Antony explored the inside of his cheek with a defenseless tongue and slowly nodded his head.
‘It’s worse than that,’ he confessed. ‘I would be afraid to fight. Maybe that’s why I draw pictures of fighting—and make models of gladiators. Just trying to pretend.’ He hung his head, morosely. ‘I haven’t a scrap of courage,’ he went on. ‘It makes me ashamed.’
‘Well—I’m not so sure about that,’ consoled Marcellus. There are many different kinds of courage, Antony. You’ve just come through with the best kind there is—the courage to tell the truth! It required much more bravery to say what you’ve just said than it takes to black another man’s eye.’
Antony raised his head and brightened a little.
‘Let’s start another model,’ he suggested.
‘Very well—I shall try to think of something that we both might enjoy. Come back early in the morning. If you will lend me some clay, perhaps I may have a rough sketch to show you when you come.’
***
Antony laughed merrily. Marcellus had made a rectangular swimmingpool. Seated on the stone ledges, at intervals, were figures of bathers—men, women, and children. One thin old man had an absurdly long beard tossed over his shoulder. A tiny baby on all fours was about to tumble in. Its mother was coming at full gallop. The large feet and bony legs of a diver protruded from the immobile water.
‘You didn’t do all that this morning!’ said Antony.
‘No—I worked on it most of the night. It’s just a beginning, you see. We need many more people sitting around the pool, and diving and swimming. Would you like to complete it?’
‘It would be fun, I think,’ said Antony.
‘You can give it a lot of detail. Move it to a much larger modeling-board and you will have room to do some landscaping. Remember that big white rock, down by the bridge, where there is a natural basin? You might put in the bridge and the rock and the acacia trees. Then everybody would know where the pool is.’
‘I say, sir, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to have a pool like that!’
***
After a week’s acquaintance with his new duties, Marcellus was able to complete his day’s work by mid-afternoon. Antony would be loitering in the atrium, restlessly passing and repassing the open door to the library. Kaeso had observed this growing attachment, not without some satisfaction.
‘They tell me you are helping to amuse my son,’ he remarked. ‘Don’t feel that you must, if it’s a burden. You have plenty of work to do.’
Marcellus had assured him that he enjoyed Antony’s company; that the boy had artistic talent; that he needed encouragement; and when Kaeso had derided art as a profession, an argument arose.
‘I can’t think that a real man would want to waste his time playing with mud,’ said Kaeso, scornfully.
‘Clay,’ corrected Marcellus, unruffled. ‘Modeling-clay. There’s as much difference between mud and clay as there is between Arpino melons and—ordinary melons. It is not unnatural, sir, a man’s desire to create something beautiful. Antony may become an able sculptor.’
‘Sculptor!’ sneered Kaeso. ‘And of what use is a sculptor?’
Marcellus had made no reply to that. He continued putting away his accounts and desk implements, with a private smile that stirred Kaeso’s curiosity, and when queried, remarked that Antony probably came by it naturally.
‘You, sir,’ he explained, ‘have created a successful business. Your son can hardly hope to improve upon it. It is complete. He, too, wants to create something. You have bequeathed him this ambition. And now you resent his having a desire that he inherited from you.’
Kaeso, purring with self-satisfaction, twirled his thumbs and grinned for more. Marcellus obliged him. Many sculptors starved to death before they were well enough known to earn a living by their art. Antony would not have to starve. His father was rich, and should take pride in his son’s ability. Appius Kaeso had made his name important in commerce. Antony Kaeso might make his name mean as much in the field of art.
‘You don’t want Antony to be unhappy and unsuccessful when he might easily make you proud of him. Show him a little attention, sir, and you’ll discover you have a loyal and affectionate son.’
‘Ah—the boy has always been cold and disdainful,’ complained Kaeso—Tike his mother.’
‘If I may venture to contradict you,’ said Marcellus, ‘Antony is a very warm-hearted youngster. You could have his love if you wanted it. Why not come along with me now, sir, and have a look at something he is making?’
