The Robe

  ‘I’m glad you told me that, Jesse,’ said Justus. ‘You see what happened there? Hortensius heard Jesus talk about how people ought to treat one another. And maybe he wondered whether anybody was trying to practice it. And then you told him the truth about the spavined camel. And he began to believe that Jesus had great power.’

  Jesse laughed.

  ‘So you think the camel deal had something to do with his believing that Jesus could cure his sick orderly.’

  ‘Why not?’ It was Justus’ turn to chuckle. ‘I suppose the Centurion decided that any man who could influence a Jewish camel-drover to tell the truth about a spavin should be able to heal the sick. But’—Justus’ tone was serious now—‘however Hortensius came by his faith, he had plenty of it. I was there that day, Jesse. The Centurion came forward—a fine figure, too, in full uniform—and said, very deferentially, that his servant was sick unto death. Would Jesus heal him? “You need not trouble to come to my house, sir,” he said. “If you will say that my servant is healed, that will be sufficient.” Jesus was much pleased. Nothing like that had happened before. None of us had ever been that sure. He said to Hortensius, “You have great faith. Your wish is granted.”’

  ‘And then’—rccollectcd Jesse—‘they say that almost everyone in the crowd set off at top speed for Hortensius’ house.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Justus, ‘and they never did agree on a story. One report had it that the restored orderly met Hortensius at the gate. Some said the fellow was recovered and sitting up in bed. Others told that when the Centurion returned, the orderly was saddling a horse to ride to Capernaum. You know how these rumors get about. I suppose the fact is that none of these curious people was admitted to the Centurion’s grounds.’

  ‘But the man did recover, that day, from his sickness; didn’t he?’ Jesse insisted.

  ‘He did, indeed!’ declared Justus. ‘I heard him say so. By the way—think you that Hortensius will be made Commander of the fort at Capernaum, now that old Julian has been promoted to succeed Pilate?’

  ‘No such luck for Galilee!’ grumbled Jesse. ‘Everyone likes Hortensius. He is a just man, and he would be friendly to our cause. That old fox Herod will see to it that someone tougher than Hortensius gets the job. The thing that surprises me is the appointment of lazy old Julian to the Insula at Jerusalem.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s because Julian is lazy that the Temple crowd wanted him as their Procurator,' suggested Justus. The more indolent and indifferent he is, the more power will be exercised by the High Priest. He will let Caiaphas do anything he pleases. There are times, Jesse,’ went on Justus, thoughtfully, ‘when a weak, lazy, vacillating man—of good intent—is more to be feared than a crafty and cruel man. He shuts his eyes—and lets the injustices and persecutions proceed. In truth, our cause would have been better served if Pilate had remained.’

  ‘Does anyone know what has become of Pilate?’ asked Jesse.

  ‘Sent back to Crete, I understand. Better climate. The rumor is that Pontius Pilate is a sick man. He hasn't made a public appearance for all of a year.’

  ‘Why—that goes back to the crucifixion!’ said Jesse. ‘Do you mean that Pilate hasn’t been seen in public since that day?’

  ‘That’s what they say. Benyosef thinks Pilate’s sickness is mental.’

  ‘Well—if that’s the case, a change of climate will do him no good,’ remarked Jesse. ‘Hariph says he heard that there’s talk of transferring the Commander of the fort at Minoa to Capernaum.’

  ‘Impossible!’ muttered Justus. ‘They wouldn’t dare! It was the legion from Minoa that put Jesus to death!’

  ‘Yes—I know that,’ said Jesse. ‘I think, too, that it’s just idle talk. Hariph didn’t say where he’d picked it up. Someone told him that this Paulus from Minoa would probably be our next Commander. If so—we will have to be more careful than ever.’

  Justus sighed deeply and rose to his feet.

  ‘I must not keep you longer, Jesse. You have a long day ahead of you. Salute Benyosef for me, and any of the others who may have returned, now that the Passover is at an end. And’—he laid a hand on Jesse’s shoulder—‘keep watchful eyes on the roads, for no one knows the day—or the hour—’ His deep voice throttled down to a whisper. They shook hands and Jesse drifted away.

