The Robe

by Lloyd C. Douglas

  ‘I thought the Empire had a more prompt and less expensive method of dealing with objectionable people.’

  ‘There are some cases,’ explained the Senator, ‘in which a public trial or a private assassination might stir up a protest. In these instances, it is as effective—and more practical—to send the offender to Minoa.’

  ‘Why, sir—this is equivalent to exile! Marcellus rose, bent forward over his father’s desk, and leaned his weight on his white-knuckled fists. ‘Do you know anything more about this dreadful place?’

  Gallio slowly nodded his head.

  ‘I know all about it, my son. For many years, one of my special duties in the Senate—together with four of my colleagues—has been the supervision of that fort.’ He paused, and began slowly rising to his feet, his deep-lined face livid with anger. ‘I believe that was why Gaius Drusus Agrippa—’ The Senator savagely ground the hated name to bits with his teeth. ‘He planned this for my son—because he knew—that I would know—what you were going into.’ Raising his arms high, and shaking his fists in rage, Gallio shouted, ‘Now I would that I were religious!s I would beseech some god to damn his soul!’

  ***

  Cornelia Vipsania Gallio, who always slightly accented her middle name—though she was only a stepdaughter to the divorced spouse of Emperor Tiberius—might have been socially important had she made the necessary effort.

  If mere wishing on Cornelia’s part could have induced her husband to ingratiate himself with the Crown, Marcus Lucan Gallio could have belonged to the inner circle, and any favor he desired for himself or his family might have been granted; or if Cornelia herself had gone to the bother of fawning upon the insufferable old Julia, the Gallio household might have reached that happy elevation by this shorter route. But Cornelia lacked the necessary energy.

  She was an exquisite creature, even in her middle forties; a person of considerable culture, a gracious hostess, an affectionate wife, an indulgent mother, and probably the laziest woman in the whole Roman Empire. It was said that sometimes slaves would serve the Gallio establishment for months before discovering that their mistress was not an invalid.

  Cornelia had her breakfast in bed at noon, lounged in her rooms or in the sunny garden all afternoon, drowsed over the classics, apathetically swept her slim fingers across the strings of her pandura; and was waited on, hand and foot, by everybody in the house. And everybody loved her, too, for she was kind and easy to please. Moreover, she never gave orders—except for her personal comfort. The slaves—under the competent and loyal supervision of Marcipor; and the diligent, if somewhat surly, dictatorship of Decimus in the culinary department—managed the institution unaided by her counsel and untroubled by her criticism. She was by nature an optimist, possibly because fretting was laborious. On rare occasions, she was briefly baffled by unhappy events, and at such times she wept quietly—and recovered.

  Yesterday, however, something had seriously disturbed her habitual tranquillity. The Senator had made a speech. Paula Gallus, calling in the late afternoon, had told her. Paula had been considerably upset.

  Cornelia was not surprised by the report that her famous husband was pessimistic in regard to the current administration of Roman government, for he was accustomed to walking the floor of her bedchamber while delivering opinions of this nature; but she was shocked to learn that Marcus had given the Senate the full benefit of his accumulated dissatisfactions. Cornelia had no need to ask Paula why she was so concerned. Paula didn’t want Senator Gallio to get himself into trouble with the Crown. In the first place, it would be awkward for Diana to continue her close friendship with Lucia if the latter’s eminent parent persisted in baiting Prince Gaius. And, too, was there not a long-standing conspiracy between Paula and Cornelia to encourage an alliance of their houses whenever Diana and Marcellus should become romantically aware of each other?

  Paula had not hinted at these considerations when informing Cornelia that the Senator was cutting an impressive figure on some pretty thin ice, but she had gone so far as to remind her long-time friend that Prince Gaius—while notably unskillful at everything else—was amazingly resourceful and ingenious when it came to devising reprisals for his critics.

  ‘But what can I do about it?’ Cornelia had moaned languidly. ‘Surely you’re not hoping that I will rebuke him. My husband would not like to have people telling him what he may say in the Senate.’

  ‘Not even his wife?’ Paula arched her patrician brows.

  ‘Especially his wife,’ rejoined Cornelia. ‘We have a tacit understanding that Marcus is to attend to his profession without my assistance. My responsibility is to manage his home.’

