The Robe

by Lloyd C. Douglas

  Most of the people they knew were in a constant dither about their slaves; buying and selling and exchanging. It wasn’t often that Father disposed of one; and when, rarely, he had done so, it was because the slave had mistreated another over whom he had some small authority. They had lost an excellent cook that way, about a year ago. Minna had grown crusty and cruel toward the kitchen crew, scolding them loudly and knocking them about. She had been warned a few times. Then, one day, Minna had slapped Tertia. Lucia wondered, briefly, where Minna was now. She certainly did know how to bake honey cakes.

  You had to say this for Father: he was a good judge of people. Of course, slaves weren’t people, exactly; but some of them were almost people. There was Demetrius, for example, who was at this moment marching through the colonnade with long, measured strides. Father had bought Demetrius six years ago and presented him to Marcellus on his seventeenth birthday. What a wonderful day that was, with all their good friends assembled in the Forum to see Marcellus—clean-shaven for the first time in his life—step forward to receive his white toga. Cornelius Capito and Father had made speeches, and then they had put the white toga on Marcellus. Lucia had been so proud and happy that her heart had pounded and her throat had hurt, though she was only nine then, and couldn’t know much about the ceremony except that Marcellus was expected to act like a man now—though sometimes he forgot to, when Demetrius wasn’t about.

  Lucia pursed her full lips and grinned as she thought of their relationship; Demetrius, two years older than Marcellus, always so seriously respectful, never relaxing for an instant from his position as a slave; Marcellus, stem and dignified, but occasionally forgetting to be the master and slipping absurdly into the rôle of intimate friend. Very funny, it was sometimes. Lucia loved to watch them together at such moments. Of course she had about the same relation to Tertia; but that seemed different.

  Demetrius had come from Corinth, where his father—a wealthy shipowner—had taken a too conspicuous part in defensive politics. Everything had happened at once in Demetrius’ family. His father had been executed, his two elder brothers had been given to the new Legate of Achaea, his patrician mother had committed suicide; and Demetrius—tall, handsome, athletic—had been brought to Rome under heavy guard, for he was not only valuable but violent.

  Lucia remembered when, a week before Marcellus’ coming of age, she had heard Father telling Mother about his purchase of the Corinthian slave, only an hour earlier. She had been much impressed—and a little frightened, too.

  ‘He will require careful handling for a while,’ Father was saying. ‘He has seen some rough treatment. His keeper told me I had better sleep with a dagger under my pillow until the Corinthian cooled down. It seems he had badly beaten up one of his guards. Ordinarily, of course, they would have dealt with him briefly and decisively; but they were under orders to deliver him uninjured. They were quite relieved to get him off their hands.’

  ‘But is this not dangerous?’ Mother had inquired anxiously. ‘What might he not do to our son?’

  ‘That,’ Father had replied, ‘will be up to Marcellus. He will have to win the fellow’s loyalty. And he can do it, I think. All that Demetrius needs is an assurance of fair play. He will not expect to be petted. He is a slave, and he knows it—and hates it; but he will respond to decent discipline.’ And then Father had gone on to say that after he had paid the money and signed the documents, he had himself led Demetrius out of the narrow cell; and, when they were in the open plaza, had unlocked his chains; very carefully, too, for his wrists were raw and bleeding. ‘Then I walked on ahead of him,’ Father had continued, ‘without turning to see whether he was following me. Aulus had driven me down and was waiting in the chariot at the Appian Gate, a few yards away. I had planned to bring the Corinthian back with me. But, as we neared the chariot, I decided to give him instructions about how to reach our villa on foot.’

  ‘Alone?’ Mother had exclaimed. ‘Was that not very risky?’

  ‘Yes,’ Father had agreed, ‘but not quite so risky as to have brought him here as a shackled prisoner. He was free to run away. I wanted him to be in a position to decide whether he would rather take a chance with us than gamble on some other fate. I could see that my gestures of confidence had surprised and mellowed him a little. He said—in beautiful Greek, for he had been well educated, “What shall I do, sir, when I arrive at your villa?” I told him to inquire for Marcipor, who would advise him. He nodded, and stood fumbling with the rusty chains that I had loosed from his hands. “Throw them away,” I said. Then I mounted the chariot, and drove home.’

  ‘I wonder if you will ever see him again,’ Mother had said; and, in answer to her question, Marcipor appeared in the doorway.

