The Robe

by Lloyd C. Douglas

  Marcellus responded eagerly to his father’s elevated mood. It was almost as if the shrewd Marcus Lucan Gallio had firmly settled the unhappy affair with Gaius. He opened the door for the Senator to precede him. In the atrium, leaning against a column, lounged Demetrius. Coming smartly to attention he saluted with his spear and followed a few paces behind the two men as they strolled through the vasty rooms and out to the spacious western portico.

  ‘Rather unusual for Demetrius to be loitering in the atrium,’ remarked Marcellus in a guarded undertone.

  ‘Perhaps he was standing there,’ surmised Gallio, ‘to discourage anyone else from loitering by the door.’

  ‘Do you think he may have had a special reason for taking that precaution?’

  ‘Possibly. He was with you at the banquet; knows that you gave offense to Gaius; concludes that you are in disfavor; and, by adding it all up, thinks it is time to be vigilant.’

  ‘Shall I ask him if he suspects that there are spies in the house?’ suggested Marcellus.

  Gallio shook his head.

  ‘If he observes anything irregular, he will tell you, my son.’

  ‘I wonder who this is coming.’ Marcellus nodded toward a uniformed Equestrian Knight who had just turned in from the Via Aurelia. ‘We’re to be honored,’ he growled. ‘It is Quintus, the younger Tuscus. The Prince has been seeing much of him lately, 1 hear.’

  The youthful Tribune, followed by a well-mounted aide, rode briskly toward them; and, neglecting to salute, drew a gilded scroll from the belt of his tunic.

  ‘I am ordered by His Highness, Prince Gaius, to deliver this message into the hands of Tribune Marcellus Lucan Gallio,’ he barked, haughtily. The aide, who had dismounted, carried the scroll up the steps and handed it over.

  ‘His Highness might do well to employ messengers with better manners,’ drawled Marcellus. ‘Are you to await an answer?’

  ‘Imperial commands require obedience; not replies!’ shouted Quintus. He pulled his horse about savagely, dug in his spurs, and made off, pursued by his obsequious aide.

  ‘Gaius is prompt,’ commented the Senator. There was satisfaction on his face as he watched his son’s steady hands, and the cool deliberateness with which he drew his dagger and thrust the point of it through the wax. Unrolling the ostentatious document, Marcellus held it at an angle where his father might share its contents. Gallio read it aloud, in a rasping undertone.

  Prince Gaius Drusus Agrippa to Trib. Marcellus Lucan Gallio:

  Greeting:

  The courage of a Military Tribune should not be squandered in banquet-halls. It should be serving the Empire in positions where reckless audacity is honorable and valorous. Tribune Marcellus Lucan Gallio is commanded to report, before sunset, at the Practorium of Chief Legate M. Cornelius Capito, and receive his commission.

  Marcellus rolled up the scroll, tossed it negligently to Demetrius, who thrust it into the breast of his tunic; and, turning to his father, remarked, ‘We have plenty of time to go out and see Ismael’s horses.’

  The Senator proudly drew himself erect, gave his son a respectful bow, strutted down the marble steps; and, taking the bridle reins, mounted his mettlesome black gelding. Marcellus beckoned to Demetrius.

  ‘You heard that message?’ he queried, abruptly.

  ‘Not if it was private, sir,’ countered Demetrius.

  ‘Sounds a bit malicious,’ observed Marcellus. ‘The Prince evidently wishes to dispose of me.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ agreed Demetrius.

  ‘Well—I brought this upon myself,’ said Marcellus. ‘I shall not order you to risk your life. You are at liberty to decide whether—’

  ‘I shall go with you, sir.’

  ‘Very good. Inspect my equipment—and look over your own tackle, too.’ Marcellus started down the steps, and turned to say, soberly, ‘You’re going to your death, you know.’

  ‘Yes, sir,' said Demetrius. ‘You will need some heavier sandals, sir. Shall I get them?’

  ‘Yes—and several pairs for yourself. Ask Marcipor for the money.’

  After a lively tussle with the bay, who was impatient to overtake her stable-mate, Marcellus drew up beside the Senator, and they slowed their horses to a trot.

