The Robe

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ replied Marcellus, remotely. He half-rose from his couch, but finding that his knees were still weak, sank down again. Too much attention had already been focused on him: he would not take the risk of an unfortunate exit. Doubtless his sudden enfeeblement would soon pass. He tried to analyze this curious enervation. He had been drinking far too much today. He had been under a terrific emotional strain. But even in his present state of mental confusion, he could still think straight enough to know that it wasn’t the wine or the day’s tragic task. This seizure of unaccountable inertia had come upon him when he thrust his arms into the sleeves of that Robe! Pilate had taunted him about his superstition. Nothing could be farther from the truth: he was not superstitious. Nobody had less interest in or respect for a belief in supernatural persons or powers. That being true, he had not himself invested this Robe with some imagined magic.

  He realized that Pilate was looking him over with contemptuous curiosity. His situation was becoming quite embarrassing. Sooner or later he would be obliged to stand up. He wondered if he could.

  A palace guard was crossing the room, on his way to the head table. He came to a halt as he faced the Procurator, saluted stiffly, and announced that the Captain of The Vestris had arrived and wished to deliver a letter to Legate Marcellus Lucan Gallio.

  ‘Bring it here,’ said Pilate.

  ‘Captain Fulvius wishes to deliver it with his own hands, sir,’ said the guard.

  ‘Nonsense!’ retorted Pilate. Tell him to give you the letter. See that the Captain has his dinner and plenty of wine. I shall have a word with him in the morning.’

  ‘The letter, sir,’ said the guard, impressively, ‘is from the Emperor!’

  Marcellus, who had listened with scant interest, now leaned forward and looked at the Procurator inquisitively.

  ‘Very well,’ nodded Pilate. Tell him to come in.’

  The few minutes of waiting seemed long. A letter from the Emperor! What manner of message would be coming from crazy old Tiberius? Presently the bronzed, bearded, bow-legged sailor ambled through the room, in tow of the guard. Pilate greeted him coolly and signed for him to hand the scroll to Marcellus. The Captain waited, and the Procurator watched out of the tail of his eye, while the seals were broken. Marcellus thrust a shaky dagger through the heavy wax, slowly unrolled the papyrus, and ran his eye over the brief message. Then he rolled up the scroll and impassively addressed the Captain.

  ‘When are you sailing?’ There was nothing in Marcellus’ tone to indicate whether the letter from Emperor Tiberius bore good tidings or bad. Whatever the message was, it had not stirred him out of his strange apathy.

  ‘Tomorrow night, sir. Soon as we get back to Joppa.’

  ‘Very good,’ said Marcellus, casually. ‘I shall be ready.’

  ‘We should leave here an hour before dawn, sir,’ said the Captain. ‘I have made all arrangements for your journey to the port. The ship will call at Gaza to pick up whatever you may wish to take with you to Rome.’

  ‘How did you happen to deliver this letter to Legate Marcellus Gallio in Jerusalem?’ inquired Pilate, idly.

  ‘I went to the Minoa fort, sir, and they told me he was here.’ The Captain bobbed an awkward leave-taking and followed the guard from the hall. Pilate, unable to restrain his curiosity any longer, turned to Marcellus with inquiring eyes.

  ‘If congratulations are in order,’ he said, almost deferentially, ‘may I be the first to offer them?’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Marcellus, evasively. ‘If it is agreeable with you, sir, I shall go now.’

  ‘By all means,’ approved Pilate, stiffening. ‘Perhaps you need some assistance,’ he added, as he observed Marcellus’ struggle to rise. ‘Shall I send for your servant?’

  Clutching the table for support, Marcellus contrived to get to his feet. For a moment, as he steadied himself, he was unsure whether his legs would bear his weight until he had crossed the banquet-hall. Clenching his hands, he massed his will into a determined effort to walk. With short, infirm steps, he began the long journey to the door, so intent upon it that he had failed to give his distinguished host so much as a farewell glance. He was immeasurably relieved when, having passed through the door and into the broad corridor, he could brace a hand against the wall. After he had proceeded for some distance down the hall, he came to an arched doorway that opened upon the spacious courtyard. Feeling himself quite unable to go farther, he picked his way—with the caution of an old man—down the steps. On the lower step, he sat down heavily, in the darkness that enveloped the deserted parade-ground, wondering whether he would ever regain his strength.

