My name is Tullius. My father was a soldier, like my grandfather and my great-grandfather before him, and so am I. Discipline is fundamental for us Romans. We learn to obey immediately, without questions. So when my father ordered me to take up military life, I did it right away.

Don’t freak out! I couldn’t have become a chemical engineer or a marine biologist because those professions didn’t exist yet. In Jesus’ time, nearly all children followed in their parents’ footsteps, career-wise.

Military life in Jerusalem was far from glorious. My fellow soldiers behaved more like rebellious teenagers than Roman legionaries. They were always making crude jokes and bullying the weaker boys. I didn’t join in, but I didn’t stop them either.

One day, the leader of our unit ordered us to supervise the execution of three men condemned to die by crucifixion. At midday, after escorting a tax collector to collect payment from a debtor, I found myself on horseback at the gates of Pilate’s palace. There, the condemned men would begin their journey to Golgotha, a small hill on the outskirts of the city.

The sun pierced my eyes, and drops of sweat ran down my forehead. I examined the prisoners we were to escort. The first, short with messy dark hair, bared his teeth and spat, shouting that he was innocent. The second, thin and beardless, wept silently.

But the third man not only caught but held my attention. I shuddered at the sight of his body, covered in wounds. It was practically impossible to find a single part of Him untouched. Who was this man who’d been treated so cruelly?

In my nineteen years of life, I’d seen my fair share of blood and suffering. But there was something in this man’s presence that shook my heart and disturbed me deeply. On my right, I heard the clatter of a horse approaching. It was Longinus, the centurion in charge of the execution.

"They went too far with that one, don’t you think?" he asked coldly, eyeing the third condemned man.

"Who is He?"

"A Jew. They’re killing Him for claiming to be the son of the God of the Jews." He snorted in disdain. "I hope He doesn’t die along the way. It would be a nuisance to have to carry his body."

He turned his horse around and, with a wave of his hand, ordered us to begin the march.

Following orders, I took my position at the rear of the procession. The third man walked in silence, carrying the beam that would soon bring about his death. I couldn’t take my eyes off Him. He was obviously well known, because a large crowd gathered around to see Him. Every so often, his gaze would come to rest on the people nearby and a hush would fall over the crowd.

"Tullius!" another soldier shouted from ahead. "The Jew won’t make it without help. I want to get this over with."

I spotted a man trying to elbow his way out of the crowd and called him over. He protested at first, but eventually took part of the weight of the cross on his shoulders. The Jewish prisoner looked at him as he did that. His eyes were calm and deep, and this intense desire for Him to look at me, too, welled up inside me. I don’t know why; the whole thing defies explanation.

We got to the summit of the hill around noon. Most of the crowd had dispersed. Only the condemned men remained, a group of important-looking Jews, a few weeping women, and a young man.

Longinus gave the signal to begin. A pair of soldiers who had joined us after we left Jerusalem nailed the condemned men to their crosses, one by one. The first two cried out in agony, but the third remained silent, his face contorted in pain.

The three crosses were raised up.

The group of Jewish men, having confirmed that the third man was nailed securely to the cross, walked away in silence. Only the women and the young man stayed behind with us.

One of the women came forward to the foot of the cross, clinging to the boy’s arm. From my mount, I watched in silence. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but Longinus did. I saw his face change and his eyes fill with compassion and sorrow. I’d never seen him like that before.

Curious, I drew closer, still on horseback.

I glanced sideways at the woman and the boy. Both were crying. Looking closer, I guessed she must be the Jew’s mother. Despite his disfigured face, something in his profile looked like hers. I raised my eyes to the cross and saw, with a jolt, that the crucified man was looking at me. I almost thought there was a hint of a smile on his lips. It was like I’d been struck by lightning. I froze.

That gaze changed my life.

The Son of God was dying, accompanied only by a few foreign soldiers, a small group of women, and a teenager. For reasons I don’t understand, God had chosen me to be there, in his final moments. I stayed at his feet, ready to guard Him, when I heard his last breath.

I saw Longinus, in a gesture of mercy, pierce the crucified man’s side with his lance, proving that He had already died, so we didn’t have to break his legs. Water and blood wet the ground of Golgotha, mingling with the centurion’s tears as he cried out in a rough voice:

"Truly, this was the Son of God!"

Thirty years have passed since that moment, but I’ve never forgotten it. There are still so few of us Christians, and the whole world is waiting for us. But when I remember those strong women at the foot of the cross and that young man with his brave, thoughtful eyes, I am filled with hope. There are only a few of us, but God is relying on us. I’m sure of it, and that certainty will keep me going to the very end.