  ‘I tarried for a word with Demetrius. I shall take him with me.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I told him he might decide.’

  ‘That was quite proper.’

  ‘I told him he might never come back alive.’

  ‘Probably not,' said the Senator, grimly, ‘but you can be assured that he will never come back alone.’

  ‘Demetrius is a very sound fellow—for a slave,’ observed Marcellus.

  The Senator made no immediate rejoinder, but his stern face and flexed jaw indicated that his reflections were weighty.

  ‘My son,' he said at length, staring moodily down the road, ‘we could use a few men in the Roman Senate with the brains and bravery of your slave, Demetrius.' He pulled his horse down to a walk. ‘ “Demetrius is a sound fellow—for a slave”; ch? Well—his being a slave does not mean that what he thinks, what he says, and what he does are unimportant. One of these days the slaves are going to take over this rotted Government! They could do it tomorrow if they were organized. You might say that their common desire for liberty should unite them, but that is not enough. All men want more liberty than they have. What the Roman slaves lack is leadership. In time, that will come. You shall see!’ The Senator paused so long, after this amazing declaration, that Marcellus felt some response was in order.

  ‘I never heard you express that opnion before, sir. Do you think there will be an uprising—among the slaves?’

  ‘It lacks form,’ replied Gallio. ‘It lacks cohesion. But some day it will take shape; it will be integrated; it will develop a leader, a cause, a slogan, a banner. Three-fourths of this city’s inhabitants either have been or are slaves. Daily our expeditionary forces arrive with new shiploads of them. It would require a very shrewd and powerful Government to keep in subjugation a force three times its size and strength. But—look at our Government! A mere hollow shell! It has no moral fiber! Content with its luxury, indolence, and profligacy, its extravagant pageants in honor of its silly gods; ruled by an insane dotard and a drunken nonentity’! So, my son, Rome is doomed! I do not venture to predict when or how Nemesis will arrive—but it is on its way. The Roman Empire is too weak and wicked to survive!’

  Chapter II

  CORNELIUS CAPITO was not in when Marcellus called at three to learn what Gaius had planned for him. This was surprising and a bit ominous too. The conspicuous absence of the Chief Legate, and his deputizing of a young understrapper to handle the case, clearly meant that Capito had no relish for an unpleasant interview with the son of his lifelong friend.

  The Gallios had walked their horses for the last two miles of the journey in from Ismael’s camp where the Senator had declined to purchase the Hispanian mares at the exorbitant price demanded by the avaricious old Syrian, though it was plain to see that the day’s events had dulled his interest in the negotiation.

  The Senator’s mind was fully occupied now with speculations about Cornelius. If anybody in Rome could temper the punitive assignment which Gaius intended for his son, it would be the Commander of the Praetorian Guard and Chief of the Legates who wielded an enormous power in the making of appointments.

  Slipping into a reminiscent—and candidly pessimistic—mood, the elder Gallio had recited the deplorable story they both knew by heart, the dismal epic of the Praetorian Guard. Marcellus had been brought up on it. As if his son had never heard the tale before, the Senator began away back in the time when Julius Caesar had created this organization for his own security. Picked men they were, with notable records for daring deeds. As the years rolled on, the traditions of the Praetorian Guard became richer. A magnificent armory was built to house its battle trophies, and in its spacious atrium were erected bronze and marble tablets certifying to the memorable careers of
its heroes. To be a member of the Praetorian Guard in those great—long since outmoded—days when courage and integrity were valuable property, was the highest honor the Empire could bestow.

  Then, Gallio had continued gloomily, Augustus—whose vanity had swollen into a monstrous, stinking, cancerous growth—had begun to confer honorary memberships upon his favorites; upon Senators who slavishly approved his mistakes and weren’t above softening the royal sandal-straps with their saliva; upon certain rich men who had fattened on manipulations in foreign loot; upon wealthy slave-brokcrs, dealers in stolen sculpture; upon provincial revenue-collectors; upon almost anybody indeed who could minister to the diseased Augustan ego, or pour ointment on his itching avarice. And thus had passed away the glory and distinction of the Praetorian Guard. Its memberships were for sale.

