The Robe

  ‘I shall tell you the very little that I know about it, Diana, and you may draw your own conclusions. As for me, it has been difficult to arrive at any sensible solution to the problem.’ Gallio frowned studiously. ‘For ages, the Jewish prophets have predicted the coming of a champion of their people’s liberty. This fearless chieftain would restore the Jews’ kingdom. Indeed, the traditional forecast—according to Emperor Tiberius, who is learned in all occult matters—is of wider scope, prefiguring a king with a more extensive dominion than the mere government of poor little Palestine.’

  ‘Somebody the size of the Caesars?’ wondered Diana.

  ‘At least,’ nodded Gallio, with a brief, contemptuous grin. ‘Now—it happens that a very considerable number of Jews thought they had reason to believe that this Galilean, whom the Temple executives and the Roman provincial government tried for treason and heresy, was their promised Messiah—’

  ‘But—surely’—broke in Diana—‘Marcellus doesn’t believe anything like that! He’s the last person in the world!’

  That is true,’ agreed Gallio. ‘He is not superstitious. But—according to Demetrius, who was present throughout the whole affair, it was a strange occasion. The Jew's demeanor at the trial was, to say the least, unusual. Demetrius says everybody was on trial but the prisoner; says the man’s behavior on the cross was heroic. And Demetrius is a cold-blooded fellow, not accustomed to inventing lies.’

  ‘What do you think about the Robe?’ queried Diana.

  ‘I have no ideas,' confessed the Senator. ‘Marcellus had had a hard day. He was nervous, ashamed, overwrought. He may have been a victim of his own imagination. But—when he put on that Robe—it did something to him! We may not like the implications of this problem—but—well—there it is! You doubtless think it is silly to believe that the Jew’s Robe is haunted—and so do I. All such idiotic prattle is detestable to mel I do not believe there is any energy resident in an inanimate thing. As for the Messiah legend, I have no interest in it. Whether the Galilean was justly accused, or not, is a closed incident, of no concern to me. But—after all of these considerations are dismissed, either as foolish or finished—Marcellus is worrying himself into madness. That much, at least, we know—for a fact.’ Gallio rubbed his wrinkled brow and drew a hopeless sigh.

  ‘Nevius says the Emperor wants Marcellus to come to Capri as a teacher,' said Diana, after the brief silence between them. ‘We don’t want him to do that; do we, sir?’

  ‘I find it difficult to see Marcellus in that rôle,' agreed Gallio. ‘He has but scant respect for the kind of learning that engages the mind of the Emperor.’

  ‘Do you think he will consent?’

  ‘Well’—Gallio made a helpless little gesture—‘Marcellus may not have much choice in the matter. He is, at present, able to remain in Athens. But when he comes home, he will have to obey the Emperor’s order, whether he enjoys it or not.’

  Suddenly Diana leaned forward, her face clouded with anxiety.

  ‘Tell him not to come home,' she whispered. ‘He mustn’t come here!’ She rose, and Gallio, mystified, came to his feet, regarding her with serious interest. ‘I must tell you something,’ she went on, nervously. She took him by the arm and pointed to a long row of stakes, with little flags fluttering on them. ‘This is where the Emperor is going to build the beautiful new villa. He is drawing the plans for it now. When it is finished, it is to be mine.’

  Gallio stared.

  ‘Yours?’ he said, woodenly. ‘Do you mean you want to live here—under the thumb of this cruel, crazy old man?’

  Diana’s eyes were full of tears. She shook her head, and turned her face away, still holding tightly to the Senator’s arm.

  “He suggested it, sir, when I was pleading with him to bring Marcellus home,’ she confided, brokenly, it wasn’t exactly a condition to his promise to send for Marcellus; but—he seems now to think it was. I thought he would forget about it. He forgets almost everything. But—I’m afraid he means to go through with it. That is why he wants Marcellus here. It i$ to be our villa.’

  ‘Well,’ soothed Gallio. Why not, then? Is it not true that Marcellus and you are in love?’

  Diana nodded and bent her head.

  ‘There will be much trouble if he comes to Capri,’ she said, huskily. Then, dashing the tears from her eyes and facing Gallio squarely, she said: ‘I must tell you all about it. Please don’t try to do anything. Gaius has been here twice recently. He wants me to many him. The Emperor will not let me go home. I have written to my mother and I know the letter was not delivered.’