  With his face turned toward the tent-wall, Marcellus feigned sleep when Justus entered quietly. For a long time he lay wide awake, pondering the things he had overheard. So—it hadn’t been so easy for Pilate. Pilate had washed his hands in the silver basin, but apparently the Galilean’s blood was still there. So—Julian was in command at Jerusalem: Caiaphas could have his own way now. Julian wouldn’t know; wouldn’t care if he did know what persecutions were practiced on the little handful that wanted to keep the memory of Jesus alive. It wouldn’t be long until old Benyosef and his secretive callers would have to give it all up. And perhaps Paulus was to be sent up here to keep Galilee in order. Well—maybe Paulus wouldn’t be as hard on them as they feared. Paulus wasn’t a bad fellow. Paulus had been forced to take part in the crucifixion of Jesus. That didn’t mean he had approved of it. It was conceivable that Paulus might even take an interest in the Galilean friends of Jesus. But they would never accept his friendship. The very sight of him would be abhorrent. Justus’ comments had made that clear. A man who had had anything to do with nailing their adored Jesus to the cross could never hope to win their good will, no matter how generously he treated them.

  Marcellus realized now that he had been quite too sanguine in believing that his sincere interest in the story of Jesus might make it safe for him to confide in Miriam. He had been telling himself that Miriam—uncannily gifted with sympathetic understanding—would balance his present concern about Jesus against the stark facts of his part in the tragedy. Miriam, he felt, would be forgiving. That was her nature; and, besides, she liked him, and would give him the benefit of whatever doubts intruded. Perhaps he would not need to go the whole way with his confession. It might be enough to say that he had attended the trial of Jesus, and had seen him die. Whether he could bring himself to be more specific about his own participation in this shameful business would depend upon her reaction as he proceeded.

  But he knew now that such a conversation with Miriam was unthinkable! Justus, too, was a fair-minded person to whom one might safely confide almost anything; but Justus had revolted against the shocking suggestion that an officer from Minoa might be sent to preserve the peace of Galilee. ‘They wouldn’t dare!’ Justus had muttered through locked teeth.

  No—he couldn’t tell Miriam. Perhaps it would be more prudent if he made no effort to see her alone.

  ***

  Hariph the potter, upon whom Cana relied for most of its information on current events, had risen at daybreak with the remembrance that Reuben had mentioned his need of a few wine-jars. Although it lacked some three months of the wine-pressing season, this was as good a time as any to learn Reuben’s wishes. Too, he thought Reuben might be glad to learn that Barsabas Justus had arrived in Cana, last evening, with his small grandson—the one who, crippled from birth, had been made sound as any boy ever was—and the handsome young Roman who, for some obscure reason, was buying up homespun at better than market prices. To this might be added the knowledge that Jesse, the son of Beoni, had been engaged by this Marcellus to carry an important letter to Jerusalem. After these items had been dealt out to Reuben, piecemeal, he could be told that Justus would be taking his grandson to see Miriam.

  And so it happened that when the three callers sauntered across Reuben’s well-kept lawn, at mid-forenoon, instead of taking the family by surprise they discovered that their visit was awaited.

  Feeling that little Jonathan might enjoy a playmate, Miriam had sent for her nine-year-old cousin Andrew, who lived a mile farther out in the country. And Andrew’s widowed mother, Aunt Martha, had been invited too, which had made her happy, for she had not seen Justus in recent months. There were many questions she wanted to ask hi
m.

  They were all in the arbor, grouped about Miriam who was busy with the inevitable embroidery. She was very lovely, this morning, with a translucent happiness that made her even prettier than Marcellus had remembered. After greetings and introductions had been attended to—the artless sincerity of Miriam’s welcome speeding Marcellus’ pulse—they all found seats. Miriam held out a slim hand to Jonathan and gave him a brooding smile that brought him shyly to her side.

  ‘You must be a very strong boy, Jonathan,’ she told him, “keeping up with these big men on a journey, all the way from Sepphoris.’