  ‘A young Corinthian has arrived, Master,’ said Marcipor, a Corinthian himself. ‘He says he belongs to us.’

  ‘That is true,’ Father said, pleased with the news. ‘I bought him this morning. He will attend my son, though Marcellus is to know nothing of this for the present. Feed him well. And provide him with a bath and clean clothing. He has been imprisoned for a long time.’

  ‘The Greek has already bathed, Master,’ replied Macipor.

  ‘Quite right,’ approved Father. ‘That was thoughtful of you.’

  ‘I had not yet thought of it,’ admitted Marcipor. ‘I was in the sunken garden, supervising the building of the new rose arbor, when this Greek appeared. Having told me his name, and that he belonged here, he caught sight of the pool—’

  ‘You mean’—expostulated Mother—‘that he dared to use our pool?’

  ‘I am sorry,’ Marcipor replied. ‘It happened so quickly I was unable to thwart it. The Greek ran swiftly, tossing aside his garments, and dived in. I regret the incident. The pool will be drained immediately, and thoroughly cleansed.’

  ‘Very good, Marcipor,’ said Father. ‘And do not rebuke him; though he should be advised not to do that again.’ And Father had laughed, after Marcipor had left the room. Mother said, ‘The fellow should have known better than that.’ ‘Doubtless he did,’ Father had replied. ‘But I cannot blame him. He must have been immensely dirty. The sight of that much water probably drove him temporarily insane.’

  One could be sure, reflected Lucia, that Marcipor hadn’t been too hard on poor Demetrius; for, from that day, he had treated him as if he were his own son. Indeed, the attachment was so close that slaves more recently acquired often asked if Marcipor and Demetrius were not somehow related.

  ***

  Demetrius had reappeared from the house now, and was advancing over the tiled pavement on his way to the pergola. Lucia wondered what errand was bringing him. Presently he was standing before her, waiting for a signal to speak.

  ‘Yes, Demetrius?” she drawled.

  ‘The Tribune,’ he announced, with dignity, ‘presents his good wishes for his sister’s health and happiness, and requests that he be permitted to join her at breakfast.’

  Lucia brightened momentarily; then sobered, and replied, ‘Inform your master that his sister will be much pleased—and tell him,’ she added, in a tone somewhat less formal, ‘that breakfast will be served here in the pergola.’

  After Demetrius had bowed deeply and was turning to go, Lucia sauntered past him and proceeded along the pavement for several yards. He followed her at a discreet distance. When they were out of earshot, she paused and confronted him.

  ‘How does he happen to he up so early?’ she asked, in a tone that was neither perpendicular nor oblique, but frankly horizontal. ‘Didn’t he go to the banquet?’

  ‘The Tribune attended the banquet,’ replied Demetrius, respectfully. ‘It is of that, perhaps, that he is impatient to speak.’

  ‘Now don’t tell me that he got into some sort of mess, Demetrius.’ She tried to invade his eyes, but the bridge was up.

  ‘If so,’ he replied, prudently, ‘the Tribune may wish to report it without the assistance of his slave. Shall I go now?’

  ‘You were there, of course, at
tending my brother,’ pursued Lucia. And when Demetrius bowed an affirmative, she asked, ‘Was Prince Gaius there?’ Demetrius bowed again, and she went on, uncertainly, ‘Did you—was he—had you an opportunity to notice whether the Prince was in good humor?’

  ‘Very,’ replied Demetrius—‘until he went to sleep.’

  ‘Drunk?’ Lucia wrinkled her nose.

  ‘It is possible,’ deliberated Demetrius, ‘but it is not for me to say.’

  ‘Did the Prince seem friendly—toward my brother?’ persisted Lucia.

  ‘No more than usual.’ Demetrius shifted his weight and glanced toward the house.

  Lucia sighed significantly, shook her black curls, and pouted.

  ‘You can be very trying sometimes, Demetrius.’

  ‘I know,’ lie admitted ruefully. ‘May I go now? My master—’

  ‘By all means!’ snapped Lucia. ‘And swiftly!’ She turned and marched back with dipped steps to the pergola. Something had gone wrong last night, or Demetrius wouldn't have taken that frozen attitude.

  Decimus, whose instinct advised him that his young mistress was displeased, retreated to a safe distance. The twins, who had now finished laying the table, were standing side by side awaiting orders. Lucia advanced on them.

  ‘What are you called?’ she demanded, her tone still laced with annoyance.

  ‘I am Helen,’ squeaked one of them, nervously. ‘My sister is Nesta.’

  ‘Can’t she talk?’

  ‘Please—she is frightened.’

  Their long-lashed eyes widened with apprehension as Lucia drew closer, but they did not flinch. Cupping her hands softly under their round chins, she drew up their faces, smiled a little, and said, ‘Don’t be afraid. I won’t bite you.’ Then—as if caressing a doll—she toyed with the tight little curls that had escaped from Helen’s cap. Turning to Nesta, she untied and painstakingly retied her broad sash. Both girls’ eyes were swimming. Nesta stopped a big tear with the back of her hand.

  ‘Now, now,’ soothed Lucia, ‘don’t cry. No one is going to hurt you here.’ She impulsively abandoned the lullaby, drew herself erect, and declared proudly: ‘You belong to Senator Marcus Lucan Gallio! He paid a great price for you—because you are valuable; and—because you are valuable—you will not be mistreated.... Dccimus’—she called, over her shoulder—‘see that these pretty children have new tunics; white ones—with coral trimmings.’ She picked up their hands, one by one, and examined them critically. ‘Clean,’ she remarked, half aloud—‘and beautiful, too. That is good.’ Facing Decimus, she said: ‘You may go now. Take the twins. Have them bring the food. My brother will have breakfast with me here. You need not come back.’

  Lucia had never liked Decimus very well; not that there was any particular ground for complaint, for he was a perfect servant; almost too deferential, a chilling deference that lacked only a little of being sulkiness. It had been Lucia’s observation that imported slaves were more comfortable to live with than the natives. Decimus had been born in Rome and had been in their family for almost as long as Lucia could remember. He had a responsible position; attended to all the purchasing of supplies for their tables, personally interviewed the merchants, visited the markets, met the foreign caravans that brought spices and other exotics from afar; a very competent person indeed, who minded his own business, kept his own counsel, and carried himself with dignity. But he was a stranger.

  One never could feel toward Decimus as one did toward good old Marcipor who was always so gentle—and trustworthy too. Marcipor had managed the business affairs of the family for so long that he probably knew more about their estate than Father did.

  Decimus bowed gravely now, as Lucia dismissed him, and started toward the house, his stiff back registering disapproval of this episode that had flouted the discipline he believed in and firmly exercised. The Macedonians, their small even teeth flashing an ecstatic smile, scampered away, hand in hand, without waiting for formal permission. Lucia stopped them in their tracks with a stern command.

  ‘Come back here!’ she called severely. They obeyed with spiritless feet and stood dejectedly before her. Take it easy,’ drawled Lucia. ‘You shouldn’t romp when you’re on duty. Decimus does not like it.’

  They looked up shyly from under their long lashes, and Lucia’s lips curled into a sympathetic grin that relighted their eyes.

  ‘You may go now,’ she said, abruptly resuming a tone of command. Lounging onto the long marble seat beside the table, she watched the twins as they marched a few paces behind Decimus, their spines straight and stiff as arrows, accenting each determined step with jerks of their heads from side to side, in quite too faithful imitation of the crusty butler. Lucia chuckled. ‘The little rascals,’ she muttered. ‘They deserve to be spanked for that.’ Then she suddenly sobered and sat studiously frowning at the rhythmic flexion of her sandaled toes. Marcellus would be here in a moment. How much—if anything—should she tell her adored brother about her unpleasant experience with Gaius? But first, of course, she must discover what dreadful thing had happened last night at the Tribunes’ Banquet.

  ***

  ‘Good morning, sweet child! Marcellus tipped back his sister’s head, noisily kissed her between the eyes, and tousled her hair, while Bambo, his big black sheep-dog, snuggled his grinning muzzle under her arm and wagged amiably.

  ‘Down! Both of you!’ commanded Lucia. ‘You’re uncommonly bright this morning, Tribune Marcellus Lucan Gallio. I thought you were going to a party at the Club.’

  ‘Ah—my infant sister—but what a party!’ Marcellus gingerly touched his finely moulded, close-cropped, curly head in several ailing areas, and winced. ‘You may well be glad that you are not—and can never be—a Tribune. It was indeed a long, stormy night.’

