The Centurion by Arthur Conan Doyle
Arthur Conan Doyle

The Centurion


Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

First published in Hearst’s International, Oct 1922
First book appearance in The Unknown Conan Doyle, 1929

The Centurion

[Being the fragment of a letter from Sulpicius Balbus, Legate of the Tenth Legion, to his uncle, Lucius Piso, in his villa near Baiæ, dated The Kalends of the month of Augustus in the year 824 of Rome.]

I promised you, my dear uncle, that I would tell you anything of interest concerning the siege of Jerusalem; but, indeed, these people whom we imagined to be unwarlike have kept us so busy that there has been little time for letter- writing. We came to Judæa thinking that a mere blowing of trumpets and a shout would finish the affair, and picturing a splen­did triumph in the via sacra to follow, with all the girls in Rome throwing flowers and kisses to us. Well, we may get our triumph, and pos­sibly the kisses also, but I can assure you that not even you who have seen such hard service on the Rhine can ever have experienced a more severe campaign than this has been. We have now won the town, and to-day their temple is burning, and the smoke sets me coughing as I sit writing in my tent. Put it has been a terri­ble business, and I am sure none of us wish to see Judæa again.

In fighting the Gauls, or the Germans, you are against brave men, animated by the love of their country. This passion acts more, how­ever, upon some than others, so that the whole army is not equally inflamed by it. These Jews, however, besides their love of country, which is very strong, have a desperate religious fer­vour, which gives them a fury in battle such as none of us have ever seen. They throw them­selves with a shriek of joy upon our swords and lances, as if death were all that they de­sired.

If one gets past your guard may Jove protect you, for their knives are deadly, and if it comes to a hand-to-hand grapple they are as danger­ous as wild beasts, who would claw out your eyes or your throat. You know that our fel­lows of the Tenth Legion have been, ever since Cæsar’s time, as rough soldiers as any with the Eagles, but I can assure you that I have seen them positively cowed by the fury of these fanatics. As a matter of fact we have had least to bear, for it has been our task from the beginning to guard the base of the peninsula upon which this extraordinary town is built. It has steep precipices upon all the other sides, so that it is only on this one northern base that fugitives could escape or a rescue come. Mean­while, the fifth, fifteenth, and the twelfth or Syrian legions have done the work, together with the auxiliaries. Poor devils! we have often pitied them, and there have been times when it was difficult to say whether we were attacking the town or the town was attacking us. They broke down our tortoises with their stones, burned our turrets with their fire, and dashed right through our whole camp to de­stroy the supplies in the rear. If any man says a Jew is not a good soldier, you may be sure that he has never been in Judæa.

However, all this has nothing to do with what I took up my stylus to tell you. No doubt it is the common gossip of the forum and of the baths how our army, excellently handled by the princely Titus, carried one line of wall af ter the other until we had only the temple before us. This, however, is— or was, for I see it burning even as I write—a very strong fortress. Romans have no idea of the mag­nificence of this place. The temple of which I speak is a far finer building than any we have in Rome, and so is the Palace, built by Herod or Agrippa, I really forget which. This temple is two hundred paces each way, with stones so fitted that the blade of a knife will not go be­tween, and the soldiers say there is gold enough within to fill the pockets of the whole army. This idea puts some fury into the attack, as you can believe, but with these flames I fear a great deal of the plunder will be lost.

There was a great fight at the temple, and it was rumoured that it would be carried by storm to-night, so I went out on to the rising ground whence one sees the city best. I wonder, uncle, if in your many campaigns you have ever smelt the smell of a large beleaguered town. The wind was south to-night, and this terrible smell of death came straight to our nostrils. There were half a million people there, and every form of disease, starvation, decomposition, filth and horror, all pent in within a narrow compass. You know how the lion sheds smell behind the Circus Maximus, acid and foul. It is like that, but there is a low, deadly, subtle odour which lies beneath it and makes your very heart sink within you. Such was the smell which came up from the city to- night.

As I stood in the darkness, wrapped in my scarlet chlamys—for the evenings here are chill—I was suddenly aware that I was not alone. A tall, silent figure was near me, looking down at the town even as I was. I could see in the moonlight that he was clad as an officer, and as I approached him I recognized that it was Longinus, third tribune of my own legion, and a soldier of great age and experience. He is a strange, silent man, who is respected by all, but understood by none, for he keeps his own council and thinks rather than talks. As I approached him the first flames burst from the temple, a high column of fire, which cast a glow upon our faces and gleamed upon our armour. In this red light I saw that the gaunt face of my companion was set like iron.