  Occasionally, during the next hour, he made tentative efforts to rise; but they were ineffectual. It struck him oddly that he was not more alarmed over his condition. Indeed, this lethargy that had attacked him physically had similarly disqualified his mind.

  The fact that his exile, which had threatened to ruin his life, was now ended, did not exult his spirit. He said, over and over to himself, ‘Marcellus, wake up! You are free! You are going home! You are going back to your family! You are going back to Diana! The ship is waiting! You are to sail tomorrow! What ails you, Marcellus?’

  Once he roused to brief attention as the figure of a man with a pack on his shoulder neared his darkened doorway. The fellow was keeping close to the wall, proceeding with stealthy steps. It was Paulus’ slave. He had the furtive air of a fugitive. As he passed Marcellus, he gave a sudden start at the sight of him sitting there; and, taking to his heels, vanished like a frightened antelope. Marcellus thought this faintly amusing, but did not smile. So—Melas was running away. Well—what of it? The question arrived and departed with no more significance than the fitful flicker in the masses of exotic shrubbery where the fireflies played.

  After what seemed like a very long time, there came the sound of sandals scraping along the marble corridor, and thick, tired voices. The banquet was over. Marcellus wondered dully whether he should make his presence known to them as they passed, but felt powerless to come to a decision. Presently the footsteps and voices grew fainter and fainter, down the corridor. After that, the night seemed more dark. But Marcellus did not have a sense of desolation. His mind was inert. He laboriously edged his way over to the marble pillar at the right of the arch; and, leaning against it, dreamlessly slept.

  ***

  Demetrius had spent a busy hour in the Legate’s suite, packing his master’s clothing and other equipment for the journey he would be making, in the morning, back to Minoa. He had very few misgivings about escaping from his slavery, but the habit of waiting on Marcellus was not easy to throw off. He would perform this final scrvice, and be on his way to liberty. He might be captured, or he might experience much hardship; but he would be free! Marcellus, when he sobered, would probably regret the incident in the banquet-hall; might even feel that his slave had a just cause for running away.

  He hadn’t accomplished his freedom yet, but he was beginning to experience the sense of it. After he had strapped the bulky baggage, Demetrius quietly left the room and returned to his own small cubicle at the far end of the barracks occupied by the contingent from Minoa, where he gathered up his few belongings and stowed them into his bag. Carefully folding the Galilean’s Robe, he tucked it in last after packing everything else.

  It was, he admitted, a very irrational idea, but the softness of the finely woven, homespun Robe had a curiously quality. The touch of it had for him a strangely calming effect, as if it were a new reliance. He remembered a legend from his childhood, about a ring that bore the insignia of a prince. And the prince had given the ring to some poor legionary who had pushed him out of an arrow’s path. And, years afterward, when in great need, the soldier had turned the ring to good account in seeking an audience with the prince. Demetrius could not remember all the details of the story, but this Robe seemed to have much the same properties as the prince’s ring. It was in the nature of a surety, a defense.

  It was
a long way to the Sheep Gate, but he had visited it before on one of his solitary excursions, lured there by Melas’ information that it was now rarely used except by persons coming into the city from the villages to the north. If a man were heading for the Damascus road, and wished to avoid a challenge, the Sheep Gate offered the best promise. Demetrius had been full of curiosity to see it. He had no intention of running away; but thought it might be interesting to have a glimpse of a road to freedom. Melas had said it was easy.

  The gate was unguarded; deserted, indeed. Melas had not yet arrived, but his tardiness gave Demetrius no concern. Perhaps he himself was early. He lounged on the parched grass by the roadside, in the shadow of the crumbling limestone bastion, and waited.

  At length he heard the rhythmic lisps of sandal-straps, and stepped out into the road.

  ‘Anyone see you go?’ asked Melas, puffing a little as he put down his pack for a momentary rest.

  ‘No. Everything was quiet. How about you?’

