The Robe

  ***

  Demetrius did not wait to watch the early morning inspection. As soon as he had finished serving his master’s breakfast, he made off alone. Already the streets were crowded. You had to pick your way carefully through the market district or you might tramp on some reckless huckster sitting cross-legged on the narrow sidewalk surrounded by his pitiful little stock of merchandise; a few crude earthenware jugs, perhaps. Here sat a shapeless bundle of rags that turned out to be an old woman with three eggs and a melon for sale. The roadway was choked with pack-animals unloading into the little bazaars. Everywhere emaciated arms stretched out for a penny. Loathsome sores were unwrapped and put on display accompanied progressively by a wheedle, a whine, a hiss, and a curse. A hollow-chested old man with empty, fly-infested eye-sockets apathetically blew a plaintive squawk from a decrepit flageolet. Now the street narrowed into a dark, pestilential cavern that declined over a series of broad stone steps, slippery with refuse, swarming with beggars and mangy, half-starved dogs. According to Centurion Paulus, the Jews believed that they were created in the image of their god. Demetrius held his nose and hurried through this assortment of divine reproductions, having a care not to brush against them.

  The caravan was not hard to find. Near the old tower, overlooking the little Kedron River, there was an open plaza where the road to the west began. A pungent aroma—distinctly refreshing after a trip through the market—guided Demetrius to his destination. A welcoming voice halted him.

  ‘Ho, adelphos!’ shouted the garrulous little Athenian. Demetrius was honestly glad to see him, though at any other time or place he wouldn’t have liked to be hailed as brother by this intrusive fellow. They shook hands. ‘I was hoping to see you again. My name is Zenos. I don’t think I told you.’

  ‘I am Demetrius. You have a pleasant location here.’

  ‘Right! Plenty of room, and we see everything. You should have been here last night. Much excitement! They arrested this Nazarene, you know. Found him up there in the old park.’

  ‘Nazarene? I hadn’t heard. What had he done?’ asked Demetrius, without interest.

  ‘Why—you know! The man we saw on the white donkey, the other day.’

  Demetrius came alive and pressed a flock of inquiries. Zenos was delighted to have so much information to dispense. Troops from the Insula had been on the lookout for this Jesus ever since Sunday noon. Last night they had captured him; brought him, and his little band of friends, back into the city.

  ‘But what had he done?’ demanded Demetrius, impatiently.

  ‘Well—they arrested him for stirring up the people, and for wanting to be a king. Popygos says if they convict him of treason, it will go hard with him.’

  ‘Treason! But that’s nonsense!’ exclaimed Demetrius, hotly. That man doesn’t want to upset the Government; doesn’t want to have anything to do with the Government; neither this Government nor any other. Treason? They’re all crazy!’

  ‘No—they’re not crazy,’ objected Zenos. ‘The people who run the Temple have got to dispose of him somehow, or he’ll ruin their business. Haven’t you heard what he did over there—same day we saw him?’

  ‘Not a word. What happened?’

  ‘What happened! Plenty! You see—the Temple is where the people make sacrifices; buy animals and burn them; nasty mess, bad smell; but their god likes the idea. So—the loggia—or whatever they may call it—is crowded full of animals for sale. The people bring their money, and the money-changers—just inside the door—convert it into Temple money’—Zenos laughed heartily. ‘And everybody says that these bankers make a fat thing of it, too.’

  ‘Do you mean to say that they sell animals inside of that beautiful Temple?’ asked Demetrius, incredulously.

  ‘In an arcaded court done in marble!’ declared Zenos, solemnly nodding his head. ‘In a court with gorgeous tiled paving; walls and ceiling in the finest mosaic you ever saw; nothing nicer in Athens. And they have it full of calves and sheep and pigeons. You can imagine how it looks—but you can’t imagine how it stinks! You’ve got to go there and smell it! Well—this Jesus came in from the country—away up in Galilee some place—and went into the Temple—and didn’t like it; said it was not the place to sell animals. And he must have caught on to the thievery, too, for he made short work of the money-changers.’

  ‘What?’ doubted Demetrius.

