stands behind you, resting his hands on your shoulders. For a second, you imagine yourself back in Rome right after Valeria’s death. The only difference is that your niece isn’t snoozing in the bed behind you and you realise how much you are actually missing Aurelia right now, one of the few specks of brightness in your life. 

“Are you nervous?” he asks, which is a question that catches you by surprise. He never cares about your state of mind. 

“No, not really. Just hoping my ankles will manage.” 

He clicks his tongue and squeezes your shoulders.

“Oh, please. They will. Now hurry, we can’t be running late.” 

He leaves you be and you let out a long sigh upon his departure, looking at yourself in the mirror. Your face is more flushed than usual and a bit more round than it used to be. You blame the pregnancy-related bloating and fix yourself for as far as you are able to. It’s not like you’d feel comfortable in any dress right now, no matter how pretty. 

There are already people chatting and laughing about downstairs, when you join Quintus just outside of your bedroom. He holds out his arm for you to take, urging you to lace your fingers into the crook of his elbow by putting his hand on top of yours. He gives you a long look, taking in your appearance, before he lets out a sound that you cannot quite place.

“Smile.” 

You’ve mastered the art of faking these.

“Good.” 

The two of you head down the flight of stairs and into the foyer, where unfamiliar faces from unfamiliar places have gathered at the behest of Praetor Quintus. A few watch you enviously, others with caution, commanders, generals and senators accompanied by dolled-up wives and concubines. Quintus sharply pinches your hip, having you straighten your back in spite of your aching body. People begin to mutter amongst themselves, eyeing your tummy, their whispers ranging from when your due date is to whether the father really is the man now standing next to you with a smirk that teeters on being nothing short of narcissistic. 

The Praetor pushes a chalice of wine into your hands even though you haven’t liked it ever since falling pregnant, the bitter twang too pungent for you to enjoy. It doesn’t take away the fact that you miss it, but that’s by the by. You pretend to take a sip and give him a smile, which he mirrors. 

“You’re exquisite, my darling.” Quintus murmurs, bringing the back of your hand to his lips to give it a gentle peck. You know he’s just doing so to keep up appearances, but you know better than to confront him about it, although you’re considering this another form of abuse in and of itself. 

“Thank you.” You watch how his gaze focuses upon a group of senators, higher in rank than him, and you know he’s dying to speak to them. “I’m peckish.” you remark.

Quintus takes the bait. 

“Go get something to eat, then, my sweet. I’ll be sure to find you later on.”

He releases you but not without leaning closer, brushing a kiss against your temple before sending you off to the table with hors d’oeuvres. You walk that way immediately, grabbing a small plate to get yourself something nice.

“(Y/n).” A woman sidles up to you, a few of her friends in tow. You faintly recognise her from one of your first evenings in Capernaum, when she was scolding one of the servants for almost ruining the food. Cecilia, you remember her name as she gives you another one of her sickly sweet smiles, the faux kind of look directed towards people in power or their wives. It quickly contorts into something else you can’t quite put a finger on. “Congratulations on your pregnancy. It’s a blessing that you and the Praetor are building a family, hm?” 

She gives you a look, as if gauging your response, and you load a few truffles onto your plate as you give yourself a second to come up with a proper reaction.

“Thank you, Cecilia.”

“How far along are you again?” 

“About thirty weeks, if I’m not mistaken.” you say, taking a few pieces of fresh fruit, “Give or take.”

“Are you sure?” one of Cecilia’s friends asks, a woman of whom you do not know the name. “You look… Bigger than that.”

“I said, give or take.” you repeat, a little firmer. “Does it matter?” 

“Perhaps.” The woman mysteriously murmurs, “After all, you were gone for a while, no?” 

You nearly drop your fork before sharply turning to her. 

“Look, I’m not sure what you’re getting at, but I’m exhausted, my ankles are swollen, I keep getting kicked in the bladder and stomach and can’t even remember when I last saw my own feet, so please, can you not bombard me with questions that are unimportant?” 

Another lady with long red tresses, earlier referred to as Valeria — a bittersweet irony — turns to Cecilia, who gives her a small nod, before she looks at you. 

“You see, we think it is important. After all, we need to know when you are due. Not only so that we can bring you gifts and support, but also because it can be very dangerous to the baby if they are born too early or too late.” Valeria makes it sound like a terror in and of itself and for a moment you think of your sickly niece back in Rome, wondering how she is doing. There hasn’t been another letter from Lucius yet.

“My husband and I keep a physician nearby. If things threaten to go wrong, we have a professional to help us out right away. Does that ease your nerves?” 

Cecilia looks at the woman who had mentioned your momentary absence, then lets out a long sigh.

“Listen, (Y/n), we are just trying to get to the bottom of a very important issue.” 