  For a little while, Tiberius had tried to arrest its accelerating descent into hell. Cornelius Capito, who had so often led his legion into suicidal forays that a legend had taken shape about him—for were not the gods directing a man whose life was so cheaply held and so miraculously preserved?—was summoned home to be Commander of the Praetorian Guard. Capito had not wanted the office, but had obeyed the command. With the same kind of recklessness that had won him honors on many a battle-field, he had begun to clcan up the discredited institution. But it hadn’t been long until hard pressure on Tiberius made it necessary for the Emperor to caution the uncompromising warrior about his honest zeal. He mustn’t go too far in this business of cleansing the Praetorian Guard.

  ‘It was then,’ declaimed Gallio, ‘that brave old Capito discovered, to his dismay, why Tiberius had called him to be the Commander; simply to use his name as a deodorant!’

  Marcellus had realized, at this juncture of his father’s painful reflections, that the remainder of the story would be somewhat embarrassing; for it concerned the Military Tribunes.

  ‘If Augustus had only been content’—the Senator was proceeding according to schedule—‘with his destruction of the Praetorian Guard! Perhaps, had he foreseen the result of his policy there, not even his rapacious greed could have induced him to work the same havoc with the Order of Tribunes. But you know what happened, my son.’

  Yes—Marcellus knew. The Order of Tribunes had been honorable too. You had to be a Tribune, in deed and in truth, if you wanted to wear its insignia. Like the Praetorian Guard, it too was handsomely quartered. Tribunes, home on furlough or recovering from injuries or awaiting orders, took advantage of the library, the baths, the commissary that the Empire had provided for them. Then Augustus had decided to expand the Order of Tribunes to include all sons of Senators and influential taxpayers. You needn’t ever have shouted an order or spent a night in a tent. If your father had enough money and political weight, you could wear the uniform and receive the salute.

  Marcellus liked to think that his own case was not quite so indefensible as most of them. He had not been a mere playboy. At the Academy he had given his full devotion to the history of military campaigns, strategy, and tactics. He was an accomplished athlete, expert with the javelin, a winner of many prizes for marksmanship with the bow. He handled a dueling sword with the skill of a professional gladiator.

  Nor had his recreations been profitless. Aristocratic youths, eligible to the hierarchy of public offices, disdained any actual practice of the fine arts. They affected to be critics and connoisseurs of painting and sculpture, but would have experienced much embarrassment had they been caught with a brush or chisel in hand. Independent of this taboo, Marcellus had taken a serious interest in sculpture, much to the delight of his father, who—upon observing that he had a natural genius for it—had provided him with competent tutors.

  But—sometimes he had been appropriately sensitive about his status as a Military Tribune when, as happened infrequently, some real Tribune showed up at the ornate clubhouse, bronzed and battered and bandaged, after grueling months on active duty.

  However—Marcellus said to himself—it wasn’t as if he had no qualifications for military service. He was abundantly prepared to accept a commission if required to do so. Occasionally he had wished that an opportunity for such service might arise. He had never been asked to take a command. And a man would be a fool, indeed, to seek a commission. War was a swinish business, intended for bullies who liked to strut their medals and yell obscenities at their inferiors and go for weeks without a bath. He could do all this if he had to. He didn’t have to; but he had never been honestly proud of his title. Sometimes when Decimus addressed him as ‘Tribune’—which was the surly fellow’s custom on such occasions as serving him his late breakfast in bed—Marcellus was tempted to slap him, and he would have done so had he a better case.

  They had ridden in silence for a little time, after the Senator had aired his favorite grievances.

  ‘Once in a while,’ continued Gallio, meditatively, ‘crusty Capito—like blind Samson of the Hebrew myth—rouses to have his way. I am hopeful that he may intervene in your behalf, my son. If it is an honorable post, we will not lament even though it involves peril. I am prepared to hand you over to danger—but not to disgrace. I cannot believe that my trusted friend will fail to do his utmost for you, today. I bid you to approach him with that expectation!’

