The Robe

  Marcellus was enjoying his work on the letter. It gave him a glow of pleasure to inform Diana of these things which now made up his life. It was almost as if they belonged to each other; almost as an absent husband might write to his wife.

  The scroll, when he should paste the sheets of papyrus end to end, would be a bulky one. Before it quite outgrew its spindle-rims, he must bring it to a close with something from his heart. This was not quite so easy to do.

  For a long time he sat deliberating what should be his proper attitude. Should he obey his feelings and tell Diana, without reserve, how much she had been in his thoughts, how dear she was to him, and how ardently he wished their separation was over? Would that be fair? Diana was young, so full of life. Was it right to encourage her in the hope that he might be coming home some day to claim her? Was it right to let Diana believe that he entertained that hope himself? Might it not be more honest to tell her frankly that there was no likelihood of his return for a long time; years, perhaps? Of course Diana already knew the circumstances. And he had casually mentioned of Paulus that he had been sent to Minoa eleven years ago; and had not been home since his appointment. She could draw her own dismaying conclusions. At length, Marcellus finished his letter almost to his satisfaction.

  You know, Diana, what things I would be saying to you if we were together. At the far distance which separates us—in miles, and who can tell how much of time?—it is enough to say that your happiness will always be mine. Whatever things make you sad, dear girl, sadden me also. A ship—The Vestris—is reported to be arriving at Joppa. She called at Gaza. I am impatient to return to the fort, for I may find a letter from you there. I fondly hope so. Demetrius will come in tomorrow morning and deliver this scroll to the Insula’s courier who meets The Vestris. She sails soon. Would I were a passenger!’

  ***

  Demetrius had never been so restless. Of course, whenever he had paused to contemplate his hopeless position in the scheme of things, his life held out no promise. But gradually he had become inured to his fate. He was a slave, and nothing could be done about it. Comparing himself to a free man, his lot was wretched indeed; but when he contrasted the terms of his slavery with the cruel conditions imposed upon most of the people in bondage, he was fortunate.

  In the house of Gallio, he had been treated with every consideration due a servant. And his life had become so inextricably related to the life of Marcellus that his freedom—even if it were offered him—might cost him more in companionship than it was worth in liberty of action. As for his deep affection for Lucia, it was, he knew, wholly unrequited. He couldn’t have had Lucia, if he had been as free as a sea-gull. Such common-sense reflections as these had saved his mind and reconciled him to his destiny.

  Now his bland little philosophy had ceased to comfort him. Not only was his small world in disarray, but the whole institution of human existence had become utterly futile, meaningless, empty, a mere mockery of something that had had sublime possibilities, perhaps, but had been thrown away; lost beyond recovery!

  He had tried to analyze his topsy-turvy mind and find reasons for his heavy depression. For one thing, he was lonely. Marcellus had not willfully ignored him, since their arrival in Jerusalem, but it was apparent that slaves were not welcome in the officers’ quarters except when actually on duty. When their service was performed, they were to clear out. Demetrius had not been accustomed to such treatment. He had been his master’s shadow for so long that this new attitude of indifference was as painful as a physical wound.

  Again and again, he said to himself that Marcellus probably felt unhappy too, and maybe deplored the necessity to exclude him from his friendship. Demetrius had been made to feel his slavery as he had never felt it before, not since the day that he had been sold to Senator Gallio.

  But there was another cause of Demetrius’ mental distress. It was the haunting memory of the beseeching eyes into which he had gazed momentarily on the road into the city. Afterward, he had sat for hours, in a brown study, trying to define those eyes, and had arrived at the conclusion that they were chiefly distinguished by their loneliness. It was so apparent that the little group of men, who had tried to keep the crowd from pressing too hard, were disappointed. Whatever it was that the noisy fanatics wanted him to do, it was the wrong thing. You could see that, at a glance. It was a wonder they couldn’t see it themselves. Everybody there had urged him to lead a cause in which—it was so obvious!—he had no interest. He was a lonely man. The eyes hungered for an understanding friend. And the loneliness of this mysterious man had somehow communicated with the loneliness of Demetrius. It was a loneliness that plainly said, ‘You could all do something about this unhappy world, if you would; but you won’t.’

