The Authorized Version

 The year of our Lord 303

The Roman Centurion Georgus Nestor Anastasius has been arrested for being a member of the atheistic cult known as Christians. Claiming the right of a Roman citizen, Georgus appealed to Diocletian, but the appeal was denied. Caesar Galerius would hear his case. Being of noble lineage, he is he is held under house arrest in Galerius’ palace. There he is befriended by Galerius’ daughter Sabra. When a scroll of Christian writings is found in his room he is marched from his luxurious apartment and thrown into prison:

 Georgus had no idea how many days—or nights he had languished there. Since the prison was always dark, it was impossible to know. At first he kept count of the number of times he was served barley gruel, but the exercise seemed pointless. He calculated that it must be getting on into spring, but no warmth penetrated the thick stone walls, and the only flowers or birdsong were in his memory. He saw the jailer twice a day when he brought the gruel and emptied Georgus’s slop pail. Other than that his only companions were the rats.

 He feared he might be left there literally to rot. But then, without warning, he was roused from a fitful sleep. With a clang of iron locks and stamp of mailed caligae on stone floors, two legionnaires pulled him to his feet and shoved him along a corridor. If he had hoped for an improvement in circumstances, his hopes were dashed when he saw the room they now entered. Even the dim light made him blink. In one corner lay a stack of clubs, some bearing dark brown stains from use in carrying out a sentence of fastuarium—beating to death—the usual punishment meted out on deserters. At the far end of the room Georgus saw a large spiked wheel. In brackets on the left wall hung a collection of francisia, the most efficient execution tools known.

 If Georg could choose his instrument of torture, he wanted the quick, clean battle-axe. But he was not given a choice. From another bracket the guard took down a scourging whip of many tails, about half of its long, narrow leather thongs tipped with small iron balls. It was favored by a tormentor who wished to appear lenient because it could turn the deeper layers of a victim’s flesh into a pulp without breaking the skin. Many a prisoner had been crippled for life with a few skillfully applied cracks of the whip and yet bore not a cut or bruise on the skin.

 The soldier shook out the tails in the whip, flexed his wrist, and then took a practice swing that made every thong snap. As if on cue, a clerk entered and sat at a small table, a block of wax and stylus in his hand. “Georgus N. Anastasius?”

 “Yes.”

 “Do you repent of your declaration of belief in the false religion known as

Christianity?”

 “I do not.”

 “Do you renounce your belief in the divinity of an executed criminal known as Jesus Christ?”

 “I do not.”

 The clerk nodded to the guard.

 Georg prayed for strength as the first blow fell across his bare back. The pain in his shoulder shot clear through his body, but he remained on his feet.

 The second blow was aimed lower and he heard his ribs crack. As the blows fell with increased fury, Georg felt waves of pain engulf him. Lord, help me. Lord… his mind cried out with each blow of the iron balls.

 Just when he thought he would slip into merciful oblivion, the blows ceased.

 “Do you recant your faith in Jesus Christ?”

 “No.”

 “Do you repent of your dealings with the treasonous cult of Christians?”

 “No.”

 The blows came again, harder and faster than before, but now he was so numb he could hardly feel the iron balls crashing into his broken body with dull thuds. He fell to his knees.

 Georg was bracing against the rhythm of the thuds with such concentration that it took a second for him to realize that the torture had stopped.

 “Repent.”

“No.”

 The clerk shrugged and left the room. Georg had no idea if he could walk—indeed if he would ever walk again—as many of the blows had fallen on his thighs, breaking deep into the heavy muscles. But for the moment it didn’t matter, as his torturers simply dragged him back to his cell and threw him on the dirty straw covering the floor. He landed on his broken rib and passed out.

 He was a child again, home in Lydda, running free across a green field, his face to the wind. He laughed and shook his head like a horse, savoring the exquisite wonder of life. A butterfly flew just ahead of him, and the sun was warm on his head, the grass sweet beneath his feet. Ah, life! The beauty of life as God had created it to be in His world, unspoiled, uncorrupted. The butterfly flew into the sun, and as Georg watched it, the world spun, and he fell into the grass laughing. But he must havelanded on a rock because his side hurt.

 A flicker of consciousness returned, and Georg willed himself to sink into oblivion again. He couldn’t face the pain. But this time the dream was more painful than the reality. Sabra was before him. Beautiful, gentle Sabra, holding out her hands to him, telling him she loved him. Never had the world seemed a more beautiful place than now that he knew it contained Sabra. She was in the world and in his heart, and wonder of wonders, he was in hers. He did not want to leave the world that held Sabra. He reached out his arms to her, and she came into them, sweet and warm and alive.