  Paula had grinned dryly; and, shortly after, had taken her departure, leaving behind her a distressing dilemma. Cornelia wished that the Senator could be a little less candid. He was such an amiable man when he wanted to be. Of course, Gaius was a waster and a fool; but—after all—he was the Prince Regent, and you didn’t have to call him names in public assemblies. First thing you knew, they’d all be blacklisted. Paula Gallus was far too prudent to let Diana become involved in their scrapes. If the situation became serious, they wouldn’t be seeing much more of Diana. That would be a great grief to Lucia. And it might affect the future of Marcellus, too. It was precious little attention he had paid to the high-spirited young Diana, but Cornelia was still hopeful.

  Sometimes she worried, for a moment or two, about Marcellus. One of her most enjoyable dreams posed her son on a beautiful white horse, leading a victorius army through the streets, dignifiedly acknowledging the plaudits of a multitude no man could number. To be sure, you didn’t head that sort of parade unless you had risked some perils; but Marcellus had never been a coward. All he needed was a chance to show what kind of stuff he was made of. He would probably never get that chance now. Cornelia cried bitterly; and because there was no one else to talk to about it, she bared her heart to Lucia. And Lucia, shocked by her mother’s unprecedented display of emotion, had tried to console her.

  But today, Cornelia had quite disposed of her anxiety; not because the reason for it had been in any way relieved, but because she was temperamentally incapable of concentrating diligently upon anything—not even upon a threatened catastrophe.

  ***

  About four o’clock (Cornelia was in her luxurious sitting-room, gently combing her shaggy terrier) the Senator entered and without speaking dropped wearily into a chair, frowning darkly.

  ‘Tired?’ asked Cornelia, tenderly. ‘Of course you are. That long ride. And you were disappointed with the Hispanian horses, I think. What was the matter with them?’

  ‘Marcellus has been ordered into service,’ growled Gallio, abruptly.

  Cornelia pushed the dog off her lap and leaned forward interestedly.

  ‘But that is as it should be, don’t you think? We had expected that it might happen some day. Perhaps we should be glad. Will it take him far away?’

  ‘Yes.’ The Senator nodded impressively. ‘Far away. He has been ordered to command the fort at Minoa.’

  ‘Command! How very nice for him! Minoa! Our son is to be the commander—of the Roman fort—at Minoa! We shall be proud!’

  ‘No!’ Gallio shook his white head. ‘No!’ We shall not be proud! Minoa, my dear, is where we send men to be well rid of them. They have little to do there but quarrel. They are a mob of mutinous cut-throats. We frequently have to appoint a new commander.’ He paused for a long, moody moment. ‘This time the Senate Committee on affairs at Minoa was not consulted about the appointment. Our son had his orders directly from Gaius.’

  This was too much even for the well-balanced Cornelia. She broke into a storm of weeping; noisily hysterical weeping; her fingers digging frantically into the glossy black hair that had tumbled about her shapely shoulders; moaning painful and incoherent reproaches that gradually became intelligible. Racked with sobs, Cornelia amazed them both by crying out, ‘Why did you do it, Marcus? Oh—why did you have to bring this tragedy
upon our son? Was it so important that you should denounce Gaius—at such a cost to Marcellus—and all of us? Oh—I wish I could have died before this day!’

  Gallio bowed his head in his hands and made no effort to share the blame with Marcellus. His son was in plenty of trouble without the added burden of a rebuke from his overwrought mother.

  ‘Where is he?’ she asked, thickly, trying to compose herself. ‘I must see him.’

  ‘Packing his kit, I think,’ muttered Gallio. ‘He is ordered to leave at once. A galley will take him to Ostia where a ship sails tomorrow.’

  ‘A ship? What ship? If he must go, why cannot he travel in a manner consistent with his rank? Surely he can charter or buy a vessel, and sail in comfort as becomes a Tribune.’

  ‘There is no time for that, my dear. They are leaving tonight.’

  ‘They? Marcellus—and who else?’

  “Demetrius.’

  ‘Well—the gods be thanked for that much!’ Cornelia broke out again into tempestuous weeping. ‘Why doesn’t Marcellus come to see me?’ she sobbed.

