The Robe

by Lloyd C. Douglas

  ‘Do you know what’s up?’ inquired Marcellus.

  ‘The Procurator,’ mumbled Paulus, ‘has had a bad night.’

  ‘So have you, from all appearances,’ observed Marcellus, frostily. ‘What has been going on—if it isn’t a secret?’

  ‘Pilate is in trouble.’ Paulus’ tongue was clumsy, and he chewed out his words slowly. ‘He is in trouble with everybody. He is even in trouble with good old Julian, who says that if the man is a Galilean, Capernaum should have been detailed to police the trial at Herod’s court.’

  ‘Would you be good enough to tell me what you are talking about?’ rasped Marcellus. ‘What man? What trial? Begin at the beginning, and pretend I don’t know anything about it.’

  Paulus yawned prodigiously, scrubbed his watery eyes with shaky fingers, and began to spin a long, involved yarn about last night's experiences. An imprudent carpenter from somewhere up in Galilee had been tried for disturbing the peace and exciting the people to revolt. A few days ago, he had become violent in the Temple, chasing the sacrificial animals out into the street, upsetting the money-tills, and loudly condemning the holy place as a den of robbers. ‘A true statement, no doubt,’ commented Paulus, ‘but not very polite.’

  ‘The fellow must be crazy,’ remarked Marcellus.

  Paulus pursed his swollen lips judicially and shook his head.

  ‘Something peculiar about this man,’ he muttered. ‘They arrested him last night. They’ve had him up before old Annas, who used to be the High Priest; and Caiaphas, the present High Priest; and Pilate—and Herod—and—’

  ‘You seem to know a lot about it,' broke in Marcellus.

  Paulus grinned sheepishly.

  ‘A few of us were seeing the holy city by moonlight,' he confessed. ‘Shortly after midnight we ran into this mob and tagged along. It was the only entertainment to be had. We were a bit tight, sir, if you’ll believe it.’

  ‘I believe it,' said Marcellus. ‘Go on, please, with whatever you can remember.’

  ‘Well—we went to the trials. As I have said, we were not in prime condition to understand what was going on, and most of the testimony was shrieked in Aramaic. But it was clear enough that the Temple crowd and the merchants were trying to have the man put to death.’

  ‘For what happened at the Temple?’

  ‘Yes—for that, and for going about through the country gathering up big crowds to hear him talk.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘A new religion. I was talking with one of Pilate’s legionaries who understands the language. He said this Jesus was urging the country people to adopt a religion that doesn’t have much to do with the Temple. Some of the testimony was rubbish. One fellow swore the Galilean had said that if the Temple were torn down he could put it up again in three days. Stuff like thatl Of course, all they want is a conviction. Any sort of testimony is good enough.’

  ‘Where does the matter stand now?’ asked Marcellus.

  ‘I got a plenty of it at Herod’s court, and came back before daybreak; dead on my feet. They had just decided to have another trial before Pilate, directly after breakfast. They are probably at the Insula now. Pilate will have to give them what they want—and’—Paulus hesitated, and then continued grimly—‘what they want is a crucifixion. I heard them talking about it.’

  ‘Shall we go over?’ queried Marcellus.

  ‘I’ve had enough, sir, if you’ll excuse me.’ Paulus rose with an effort and ambled uncertainly across the room. In the doorway he confronted a sentinel, garbed in the Insula uniform, who saluted stiffly.

  ‘The Procurator’s compliments,’ he barked, in a metallic tone. ‘The ranking officers and a detachment of twenty men from the Minoa Legion will attend immediately in the Procurator’s court.’ With another ceremonious salute, he backed out and strutted down the corridor without waiting for a reply.

  ‘I wonder what Pilate wants of us,’ reflected Marcellus, uneasily, searching the Centurion’s apprehensive eyes.

  ‘I think I can guess,’ growled Paulus. ‘Pilate doesn’t confer honors on Minoa. He’s going to detail us to do something too dirty and dangerous for the local troops; doesn’t want his precious legion mixed up in it. The Minoa contingent will be leaving tomorrow. If any trouble results, we will be out of reach.’ He hitched up his belt and left the room. Marcellus stood irresolute for a moment and followed, intending to ask Paulus to order out the detachment. Through the half-open door to the Centurion’s quarters, he saw him greedily gulping from an enormous cup. He strode angrily into the room.