“At last!” said he. “At last!”

He was speaking to himself rather than to me, for he started and seemed confused when I asked him what he meant.

“I have long thought that evil would come to the place,” said he. “Now I see that it has come, and so I said ‘At last!'”

“For that matter,” I answered, “we have all seen that evil would come to the place, since it has again and again defied the authority of the Cæsars.”

He looked keenly at me with a question in his eyes. Then he said:

“I have heard, sir, that you are one who has a ftill sympathy in the matter of the gods, be­lieving that every man should worship accord­ing to his own conscience and belief.”

I answered that I was a Stoic of the school of Seneca, who held that this world is a small matter and that we should care little for its fortunes, but develop within ourselves a con­tempt for all but the highest.

He smiled in grim fashion at this.

“I have heard,” said he, “that Seneca died the richest man in all Nero’s Empire, so he made the best of this world in spite of his philosophy.”

“What are your own beliefs?” I asked. “Are you, perhaps, one who has fathomed the mys­teries of Isis, or been admitted to the Society of Mythra?”

“Have you ever heard,” he asked, “of the Christians?”

“Yes,” said I. “There were some slaves and wandering men in Rome who called themselves such. They worshipped, so far as I could gather, some man who died over here in Judæa. He was put to death, I believe, in the time of Tiberius.”

“That is so,” he answered. “It was at the time when Pilate was procurator —Pontius Pilate, the brother of old Lucius Pilate, who had Egypt in the time of Augustus. Pilate was of two minds in the matter, but the mob was as wild and savage as these very men that we have been contending with. Pilate tried to put them off with a criminal, hoping that so long as they had blood they would be satisfied. But they chose the other, and he was not strong enough to withstand them. Ah! it was a pity—a sad pity!”

“You seem to know a good deal about it,” said I.

“I was there,” said the man simply, and be­came silent, while we both looked down at the huge column of flame from the burning temple. As it flared up we could see the white tents of the army and all the country round. There was a low hill just outside the city, and my companion pointed to it.

“That was where it happened,” said he. “I forget the name of the place, but in those days—it was more than thirty years ago—they put their criminals to death there. But He was no criminal. It is always His eyes that I think of—the look in His eyes.”

“What about the eyes, then?”

“They have haunted me ever since. I see them now. All the sorrow of earth seemed mir­rored in them. Sad, sad, and yet such a deep, tender pity! One would have said that it was He who needed pity had you seen His poor battered, disfigured face. But He had no thought for Himself—it was the great world pity that looked out of His gentle eyes. There was a noble maniple of the legion there, and not a man among them who did not wish to charge the howling crowd who were dragging such a man to His death.”

“What were you doing there?”

“I was junior Centurion, with the gold vine-­rod fresh on my shoulders. I was on duty on the hill, and never had a job that I liked less.

But discipline has to be observed, and Pilate had given the order. But I thought at the time—and I was not the only one—that this man’s name and work would not be forgotten, and that there would be a curse on the place that had done such a deed. There was an old woman there, His mother, with her grey hair down her back. I remember how she shrieked when one of our fellows with his lance put Him out of his pain. And a few others, women and men, poor and ragged, stood by Him. But, you see, it has turned out as I thought. Even in Rome, as you have observed, His followers have appeared.”

“I rather fancy,” said I, “that I am speak­ing to one of them.”

“At least, I have not forgotten,” said he. “I have been in the wars ever since with little time far study. But my pension is overdue, and when I have changed the sagum for the toga, and the tent for some little farm up Como way, then I shall look more deeply into these things, if, perchance, I can find some one to in­struct me.”

And so I left him. I only tell you all this because I remember that you took an interest in the man, Paulus, who was put to death for preaching this religion. You told me that it had reached Cæsar’s palace, and I can tell you now that it has reached Cæsar’s soldiers as well. But apart from this matter I wish to tell you some of the adventures which we have had recently in raiding for food among the hills, which stretch as far south as the river Jordan. The other day…

[Here the fragment is ended.]