‘Young Caligula is insane!’ muttered Marcellus.
‘It would seem so,’ went on Marcipor, calmly, ‘but he is bright enough to carry out his design for slaughter. I knew, when you wrote me you were here, that you would presently locate some Christians and associate with them. You should think twice before you take that risk. We who are unimportant can hide. You cannot; not for long. The Emperor would welcome the opportunity to make an example of you!’
‘But you would not counsel me to run away!’ challenged Marcellus.
‘No one who knows you as well as I do, my son, would use those words. But—your life is valuable. While this threat is active, there is little you can do for frightened people in hiding. If you leave the city, until the Emperor’s diseased mind turns toward some other cruel pastime, you could return—and be of service. There’s no use throwing your life away!’
Marcellus reached out a hand and affectionately patted the old man’s knee.
‘Marcipor,’ he said, gently, ‘you have been speaking as my father’s trusted servant, concerned for the welfare of his son. For that I am grateful. But this is not the kind of advice that one Christian gives another. Has Demetrius—or anyone—told you of Jesus’ last journey to Jerusalem, when his disciples—knowing how dangerous it would be for him to appear there during the Passover—tried to dissuade him from going? They pointed out that his life was prccious; that it mustn’t be wasted; that he must be saved for service to the people.’
‘What did he say?’ wondered Marcipor.
‘He told them it was poor advice; told them that no man should caution his friend against going into danger for duty’s sake; told them that sometimes a man had to lose his life to save it, and that those who tried to save themselves would surely lose themselves. No—you mean it well enough, Marcipor; but I’m remaining in Rome! Can’t you realize that our cause might be lost if we who believe in it are frugal of our blood?’
Marcipor slowly nodded his head, and laboriously came to his feet.
‘Come, then,’ he said. ‘Let us go—and join them.’
‘Where?’ asked Marcellus.
‘In the tombs,’ said Marcipor, pointing through the trees. ‘About thirty men are meeting there to seek counsel about future plans.’
‘Are there so many as thirty Christians in Rome?’ Marcellus was surprised and pleased.
‘My son,’ said Marcipor, ‘there are nearly four thousand Christians in Rome! These men are their appointed leaders.’
Marcellus stood speechless for a long moment, pondering this almost incredible announcement. At length he found his voice.
‘His kingdom is coming, Marcipor! It is gaining strength, faster than I had thought!’
‘Patience, my son!’ murmured Marcipor, as he led the way toward the tombs, it has still a long, hard road to travel.’
The narrow, uneven steps down into the tunnel were dark as night. As they reached the lower level, a feeble glow outlined the entrance to a corridor at the left. Marcipor proceeded into it with the confidence of one who knew his way. A tall man, in a laborer’s tunic, stepped forward; and, holding a dim lantern high above his head, peered into Marcellus’ face.
‘Who is this, Marcipor?’ he demanded.
‘Tribune Marcellus Gallio. He is one of us, Laeto.’
‘And what have we to do with Tribunes?’ asked Laeto, gruffly.
‘Marcellus has given up much for his faith, Laeto,’ said Marcipor, gently. ‘He knows more about the Galilean than any of us—save one.’
‘Very well,' consented Laeto, reluctantly—'if you vouch for him.’
They proceeded through the long corridor, groping their way, Marcellus wondering at its vast extent. Marcipor lagged and took his arm.
‘Laeto views our new cause as a banding together of the poor,' he confided, softly. ‘You will find a good deal of that sentiment among the Christians. They can’t be blamed much, for they have been long oppressed. But it would be unfortunate if Jesus’ kingdom turned out to be a poor man’s exclusive haven.’
‘Perhaps it would have been better if my identity had remained a secret,' said Marcellus.
‘No—it will be good for the Christians in Rome to know that a man with a few coins in his purse can be a worthy follower. We have been hearing too much about the virtues of poverty.’
They turned an abrupt corner to the right and faced another narrower passage that continued on and on, the walls studded with stone slabs bearing names and dates of Jews long dead. A small light flickered, revealing a heavy wooden door at the end of the corridor. Another sentinel moved out of the shadows and confronted them. Marcipor again explained Marcellus. The sentinel pointed with his torch to a small drawing on the lintel.
‘Do you know what that sign means?’ he inquired.