  Zenos laughed delightedly over his friend’s bewilderment.

  ‘Yes, sir! If you’ll believe it—he didn’t look like a man who would risk it—this Jesus picked up a whip and began slashing about’—Zenos elaborately cracked an imaginary whip a dozen times in swift succession. ‘Just as if he owned the whole establishment! Crack! Zip! Lash! Crash! Slash!—and out they came. It was wonderful! Out galloped the calves and the priests and the sheep and the bankers and the air was full of pigeons and feathers. And Jesus upset the money-tables. It poured out over the floor—shekels and drachmas and denarii—big money, little money, good money, bad money; swarms of pilgrims down on their hands and knees fighting for it. Thrilling sight! I wouldn’t have missed it!’ Zenos glanced over his shoulder and muttered, ‘Here comes the old man. He’s sore today. His best customers are all busy attending to this Jesus.’

  The door of the largest tent had been drawn aside and a paunchy old fellow with graying hair and beard had stepped out and was waddling toward them. It had been a long time since Demetrius had seen anyone so barbarously festooned with jewelry; heavy silver chains around his neck and depending to his middle, rings on his fingers, rings in his ears, bracelets, anklets. He paused to regard Demetrius with an appraising scowl.

  ‘He’s from Corinth.’ Zenos pointed with his thumb. ‘We got acquainted on the road.’

  ‘I see you wear a Roman tunic,’ observed Popygos, crossly.

  ‘My master,’ explained Demetrius, respectfully, ‘commands the fort at Minoa.’

  ‘It would have been well,’ said Popygos, ‘if the Roman guard had let the Jews settle their own quarrels today. Everybody in Jerusalem who has so much as two shekels to rub together is mixed up with the case of this man from Nazareth. Now that the Government is in it, the affair will go on all day. And tomorrow is the Jews’ Sabbath.’

  ‘And they can’t do business on the Sabbath,’ remarked Demetrius, for something to say.

  Old Popygos stroked his whiskers reflectively.

  ‘I have been making this trip for three-and-twenty years,’ he said, ‘and we have sold fewer goods this time than ever before. It gets worse and worse. Always some big squabble, Passover Week, to keep my best customers from coming for their cloves and cinnamon.’ Popygos upended a reed basket and sat down, jingling. ‘I can remember a time,’ he went on, deliberately, ‘when they didn’t have so many rackets. Now you take this thing that happened down here at the Temple, last Sunday. A few years ago, they were quite peaceful. The country people came in to do the Passover business and a little trading. Always brought a dove in a cage, if they were very poor, or a lamb or a calf, if they could afford it. That was for the Temple. The priests burned the offering—or said they did. They must have, from the way it reeked down around there. Then these Temple people got a little smarter. A man from the country would bring a lamb and the priests would examine it and find a wart on its belly—or some small blemish. So that lamb wouldn’t do. But they could take his damaged lamb and give him a good one for it, if he would pay a cash difference. Then the blemished lamb was ready to sell to the next customer.’

  ‘Rather dirty trading,’ commented Demetrius. ‘Not much wonder this Nazarene objected.’

  ‘Well—it won’t do any good,’ drawled Popygos. ‘At least, it hasn’t done him any good.’

  ‘What will they do to him?’ wondered Demetrius. ‘Put him in prison?’

  ‘Hardly! I understand they took him last night to the High Priest’s house and tried him for making a disturbance in the Temple. Defiling the Temple—that was what they charged him with.’ Popygos broke into bitter laught
er. ‘As if anybody could defile a Temple that had been turned into a stable. Of course they had enough people on their side to convict him, so they all rushed over to the Insula and got Pilate out of bed to hear the case. He told them that they had better settle it among themselves, if it was just another Temple brawl. But the rich old fellows wouldn’t let the Procurator off so easily as that. They said this Jesus was trying to make himself a king. Pilate didn’t take any stock in that, of course. So he suggested that they whip him and let him go.’

  ‘And did they whip him?’ asked Demetrius, anxiously.

  ‘That they did! And quite heavily, too. Then somebody in the crowd yelled, “Kill the Galilean!” Pilate pricked up his ears, at that. “If this man is a Galilean,” he said, “try him before Herod. He handles all Galilean matters.”’