“An issue?” you feign ignorance, as if you haven’t heard the rumours. “Enlighten me.” 

“You see, we have been wondering if the date of conception aligns with your absence from here.” 

The gasp that leaves you is genuinely offended, even though for different reasons than you’re letting on. “I’m sorry, are you accusing me of something? I’ll have you know that I think that speculating about such things is very disrespectful.” 

Cecilia bites her lip. “Oh, no worries. We’re just making sure.”

“Making sure of what?”

“Making sure you’re a faithful wife in fulfilling her duties. There have been… Whispers that you’ve been getting quite intimately acquainted with an agent of the Cohortes Urbanae.” 

Your lips part. You force anger to take the place of shock on your features. Fuelled by a different emotion than they assume you are experiencing, you let your brow furrow together. 

“I’m not sure what you are getting at, Cecilia. As the lady of the house, I must insist that I do not like such speculations regarding both my marriage and my oath towards the Praetor.” 

Her eyes widen, a small smirk playing at her lips. “Oh, you’re being awfully fierce for a woman claiming to be fatigued.”

“I am when it comes to my child.” 

“And its father?” 

You narrow your eyes. “Has it occurred to you that I may have lied with Quintus the evening before I left and thus fell pregnant?” 

Cecilia’s gaze flashes with something, then twists back into that same curiosity. 

“It would be an awful coincidence. Women who are sent away and return round with a baby are usually shunned for specific reasons regarding their purity.” 

“My purity? I’m a married woman, why would anyone question my maidenhood?” you counter, “Your reasoning doesn’t make any sense. Now if you’ll excuse me, my food is getting cold.” 

“Don’t think we’ll let you off so easily, (Y/n). We know this town well enough to know when rumours hold truth to them, and we won’t stop investigating until we know everything there is to know about your scandalous affair with Atticus Aem—” 

“—Ah, there you are! Come here, I have been looking for your everywhere!” 

You are suddenly pulled away, and you lose a few peas from your plate as someone rescues you from your situation. Turning to the unexpected saviour, you are surprised to see the wife of Gaius giving you a kind, almost apologetic look. 

“I’m so sorry about them. They’re very intrusive, let me tell you that. Extremely nosy about everything there is to know about anyone. Once they’ve got dirt on you, they won’t leave you alone.” 

You let out a sigh of relief. “Oh, I can tell. Thank you for getting me out of there. Livia, right?” 

She hums and tucks some dark hair behind her ear. “I’m surprised — maybe honoured — that you even remember.” 

You huff a small laugh. “No need to be. I’ve overheard your husband speak about you to his peers from time to time. He’s very fond of you.” 

Livia blushes and sighs. “Well, there was a time when it was different.” 

You want to tell her that you know, but aren’t entirely sure how to approach it. After all, it would raise an eyebrow or two if you told her that Gaius had been sharing such sensitive information with the Praetor’s wife. However, you don’t have to mull it over for a long time, for Livia breathes in as she looks at you with a small, knowing smile.

“It’s fine. My husband told me that he’s told you about our son. Ah, his son, I mean. Not ours.” 

You give her a look that is almost apologetic, but you realise she must not be waiting for your pity.

“I’m sorry.” You state regardless. “Don’t you think it’s strange that he told me?” 

“Gaius has… Well, he has told me about you, too. About your situation.” Your heart skips a beat and your shock must be readable on your face, for Livia puts a hand on your shoulder. “About your relationship with the Praetor. How he can be from time to time. What I’m trying to say… Things may not always seem that way, but it will get better overtime.” 

Something akin to anger swells inside your chest. Annoyance at her naiveté, her gall to compare Gaius to a tyrannical man like Quintus. It shrinks just as fast when you realise it’s all she knows. 

Livia doesn’t mention Atticus, nor does she hint at knowing about the affair. Gaius kept his word; kept his mouth shut. A flood of relief washes over you. 

“I hope so.” you murmur. “Bygones, I truly hope so.” 

Livia smiles. “Your peas must be cold by now. Come, let’s get some new ones whilst I reveal a thing or two about motherhood to you.” 

A brief flash of panic causes your gut to twist upon the realisation that you know, indeed, nothing about being a mother nor about the process of labour itself. Your lack of contact with other women — especially those who also happen to be mothers — has left you at a disadvantage. Besides, you haven’t made friends around Capernaum yet in spite of your time being here.

“I’d appreciate that.” you breathe, smiling at her gratefully. 

As you head over to the table to get some more food, a name reaches your ear — Nazareth — and your interest is immediately piqued. Perking up your head, you look over your shoulder at the conversation taking place a little away, listening in as a spoonful of peas hovers above your plate. 

