The Centurion

It had been a hard winter. Weevils destroyed most of the acorns and meal. There was never enough. Our family was starving. A friend working in Tarsus had returned home to say goodbye to his family before joining the Roman navy. He told me Pompey was paying good money to sailors. I began thinking of joining. I had never been more than a few miles from home and did not know where Tarsus was or who Pompey was, but it was not a hard decision. On a spring morning, wearing my only tunic freshly laundered by my mother and sandals I had repaired the night before, I was ready to go. I said goodbye to my father and siblings and went to the kitchen to find my mother. She was wrapping the cheese and acorn bread. “You must not do that. It is all there is,” I said. “Oh, Animus, my son, my son,” she said. “My heart is broken. The village has lost too many sons, and I lost my oldest. Now you are going. How can I bear the long nights startled awake thinking I hear the sound of your step on the threshold? And during the day, my heart anxious to catch the joy of your laughter outside the door?” She bowed her head. “Will I ever see you again? I am fearful that on some distant battlefield, in the darkness, you will be cold, wet, and hungry. Or worse, you will be mortally wounded, all alone with no one to lift your head or to hold your hand.” “I’ll not go,” I said. She wiped her tears with her shawl. From a peg on the wall she removed a worn pouch her own father had carried and laid it on the table. “Animus, you have my blessing to go. This is my offering to the god who will look after you, thanking him for giving me all that I wanted in a son. You have been my life and my joy. May you do well. When darkness comes, remember I am praying for you, and when the sun rises, I am again praying for you.” Smiling through her tears, she slipped the cheese and the bread into the pouch along with a heavy kitchen knife her grandfather had made. She closed the pouch and lifted the strap over my head. I secured it at my side and embraced her, feeling the frailness in her thin shoulders. “Thank you for all you have been to me,” I said. “I will never forget. Each evening and each morning I will remember you are praying for me. I am sure to return.” I kissed her on the forehead and turned toward the door. I did not want her to see my tears. It was the last time I would see my mother.