  ‘Did they take him there?’ asked Demetrius.

  ‘Took him there,’ nodded Popygos, ‘and Herod had a good time tormenting him, thinking that would please the Temple crowd and the fat money-lenders. He had the soldiers whip Jesus again; then dressed him in some old scarlet regalia, and pretended to do homage to him. Some drunken lout rolled up a thornbush and put it on his head for a crown. But the money-bags were not satisfied with the show. They wanted this Jesus put to death—’

  ‘To death!’ shouted Demetrius.

  ‘Yes. And they knew that nobody could give that order but Pilate. So—they all went back to the Insula.’

  ‘And then what happened?’ demanded Demetrius.

  Popygos shook his head and twitched a shoulder.

  “That’s all I know,' he said. ‘Diophanos the goldsmith, who was there and told me this, had to come back to his bazaar.’

  ‘Perhaps the trial is still going on at the Insula,’ said Demetrius, restlessly.

  ‘You’d better keep away from there,’ warned Popygos. “No good comes from mixing into business like that.’

  ‘But my master may need me,' said Demetrius. ‘I must go. I hope you have a safe journey home, sir. Good-bye, Zenos.’

  ***

  While still some distance away, Demetrius, who had quickened his pace until he was almost running, saw a compact crowd gathered about the main entrance to the Praetorium. He hurried up the steps and stood at the edge of the tensely occupied audience, receiving dark glances from his well-dressed Jewish neighbors as he appeared beside them. There were no poor people present.

  The Procurator was standing within the colonnade, surrounded by a detachment of palace guards. On the highest level of the terraced flagging, a company of troops, four ranks deep, stood stiffly at attention. In front of them, standing alone, was the captive. Questions were being asked and answered in a language Demetrius could not understand. He concluded it was Aramaic, for that was the tongue spoken by the tempestuous crowd on the road. He left his place and edged around until he was at the extreme right. Now he could see the profile of the lonely man. Yes—he was wearing the crown of thorns that Popygos had reported. The blood had run down from his forehead until his face was streaked with it. His hands were tied. His coat had been pulled back off his bare shoulders, showing livid whip-welts. Some of them were bleeding. But he seemed not to be conscious of his injuries. The Procurator’s interrogations—whatever they were—proceeded quietly, the prisoner, with uplifted face, as quietly answering them in a respectful but self-confident tone. Occasionally a low dissenting mutter ran through the sullen crowd that stood with eyes squinted and mouths open to hear the testimony.

  So intently had Demetrius been watching the victim’s face that he had barely glanced about. It now occurred to him to look for Marcellus. The front rank was composed of officers representing the various forts. Paulus was among them, resolutely erect, but swaying rhythmically. Immediately behind him stood a single line of troops from Minoa. Marcellus was not to be seen.

  Now the Procurator was speaking in a louder voice. It brought an instant, concerted, angry roar from the civilian audience. Demetrius maneuvered to a position where he could get a better view of the judge. Now he saw Marcellus, standing with the other Legates at the immediate left of the Procurator. He wondered whether his master really knew what was going on. Unless someone was at hand to act as interpreter, Marcellus probably had no notion what all this was about. Demetrius knew the exact meaning of the slightest expression on his master’s face. At the moment, it conveyed a good deal of bewilderment, and about the same amount of boredom. It was evident that Marcellus wished he were somewhere else.

  Procurator Pilate seemed quite confused. The hostile attitude of his influential audience had rattled him. He turned aside and gave an order to one of the guards, who retired within the wide doorway. Presently he was back with a huge silver basin. Pilate dipped his hands in it, and flicked water from his fingers. The crowd roared again, but this time it was a cry of vengeful triumph. It was clear that a decision had been made; equally apparent that the decision had satisfied the prosecution. Now Demetrius understood what was meant by the pantomime with the basin. Pilate was washing his hands of the case. The people were to have their way, but they were to consider themselves responsible for the judgment. As for the Procurator, he didn’t care to have the prisoner’s blood on his hands. Demetrius felt that his master would undoubtedly understand. Even if he knew nothing about the case, he would know that Pilate had made a decision against his own inclinations.