  His father had seemed so confident of this outcome that the remainder of their ride had been almost enjoyable. Assured that the gruff but loyal old warrior, who had helped him into his first white toga, would see to it that no indignities were practiced on him by a petulant and vengeful Prince, Marcellus set off light-heartedly to the impressive headquarters of the Chief Legate.

  Accompanied by Demetrius, who was himself a striking figure in the saddle, he rode through the increasingly crowded streets on the way to the huge circular plaza, around half of which were grouped the impressive marble buildings serving the Praetorian Guard and ranking officials of the army. To the left stretched a vast parade-ground, now literally filled with loaded camel caravans and hundreds of pack-asses.

  An expedition was mobilizing, ready for departure on the long trip to Gaul. The plaza was a stirring scene! Banners fluttered. The young officers were smart in their field uniforms. The legionaries were alert, spirited, apparently eager to be on their way. Maybe an experience of this sort would be stimulating, thought Marcellus.

  Unable to ride into the plaza, because of the congestion, they dismounted in the street, Marcellus handing his reins to Demetrius, and proceeding through the narrow lane toward the Practorium. The broad corridors were filled with Centurions awaiting orders. Many of them he knew. They smiled recognition and saluted. Perhaps they surmised that he was here on some such business as their own, and it gave him a little thrill of pride. You could think what you liked about the brutishness and griminess of war, it was no small honor to be a Roman soldier—whatever your rank! He shouldered his way to the open door leading into Capito’s offices.

  ‘The Commander is not in,’ rasped the busy deputy. ‘He ordered me to deliver this commission to you.’

  Marcellus took the heavily sealed scroll from the fellow’s hand, hesitated a moment, half-inclined to inquire whether Capito expected to return presently, decided against it; turned, and went out, down the broad steps and across the densely packed plaza. Demetrius, seeing him coming, led the horses forward and handed his master the bay mare’s bridle-reins. Their eyes met. After all, thought Marcellus, Demetrius had a right to know where we stood in this business.

  ‘I have not opened it yet,’ he said, tapping the scroll. ‘Let us go home.’

  ***

  The Senator was waiting for him in the library.

  ‘Well—what did our friend Capito have for you?’ he asked, making no attempt to disguise his uneasiness.

  ‘He was not there. A deputy served me.’ Marcellus laid the scroll on the desk and sat down to wait while his father impatiently thrust his knife through the heavy seals. For what seemed a very long time the narrowed eyes raced the length of the pompous manifesto. Then Gallio cleared
his throat, and faced his son with troubled eyes.

  ‘You are ordered to take command of the garrison at Minoa,’ he muttered.

  ‘Where’s Minoa?’

  ‘Minoa is a villainously dirty little port city in southern Palestine.’

  ‘I never heard of it,’ said Marcellus. 'I know about our forts at Caesarea and Joppa; but—what have we at this Minoa?’

  ‘It is the point of departure for the old trail that leads to the Dead Sea. Most of our salt comes from there, as you probably know. The duty of our garrison at Minoa is to make that road safe for our caravans.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound like a very interesting job,’ commented Marcellus. ‘I was anticipating something dangerous.’

  ‘Well—you will not be disappointed. It is dangerous enough. The Bedouins who menace that salt trail are notoriously brutal savages. But because they are independent gangs of bandits, with hideouts in that rocky desert region, we have never undertaken a campaign to crush them. It would have required five legions.’ The Senator was speaking as if he were very well informed about Minoa, and Marcellus was listening with full attention.

  ‘You mean these desert brigands steal the salt from our caravans?’

  ‘No—not the salt. They plunder the caravans on the way in, for they have to carry supplies and money to hire laborers at the salt deposits. Many of the caravans that set out over that trail are never heard from again. But that isn’t quite all,’ the Senator continued. ‘We have not been wasting very good men in the fort at Minoa. The garrison is composed of a tough lot of rascals. More than half of them were once commissioned officers who, for rank insubordination or other irregularities, are in disfavor with the Government. The lesser half is made up of an assortment of brawlers whose politics bred discontent.’