  Three days had passed now, singularly alike in program. Melas had been almost too attentive in his capacity of uninvited guide to the sights of the city. It was inevitable that they should be thrown into each other’s company. Their duties were light and briefly accomplished. As Melas had foreseen, you looked after your master at mealtime, polished his equipment, helped him into his complicated military harness in the morning and out of it at night. The rest of the time was yours.

  Breakfast was served at dawn, after which the troops turned out on the parade-ground for routine inspection. Then a small detachment of each contingent returned to their respective barracks to be on call while the main bodies—commanded by junior officers and led by the larger, but no more splendidly accoutered, Legion of the Procurator—marched smartly into the street.

  It was a stirring sight and Demetrius—his tasks completed for the morning—liked to watch the impressive parade as, four abreast, the gaily uniformed soldiers strutted around the corner, stood like statues while the colors were dipped before the proud portals of the Praetorium, and proceeded down the avenue to the Temple, passing in their march the quite pretentious marble residence of Caiaphas, the High Priest. Caiaphas did not rate a salute; neither did the Temple.

  On two occasions, Demetrius, attended by Melas as voluntary commentator, trailed along at the rear of the procession. On an equivalent occasion in Rome, hundreds would have followed such a parade; but not here. Perhaps the people were too sullen, perhaps they hated Rome too much. Perhaps, again, they lacked the vitality to pick up their heels and keep pace with the long steps of the soldiers. Demetrius had seen plenty of rags and tatters and blind beggars and hopeless cripples, but never in such numbers or in such dire distress. His own native Corinth had its share of misery, but its wretchedness was on display mostly in the port area. Athens—he had been there once with his father and brothers when he was twelve—had plenty of poverty, but it also had beautiful parks and exquisite works of art. This Jerusalem—that called itself a holy city—was horrible; its streets crowded with disease and deformities and verminous mendicants. Other cities had their faults; hateful ones, too. But Jerusalem? Not much wonder the strange man on the white donkey had been lonely!

  The return of the troops to the Insula was made by a circuitous route which bisected the center of the market district where hucksters and customers scrambled to give the legionaries plenty of room as they went striding arrogantly down the narrow sheet, their manner saying that Emperor Tiberius mustn’t be detained even at the cost of a few trampled toes. If a recumbent camel, indifferent to the dignity of the Empire, remained seated in the middle of the road, Rome did not debate the right of way, but opened the formation and pretended that the sullen beast was an island. Occasionally a balky pack-ass was similarly deferred to by the armed forces of Tiberius. Everybody else sought the protection of doorways and alleys.

  This rambling route included the Roman Consulates, a not very imposing group of official residences, where brief pauses were made to salute the imperial arms rather than the imperial representatives of Samaria, Decapolis, and Galilee.

  ‘You watch them,’ advised Melas, ‘when they stop to salute Herod’s house. It’s funny.’

  And it was funny. Herod, who handled Rom
e’s diplomatic dealings with Galilee, which were reputed to be trivial and infrequent, had made himself very well-to-do, but the homage paid to his establishment was perfunctory enough to constitute a forthright insult.

  ‘I’ve heard them say,’ Melas had explained, ‘that this Herod fellow would like to be the Procurator. That’s why Pilate’s Legion begins the salute with the thumb to the nose. Maybe that’s orders: I don’t know.’

  Back at the parade-ground, the companies were dismissed for the day. By twos and threes the men swaggered down into the congested business zone, capitalizing the privileges of their resplendent garb and glittering weapons, rejoicing alike in the shy admiration of the olive-tinted girls and the candid hatred of the merchants whose wares they impudently pawed and pilfered.