  Now Pilate had turned to Marcellus, who had stepped forward saluting. There was a brief, inaudible colloquy. Marcellus bowed in acknowledgment of an order, saluted again; and, descending the steps, approached Paulus and gave him some instructions. Paulus barked a command, and the Minoa contingent advanced, formed a line by twos, and executed a smart right-about. Led by Marcellus, with Paulus to the immediate rear of him, the troops marfched through the crowd that opened a passage for them. One soldier of the final pair paused to grasp the dangling rope that bound the condemned man’s hands. It was a rough and apparently unanticipated jerk, for it nearly drew the prisoner off his feet. The legionaries were marching with long strides.

  Not many of the crowd fell in behind the procession. Most of them coagulated into muttering little groups, wagging their beards in sour satisfaction. Demetrius wondered what was to be the fate of this Jesus. He had received the death penalty; no question about that. Nothing less would have appeased the people. He would probably be taken to the courtyard of some prison to face a detachment of archers. On the other side of the street, a small company of pale-faced, poorly dressed, badly frightened men from the country seemed trying to decide whether to follow. After a moment, a few of them did; but they were in no hurry to catch up. These people were undoubtedly Jesus’ friends. It was a pity, Demetrius thought, that they had shown up so meanly. The man surely deserved a more loyal support.

  Undecided whether to trail along after the procession or wait at the barracks for his master’s return, Demetrius stood for some time irresolute. Presently Melas joined him, grinning feebly.

  ‘What are they going to do with him?’ inquired Demetrius, unsteadily.

  ‘Crucify him,’ said Melas.

  ‘Crucify him!’ Demetrius’ voice was husky. ‘Why—he hasn’t done anything to deserve a death like that!’

  ‘Maybe not,’ agreed Melas, ‘but that’s the order. My guess is that the Procurator didn’t want to have it done, and thinks it may stir up some trouble for him. That’s why he gave Minoa the job; didn’t want his own legion mixed up in it. Minoa’s pretty far away, and a tough outfit.’ Melas chuckled. He was glad to belong to a tough outfit. Minoa didn’t mind a little brutality.

  ‘Are you going along?’ asked Demetrius.

  Melas scowled and shook his head.

  ‘No—nothing for me to do there. Had you thought of going? It’s not a very pretty business: I can tell you that! I saw it done—once—over in Gaul. Soldier stabbed his Centurion. They nailed him up for that. It took all day. You could hear him cry for half a league. The big black birds came before he died and—’

 
Demetrius shook his head, made an overhand protest, and swallowed convulsively. Melas grinned and spat awkwardly. Then he turned and started ambling slowly back toward the barracks, leaving Demetrius standing there debating with himself what to do.

  After a while he moved along woodenly after Melas. Reaching his master’s silent and empty quarters, he sat down and tried to compose himself. His heart was beating so hard it made his head ache.

  Then he rose and found a drink of water. It occurred to him that Marcellus too might want a drink before this dreadful business was over. He filled a small jug, and started; walking slowly, for he didn’t want to go.

  Ever since he had looked into this Jesus’ eyes, Demetrius had thought of him as the lonely man whom nobody understood; not even his close friends. Today he would be a lonely man indeed.

  Chapter VI

  ONE of the Insula’s ten companies was absent from inspection. Marcellus noticed the diminished strength of the Procurator’s Legion, but thought little of it. Whatever might be the nature of the business that had called out these troops so early in the day, it was of no concern to Minoa.

  But when Julian, the Capernaum Commander who was taking his turn as officer of the day, glumly announced that the customary parade was canceled and that all the legionaries would return to their barracks to await further orders, Marcellus’ curiosity was stirred. Returning to his quarters, he sent for Paulus, confident that this ever-active fountain of gossip could explain the mystery.

  After a considerable delay, the Centurion drifted in unsteadily with flushed cheeks and bloodshot eyes. His Commander regarded him with unconcealed distaste and pointed to a chair into which the dazed and untidy Paulus eased himself gently.