  ‘I shall tell her to come to you—at once!’ declared Gallio, hotly.

  ‘No, no—not yet—pleasel’ Diana clutched his arm with both hands. ‘Maybe there will be some other way out! I must not put my mother in danger!’

  ‘But—Diana—you can’t stay here—under these conditions!’

  ‘Please! Don’t say—or do—anything.’ She was trembling.

  ‘What are you afraid of, my dear?’ demanded Gallio.

  ‘I am afraid of Gaius!’ she whispered.

  Chapter XI

  AT SUNRISE on the seventh day of September a market gardener with fresh fruits and vegetables for the House of Eupolis reported that The Vestris had been sighted off Piraeus.

  Feeling sure there must be letters for him on the ship, and unwilling to await their sluggish delivery through the Tetrarch’s Insula in the city, Marcellus engaged a port-wagon and set off at once, accompanied by Demetrius.

  Ordinarily the slave would have sat by the driver; but, of late, Demetrius and his master had been conducting all of their conversations in Aramaic. It was not an easy tongue, and when they spoke they enunciated carefully, watching each other’s lips. This morning they sat side by side in the rear seat of the jolting wagon, and anyone casually observing them would not have guessed that one of these young men owned the other. Indeed—Demetrius was taking the lead in the conversation, occasionally criticizing his master’s accent.

  Every moming after breakfast, for several weeks, Demetrius had gone to Benjamin’s shop for instruction, spending the day until late afternoon. The old weaver had not asked to be recompensed for his services as a pedagogue. It would be a pleasure to him, he had said. But as the days went by, Demetrius began to be useful in the shop, quickly picking up deftness in carding and spinning. In the evenings, he relayed his accumulated knowledge of Aramaic to Marcellus who, unwilling to be in Benjamin’s debt, had presented him—over his protest—with two great bales of long-fibcred Egyptian cotton and several bags of selected wools from the Cyprian Mountains where fleeces were appropriate to a severe climate.

  Benjamin, who had no talent for flattery, had been moved to volunteer the statement—after a month had passed—that Demetrius was making surprising progress. If that were true, Demetrius had remarked, it was because he had received such clear instruction, to which Benjamin had replied that the best way to learn anything is to explain it to somebody else. Marcellus was receiving his Aramaic on the first bounce, but getting it thoroughly; for Demetrius was holding him to it with a tactful but relentless tyranny.

  On the way to Piraeus, they were engaged in an animated discussion of the Ten Commandments, Marcellus approving of them, Demetrius complaining that they were unjust. On occasions, he became so enthusiastic in advocating his cause that he abandoned the Aramaic and took to the Greek, much to his master’s amusement.

  ‘Here, you!’ shouted Marcellus. ‘No talking about the Jewish Commandments in a heathen language!’

  ‘But, sir, they are so unfair! “Thou shalt not steal.” Very good; but there is no Commandment enjoining the man of property to deal generously with the poor, so they would have no wish to steal! “Thou shalt not covet!” Good advice; no doubt. But is it fair to tell the poor man he musn’t be envious of the rich man’s goods—and then forget to admonish the rich man that he has no right to be so selfish?’

  ‘Oh—you’re just looking at it from the sla
ve angle,’ drawled Marcellus. You’re prejudiced. The only fault I can find with the Commandments is their injunction against sculpture. This Jehovah was certainly no patron of the arts.’

  ‘That was to keep them from making idols,’ explained Demetrius.

  ‘I know—but what’s the matter with idols? They’re usually quite artistic. The ordinary run of people are bound to worship something: it had better be something lovely! Old Zeus didn’t raise a row when the Greek sculptors carved a flock of gods—all shapes and sizes—take your pick. There must be forty of them on Mars’ Hill! They even have one up there in honor of “The Unknown God.”’

  ‘I wonder what Zeus thought of that one?’ speculated Demetrius.

  ‘He probably laughed,’ said Marcellus. ‘He does laugh, sometimes, you know. I think that’s the main trouble with Jehovah. He doesn’t laugh.’

  ‘Maybe he doesn’t think the world is very funny,’ observed Demetrius.