  ‘The Legate saw me leave.' Melas chuckled. ‘He gave me a fright. I was sneaking along the barracks wall, in the courtyard, and came upon him.’

  ‘What was he doing there?’ demanded Demetrius, sharply.

  ‘Just sitting there—by himself—in a doorway.’

  ‘He recognized you?’

  ‘Yes—I feel sure he did; but he didn’t speak. Come! Let’s not stand here any longer. We must see how far we can travel before sunrise.’ Melas led the way through the dilapidated gate.

  ‘Did the Legate appear to be drunk?’ asked Demetrius.

  ‘N-no—not very drunk,’ said Melas, uncertainly. ‘He left the hall before any of the others; seemed dizzy and half out of his head. I was going to wait and put my mean old drunkard to bed, but they kept on at it so long that I decided to leave. He probably won’t miss me. I never saw the Centurion that drunk before.’

  They plodded on through the dark, keeping to the road with difficulty. Melas stumbled over a rock and cursed eloquently.

  ‘You say he seemed out of his head?’ said Demetrius, anxiously.

  ‘Yes—dazed—as if something had hit him. And out there in that archway, he had a sort of empty look in his face. Maybe he didn’t even know where he was.’

  ‘Demetrius’ steps slowed to a stop.

  ‘Melas,’ he said, hoarsely, ‘I’m sorry—but I’ve got to go back to him.’

  “Why—you—’ The Thracian was at a loss for a strong enough epithet. ‘I always thought you were softl Afraid to run away from a fellow who strikes you in the face before a crowd of officers; just to show them how brave he isl Very welll You go back to him and be his slave forever! It will be tough! He has lost his mind!’

  Demetrius had turned and was walking away.

  ‘Good luck to you, Melas,’ he called, soberly.

  ‘Better get rid of that Robe!’ shouted Melas, his voice shrill with anger. That’s what drove your smart young Marcellus out of his mind! He began to go crazy the minute he put it onl Let him be. He is accursed! The Galilean has had his revenge!’

  Demetrius stumbled on through the darkness, Melas’ raging imprecations following him as far as the old gate.

  ‘Accursed!’ he yelled. ‘Accursed!’

  Chapter VII

  ALTHOUGH winter was usually brief on the Island of Capri there was plenty of it while it lasted—according to Tiberius Caesar who detested it. The murky sky depressed his spirit. The raw dampness made his creaking joints ache. The most forlorn spot, he declared, in the Roman Empire.

  The old man’s favorite recreation, since committing most of his administrative responsibilities to Prince Gaius, was residential architecture. He was forever building huge, ornate villas on the lofty skyline of Capri; for what purpose not even the gods knew.

  All day long through spring, summer, and autumn, he would sit in the sun—or under an awning if it grew too hot—and watch his stonemasons at work on yet another villa. And his builders had respect for these constructions too, for the Emperor was an architect of no mean ability. Nor did he allow his aesthetic taste to run away with his common sense. The great cisterns required for water conservation on a mountaintop were planned with the practical skill of an experienced plumber and concealed with the artistry of an idealistic sculptor.

  There were nine of these exquisite villas now, ranged in an impressive row on the highest terrain, isolated from one another by spacious gardens, their architectural genre admitting that they had been derived from the mind and purse of the jaded, restless, irascible old Caesar who lived in the Villa Jovis which dominated them all—a fact further illuminated by the towering pharos rising majestically from the center of its vast, echoing atrium.

  Tiberius hated winter because he could not sit in the sun and watch his elaborate fancies take on form and substance. He hadn’t very long to live, and it enraged him to see the few remaining days slipping through his bony fingers like fine sand through an hourglass.

  When the first wind and rain scurried across the bay to rattle the doors and pelt the windows of his fifty-room palace, the Emperor went into complete and embittered seclusion. No guests were welcome. Relatives were barred from his sumptuous suite. No deputations were received from Rome; no state business was transacted.

  Prince Gaius, whom he despised, quite enjoyed this bad weather, for while the Emperor was in hibernation he felt free to exercise all the powers entrusted to him—and sometimes a little more. Tiberius, aware of this, fumed and snuffled, but he had arrived at that stage of senescence where he hadn’t the energy to sustain his varied indignations. They burned white-hot for an hour—and expired.