  ‘He will, in a little while,’ said Gallio. ‘He wanted me to tell you about it first. And I hope you will meet him in the spirit of a courageous Roman matron.’ The Senator’s tone was almost severe now. ‘Our son ha; received some very unhappy tidings. He is bearing them manfully, calmly, according to our best traditions. But I do not think he could bear to see his mother destroy herself in his presence.’

  ‘Destroy myself!’ Cornelia, stunned by the words, faced him with anguished eyes. ‘You know I could never do a thing like that—no matter what happened to us!’

  ‘One does not have to swallow poison or hug a dagger, my dear, to commit suicide. One can kill oneself and remain alive physically.’ Gallio rose, took her hand, and drew Cornelia to her feet. ‘Dry your tears now, my love,’ he said gently. ‘When Marcellus comes, let him continue to be proud of you. There may be some trying days ahead for our son. Perhaps the memory of an intrepid mother will rearm him when he is low in spirit.’

  ‘I shall try, Marcus.’ Cornelia clung to him hungrily. It had been a long time since they had needed each other so urgently.

  ***

  After Marcellus had spent a half-hour alone with his mother—an ordeal he had dreaded—his next engagement was with his sister. Father had informed Lucia, and she had sent word by Tertia that she would be waiting for him in the pergola whenever it was convenient for him to come.

  But first he must return to his rooms with the silk pillow his mother had insisted on giving him. It would be one more thing for Demetrius to add to their already cumbersome impedimenta, but it seemed heartless to refuse the present, particularly in view of the fine fortitude with which she had accepted their mutual misfortune. She had been tearful, but there had been no painful break-up of her emotional discipline.

  Marcellus found the luggage packed and strapped for the journey, but Demetrius was nowhere to be found. Marcipor, who had appeared in the doorway to see if he might be of service, was queried; and replied, with some reluctance and obvious perplexity, that he had seen Demetrius on his horse, galloping furiously down the driveway, fully an hour ago. Marcellus accepted this information without betraying his amazement. It was quite possible that the Greek had belatedly discovered the lack of some equipment necessary to their trip, and had set off for it minus the permission to do so. It was inconceivable that Demetrius would take advantage of this opportunity to make a dash for freedom. No, decided Marcellus, it wouldn’t be that. But the incident needed explanation, for if Demetrius had gone for additional supplies he would not have strapped the luggage until his return.

  Lucia was leaning against the balustrade, gazing toward the Tiber where little sails reflected final flashes of almost horizontal sunshine, and galleys moved so sluggishly they would have seemed not to be in motion at all but for the rhythmic dip of the long oars. One galley, a little larger than the others, was headed toward a wharf. Lucia cupped her hands about her eyes and was so intent upon the sinister black hulk that she did not hear Marcellus coming.

  He joined her without words, and circled her girlish waist tenderly. She slipped her arm about him, but did not turn her head.

  ‘Might that be your galley?’ she asked, pointing. ‘It has three banks, I think, and a very high prow. Isn’t that the kind that meets ships at Ostia?’

  ‘That’s the kind,’ agreed Marcellus, pleased that the conversation promised to be dispassionate. ‘Perhaps that is the boat.’

  Lucia slowly turned about in his arms and affectionately patted his cheeks with her soft palms. She looked up, smiling resolutely, her lips quivering a little; but she was doing very well, her brother thought. He hoped his eyes were assuring her of his approval.

  ‘I am so glad you are taking Demetrius,’ she said, steadily. ‘He wanted to go?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Marcellus, adding after a pause, Yes—he quite wanted to go.’ They stood in silence for a little while, her fingers gently toying with the knotted silk cord at the throat of his tunic.

  ‘All packed up?’ Lucia was certainly doing a good job, they both felt. Her voice was well under control.

  ‘Yes.’ Marcellus nodded with a smile that meant everything was proceeding normally, just as if they were leaving on a hunting excursion. ‘Yes, dear—all ready to go.’ There was another longer interval of silence.

  ‘Of course, you don’t know—yet’—said Lucia—‘when you will be coming home.’

  ‘No,’ said Marcellus. After a momentary hesitation he added, "Not yet."