  ‘If I were you, Paulus,’ he said, sternly, ‘I shouldn’t drink any more at present. You’ve already had much too much!’

  ‘If I were you,’ retorted Paulus, recklessly, ‘I would take as much of this as I could hold!’ He took a couple of uncertain steps toward Marcellus, and faced him with brazen audacity. ‘You’re going to crucify a man today!’ he muttered. ‘Ever see that done?’

  ‘No.’ Marcellus shook his head. ‘I don’t even know how it is done. You’ll have to tell me.’

  Paulus carefully picked his way back to the table where the grotesquely shaped wineskin sat. Refilling the big cup, he handed it, dripping, to his Commander.

  ‘I’ll show you—when we get there,’ he said, huskily. ‘Drink that! All of it! If you don't, you’ll wish you had. What we’re going to do is not a job for a sober man.’

  Marcellus, unprotesting, took the cup and drank.

  ‘It isn’t just that the thing is sickeningly cruel,’ continued Paulus. There’s something strange about this man. I’d rather not have anything to do with it!’

  ‘Afraid he’ll haunt you?’ Marcellus paused at the middle of the cup, and drew an unconvincing grin.

  ‘Well—you wait—and see what you think!’ murmured Paulus, wagging his head mysteriously. ‘The witnesses said he acted, at the Temple, as if it were his own personal property. And that didn’t sound as silly as you might think, sir. At old man Annas’ house, I’m bound if he didn’t act as if he owned the place. At Caiaphas’ palace, everybody was on trial—but this Jesus! He was the only cool man in the crowd at the Insula. He owns that, too. Pilate felt it, I think. One of the witnesses testified that Jesus had professed to be a king. Pilate leaned forward, looked him squarely in the face, and said, ‘‘Are you?” Mind, sir, Pilate didn’t ask him, ‘‘Did you say you were a king?” He said, “Are you?” And he wasn’t trying to be sarcastic, either.’

  ‘But that’s nonsense, Paulus! Your wine-soaked imagination was playing tricks on you!’ Marcellus walked across the table and poured himself another cupful. ‘You get out the troops,’ he ordered, resolutely. ‘I hope you'll be able to stand straight, over at the Insula. You’re definitely drunk, you know.’ He took another long drink, and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘So—what did the Galilean say to that—when Pilate asked him if he was king?’

  ‘Said he had a kingdom—but not in the world,’ muttered Paulus, with a vague, upward-spiraling gesture.

  ‘You’re worse than drunk,’ accused Marcellus, disgustedly. You’re losing your mind. I think you’d better go to bed. I’ll report you sick.’

  ‘No—I’m not going to leave you in the lurch, Marcellus.’ It was the first time Paulus had ever addressed the Commander by his given name.

  ‘You’re goo-fellow, Paulus,’ declared Marcellus, giving him his hand. He retraced his way to the wineskin. Paulus followed and took the cup from his hand.

  ‘You have had just the right amount, sir,’ he advised. 'I suggest that you go now. Pilate will not like it if we are tardy. He has endured about all the annoyance he can take, for one morning’s dose. I shall order out the detachment, and meet you over there.’

  ***

  With a purposely belated start, and after experiencing much difficulty in learning the way to the place of execution—an outlying field where the city’s refuse was burned—Demetrius did not expect to arrive in time to witness the initial phase of the crucifixion.


  Tardy as he was, he proceeded with reluctant steps; very low in spirit, weighted with a dejection he had not known since the day of his enslavement. The years had healed the chain-scars on his wrists: fair treatment at the hands of the Gallio family had done much to mend his heart: but today it seemed that the world was totally unfit for a civilized man to live in. Every human institution was loaded with lies. The courts were corrupt. Justice was not to be had. All rulers, big and little, were purchasable. Even the temples were full of deceit. You could call the roll of all the supposed reliances that laid claim to the people’s respect and reverence, and there wasn’t one of them that hadn’t earned the bitter contempt of decent men!