  Through the short winter, no one was allowed to see the decaying monarch but his personal attendants and a corps of bored physicians who packed his old bones in hot fomentations of spiced vinegar and listened obsequiously to his profane abuse.

  But the first ray of earnest sunshine always made another man of him. When its brightness spread across his bed and dazzled his rheumy eyes, Tiberius kicked off his compresses and his doctors, yelled for his tunic, his toga, his sandals, his cap, his stick, his piper, his chief gardener, and staggered out into the peristyle. He shouted orders, thick and fast; and things began to hum. The Emperor had never been gifted with much patience, and nobody expected that he would miraculously develop this talent at eighty-two. Now that spring had been officially opened with terrifying shrieks and reckless cane-waving, the Villa Jovis came to life with a suddenness that must have shocked the conservative old god for whom the place had been named. The Macedonian musicians and Indian magicians and Ionian minstrels and Rhodesian astrologers and Egyptian dancing girls were violently shelled out of their comfortable winter sloth to line up before his fuming majesty and explain why—at the expense of a tax-harried, poverty-cursed Empire—they had been living in such disgusting indolence.

  For the sake of appearances, a servant would then be dispatched to the Villa Dionysus—the name of his aged wife’s palace had been chosen with an ironical chuckle—to inquire about the health of the Empress, which was the least of the old man’s anxieties. It would not have upset him very much to learn that Julia wasn’t so well. Indeed, he had once arranged for the old lady’s assassination, an event which had failed to come off only because the Empress, privily advised of the engagement planned for her, had disapproved of it.

  This season, spring had arrived much earlier than usual, blasting everything into bloom in a day. The sky was full of birds, the gardens were full of flowers, the flowers were full of bees, and Tiberius was full of joy. He wanted somebody to share it with him; somebody young enough to respond with exultation to all this beauty: who but Diana!

  So—that afternoon a courier, ferrying across to Neapolis, set forth on a fast horse, followed an hour later by the most commodious of the royal carriages—stuffed with eider-down pillows as a hint that the return journey from Rome to Capri, albeit hard to take, should be made with dispatch; for the distinguished host was not good at waiting. His letter, addr
essed to Paula Gallus, was brief and urgent. Tiberius did not ask whether it would be convenient for her to bring Diana to Capri; and, if so, he would send for them. He simply advised her that the carriage was on the way at full gallop, and that they were to be prepared to take it immediately upon its arrival.

  ***

  At dusk on the third day of their hard travel, Paula and Diana had stepped out of the imperial barge onto the Capri wharf; and, climbing wearily into the luxurious litters awaiting them, had been borne swiftly up the precipitous path to the Villa Jovis. There the old Emperor had met them with a pathetic eagerness, and had mercifully suggested that they retire at once to their baths and beds, adding that they were to rest undisturbed until tomorrow noon. This inspired announcement Paula Gallus received with an almost tearful gratitude and made haste to avail herself of its benefits.

  Diana, whose physical resources had not been so thoroughly depleted, lingered, much to the old man’s delight; slipped her hand through his arm and allowed herself to be led to his private parlor, where, when he had sunk into a comfortable chair, she drew up a stool; sat, with her shapely arms folded on his emaciated knee, and looked up into his deep-lined face with a tender affection that made the Emperor clear his throat and wipe his hawk-like nose.

  It was so good of him, and so like him, she said, to want her to come. And how well he was looking! How glad he must be to see spring come again. Now he would be out in the sunshine, every day, probably supervising some new building. What was it going to be, this season: another villa, maybe? Diana smiled into his eyes.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied, gently, ‘another villa. A truly beautiful villa.’ He paused, narrowing his averted eyes thoughtfully. ‘The most beautiful of them all, I hope. This one’—Tiberius gave her an enigmatic smile—‘this one is for the sweet and lovely Diana.’ He did not add that this idea had just now occurred to him. He made it sound as if he were confiding a plan that had been long nurtured in secret.