‘It is the Christian’s secret symbol, sir,' replied Marcellus.
‘Did someone tell you that—or have you seen it before?’
‘I have seen it in many places—in Galilee—and Jerusalem.’
‘Let me ask you then,’ said the sentinel, ‘why is the symbol a fish? Is there anything sacred about a fish?’
Marcellus explained respectfully. The sentinel listened with keen attention.
‘You may enter,' he said, stepping aside.
It was a large rectangular room with accommodations for many more people than sat in the semicircular rows in the far corner, huddled closely about a huge, bearded man who was talking to them in a deep guttural tone.
They moved quietly forward, in the dim light, Marcipor leading, until the speaker’s earnest voice became plainly audible. Marcellus recognized it, and plucked at the good old Corinthian’s sleeve.
‘Know him?’ whispered Marcipor, with a pleased smile.
‘Of course!’ said Marcellus, excitedly.
It was the Big Fisherman!
Chapter XXIV
IT WAS early morning but already promising to be another hot day. The swarthy overseer of the vineyard, temporarily at ease, lounged against the gatepost and yawningly watched the laborers—four score or more of men, women, and grown-up children—as they cut the huge purple clusters; carefully, for this fruit was going to a select market.
Some distance down the highway a little wisp of dust was riding from the lazy feet of a shaggy gray donkey attached to a decrepit high-wheeled cart filled with hay. A slim youth walked ahead, impatiently tugging at a long lead-strap. At intervals the donkey stopped and the tall boy in the knitted cap would brace his feet and pull with all his weight, his manna suggesting complete exasperation.
Vobiscus, the overseer, watched and grinned. The young fellow didn’t know much about donkeys or he would walk alongside with a stout thom-bush in hand. Who was he? Vobiscus was acquainted with all the donkeys, carts, and farmer-boys likely to be plodding along the road in the vicinity of Arpino, but this forlorn outfit lacked identification. He studied it with increasing interest as it crept forward. Nobody would be hauling hay to market in such a cart, and this youngster hadn’t come from a hayfield. He wore a long, coarse tunic and the sort of leggings that quarrymen used for protection against flying chips of stone. The bulging old cap might have belonged to a boatman. It was much too heavy for this weather. Vobiscus wondered why he didn’t take it off.
Directly in front of the open gate, the donkey took root again, and the slim youth—without a glance at Vobiscus, who was sauntering out into the road—jerked so furiously at the lead-strap that the old bridle broke. Finding himself at liberty, the donkey ambled off to the roadside and began nibbling at the grass, while the angry boy trailed along, pausing to pick up the dragging bridle which he examined with distaste. Then he threw it down and scrubbed his dusty hands up and down on the skirt of his ill-fitting tunic. They were delicate hands, with long, tapering fingers. He glanced about now, gave the overseer a brief and not very cordial inspection, and walked with short, clipped steps to the donkey’s head.
Vobiscus, thoughtfully stroking his jaw, made a thorough, it
em by item, head to foot appraisal of the unhappy young stranger. Then his cheek began to bulge with a surmising tongue and an informed smile wrinkled his face. He picked up the brittle old harness and unbuckled the broken straps.
‘I thought you were a boy,’ he said, kindly, i’ll fix the bridle for you, daughter. Go over there and sit down in the shade—and help yourself to some grapes from that basket. You look worn out.’
The tall girl gave him a long, cool stare. Then her lips parted in a smile that made Vobiscus’ heart skip a beat. She rubbed her forehead wearily, and tugged off the outlandish old woolen cap, releasing a cascade of blue-black hair that came tumbling down over her shoulders. Vobiscus laughed discreetly, appreciatively. The girl laughed, too, a tired little whimpering laugh that was almost crying.
‘You are kind,’ she murmured. ‘I will do that. I am so warm—and thirsty.’
The intolerable donkey had now jammed a wheel against the stone fence and was straining to free himself. Vobiscus went around to the tail of the cart for an armful of hay to entertain him until the bridle was put in order.
‘Oh, no, please!’ called the girl, sharply. ‘He mustn’t have any of the hay. It—it isn't good for him!’ Her eyes were frightened.
Vobiscus turned his head toward her and scowled.
‘What have you in this cart, young woman?’ he demanded, roughly, thrusting his arm deep into the hay.