  ‘Well, that’s his fault, then,’ said Marcellus, negligently. ‘If he created it, he should have made it a little funnier.’

  Demetrius made no reply to that.

  ‘I believe that’s the silliest thing I ever said in my life!’ reflected Marcellus, soberly.

  ‘Oh—I wouldn’t go so far as to say that, sir,’ rejoined Demetrius, formally. They both laughed. This study of Aramaic was making their master-slave relationship very difficult to sustain.

  ***

  Captain Fulvius, roaring orders to the sweating slaves, stared strangely at Marcellus as he came on deck; then beamed with sudden recognition and grasped him warmly by the hand.

  ‘You are well again, sir!’ he boomed. ‘That is good! I hardly knew you. Many’s the time I have thought about you. You were a very sick man!’

  ‘I must have tried your patience, Captain,' said Marcellus. ‘All is well now, thank you.’

  ‘Ho! Demetrius!’ Fulvius offered his hand, somewhat to Marcellus’ surprise. ‘I haven’t forgotten that good turn you did me, son, on the voyage down from Joppa.’

  ‘I hadn’t heard about that,’ said Marcellus, turning a questioning glance toward Demetrius.

  ‘It was nothing, sir,’ murmured Demetrius.

  ‘Nothing!’ shouted Fulvius. ‘The fellow saves my life, and now declares it was nothing! Demetrius, you should be put in chains for that!’ He turned to Marcellus. ‘You were too ill to be interested in the story, sir; so we did not bother you with it. A mad slave—it gets quite hot down in the bottom tier, sir—managed to slip his bracelet, one night, when we were standing off Alexandria; sneaked up on deck, and had a belaying-pin raised to dash my brains out. And your Demetrius got there just in time!’

  ‘I am glad I happened to be standing by, sir,’ said Demetrius.

  ‘So am I!’ declared the Captain, fervently. ‘Well—it’s good to see you both. There are letters for you, I notice, Legate. I asked the Tribune to take them to you when he went to deliver the message from the Emperor, but he is a haughty young fellow; said he was not a common errand-boy.’

  ‘Message from the Emperor?’ queried Marcellus, uneasily.

  ‘You have not yet received it, then? Perhaps you passed the magnificent Tribune on the way. Will you stay and break bread with us?’

  ‘It would be a pleasure, Captain Fulvius; but I should return without delay. This Tribune may be waiting.’

  ‘Aye! He will be waiting and fuming; a restless fellow, who takes his duties hard; a very important fellow, too, who likes to give orders.’ Fulvius sighed unhappily. ‘And I shall have him on my hands for another threescore and five days, at least; for he is bearing a message also to Pontius Pilate in Jerusalem—and returns on The Vestris.’

  ‘Can’t you pitch him overboard?’ suggested Marcellus.

  ‘I can,’ grinned Fulvius, 'but my wife is expecting me back in Ostia by early December. Legate, if you can spare Demetrius for the day, shall he not tarry with me?’

  Marcellus was about to give his consent, but hesitated.

  ‘He may come tomorrow, Fulvius, if you wish it. Perhaps he had best return with me now. This message from the Emperor might make some alterations in our plans.’

  ‘Thank you, Captain Fulvius,’ said Demetrius. ‘I shall come if I can.’

  Marcellus was more eager than the shambling horses to return to the city, but even at their plodding gait it was an uncomfortable ride, certainly not conducive to the pleasant perusal of letters, for the dusty, deep-rutted highway was crammed with lumbering wagons and overburdened camel-trains, requiring frequent excursions to the ill-conditioned roadside.

  He slit the seal of his father’s bulky scrawl, happy to note that it contained also messages from his mother and Lucia. Diana’s letter—he was surprised to find it addressed from Capri—might have been read first had the circumstances been more favorable. Marcellus revolved the scroll in his hands and decided he would enjoy it later in private.

  ‘Evidently the daughter of Gallus had occasion to reopen her letter after sealing it,’ he remarked, more to himself than Demetrius, who sat idly observant as his master inspected the scroll.

  ‘The overlaid wax seems of a slightly different color, sir,’ commented Demetrius.

  More painstakingly, Marcellus examined the scroll again, picking at the second application of wax with the point of his dagger.