  Though accustomed to walk with long strides and clipped steps, Demetrius slogged along through the dirty streets with the shambling gait of a hopeless, faithless, worthless vagabond. At times his scornful thoughts almost became articulate as he passionately reviled every tribunal and judiciary, every crown and consistory in the whole, wide, wicked world. Patriotism! How the poets and minstrels loved to babble about the high honor of shedding one’s blood. Maybe they, too, had been bought up. Old Horace: maybe Augustus had just sent him a new coat and a cask of wine when he was inspired to write, ‘How sweet and glorious to die for one’s country!’ Nonsense! Why should any sane man think it pleasant or noble to give up his life to save the world? It wasn’t fit to live in; much less die fori And it was never going to be any better. Here was this foolhardy Galilean, so thoroughly enraged over the pollution of a holy place that he had impulsively made an ineffective little gesture of protest. Doubtless nineteen out of every twenty men in this barren, beaten, beggared land would inwardly applaud this poor man’s reckless courage; but, when it came to the test, these downtrodden, poverty-cursed nobodies would let this Jesus stand alone—without one friend—before the official representatives of a crooked Temple and a crooked Empire.

  Loyalty? Why should any man bother himself to be loyal? Let him go out on his own, and protect himself the best he can. Why should you spend your life following at the heels of a Roman master, who alternately confided in you and humiliated you? What had you to lose, in self-respect, by abandoning this aristocrat? It wasn’t hard to make one’s way to Damascus.

  It was a dark day for Demetrius. Even the sky was overcast with leaden, sullen clouds. The sun had shone brightly at dawn. For the past halfhour, an almost sinister gloom had been thickening.

  As he neared the disreputable field, identifiable for some distance by the noisome smoke that drifted from its smouldering corruptions, he met many men walking rapidly back to the city. Most of them were well-fed, well-dressed, pompous, preoccupied; men of middle age or older, strutting along in single file, as if each had come alone. These people, surmised Demetrius, were responsible for the day’s crime. It relieved him to feel that the worst of it was over. They had seen the public assassination to a successful conclusion, and were now free to return to their banks and bazaars. Some, doubtless, would go to the Temple and say their prayers.

  After the last straggling group of mud hovels had been passed, the loathsome, garbage-littered field lay before him. He was amazed to see how much pollution had been conveyed to this place, for the city’s streets had not shown so huge a loss of filth. A fairly clean, narrow path led toward a little knoll that seemed to have been protected. Demetrius stopped—and looked. On the green knoll, three tall crosses stood in a row. Perhaps it had been decided, as an after-thought, to execute a couple of the Galilean’s friends. Could it be possible that two among them, crazed by their leader’s impending torture, had attempted to defend him? Hardly: they didn’t have it in them: not the ones he had seen that day on the road: not the ones he had seen, this moming.

  Forcing his unwilling feet, he advanced slowly to within less than a stadium of the gruesome scene. There he came to a stop. The two unidentified men were writhing on their crosses. The lonely man on the central cross was still as a statue. His head hung forward. Perhaps he was dead, or at least unconscious. Demetrius hoped so.

  For a long time he stood there, contemplating this tragic sight. The hot anger that had almost suffocated him was measurably cooled now. The lonely man had thrown his life away. There was nothing to show for his audacious courage. The Temple would continue to cheat the country people who came in to offer a lamb. Herod would continue to bully and whip the poor if they inconvenienced the rich. Caiaphas would continue to condemn the blasphemies of men who didn’t want the gods fetched to market. Pilate would deal out injustice—and wash his dirty hands in a silver bowl. This lonely man had paid a high price for his brief and fruitless war on wickedness. But—he had spoken: he had acted. By tomorrow, nobody would remember that he had risked everything—and lost his life—in the cause of honesty. But—perhaps a man was better off dead than in a world where such an event as this could happen. Demetrius felt very lonely too.

  There was not as large a crowd as he had expected to see. There was no disorder, probably because the legionaires were scattered about among the people. It was apparent, from the negligence of the soldiers’ posture, as they stood leaning on their lances, that no rioting had occurred or was anticipated.

  Demetrius moved closer in and joined the outer rim of spectators. Not many of the well-to-do, who had been conspicuous at the Insula, were present. Most of the civilians were poorly dressed. Many of them were weeping. There were several women, heavily veiled and huddled in little groups, in attitudes of silent, hopeless grief. A large circle had been left unoccupied below the crosses.