  In the afternoon, the majority of the troops strolled out to the small arena, south of the city, and watched the games—footraces, discus-hurling, javelin-throwing, wrestling—tame sports, but better than none. No gladiatorial combats were permitted, nor any other amusing bloodshed. Immediately outside of the arena but within its compound, every conceivable type of imposture flourished. Many of the mountebanks were from far distances. There were magicians from India, pygmies from Africa, Syrian fortune-tellers. Patently crooked gambling wheels and other games of chance beguiled many a hard-earned shekel. Innumerable booths dispensed lukewarm, sickeningly sweet beverages of doubtful origin, flyblown figs, and dirty confections.

  To the Romans, accustomed at home to more exciting events on their festal days, the arena and its accessories had but little charm. To the country people, it was a stupendous show, especially for the younger ones. Most of their elders, mightily concerned with the sale of pottery, rugs, shawls, assorted homespun, sandals, saddles, bracelets, bangles, and ornamental trifles in leather, wood, and silver, remained downtown in the thick of serious trade.

  As for Marcellus and his staff, and the ranking officers of the other garrisons, their chief diversion—aside from lounging in the baths—was gambling. After the first day, spent in making ceremonious calls upon the Procurator and the Consuls, and a bit of sight-seeing, the staff members idled in their sumptuous quarters.

  There seemed to be an unlimited supply of wine, and it was apparent that the officers were making abundant use of it. On two occasions, Centurion Paulus had not appeared at the evening dinner, and many another place was vacant at the well-provided tables in the ornate mess-hall. Demetrius had been pleased to note that his master was exercising a little more discretion than some of the others, but it was evident that he too was relieving his boredom by the only available method. It was to be hoped that the week could be brought to an end without a row. The materials for quarrels were all at hand; the wine, the dice, the idleness. It had never taken very much liquor to make Marcellus reckless. Paulus, when drunk, was surly and sensitive. Demetrius had begun to count the hours until it would be time to take to the road. Minoa had its disadvantages, but it was a safer and more attractive place than Jerusalem.

  He wished he could find out what had become of the man who didn’t want to be king of this country. One day he had broached the subject to the Thracian; but Melas, who knew everything, knew nothing about this; had quite forgotten the little furor on the hill.

  ‘The patrol probably scared him back to the country,’ surmised Melas.

  ‘Perhaps they put him in prison,’ wondered Demetrius.

  ‘He’d be lucky,’ laughed Melas. ‘Men who gather up big crowds around them are better off in jail, this week, than on the street.’

  ‘Do you know where the prison is?’ Demetrius had inquired, suddenly inspired with an idea.

  Melas gave him a quizzical glance. No, he didn’t know where the prison was and didn’t want to know. Prisons were fine places to stay away from. Any man was a fool to visit a friend in prison. First thing you knew, they’d gobble you up, too. No, sir! Melas had had enough of prisons to last him the rest of his life.

  One afternoon—it was their fourth day in Jerusalem—Demetrius went out alone over the road on which they had come into the city, and on up the long hill until he reached the place where he had seen the lonely man with the beseeching eyes. He easily recognized the spot: there were dusty and broken palm branches scattered along the roadside, poor shreds of a brief and doubtful glory.

  Retracing his steps slowly to the brow of the hill, he turned aside into a public park where well-worn paths wound through a grove of ancient olive trees, gnarled and twisted as if they had shared with the hapless Jews a long, stubborn withstanding of persecution. He sat there in the shade for an hour looking down over Jersusalem. You’d think a city thirty-five centuries old would have a little more to show for its experience. For that matter, the whole world seemed incapable of learning anything useful. Jerusalem wanted her freedom. What would she do with freedom if she had it? Everybody in the world wanted more freedom; freedom to do and be what?

  Suppose—it was inconceivable—but suppose the Jews contrived to drive the Romans out? Then what? Would they then leave off quarreling among themselves, and forget their old party differences, and work together for the good of their country? Would the rich landlords and money-lenders ease up on the poor? If they disposed of the Romans, would they feed the hungry and care for the sick and clean the streets? Why—they could do all that now, if they wished. The Romans wouldn’t stop them. The Romans would be glad enough to see such improvements, for some of them had to live there too.