  Suddenly Lucia drew a long, agonized ‘Oh!’—wrapped her arms tightly around her brother’s neck, buried her face against his breast, and shook with stifled sobs. Marcellus held her trembling body close.

  ‘No, no,’ he whispered. ‘Let’s see it through, precious child. It’s not easy; but—well—we must behave like Romans, you know.’

  Lucia stiffened, flung back her head, and faced him with streaming eyes aflame with anger.

  ‘Like Romans!’ she mocked. ‘Behave like Romans! And what does a Roman ever get for being brave—and pretending it is fine—and noble—to give up everything—and make-believe it is glorious—glorious to suffer—and die—for Rome! For Rome! I hate Rome! Look what Rome has done to you—and all of us! Why can’t we live in peace? The Roman Empire—Bah! What is the Roman Empire? A great swarm of slaves! I don’t mean slaves like Tertia and Demetrius; I mean slaves like you and me—all our lives bowing and scraping and flattering; our legions looting and murdering—and for what? To make Rome the capital of the world, they say! But why should the whole world be ruled by a lunatic like old Tiberius and a drunken bully like Gaius? I hate Rome! I hate it all!’

  Marcellus made no effort to arrest the torrent, thinking it more practical to let his sister wear her passion out—and have done with it. She hung limp in his arms now, her heart pounding hard.

  ‘Feel better?’ he asked, sympathetically. She slowly nodded against his breast. Instinctively glancing about, Marcellus saw Demetrius standing a few yards away with his face averted from them. ‘I must see what he wants,’ he murmured, relaxing his embrace. Lucia slipped from his arms and stared again at the river, unwilling to let the imperturbable Greek see her so nearly broken.

  ‘The daughter of Legate Gallus is here, sir,’ announced Demetrius.

  ‘I can’t see Diana now, Marcellus,’ put in Lucia, thickly. ‘I’ll go down through the gardens, and you talk to her.’ She raised her voice a little. ‘Bring Diana to the pergola, Demetrius.’ Without waiting for her brother's approval, she walked rapidly toward the circular marble stairway that led to the arbors and the pool. Assuming that his master’s silence confirmed the order, Demetrius was setting off on his errand. Marcellus recalled him with a quiet word and he retraced his steps.

  ‘Do you suppose she knows?’ asked Marcellus, frowning.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘What makes you think so?’

  ‘The daughter of Legate Gallu
s appears to have been weeping, sir.’

  Marcellus winced and shook his head.

  ‘I hardly know what to say to her,’ he confided, mostly to himself, a dilemma that Demetrius made no attempt to solve. ‘But’—Marcellus sighed—‘I suppose I must see her.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Demetrius, departing on his errand.

  Turning toward the balustrade, Marcellus watched his sister’s dejected figure moving slowly through the arbors, and his heart was suffused with pity. He had never seen Lucia so forlorn and undone. It was not much wonder if she had a reluctance to meet Diana in her present state of collapse. Something told him that this impending interview with Diana was likely to be difficult. He had not often been alone with her, even for a moment. This time they would not only be alone, but in circumstances extremely trying. He was uncertain what altitude he should take toward her.

  She was coming now, out through the peristyle, walking with her usual effortless grace, but lacking animation. It was unlike Demetrius to send a guest to the pergola unattended, even though well aware that Diana knew the way. Damn Demetrius!—he was behaving very strangely this afternoon. Greeting Diana might be much more natural and unconstrained if he were present. Marcellus sauntered along the pavement to meet her. It was true, as Lucia had said; Diana was growing up—and she was lovelier in this pensiveness than he had ever seen her. Perhaps the bad news had taken all the adolescent bounce out of her. But, whatever might account for it, Diana had magically matured. His heart speeded a little. The elder-brotherly smile with which he was preparing to welcome her seemed inappropriate if not insincere, and as Diana neared him, his eyes were no less sober than hers.

  She gave him both hands, at his unspoken invitation, and looked up from under her long lashes, winking back the tears and trying to smile. Marcellus had never faced her like this before, and the intimate contact stirred him. As he looked deeply into her dark eyes, it was almost as if he were discovering her; aware, for the first time, of her womanly contours, her finely sculptured brows, the firm but piquant chin, and the full lips—now parted with painful anxiety—disclosing even white teeth, tensely locked.