  Edging his way slowly forward, occasionally rising on tiptoe to search for his master, Demetrius paused beside one of the legionaries who, recognizing him with a brief nod, replied to his low-voiced inquiry. The Commander and several other officers were on the other side of the knoll, at the rear of the crosses, he said.

  ‘I brought him some water,’ explained Demetrius, holding up the jug. The soldier showed how many of his teeth were missing.

  ‘That’s good,’ he said. ‘He can wash his hands. They’re not drinking water today. The Procurator sent out a wineskin.’

  ‘Is the man dead?’ asked Demetrius.

  ‘No—he said something awhile ago.’

  ‘What did he say? Could you hear?’

  ‘Said he was thirsty.’

  ‘Did they give him water?’

  ‘No—they filled a sponge with vinegar that had some sort of balm in it, and raised it to his mouth; but he wouldn’t have it. I don’t rightly understand what he is up there for—but he’s no coward.’ The legionary shifted his position, pointed to the darkening sky, remarked that there was going to be a storm, and moved on through the crowd.

  Demetrius did not look at the lonely man again. He edged out into the open and made a wide detour around to the other side of the knoll. Marcellus, Paulus, and four or five others were lounging in a small circle on the ground. A leather dice-cup was being shaken negligently, and passed from hand to hand. At first sight of it, Demetrius was hotly indignant. It wasn’t like Marcellus to be so brutally unfeeling. A decent man would have to be very drunk indeed to exhibit such callous unconcern in this circumstance.

  Now that he was here, Demetrius thought he should inquire whether there was anything he could do for his master. He slowly approached the group of preoccupied officers. After a while, Marcellus glanced up dully and beckoned to him. The others gave him a brief glance and resumed their play.

  ‘Anything you want to tell me?’ asked Marcellus, thickly.

  ‘I brought you some water, sir.’

  ‘Very good. Put it down there. I’ll have a drink presently.’ It was his turn to play. He shook the cup languidly and tossed out the dice.

  ‘Your lucky day!’ growled Paulus. ‘That finishes me.’ He stretched his long arms and laced his fingers behind his head. ‘Demetrius,’ he said, nodding toward a rumpled brown mantle that lay near the foot of the central cross, ‘hand me that coat. I want to look at it.’

  Demetrius
picked up the garment and gave it to him. Paulus examined it with idle interest.

  ‘Not a bad robe,’ he remarked, holding it up at arm’s length. 'Woven in the country; dyed with walnut juice. He’ll not be needing it any more. I think I’ll say it’s mine. How about it, Tribune?’

  ‘Why should it be yours?’ asked Marcellus, indifferently. ‘If it’s worth anything, let us toss for it.’ He handed Paulus the dice-cup. ‘High number wins. It’s your turn.’

  There was a low mutter of thunder in the north and a savage tongue of flame leaped through the black cloud. Paulus tossed a pair of threes, and stared apprehensively at the sky.

  ‘Not hard to beat,’ said Vinitius, who sat next him. He took the cup and poured out a five and a four. The cup made the circle without bettering this cast until it arrived at Marcellus.

  ‘Double six!’ he called. ‘Demetrius, you take care of the robe.’ Paulus handed up the garment.

  ‘Shall I wait here for you, sir?’ asked Demetrius.

  ‘No—nothing you can do. Go back to the Insula. Begin packing up. We want to be off to an early start in the morning.’ Marcellus looked up at the sky. ‘Paulus, go around and see how they are doing. There’s going to be a hard storm.’ He rose heavily to his feet, and stood swaying. Demetrius wanted to take his arm and steady him, but felt that any solicitude would be resented. His indignation had cooled now. It was evident that Marcellus had been drinking because he couldn’t bear to do this shameful work in his right mind. There was a deafening, stunning thunderclap that fairly shook the ground on which they stood. Marcellus put out a hand and steadied himself against the central cross. There was blood on his hand when he regained his balance. He wiped it off on his toga.

  A fat man, expensively dressed in a black robe, waddled out of the crowd and confronted Marcellus with surly arrogance.

  ‘Rebuke these people!’ he shouted, angrily. ‘They are saying that the storm is a judgment on us!’

  There was another gigantic crash of thunder.