  What was the nature of this bondage that Jerusalem so bitterly resented? That noisy pack of fanatics on the road, the other day, thought their trouble was with the Roman Government. If they could find a leader strong enough to free them from Rome, they would set up a kingdom of their own. That, they seemed to think, would make everything right. But would it? How would a revolution help the mass of the people? Once a new Government was in the saddle, a small group of greedy men would promptly impose upon the public. Maybe this lonely man from the country knew that. This tatterdemalion throng wanted him to be their king; wanted him to live at the Insula, instead of Pilate. Then the few, who had helped him into power, would begin to make themselves great. But Jerusalem would continue to be what she was now. A change of masters wouldn't help the people.

  Demetrius rose and sauntered back to the main thoroughfare, surprised to see that so few travelers were on the road. It still lacked two hours of sunset. Something important must be going on to have drawn the traffic off the highway; yet the city seemed unusually quiet.

  He walked slowly down the hill, his thoughtful mood persisting. What kind of government would solve the world’s problems? As matters stood, all governments were rapacious. People everywhere endured their rulers until they had gained strength enough to throw them off and take on another load of tyranny. The real trouble wasn’t located at the capital, but in the immediate neighborhood, in the tribe, in the family, in themselves. Demetrius wished he might talk with the lonely man from the country, and learn what he thought of government; how, in his opinion, a better freedom might be found.

  It suddenly occurred to him that the impudent little Athenian might know what had become of the man who didn’t want to be a king. He quickened his steps, resolved to make inquiries for a caravan with spices to sell.

  Down in the city, nearly all of the usual activity had ceased. What had become of everybody? Even in the market area, there were very few traders about. Accosting a bearded old Greek, who was laboriously folding a bundle of rugs, Demetrius inquired what was up; where were the people? The tired old man shrugged and grinned, without making a reply. It was evident that he thought the young fellow was trying to be playful.

  ‘Has anything happened?’ persisted Demetrius, soberly.

  The old man tied his bundle and sat on it, puffing from his exertion. Presently he regarded his fellow countryman with fresh interest.

  ‘You trying to say,’ he exclaimed, ‘that you honestly don’t know what’s happening? My boy, this is the night of the Jewish Passover. A
ll the Jews are in their houses. And those who haven’t houses have crawled in somewhere under shelter.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘Until morning. Tomorrow they will be out early, for it is the last day of Passover Week, and there will be much business. But—where have you been, that you didn’t know?’

  Demetrius was amused at the old man’s comments on his ignorance.

  ‘I’ve never been here before,’ he said. ‘I know nothing about the Jews’ customs. For the past two hours I’ve been out on the hill. There’s an olive grove.’

  ‘I know.’ The old man nodded. ‘They call it the Garden of Gethsemane. Not much there to see. Ever on Mars’ Hill—in Athens?’

  ‘Yes; beautiful!’

  ‘These people can’t make any statues. It’s against their religion. Can’t carve anything.’

  ‘There’s a lot of carving on the Temple,’ said Demetrius.

  ‘Yes—but they didn’t do it.’ The old man rose and shouldered his burden.

  ‘I wonder if you know where I might find a caravan from Athens that deals in spices,’ asked Demetrius.

  ‘Oh, yes. You mean Popygos. He’s down by the old tower. You passed his place when you came in from the hill. Popygos. Better keep your hand on your wallet.’

  ‘Would he rob a fellow Greek?’

  ‘Popygos would rob his grandmother.’

  Demetrius grinned and bade the grizzled old merchant good-bye. He started toward the Insula. It was too late to go back looking for the spice caravan. He would find it tomorrow. People were very much alike, wherever you found them. The Jews hated their government. So did the Greeks. But a change of government wouldn’t help. That wasn’t the trouble. The trouble was that the people couldn’t change each other or themselves. The rug merchant discredited the spice merchant. Popygos would rob his grandmother. But that wasn’t Tiberius Caesar’s fault. Tiberius was a bad Emperor, no doubt; but under any other government the grandmother of Popygos would be no more safe than she was now. The lonely man from the country probably knew that. He didn’t want to be a king. No matter who was king, you’d better keep your hand on your wallet. The world was in serious need of something—but it wasn’t something that a new king could furnish.