  ‘You’re right,’ he muttered. ‘The letter has been tampered with.’

  ‘By a woman,’ added Demetrius. ‘There is her finger-mark.’

  Frowning with annoyance, Marcellus tucked Diana’s scroll into the breast of his tunic, and began silently reading his father’s letter. He had just returned from Capri—he wrote—where he had explained his son’s sudden departure.

  ‘It was imperative that I should be entirely frank with the Emperor’—the letter went on—‘because you had no more than reached open sea before a message arrived appointing you-’

  ‘Demetrius—I bid you listen to this!’ exclaimed Marcellus. ‘The Emperor has appointed me Commander of the Guard—at Capri! Doubtless that is the import of the message I am receiving today. Commander of the Guard at Capri! What do you suppose the Commander of the Capri Guard has to do?’

  The intimate tone meant that Demetrius was not only temporarily emancipated, but would probably be reproached if he failed to make prompt use of his privilege to speak on terms of equality.

  Taste soup, I should think,’ he ventured. ‘And sleep in his unifonn—with one eye open.’

  ‘While his slave sleeps with both eyes open,’ remarked Marcellus in the same manner. ‘I dare say you’re right. The island is a hotbed of jealousy and conspiracy. One’s life wouldn’t be worth a punched denarius.’ Resuming the letter, he read on for a time with a deepening scowl.

  ‘I am not receiving that appointment,’ he glanced up to say. ‘My father advises me that the Emperor has something else in mind. Let me read you:—“He was much interested in what I felt obliged to tell him of your unpleasant experience in Jerusalem. And when I informed him that this crucified Jew was thought by some to have been the Messiah-”’ Marcellus suddenly broke off and stared into Demetrius’ face. ‘How do you suppose my father found that out?’ he demanded.

  ‘I told him,’ said Demetrius, with prompt candor. ‘Senator Gallio insisted on a full account of what happened up there. I thought it due you, sir, that an explanation be made—seeing you were in no condition to make it yourself.’

  ‘That’s true enough,’ admitted Marcellus, grimly. ‘I hope you did not feel required to tell the Senator about the Galilean’s Robe.’

  ‘Yes, sir. The Robe was responsible for your—your illness. The story—without the Robe—would have been very confusing.’

  ‘You mean—it was quite clear—with the Robe included?’

  ‘No, sir. Perhaps that part of it will always be a mystery.’

  ‘Well—let us get on with this.’ Marcellus took up the scroll and resumed his reading aloud:—‘“The Emperor was stirred to an immense curi
osity, for he is deeply learned in all of the religions. He has heard much about the messianic prophecies of the Jews. He wishes you to pursue your studies in Athens, especially concerning the religions, and return to Capri as a teacher.” A teacher!’ Marcellus laughed, self-derisively; but Demetrius did not smile. ‘Do you not think this funny, Demetrius?’ he insisted. ‘Can you picture me—lecturing to that menagerie?’

  ‘No, sir,’ replied Demetrius, soberly, ‘I do not think this is funny. I think it is a disaster!’

  ‘You mean—I’ll be bored?’

  ‘Worse than bored!’ exclaimed Demetrius, recklessly. ‘It is a contemptible position, if you ask me, sir! The Emperor is said to have a large contingent of astrologers, diviners of oracles, ghost-tenders, dream-mechanics and all that sort of thing—clustered about him. It would be a sorry business for my master to be engaged in!’

  Marcellus had begun to share the Corinthian’s seriousness.

  ‘You think he wants me to teach a mess of superstitious nonsense?’

  ‘Yes,’ nodded Demetrius. ‘He wants to hear some more about that Robe.’

  ‘But that isn’t superstitious nonsense!’ objected Marcellus.

  ‘No—not to us—but it will be little else than that by the time Emperor Tiberius and his soothsayers are through discussing it.’

  ‘You feel deeply about this, Demetrius,’ said Marcellus, gently.

  “Well, sir—I don’t want to see the Robe reviled by that loathsome old man—and his crew of lunatics.’

  Marcellus pretended to be indignant.

  ‘Are you aware, Demetrius, that your references to the Emperor of Rome might be considered bordering on disrespect?’ They both grinned, and Marcellus look up his father’s letter again, reading aloud, slowly: