Zacchaeus never knew he would amount to anything. He always thought he would just live his life peacefully, if you could call his life peaceful. Zacchaeus was a slave for the Roman Empire, and every day he faced a chance of death. He lived in the time of Diocletian, during the reforms of Rome. One day he received a message from Diocletian.
Zacchaeus was just waking up when he heard his master call, “Get up slave! There’s a message for you!” Groggily, he stumbled onto his feet from the cold, hard floor. “If you don’t hurry up, I’ll make you regret ever being born!”
Zacchaeus quickened his pace, knowing how short of the temper his master has. As he entered the main room, he saw a well-dressed man beside the lowly farmer who owned him.
“This here’s an envoy from the emperor. He has a message for you.” His master informed him.
The envoy spoke with a soft gentle tone, yet commanding in his words. “Our great ruler, Emperor Diocletian, has commanded that all slave and prisoners be drafted into the military immediately.”
“What?!?!?!?!?” The master’s shriek filled the small room. “He can’t leave. He tends my fields, and feeds the animals!”
“You mean he’s doing your job?” The envoy said sarcastically. “Be at the City Gates by no later than noon, or your death will be imminent.”
The envoy left. Yet, as Zacchaeus turned to look at his former master, something hard struck his head. As he opened his eyes, Zacchaeus saw blood on the floor, his blood. He quickly glanced at the old man, and knew the farmer’s temper would get the better of him, soon. The pitchfork in the farmer’s hands had blood on one of the tips. Knowing it was better to submit than to resist, Zacchaeus slipped out of consciousness, drifting into the depths of his mind where no one could reach him.
Zacchaeus awoke, yet again, on the cold, hard floor. Only this time, he felt the aftereffects of the old man’s rage. He saw an old rucksack with his name ripped in the front, spelled Z-A-K-A-Y-U-S. Maybe they’ll teach me to read and write more than just my name in the army, Zacchaeus thought optimistically. He grabbed the sack, slung it over his shoulder, and proceeded toward the exit of the home, only to find the farmer in his way.
“Please sir, I mustn’t be late. They’ll have my head.” Zacchaeus pleaded.
“Alright, I’ll let ye go, but just remember who fed you, and raised you.” He replied, his tone of obvious loss, though not from the fact that he was losing Zacchaeus, but from the fact that he would have to do the work around the farm on his own now.
Zacchaeus ran rabidly toward the City Gates, arriving simultaneously as his name was called out by a large, tan man.
“Present, sir.” Zacchaeus yelled.
“Get in line with the rest of these imbeciles before I have your head on a plate for my enjoyment, you fool.” The tan man yelled.
Zacchaeus stepped into place, hoping, but knowing otherwise, that this would turn out better than it seems.
One Week Later
Zacchaeus’s body ached with the pain of exercise with no breaks. The tan man turned out to be the Instructor as well, who didn’t like to wait on people who were “under him”, as he put it. The Instructor had Zacchaeus on a strict schedule that allowed for not even the slightest delay. Zacchaeus was given only four hours of sleep, and the rest of his time was divided between working and exercising. He hated every minute of it, but he knew submission would once again save him from any worse comings.
In the months that passed, the Instructor had grown fond of Zacchaeus, and had given him more reasonable hours of sleep, and less work. The Instructor also wanted him in the best of shape, so he filled in the extra time with exercise, and lots of it.
Five Months Later
Zacchaeus was shaken out of his slumber by the Instructor, who was screaming extremely loudly by his ear. “Get up! The Mongols are invading!”
Shaking off the sleep that beckoned him, Zacchaeus strapped on his standard-issue broad sword and ran into the night. Fire! Fire was everywhere. Unsheathing his broad sword, he ran to the Instructor’s side, ready to take orders.
A shriek came from the east, and a dozen Mongol warriors rushed from behind the broken remains of the wall. With soot in his eyes, Zacchaeus readied his sword for a counter-strike. Adrenaline already surging throughout his body, he heard the order. “Charge!”
The soldiers, including Zacchaeus sprinted forward. The Mongols rushed as well. Zacchaeus thrust his sword forward, angling it, just as he was taught. It struck true, for it was now through one man, and in the heart of another. Pushing them with his feet, his sword was free again. He readied himself for another attack, only to find the Mongols retreating.
The soldiers cheered! They had survived an attack from the famed Mongols, who were known for their ruthlessness. All were happy, except for the Instructor, whose face was stricken with grief. Zacchaeus ran up to him.
“Something wrong, sir?” Zacchaeus questioned.
“We must head into Rome, for I fear Diocletian is the next target.” The Instructor replied gravely. Gathering his supplies, Zacchaeus was ready in less than five minutes. He and the instructor left for Rome immediately.
When they arrived, they were met by the emperor’s guard, the praetorians. They demanded to know why we were here. The Instructor told them, and they personally saw us to Diocletian.
“Your Excellency, these battle-worn men have urgent news! They claim the Mongols attacked the base camp to the north.” A guard yelled.