Quintus meets your gaze almost instantly and you nearly drop the utensil from your grip, a shaky breath leaving you as you momentarily turn back to the plate. The voices of a senator as well as a legate sound behind you as they talk to Quintus about the situation regarding Jesus, and you give Livia a wry smile. “I’m sorry, I’ve got to go back to my husband for a bit.” 

“Of course.” Livia responds, “That gives me some time to enjoy the pie.” 

Returning to Quintus’ side, you allow him to slide an arm around your waist. He gives you a curious look, narrowing his eyes as he watches you load some peas onto your fork. You shovel it into your mouth to prevent questions, turning your gaze to the others in front of you, who are speaking about the Preacher from Nazareth. When your husband notices your sudden interest, he huffs in annoyance and gives a subtle roll of his eye just for you to see. You raise an eyebrow at him in question before he looks away.

“…So, we are wondering how you are dealing with this threat.” It seems that you have joined the conversation albeit as a bystander at exactly the right moment. You see Quintus’ jaw tense as he forces one of these nonchalant smirks over his lips. His grip on you tightens, as if you have to do anything with it, and exhales through his nose before giving a tight-lipped response.

“I’ve got it under control just fine. It might seem like the tent village is only growing, but trust me, it’s all part of the process. These Jews will learn.” 

You swallow hard, his words not sitting well with you, and you are suddenly not so hungry anymore.

“People seem to be infatuated.” another man pipes up, “Not just Jews, but I also have seen Romans taking an interest, too.” You nearly choke on your own saliva as Quintus momentarily looks down at you with a narrowed, almost suspicious gaze. 

“Then they are foolish to believe in mere dishonest flattery. I know how masses work. If the crowd chants something catchy, one is inclined to join in even if the words are not understood or meant.” 

“His message is unlike anything I’ve ever heard.” 

A few pairs of eyes are on you now and it takes you a moment to realise that you had been the one to say the words out loud. You clear your throat as you straighten your back. “I mean, there have been different Jewish teachers around Capernaum, right? The rabbis in the black and white robes… These have very different things to say, that seem to directly oppose what Jesus preaches.” 

Quintus clicks his tongue. “What do you know about Jews, darling? As I said, it’s just pretty words. You are very sensitive to such things, so please don’t meddle in our conversation.”

“We fear rebellion,” one of the senators speaks up. “If you do not act accordingly, Praetor, how can we be safe in our own homes?” 

“Jesus does not encourage such things,” you defend Him, “I… I have heard of His sermons.” 

Your husband’s hand goes to the back of your neck, lacing itself into your hair. Appearing on the outside as an affectionate gesture, his fingers dig into your scalp. 

“Women.” Quintus mutters, earning a chuckle from the men in front of him. “To reassure your worries regarding rebellion, senator, I have spoken to Jesus myself. He and I have an understanding and I’ve made it plenty clear that I will kill Him if I feel the need to do so.” 

You inhale sharply through your nose as you feel a sharp kick in your ribs. A good moment to excuse yourself, you think as you silently thank your unborn child for giving you a good reason to leave this conversation. “I need some space,” you say, your hand over your stomach, “The baby is being restless.” 

Quintus’ mocking smirk turns prideful as he places his hand over yours. “You go rest up, my love. We need to make sure that our son is growing strong and healthy, hm? Go to bed.” He emphasises the belief that he thinks it’s a boy. You don’t protest it, instead step away whilst giving the senators he had been talking to a small curtsy, who wish you a good night in turn. 

You nod at a few people in greeting, Livia amongst them, as you head up the stairs to leave the cramped premises of the ground floor for the first floor where no guests are currently around. With a sigh, you start undoing your hair as you approach not the bedroom, but your study, reaching into your pocket to take out the key—

—It’s already in the lock, turned with the door askew. You halt in your tracks, dim light drifting from the room. Cold metal inside your pocket hits your fingers. The only other person in possession of a key is Quintus.

Someone has been inside. Or still is. 

Carefully, with hitched breath, you tiptoe towards the study, knowing just which floorboards to avoid to not yet alert the intruder of your presence. From the small gap that remains between the door and the frame, you see a flash of light fabric. A scraping noise and the rustle of parchment soon follow. With a hammering heart, you carefully push open the door. 

Caught red-handed, Cecilia’s eyes find yours, widened in shock as she drops the papers held in her hand. “What the— (Y/n)! What are you doing here?” 

“I don’t think that’s the right question to ask! What do you think you are doing?!” you exclaim, “Why are you in my room?!”

Cecilia gulps, trying to fight the embarrassment clawing at her throat. It is obvious that she hadn’t expected you to come up here at this time of the evening, and now that you are standing between her and the door, she has nowhere to run. 

“I’m waiting for an answer,” you impatiently mutter with a raised brow. Although appearing strong and firm, your heart is unpleasantly hammering with uncertainty. What has prompted Cecilia to snoop through your things and where did she get the key to your study?