‘Please!—it’s my brother! He is ill! Don’t disturb him!’
‘Your brother is ill; eh?’ scoffed Vobiscus. ‘So—you load him into a cart and cover him up with hay! A likely tale!’ He began tossing the hay out onto the road. ‘Ah—so you’re the sick brother!’
The girl came swiftly to Vobiscus’ side and laid her hand on his arm as Demetrius sat up, frowning darkly.
‘We are in trouble,’ she confided. ‘We came here hoping to find a man named Marcellus Gallio, knowing he would aid us.’
‘Marcellus has been gone for a week.’ The scowl on Vobiscus’ face relaxed a little. ‘Are you friends of his?’
They both nodded. Vobiscus looked from one to the other, suspiciously.
‘You are a slave, fellow!’ he said, pointing at Demetrius’ ear. A sudden illumination widened his eyes. ‘Ah-hal’ he exclaimed. ‘I have it! You’re wanted! Both of you! Only yesterday legionaries from Capri were at the villa searching for the daughter of Gallus and a Greek slave who were thought to be on the way to Rome.’
‘You are right, sir,’ confessed Demetrius. ‘This young woman is the daughter of Legate Gallus, and engaged to marry Marcellus Gallio, who is my master. My name is Demetrius.’ Vobiscus started.
‘That sounds like the name,’ he mumbled to himself. ‘Tell me—did Marcellus send you a message, some weeks ago?’
‘Yes, sir—a small melon, in a box.’
‘Any writing?’
‘A picture—of a fish.’
Demetrius gazed anxiously up and down the road and stepped out of the cart. Deep in the vineyard a lumbering load of fruit was slowly moving toward the gate.
‘Before this fellow sees you,’ cautioned Vobiscus, ‘busy yourself with that donkey, and keep out of sight. You had better stay here for the present.’ He turned to Diana. ‘You will be safe, I think, to go up to the villa. Don’t hurry. Inquire for Antonia, the wife of Appius Kaeso. Tell her who you are. You two must not be seen together. Everybody in Arpino knows about the search for you.’
‘Perhaps they will be afraid to give me shelter,’ said Diana.
‘Well—they will tell you—if they are,’ replied Vobiscus. ‘You can’t stay here! That’s sure!’
***
The tall Macedonian by the villa gate gave her a disapproving look.
‘And why do you want to see the wife of Kaeso?’ he demanded, sharply. ‘Perhaps you had better talk to Appius Kaeso, young fellow.’
‘No—his wife,’ insisted Diana. ‘But I am not a beggar,’ she added.
The Macedonian cocked his head thoughtfully and grinned.
‘Come with me,’ he said, in the soft voice of a conspirator. Leading the way to the garden, and sighting his mistress, he signed to the newcomer to proceed, and turned back toward the gate.
Antonia, girlishly pretty in gay colors and a broad-brimmed reed hat, was supervising a slave as he wielded a pruning-knife in the rose arbor. Hearing footsteps, she glanced about and studied the approaching stranger.
‘You may go!’ she said to the slave. He turned to stare at the visitor. ‘At once!’ commanded Antonia.
‘Please forgive my intrusion,’ began Diana—‘and my dreadful appearance. It has been necessary for me to look like a boy.’
Antonia showed a row of pretty teeth.
‘Well—maybe it has been necessary,’ she laughed—‘but you don’t look like a boy.’
‘I’ve tried to,’ insisted Diana. ‘What is it that gives me away?’
‘Everything,’ murmured Antonia. She drifted to the stone lectus beside the path. ‘Come—sit down—and tell me what this is all about. They are hunting for you: is that not so?’
Briefly but clearly, the words tumbling over one another, Diana poured out her story with a feeling of confidence that she would not be betrayed.
‘I mustn’t get you into trouble,’ she went on—‘but—oh—if I might bathe—if you would hide me away until I had a night’s sleep—I could go on.’ Diana’s weary eyes were swimming.
‘We can take some chances for anyone who loves Marcellus,’ said Antonia. ‘Come—let us go into the house.' She led the way to the atrium where they encountered Kaeso emerging from his library. He stopped and blinked a few times, incredulously. Antonia said, ‘Appius, this is the daughter of Legate Gallus whom the soldiers were inquiring about.... Diana, this is my husband.’