  ‘I rode a donkey—most of the time,’ he mumbled, self-consciously; then, with more confidence, ‘I had a nicer donkey—of my own. His name was Jasper.’ He pointed a finger vaguely in Marcellus’ direction without looking at him. ‘He gave Jasper to me. And I gave him to Thomas, because Thomas is lame.’

  ‘Why—what a lovely thing to dol’ exclaimed Miriam. Her shining eyes drifted past Jonathan and gave Marcellus a heart-warming glance, and then darted to Justus, whose lips were drawn down to a warning frown. ‘I suppose Thomas really needs a donkey,’ she went on, accepting Justus’ hint, it must have made you very happy to do that for him.’

  Jonathan smiled wanly, put one brown bare foot on top of the other, and seemed to be meditating a dolorous reply. Divining his mood, Miriam intercepted with a promising diversion.

  ‘Andrew,’ she called, ‘why don’t you take Jonathan to see the conies. There are some little ones, Jonathan, that haven’t opened their eyes yet.’

  This suggestion was acted upon with alacrity. When the children had scampered away, Naomi turned to Marcellus.

  ‘What’s all this about the donkey?’ she inquired, smiling.

  Marcellus recrossed his long legs and wished that he had been included in the expedition to inspect the conies.

  ‘I think Jonathan has told it all,’ he replied, negligently. ‘I found a lazy little donkey that nobody wanted and gave him to Jonathan. There was a lame lad in the neighborhood and Jonathan generously presented him with the donkey. We thought that was pretty good—for a seven-year-old.’

  ‘But we don’t want his good-heartedness to go to his head,’ put in Justus, firmly. ‘He’s already much impressed.’

  ‘But Jonathan is only a child, Barsabas Justus,’ protested Miriam.

  ‘Of course!’ murmured Martha.

  ‘I know,’ mumbled Justus, stroking his beard. “But we can’t have him spoiled, Miriam. If you have an opportunity, speak to him about it.... Well, Reuben, what’s the prospect for the vineyard?’

  ‘Better than usual, Justus.’ Reuben slowly rose from his chair. “Want to walk out and have a look at the vines?’

  They ambled away. Presently Naomi remembered something she had to do in the kitchen. Aunt Martha, with a little nod and a smile, thought she might help. Miriam bent over her work attentively as they disappeared around the corner of the house.

  ‘You have been much in my thoughts, Marcellus,’ she said softly, after a silence which they both had been reluctant to invade with some casual banality.

  ‘You can see that I wanted to come back.’ Marcellus drew his chair closer.

  ‘And now that you’re here’—Miriam smiled into his eyes companionably—‘what shall we talk about first?’

  ‘I am much interested in the story of that carpenter who did so many things for your people.’

  Miriam’s eyes widened happily.

  ‘I knew it!’ she cried.

  ‘How could you have known it?’ wondered Marcellus.

  ‘Oh’—archly—‘by lots of little things—strung together. You knew nothing about textiles, nor does good old Justus, for that matter. You have had no experience in bargaining. It was clear that you were in Galilee on some other errand.’

  ‘True—but what made you think I was interested in Jesus?’

  ‘Your choosing Justus to conduct you. He saw as much of Jesus as anyone except Simon and the Zebedee boys who were with him constantly. But you had me quite mystified.’ She shook her head and laughed softly. ‘Romans are under suspicion. I couldn’t understand why Justus had consented to come up here with you. Then it came out that you knew the Greek who works for Benyosef. He must have planned your meeting with Justus, for surely that was no accident! The men who frequent Benyosef’s shop are friends of Jesus. So—I added it all up—and—’

  ‘And concluded that I had employed Justus to inform me about Jesus,' interposed Marcellus. “Well—your deduction is correct, though I must say that Justus seems to know a great deal that he isn’t confiding in me.’

  ‘Have you told him why you are interested in Jesus?’ Miriam studied his eyes as she waited for his reply.

  ‘Not fully,’ admitted Marcellus, after some hesitation. ‘But he is not suspicious of my motive.’