“I was just— Looking for something to do!” 

“This room is locked,” you immediately counter, “And I’ve got my key right here. Did you steal Quintus’ key?” Even though you do not suspect her of doing so, you ask it regardless. 

“What? No— I just— I saw it on the table and I just decided to go exploring for a bit!” She is a horrible liar. 

“You know that this falls under breaking and entering, right? I could get you into trouble for this if you don’t start explaining quickly as to why you are—” 

“—That’s not true!” Cecilia plants a hand on her hip, straightening her back, “Your husband hosted a party at your villa, and here I am, as a guest. I am allowed on these premises!” 

You narrow your eyes. “You should try that with Quintus’ personal study in here, I dare you. Snoop around his things instead and see how that theory of yours stands.” 

Her teeth grit as she attempts to find a proper excuse, when her eyes go to the parchment on your desk. It is obvious that she mindlessly grabbed handfuls of it from the drawers under the table, your heart sinking at the sight. 

Perhaps you had been lazy, or sloppy, or zoned out when you put away your notes on the Jewish texts earlier today. Whatever it had been, it now presented the reading materials you had aimed to keep hidden to a woman who has obvious ill intent when it comes to you. 

“Jesus of Nazareth, huh? Isn’t He that Preacher Who has been causing trouble around here?” 

Her eyes flit over the pages easily, making you wish you hadn’t prided yourself in maintaining a neat handwriting. “I don’t think He is causing trouble,” you tell her, “Have you heard any of His teachings? They are very interesting.” 

“They are blasphemous.” Cecilia huffs, “Jews and their… Monotheism. They’re dumb to think that their God is real. I mean, look at us instead. The Empire is strong and thriving. We must be doing something right in pleasing our own gods, no? If their God is so merciful, why allow all this suffering to them?” 

Your mouth opens and closes again as you attempt to find a counter-argument, but no sound comes out. When a flicker of victory crosses the woman’s face, you step towards her, causing her to instinctively step back, as if she expects you to strike her across the cheek.

“Suffering does not come to us because we are praying to the wrong deity,” you mutter, “But rather it happens to all of us, no matter whom or what we worship. Pain and agony are consequences of free will. It is part of life and does not equal punishment by God. But in the face of evil, God is good, and merciful, and forgiving. In spite of how evil people can be all at their own volition, God will bring justice one day. Until then, He can be found by everyone seeking Him, and He will offer them comfort.” 

Cecilia huffs a mocking laugh. “You sound awfully fond of His teachings. Does your husband know about this sentiment?” When you lower your gaze, she cackles. “How interesting… I bet he would love to know you’re keeping Jewish texts in your room, hm?” 

“Did he put you up to this?” you whisper, “Did he ask you to search my study?”

She doesn’t answer your question, her smile falling into something more appalled. “Praetor Quintus is a powerful man. He deserves so much better than a disobedient whore like yourself.” 

“Get out!” your voice is suddenly raised an octave and bellows louder than you had anticipated. It startles the woman, who pulls her cloak a bit tighter around herself, barely daring to walk around you in order to leave the room. “I said, get out!” There is frustration in your tone and Cecilia shuffles around you. She rushes out of your study, looking over her shoulder one last time with something akin to fear in her features, until she runs down the stairs. 

For a moment, you rummage through your parchment to see if everything is still there, panic swelling within your chest. You check the false bottom of your drawer, finding all of Atticus’ letters still there. A brief flash of relief washes over you, until you look back at your scrolls.

You freeze in your spot when it dawns on you. Cecilia was wearing a cloak just now, even though the temperature inside was pleasant. Squeezing your eyes shut, you try to remember what it looked like when she hurried past you. 

A piece of parchment had been sticking from the front of her cloak, held tightly under her arm. You curse under your breath. 

“Hades and Styx…” 

You run a hand down the side of your face, turning to the door opening for a moment before looking back at your notes and texts, a sigh of desperation leaving your lungs. Quintus is going to find out about your interest in Jesus, and that it runs deeper than a simple curiosity. A confrontation is inevitable and you doubt you’ll be able to accuse him of imposing on your privacy. After all, the magistrate is convinced that you don’t need to keep secrets from him. 

With a racing heart, you shove all the scrolls and notes haphazardly back into your desk, shutting the drawers and blowing out the candles you had naively left lit throughout the room earlier today. You rush towards the bedroom, slipping out of your dress and under the covers, not bothering to take off your make-up. Out of breath, you draw the blankets up until under your chin, attempting to calm yourself.

Your mind runs wild with what-ifs that might just be, and you don’t manage to find sleep long after Quintus has turned in with you.

---

Chapter list Next chapter

[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.

---

Chapter list Next chapter

[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

[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.