“What is this you speak of? Those savages are hundreds of miles away. They probably don’t even know we exist.” Diocletian mocked.
Zacchaeus told the story of the attack, and the journey. Diocletian listened intently and at the end of the tale, he spoke. “The Mongol warriors are at our gates. We must make a stand. Zacchaeus’s group will assist my praetorians and guard the Palace.”
As everyone stumbled around to get orders, Zacchaeus noticed worry in Diocletian’s face. He heard the Instructor order a rally at the gates, and left.
Four Hours Later
Night had fallen, and Zacchaeus’s group was guarding the palace, should the Mongols attack as planned. He was about to ask the Instructor if the attack would happen, when a beating noise came from the gate.
Boom! The gate busted open, a piece of it hitting Zacchaeus in the head. Head throbbing with pain, and with blurry eyes, Zacchaeus pushed himself to his feet. Looking around he noticed the Instructor was fighting off five warriors at the same time! Knowing he would soon be overtaken, Zacchaeus rushed to his friend’s aid.
He positioned himself behind two of the Mongols, and thrust his blade into one, and struck the other with his shield. The Instructor had taken down the other three on his own. As they acknowledged the other, Zacchaeus noticed a small figure sneaking away from the battle, towards the palace, dressed in Mongol attire.
Zacchaeus paused, thinking. If he left the fight, it could doom his entire squad to death, but if he resisted, he could stop a potential threat to Diocletian. Without a second thought, He rushed forward.
“Where are you going?” The Instructor yelled. He looked at Zacchaeus first with curiosity, then with rage. “Coward! Stand and fight!”
Zacchaeus paused. He had never refused a direct order from a superior, he had always submitted. Against his own good judgment, Zacchaeus pursued the Mongol, into the palace.
The palace was just as large and elegant as he remembered it, only it was much darker. Trying desperately to remember the way to the throne room, he caught a glimpse of the Mongol running through the halls. He followed quickly, but quietly. After passing a few rooms, the Mongol had turned into another corridor, one that led up the stairs.
Zacchaeus followed him dutifully, but quite confused. This was not the way to the throne room. After a few more turns through corridors and hallways, they ended up in front of a door that was adorned with metal in extravagant styling. The Emperor’s room, Zacchaeus concluded.
The Mongol assassin slowly opened the door, raising a small, curved dagger as he approached the expensive bed of Diocletian. Zacchaeus let out a guttural roar and rushed at the assassin. He tackled the assassin and grasped the weapon by the hilt. Twisting the assassin’s wrist as hard as he could, Zacchaeus wrenched the blade the opponent’s hands. Voices were shouting from far away; the guards on duty were approaching.
Hurriedly, Zacchaeus picked up the would-be assassin and threw him across the room. His hulking frame crushed one of the Emperor’s closets. Zacchaeus thrust forward with his broad sword, and sent it straight through the Mongol, slicing his heart to shreds.
Before he could celebrate, Zacchaeus was thrown to the ground and everything went black. He awoke in a small, stone cell, complete with iron bars. A shuffling noise was approaching, slowly. Zacchaeus looked around for a weapon desperately, but to no avail. The shuffling turned out to be an old man.
“It’s about time ye woke up! The trial has been waiting on you.” The elder cackled.
“Trial?” Zacchaeus queried, “How long have I been unconscious?”
“Yes trial. The Emperor himself put you here. They say you’ve been here for about a week.”
“What am I on trial for?”
“Ye don’t know? You endangered the Emperor Diocletian; put his life at risk. The people, and praetorians want ye dead.” The elder said, with an air of authority. “Up with ye now! Go through the little door above your head. Gods be with ye.”
Zacchaeus opened the door and stepped up and through, only to be greeted by a massive courtroom full of spectators. They were all yelling at him, cursing him.
“Zacchaeus, you are charged with endangering the Emperor, abandoning your troop, and working with the Mongols against the Empire.” Diocletian yelled from above. He was perched on a high, wooden chair. “In light of these charges, you are sentenced to death. Keep your head up, for it will be honorable. You will be cast into the Coliseum, and fight until death.”
Two Days Later
Zacchaeus approached the giant double-doors. He could hear the announcer besmirching him, being thankful for Zacchaeus’s death. After a while, the doors slowly creaked open, and Zacchaeus stepped out to face his doom. With his broad sword in his right hand, and shield in his left, he rushed out, shouting as loud as he could. Tonight he would die a warrior.
One Year Later
The Instructor left the blacksmith shop, where he now worked. But today he was not there for work; he had an item special ordered. He removed the wrapping on the package and looked at it. The item was a bronze plaque with words inscribed into it. It read:
“Zacchaeus
From Slave to Soldier
From Soldier to Hero
Savior of Diocletian
You Are Remembered”
The Instructor headed to the old barracks, were he trained Zacchaeus. Opening the main door, he walked over to Zacchaeus’s old cot, and placed his plaque gently upon it. A single tear dropped from his cheek as he remembered Zacchaeus, Savior of Diocletian.
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