  ‘Perhaps if you would tell Justus exactly how you happened to become interested in Jesus, he might be more free to talk,’ suggested Miriam; and when Marcellus failed to respond promptly, she added, ‘I am full of curiosity about that, myself.’

  ‘That’s a long story, Miriam,’ muttered Marcellus, soberly.

  ‘I have plenty of time,’ she said. Tell me, Marcellus.’

  ‘A year ago, I was in Jerusalem—on business—’ he began, rather uncertainly.

  ‘But not buying homespun,’ she interjected, when he paused.

  ‘It was government business,’ Marcellus went on. ‘I was there only a few days. During that time, there was a considerable stir over the arrest of this Galilean on a charge of treason. I was present at the trial where he was sentenced to death. It seemed clear that the man was innocent. The Procurator himself said so. I had much difficulty putting the matter out of my mind. Everything indicated that Jesus was a remarkable character. So—when I had occasion to come to Jerusalem again, this spring, I decided to spend a few days in Galilee, and learn something more about him.’

  ‘What was it—about Jesus—that so deeply impressed you?’ Miriam’s tone entreated full confidence.

  ‘His apparently effortless courage, I think,’ said Marcellus. ‘They were all arrayed against him—the Government, the Temple, the merchants, the bankers, the influential voices, the money. Not a man spoke in his behalf. His friends deserted him. And yet—in the face of cruel abuse—with a lost cause—and certain death confronting him—he was utterly fearless.’ There was a thoughtful pause. ‘It was impossible not to have a deep respect for a person of that fiber. I have had an immense curiosity to know what manner of man he was.’ Marcellus made a little gesture to signify that he had ended his explanation.

  ‘That wasn’t such a very long story, after all, Marcellus,’ remarked Miriam, intent upon her work. ‘I wonder that you were so reluctant to tell it. Did you, perhaps, omit to tell Justus some of the things you have just told me?’

  ‘No,’ said Marcellus. ‘I told him substantially the same thing.’

  ‘But I thought you said you had not told him fully!’

  ‘Well—what I have told you and Justus is sufficient, I think, to assure you that my interest is sincere,’ declared Marcellus. ‘At least, Justus appears to be satisfied. There are some stories about Jesus which he hints at—but refuses to tell—because, he says, I am not ready to be told. Yesterday he was lamenting that he had talked about that wedding-feast where the guests thought the water tasted like wine.’

  ‘You didn’t believe it.’ Miriam smiled briefly. ‘I do not wonder. Perhaps Justus is right. You weren’t prepared for such a story.’ A slow flush crept up her cheeks, as she added, ‘And how did he happen to be talking of Anna’s wedding?’

  ‘We had been hoping to reach Cana in time to hear you sing,’ said Marcellus, brightly, glad to have the conversation diverted. ‘Naturally that led to comments about your sudden discovery of your inspiring voice. Justus had told me previously that it had occurred on the day of a wedding-feast. I pressed the subject, and he admitted that your strange experience had happened on the same d
ay.’

  ‘The changing of water into wine—that was too much for you,’ laughed Miriam, sympathetically, i’m not surprised. However’—she went on, seriously—‘you seem to have had no trouble believing in my discovery that I could sing. It has completely transformed my life—my singing. It instantly made me over into another kind of person, Marcellus. I was morbid, helpless, heart-sick, self-piteous, fretful, unreasonable. And now—as you see—I am happy and contented.’ She stirred him with a radiant smile, and asked, softly, Is that so much easier to understand than the transformation of water into wine?’

  ‘Shall I infer, then, that there was a miracle performed in your case, Miriam?’ asked Marcellus.

  ‘As you like,’ she murmured, after some hesitation.

  ‘I know you prefer not to discuss it,’ he said, ‘and I shall not pursue you with queries. But—assuming that Jesus spoke a word that made you sing—why did he not add a word that would give you power to walk? He straightened little Jonathan’s foot, they say.’

  Miriam pushed her embroidery aside, folded her arms, and faced Marcellus with a thoughtful frown.