Grumbling that he had no interest in such nonsense, Kaeso had accompanied him to Antony’s room. They stood before the model in silence, Antony visibly nervous and expectant of derision.
Kaeso studied the elaborate scene, rubbed his jaw, chuckled a little, and shook his head. Antony, watching his father with pathetic wistfulness, sighed dejectedly.
‘It’s in the wrong place,’ declared Kaeso. ‘When the snow melts, the spring freshets come plunging through that hollow. It would tear your masonry out. You must build it on higher ground.’
With that, Marcellus said he had an errand, if they would excuse him, and left the room. He sauntered down the hall and out through the peristyle, wearing a smile of such dimensions that when he encountered Antonia she insisted on knowing what had happened. Her eyes widened with unbelief as he told her briefly that her husband and her son were conferring about the best place to build a swimming-pool.
‘Shall I join them?’ she asked, childishly.
‘No—not this time,’ said Marcellus.
***
It was mid-July now. At sunset, every day, Marcellus went down to the melon field and sat by the gate where the workers from all the fields received their wages. For a while the people merely waved a hand and smiled as they passed him. Then some of them ventured to tarry and talk. The scrivener, they all agreed, was indeed a queer one, but there was something about him that inclined them to him. They had a feeling that he was on their side.
For one thing, there was this rumor that they were to have a swimmingpool. When the last of the melons were harvested, anyone who wished to work on the community pool could do so. Nobody knew how much would be paid for this labor, but they were to be paid. Everybody felt that the scrivener had been responsible for this project. Some of the bolder ones asked him about it, and he professed not to know much of the plan, which, he said, was Appius Kaeso’s idea; and they would be told all about it, when the time came.
One afternoon, when fully a score of workers had gathered about him, Marcellus told them a story about a man he knew in a far-away country, who had important things to say to poor people with heavy burdens, and how he believed that a man’s life did not consist of the things he owned, and how much unhappiness could be avoided if men did not covet other men’s possessions. If you want to be happy, make other people happy. He paused—and found himself looking squarely into Metella’s eyes, pleased to see them so softly responsive.
‘And what did this Jesus do to make other people happy?’ asked an old man.
Well—in the case of Jesus, Marcellus had explained, he wasn’t just an ordinary man; for he performed remarkable deeds of healing. He could make blind men see. People had but to touch him, and they were cured of their diseases. It was dark that evening before the melon-workers trudged up the hill. Reproaching himself for having detained them so long, Marcellus had said, if you want to hear more stories about Jesus, let us meet tomorrow in the village, after you have your supper.’
And so it had become a daily event for Marcellus to meet the people of Arpino on the grassy knoll at the foot of the mountain. He told them of the great, surging crowds that had followed Jesus; told them, with much detail, about the miracles, about little Jonathan’s foot—and the story of the donkey that the lad gave to his crippled friend. He told them about Miriam’s voice, and the broken loom that Jesus had mended, and how the woman had woven him a robe.
They had sat motionless, hardly breathin
g, until darkness fell. All Arpino looked forward to these evening stories, and discussed them in the fields next day. Even Vobiscus came and listened. One evening, Antonio and Antony appeared at the edge of the crowd while Marcellus was telling them about the feeding of five thousand people from a small boy’s lunch-basket. It was a story of many moods, and the Arpinos laughed and wept over it. And then there was the great storm that Jesus had stilled with a soothing word.
‘I hear you’ve been entertaining the people with strange stories,’ remarked Kaeso, next day.
‘About a great teacher, sir,’ explained Marcellus, ‘and his deeds for the relief of the people in the provinces of Palestine.’
‘What kind of deeds?’ pursued Kaeso; and when Marcellus had told him a few of the miracle-stories he said, ‘Did this Jesus deal only with the poor?’
‘By no means!’ said Marcellus. ‘He had friends among the rich, and was frequently invited to their houses. You might be interested, sir, in something that happened at the home of a wealthy man named Zacchaeus.’