‘I shall go away, sir, if you wish.’ Diana’s voice was plaintive.
‘What have you done, that they want to arrest you?’ inquired Kaeso, facing her soberly.
‘She ran away from Capri,’ volunteered Antonia, 'because she was afraid of the boy Emperor. Now he is determined to find her.’
‘Ugh!’ growled Kaeso. ‘Little Boots! Little skunk!’
‘Hush!’ warned Antonia. ‘You’ll have us all in prison yet! Now—what shall we do with Diana? Appius, she is engaged to marry Marcellus!’
Kaeso exclaimed joyfully and grasped her hands.
‘You’re going to stay here with us,’ he declared. ‘Whoever takes you away will have to fight! Are you alone? The legionaries said they were looking also for a Greek slave who had escaped with you.’
‘He is down at the vineyard with Vobiscus,’ said Antonia. ‘And you’d better do something about it, Appius.’
‘How about the servants? How much do they know?’
‘Let us not try to make a secret of it,’ suggested Antonia. ‘We will tell them the truth. When they know that Diana is to marry Marcellus—and that the Greek is his slave—there is no one in Arpino who would—’
‘Don’t be too sure of that!’ said Kaeso. ‘There’s a reward posted, you know.’ He pointed toward the peristyle. ‘That Macedonian out there could have quite a merry fling with a thousand sesterces. I shall tell him—and all of them—that if anyone gives out information he will be flogged! Or worse!’
‘Do as you think best, dear,’ consented Antonia, gently. ‘But I believe that trusting them will be safer than threatening them. I think that would be Marcellus’ advice if he were here.’
‘Marcellus is always giving people credit for being bigger than they are,’ remembered Kaeso. He gave Diana an inquiring smile. ‘Are you one of these Christians, too?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ sighed Diana, it’s too hard for me to understand.... Did he’—she glanced toward Antonia—‘did he talk much about it while he was here?’
‘Turned the village upside-down with it!’ chuckled Kaeso. ‘Antonia will tell you. She has gone Christian, too!’
‘Marcellus was good for us all,’ murmured Antonia. Sh
e gave Appius a sidelong smile, and added, ‘including the master of Arpino.’
***
Young Antony had been so absorbed in his modeling that he had remained in his studio all day, unaware that they were housing a fugitive. Breezing into the dining-room, that evening, spluttering apologies for his tardiness, he stopped suddenly just inside the doorway and looked into the smiling eyes of the most beautiful creature he had ever seen, wearing the most beautiful pink silk stola he had ever seen, failing to recognize it as his mother’s.
On three different occasions, Anthony had gone with his parents to Rome for a few days’ attendance at great national festivals. There had been fleeting glimpses of lovely patrician girls in their gay litters and—at a distance—in their boxes at the circus; but never before had he been this close to a young woman of Diana’s social caste. He faced her now with such spontaneous and unreserved admiration that Kaeso, glancing up over his shoulder, chuckled softly.
‘Our son, Antony,’ said his mother, tenderly. ‘Our guest is Diana, dear, the daughter of Legate Gallus.’
‘Oh!’ Antony swallowed hard. ‘They are after you!’ He eased into his seat across from her, still gazing intently into her face. ‘How did you get here?’
‘Diana hoped to find Marcellus,’ explained Antonia.
‘Do you know Marcellus?’ asked Antony, happily.
‘She is his girl,’ announced the elder Kaeso, adding, in the little silence that followed, ‘And he is a lucky fellow!’
‘Y-e-s,’ agreed Antony, so fervently that his parents laughed.
Diana smiled appreciatively into Antony’s enraptured eyes, but refused to be merry over his honest adoration. It was no joke.
‘I am glad you all liked Marcellus so well,’ she said, softly. ‘He must have had a good time here. You are a sculptor; aren’t you? Your mother told me.’ And when Antony had hitched about, protesting that he hadn’t done anything very important, she said, ‘Perhaps you will let me see.’ Her voice was unusually deep-toned for a girl, he thought. Girls were always screaming what they had to say. Diana’s throaty voice made you feel you had known her a long time. Antony nodded, with a defensive smile and a little shrug that hoped she wouldn’t be expecting to see something really good.