  ‘A wet one, at any rate, to judge from your puffy eyes. Tell me about it—or as much as you can remember.’ Lucia scooped Bambo off the marble lectus with her foot, and her brother eased himself onto the seat beside her. He laughed, reminiscently, painfully.

  ‘I fear I disgraced the family. Only the dear gods know what may come of it. His Highness was too far gone to understand, but someone will be sure to tell him before the day is over.’

  Lucia leaned forward anxiously, laid a hand on his knee, and searched his cloudy eyes.

  ‘Gaius?’ she asked, in a frightened whisper. ‘What happened, Marcellus?’

  ‘A poem,’ he muttered, ‘an ode; a long, tiresome, incredibly stupid ode, wrought for the occasion by old Senator Tuscus, who, having reached that ripeness of senescence where Time and Eternity are mistaken for each other—’

  ‘Sounds as if you’d arrived there, too,’ broke in Lucia. ‘Can’t you speed it up a little?’

  ‘Don’t hurry me, impatient youth,’ sighed Marcellus. ‘I am very frail. As I was saying, this interminable ode, conceived by the ancient Tuscus to improve his rating, was read by his son Antonius, also in need of royal favor; a grandiloquent eulogy to our glorious Prince.’

  ‘He must have loved the flattery,’ observed Lucia, ‘and of course you all applauded it. You and Tullus, especially.’

  ‘I was just coming to that,’ said Marcellus, thickly. ‘For hours there had been a succession of rich foods and many beverages; also a plentitude of metal music interspersed with Greek choruses—pretty good—and an exhibition of magic—pretty bad; and some perfunctory speeches, of great length and thickness. A wrestling-match, too, I believe. The night was far advanced. Long before Antonius rose, my sister, if any man among us had been free to consult his own desire, we would all have stretched out on our comfortable couches and slept. The gallant Tullus, of whose good health you are ever unaccountably solicitous, sat across from me, frankly asleep like a little child.’

  ‘And then you had the ode,’ encouraged Lucia, crisply.

  ‘Yes—we then had the ode. And as Antonius droned on—and on—he seemed to recede farther and farther; his features became dimmer and dimmer; and the measured noise he was making sounde
d fainter and fainter, as my tortured eyes grew hotter and heavier—’

  ‘Marcellus!’ shouted Lucia. ‘In the name of every immortal god! Get on with it!’

  ‘Be calm, impetuous child. I do not think rapidly today. Never again shall I be anything but tiresome. That ode did something to me, I fear. Well—after it had been inching along for leagues and decades, I suddenly roused, pulled myself together, and gazed about upon the distinguished company. Almost everyone had peacefully passed away, except a few at the high table whose frozen smiles were held with clenched teeth; and Antonius’ insufferable young brother, Quintus, who was purple with anger. I can’t stomach that arrogant pup and he knows I despise him.’

  ‘Gaius!’ barked Lucia, in her brother’s face, so savagely that Bambo growled. ‘I want to know what you did to offend Gaius!’

  Marcellus laughed whimperingly, for it hurt; then bunt into hysterical guffaws.

  ‘If the Glorious One had been merely asleep, quietly, decently, with his fat chins on his bosom—as were his devoted subjects—your unfortunate brother might have borne it. But our Prince had allowed his head to tip far back. His mouth—by no means a thing of beauty, at best—was open. The tongue protruded unprettily and the bulbous nose twitched at each resounding inhalation. Our banquet-hall was deathly quiet, but for Antonius and Gaius, who shared the floor.’

  ‘Revolting!’ muttered Lucia.

  ‘A feeble word, my sister. You should give more heed to your diction. Well—at that fateful moment Antonius had reached the climax of his father’s ode with an apostrophe to our Prince that must have caused a storm on Mount Parnassus. Gaius was a Fountain of Knowledge! The eyes of Gaius glowed with Divine Light! When the lips of Gaius moved, Wisdom flowed and Justice smiled! ... Precious child,’ went on Marcellus, taking her hand, ‘I felt my tragic mishap coming on, not unlike an unbeatable sneeze. I suddenly burst out laughing! No—I do not mean that I chuckled furtively into my hands: I threw back my head and roared! Howled! Long, lusty yells of insane laughter!’ Reliving the experience, Marcellus went off again into an abandon of undisciplined mirth. ‘Believe me—I woke everybody up—but Gaius.’