‘Divided half of his money among the poor; eh?’ remarked Kaeso, when the story was finished. ‘Much thanks he got for that, I suppose.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Marcellus. ‘I daresay the only way you could find out how people would act, in such a case—’
‘Divide your money with them—and see; eh?’ grumbled Kaeso.
‘Well—you might make a little experiment that wouldn’t cost quite so much,’ said Marcellus, soberly. ‘For example, have Vobiscus pay everybody four sesterces, instead of three, from now to the end of the melon season.’
‘Then they’d raise a row if we went back to the old wage!’ protested Kaeso.
‘Very likely,’ agreed Marcellus. ‘Maybe it isn’t worth doing. It would probably just stir up trouble.’
‘Vobiscus would think I had gone crazy!’ exclaimed Kaeso.
‘Not if you increased his wages, too. Vobiscus is a valuable man, sir, and very loyal. He isn’t paid enough.’
‘Did he say so?’ snapped Kaeso.
‘No—Vobiscus wouldn’t complain to me.’
‘He has never asked for more.’
‘That does not mean he is getting enough.’
‘Perhaps you will be wanting better wages, too.’ Kaeso chuckled unpleasantly.
‘Vobiscus gets six sesterces. Let us pay him ten, and I will be content with sixteen instead of twenty.’
‘Very well,’ said Kaeso. ‘You’re a fool—but if that’s the way you want it—’
‘With one stipulation, sir. Vobiscus is not to know how his raise in wages came about. Let him think you did it—and see what happens.’
***
Kaeso took much pride in the pool, and admitted that he was glad the idea had occurred to him to build it. The people didn’t know what had come over Kaeso, but they believed the same thing was happening to him that had happened to them. He even conceded to Marcellus that the sesterces he had added to the workers' wage might have had something to do with the gratifying fact there had been a surprisingly small loss lately on melons bruised by careless handling. Marcellus did not tell him that he had made them a speech, the next morning after their pay was increased, in which he had suggested that they show their appreciation by being more faithful to their employer’s interests.
The grapes were ripening now, and Kaeso enjoyed strolling through the vineyards. Sometimes the older ones ventured to turn their heads in his direction, and smile, rather shyly. One afternoon, he heard them singing, as he came down the road. When he appeared at the gate, the song stopped. He asked Vobiscus.
‘They thought it might annoy you, sir,’ stammered Vobiscus.
‘Let them sing! Let them sing!’ shouted Kaeso, indignantly. “What makes them think I don’t want to hear them sing?’
Vobiscus was clean-shaven today, and carrying himself with an air. Yesterday the wife of Kaeso had called at his house to show his wife a tapestry pattern and ask her how she had dyed the shawl she wore last night.
Near the end of a day when Marcellus had said he was going to stroll down to the vineyards, Antony asked if he might go along. At the gate, Marcellus picked up a couple of baskets and handed one to Antony.
‘Want to do me a little favor?’ he asked. ‘Come along—and we’ll gather some grapes.’
‘Why should we?’ inquired Antony. 'What will they think of us?’
‘They will think no less of us,’ said Marcellus, ‘and it will make them think better of themselves—and their work.’
Presently they came upon an old woman who was straining hard to lift her heavy basket up to the platform of a cart. The driver, lounging against the wheel, watched her lazily.
‘Give her a hand, Antony,’ said Marcellus, quietly.
Everybody in that vicinity stopped work for a moment to witness this strange sight. The elegant son of Kaeso, who, they all had thought, considered the people of Arpino as dirt under his dainty feet, had volunteered to share a laborer’s burden. There was a spontaneous murmur of approval as Marcellus and Antony moved on.
‘Thank you, Antony,’ said Marcellus, in a low tone.
‘I didn’t mind giving her a lift,’ said Antony, flushing as he noted the appreciative smiles of the workers.
‘You gave everybody a lift,' said Marcellus, 'including yourself, I think.’
***
When August was more than half gone and the orders for fruit had dwindled until the scrivener’s duties for the season were of small importance, Marcellus told Kaeso that he would like to be on his way.
‘How about staying on for a while to help Antony with his modeling?’ suggested Kaeso.