 But this time when he awoke, he could not will himself back to oblivion. He must face the pain, the dark, the stench. He shifted to put more weight on his less damaged side and scooped a little straw under his shoulder to protect it from the hard stone. Even awake his dream was with him. He could close his eyes and feel her gentle touch on his cheek. And he knew that it need not be only a dream. He could recant. Burn a chunk of incense, bow before a marble statue, and live the rest of his life with Sabra. He needn’t even sacrifice eternity. God would forgive him. He could repent and be taken back into the Savior’s arms. He could. It was possible.

 The beauty of the world, the challenge of the eagles, the sweetness of Sabra—they could still all be his. Then, as clearly as if spoken by human voice, the question came to him: Do you love these more than Me?

 Another image filled his mind—not a dream this time. He saw his dying Lord on the cross, pouring out His life ’s blood for him, for Georg. He looked into the Savior’s pain-filled eyes, and he saw love there—incredible love—love that had given him being in the first place and now held nothing back—love that melted his heart and warmed his entire being. Georg felt himself drawn into the depths within those eyes until he felt a oneness with his suffering Savior, a wholeness, aliveness, indescribable intimacy, and a sense of destiny—for this moment he had been created.

 “Oh, my God… my God…” he wept. He could find no more words.

 For three more days he lay in his cell. He forced himself to drink a little of the barley gruel the jailer brought twice a day. He wanted to have the physical strength to face the end. He forgot the darkness of the cell, for his mind was filled with bright pictures whether he was dreaming or awake—relaxing at home with his family, riding Bayard over the green fields near Isca, studying with Cadfrawl on Ynis Witrin, joking with Valerius, sharing brief moments with Sabra… but mostly he talked with his Lord. Soon they would be together face to face. The thought made Him more real to Georg. As each memory sprang to mind, he prayed for the person—his grandfather, his mother, Matterona, Kasia, Pasicrates, Sabra. It was harder to pray for Valerius, but he asked God to open Val’s eyes to the truth. And it was harder yet to pray for Plotius. He knew he should say, “Father, forgive him.” For a time his prayers were blocked. And then he thought of Meribah, of Jesus healing His captor at His arrest, and he found he could pray, “Father, forgive.”

 And he prayed for others in the legion. As he prayed, one face recurrently came to him—the intelligent, thoughtful face of one he had only seen from a distance, but even then had sensed a bond with. Not knowing why, he prayed for Constantine. And he prayed for Galerius and Diocletian and their successors, whoever they might be. For three hundred years since the time of Christ on earth, Christians had been persecuted. Thousands had been tortured far worse than anything he had endured. It must stop. Sometime, somehow, it must stop. There was one way to achieve that. There must be a Christian emperor. It seemed too much to hope for, too much to ask for. Yet he asked.

 Finally, he prayed for himself. “My God, I would not choose to leave this life unless for Your glory. Lord, come to my aid. I am here, and I call, knowing You hear me. Turn Your ear to me, hear my words. I ask that You show Your great love, You whose right hand saves Your friends. Hide me in the shadow of Your wings from the violent attack of the wicked. Rescue Your servant if it is Your will.

 “But if it is Your will that I should die for You as so many others have, help me to stand firm to the end. Stay beside me all the way. And stay close to those who remain here to struggle on.”

 On the morning of the fourth day, guards marched into Georgus’s cell and yanked him to his feet. He prayed for the strength to stand unaided. He could stand, but his damaged muscles could not move his legs, so he was dragged from his cell. “Caesar says we’re to clean you up. Seems he wants a pretty sacrifice.” One of the guards laughed as he poured a bucket of water over Georgus’s head and scrubbed at him with a sponge.

 The other guard dragged a coarse bone comb through Georgus’s hair, pulling chunks of hair out with the straw. Then they pulled a white tunic over his head and hauled him forward. At the door of the prison he was shoved into a litter and carried to the front of the palace. Galerius sat on the highest step, surrounded by top officers from the Guard. A large crowd had gathered in the street below. This execution was intended as a warning to all who would defy Caesar, so people had been rounded up from every corner of the city. It was not as great a spectacle as a wild beast show in the arena, but a Roman citizen had a right to death by beheading.

 As Georgus was lifted from the litter, he saw the world with a new clarity, as if by the light of a brightly burning fire that had purified the air of any smoke or dust. Lord, grant me this last favor, he prayed. Let me not suffer the ignominy of being dragged to the post. He felt the strength flow into his legs. Pushing his guards firmly to the side, he stepped unaided to the execution post. He made the six steps in triumph. He grasped the stake in front of him and lifted his face to the warmth of the sun. A special golden light surrounded him, light not of this world, but the glory of the world to come.

 Earlier post "Remembering Saint George on His Day"

Taken from Glastonbury, The Novel of Christian England, by Donna Fletcher Crow © 1992