‘I have shown him almost everything I know,' said Marcellus.
‘Nonsense!’ scoffed Kaeso. ‘He can learn much from you. Besides—you are good for him. Antony’s a different boy. You’re making a man of him.’
‘That’s your doing, Kaeso,’ said Marcellus, gently. ‘Can’t you see the way Antony hangs on your words? He admires you greatly, sir. It should be your own privilege to make a man of him.’
‘Will you come back to Arpino next summer?’ asked Kaeso, almost entreatingly.
Marcellus expressed his gratitude for the invitation, but did not know where he might be, next summer. Finishing his work at the desk, he was more painstaking than usual in filing things away, Kaeso moodily watching him.
‘When are you leaving?’ he asked.
‘Early in the morning, sir. I am going to Rome.’
Kaeso followed him out into the garden where they met Antonia. In her presence he invited Marcellus to dine with the family. Antonia smiled her approval.
‘He is leaving us,’ said Kaeso. ‘Where is Antony? I shall tell him.’ He turned back toward the house.
‘Aren’t you contented here, Marcellus?’ asked Antonia, gently, after a little silence between them. ‘Haven’t we done everything you wished?’
‘Yes—that’s why I am going.’
She nodded understandingly and gave him a pensive smile.
‘Marcellus—do you remember the story you told us about the people’s belief-—in Cana, was it?—that Jesus had changed water into wine?’
‘You found that hard to believe, I think,' he said.
‘No,' she murmured; ‘I can believe that story. It’s no more mysterious than the changes you have made—in Arpino.’
***
That evening, according to their recent custom, all the villagers assembled on the knoll to wait for Marcellus to appear and tell them a story. When he came, Kaeso and Antonia and Antony were with him. Sitting down in the open circle the people had left for him, Marcellus hesitated for a long moment before beginning to speak.
‘You have all been very kind to me,’ he said, ‘and you will be much in my thoughts, wherever I may go.’
A disappointed little sigh went over the crowd.
‘I have told you many stories about this strange man of Galilee, who befriended the poor and helpless. Tonight,
I shall tell you one more story about him—the strangest story of them all. Let that be my parting gift to you.’
It was a sad story of a misunderstood man, forsaken at the last, even by his frightened friends; a dismaying story of an unfair trial and a cruel death, and Marcellus told it so impressively that most of his audience was in tears.
‘Now, there was nothing so strange about that,' he went on, in a suddenly altered mood, ‘for wise men have always been misunderstood and persecuted—and many of them have been slain—as Jesus was. But Jesus came to life again!’
‘What? No! shouted an old man, in a quavering voice. They hushed him down, and waited for Marcellus to go on.
In the tense silence, the amazing story proceeded. Jesus was in the world—alive—to remain until his kingdom of kindness should rule all men—everywhere.
‘You need not weep for him!’ declared Marcellus. ‘He asks no pity! If you want to do something to aid him, be helpful to one another—and await his coming.’
‘Where is he now, sir?’ called the old man, shrilly.
‘No one knows,’ said Marcellus. ‘He might appear—anywhere—any time. We must not be found doing anything that would grieve him if he should come upon us suddenly—at an hour when we were not expecting him. Will you keep that in your remembrance?’
The twilight was falling fast now and so was the dew. It was time they dispersed. Marcellus drew a folded, much-handled sheet of papyrus from the breast of his tunic, and held it up in the fading light.
‘One day,’ he said, ‘when a great company of Galileans had assembled about him on a hilltop, Jesus talked to them quietly about what he called “the blessed life.” My friend Justus remembered these words and recited them for me. I wrote them down. Let me read them to you—and then we will part.’
The Arpinos leaned forward to listen; all but Metella, who sat hugging her knees, with her face buried in her folded arms. A deep hush fell over them as Marcellus read:
‘Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted. Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth. Blessed are they who hunger and thirst after righteousness, for they shall be filled. Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy. Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God. Blessed are the peace-makers, for they shall be called the children of God. Blessed are they who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Rejoice and be glad, for great will be your reward.’