The Robe

by Lloyd C. Douglas

  ‘Maybe it is!’ yelled Marcellus, recklessly.

  The fat man waved a menacing fist.

  ‘It is your duty to keep order here!’ he shrieked.

  ‘Do you want me to stop the storm?’ demanded Marcellus.

  ‘Stop the blasphemy! These people are crying out that this Galilean is the Son of God!’

  ‘Maybe he is!’ shouted Marcellus. ‘You wouldn’t know!’ He was fumbling with the hilt of his sword. The fat man backed away, howling that the Procurator should hear of this.

  Circling the knoll, Demetrius paused for a final look at the lonely man on the central cross. He had raised his face and was gazing up into the black sky. Suddenly he burst forth with a resonant call, as if crying to a distant friend for aid.

  A poorly dressed, bearded man of middle age, apparently one of the Galilean’s friends from the country, rushed out of the crowd and ran down the slope weeping aloud in an abandon of grief. Demetrius grasped him by the sleeve as he stumbled past.

  ‘What did he say?’

  The man made no reply, tore himself loose, and ran on shouting his unintelligible lamentations.

  Now the dying Galilean was looking down upon the crowd below him. His lips moved. His eyes surveyed the people with the same sorrow they had expressed on the road when the multitude had hailed him as their king. There was another savage burst of thunder. The darkness deepened.

  Demetrius rolled up the Robe and thrust it inside his tunic, pressing it tightly under his arm. The intimate touch of the garment relieved his feeling of desolation. He wondered if Marcellus might not let him keep the Robe. It would be a comfort to own something that this courageous man had worn. He would cherish it as a priceless inheritance. It would have been a great experience, he felt, to have known this man; to have learned the nature of his mind. Now that there would be no opportunity to share his friendship, it would be an enduring consolation to possess his Robe.

  Turning about, with swimming eyes, he started down the hill. It was growing so dark now that the narrow path was indistinct. He flung a backward look over his shoulder, but the descending gloom had swallowed up the knoll.

  By the time he reached the city streets, night had fallen on Jerusalem, though it was only mid-afternoon. Lights flickered in the windows. Pedestrians moved slowly, carrying torches. Frightened voices called to one another. Demetrius could not understand what they were saying, but their tone was apprehensive, as if they were wondering about the cause of this strange darkness. He wondered, too, but felt no sense of depression or alarm. The sensation of being alone and unwanted in an unfriendly world had left him. He was not lonely now. He hugged the Robe close to his side as if it contained some inexplicable remedy for heartache.

  Melas was standing in the corridor, in front of Paulus’ door, when he arrived at the barracks. Demetrius was in no mood to talk, and proceeded to his master’s quarters, Melas following with his torch.

  ‘So—you went out there; eh?’ said the Thracian, grimly. ‘How did you like it?’ They entered the room and Melas applied his torch to the big stone lamps. Receiving no answer to his rough query, he asked, ‘What do ■jou think this is; an eclipse?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ replied Demetrius. ‘Never heard of an eclipse lasting so long.’

  ‘Maybe it’s the end of the world,’ said Melas, forcing an uncouth laugh.

  ‘That will be all right with me,’ said Demetrius.

  ‘Think this Jesus has had anything to do with it?’ asked Melas, half in earnest.

  ‘No,’ said Demetrius, ‘I shouldn’t think so.’

  Melas moved closer and took Demetrius by the arm.

  ‘Thought any more about Damascus?’ he whispered.

  Demetrius shook his head indifferently.

  ‘Have you?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m going—tonight,’ said Melas. ‘The Procurator always gives a dinner to the officers on the last night. When it is over, and I have put the Centurion to bed—he’ll be tight as a tambourine—I’m leaving. Better come with me. You’ll wait a long time for another chance as good as this one.’

  ‘No—I’m not going,’ said Demetrius firmly.

  ‘You’ll not tell on me, will you?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘If you change your mind, give me a wink at the banquet.’ Melas sauntered toward the door. Demetrius, thinking he had gone, drew out the Robe and unfolded it under the light.

  ‘What have you there?’ queried Melas, from the doorway.

  ‘His Robe,’ said Demetrius, without turning.

  Melas came back and regarded the blood-stained garment with silent interest.

  ‘How do you happen to have it?’ he asked, in an awed tone.

  ‘It belongs to the Legate. The officers tossed for it. He won it.’

  ‘I shouldn’t think he’d want it,’ remarked Melas. ‘I’m sure I wouldn’t. It will probably bring him bad luck.’

  ‘Why bad luck?’ demanded Demetrius. ‘It belonged to a brave man.’

  ***

  Marcellus came in, dazed, drunk, and thoroughly exhausted. Unbuckling his sword-belt, he handed it to Demetrius, and sank wearily into a chair.

  ‘Get me some wine,’ he ordered, huskily.

  Demetrius obeyed; and, on one knee, unlaced his master’s dusty sandals while he drank.

  ‘You will feel better after a cold bath, sir,’ he said, encouragingly.

  Marcellus widened his heavy eyes with an effort and surveyed his slave with curiosity.

  ‘Were you out there?’ he asked, thickly. ‘Oh, yes; I remember now. You were there. You brought j-jug water.’

  ‘And brought back his Robe,’ prompted Demetrius.

  Marcellus passed his hand awkwardly across his brow and tried to dismiss the recollection with a shuddering shrug.

  ‘You will be going to the dinner, sir?’ asked Demetrius.

  ‘Have to!’ grumbled Marcellus. ‘Can’t have off-cers laughing at us. We’re tough—at Minoa. Can’t have ossifers—orfficers—chortling that sight of blood makes Minoa Legate sick.’

  ‘Quite true, sir,’ approved Demetrius. ‘A shower and a rub-down will put you in order. I have laid out fresh clothing for you.’

  ‘Very good,’ labored Marcellus. ‘Commanner Minoa never this dirty before. Wha’s that?’ He raked his fingers across a dark wet smudge on the skirt of his toga. ‘Blood!’ he muttered. ‘Great Roman Empire does big brave deed! Wins bloody battle!’ The drunken monologue trailed off into foggy incoherences. Marcellus’ head sank lower and lower on his chest. Demetrius unfastened the toga, soaked a towel in cold water, and vigorously applied it to his master’s puffed face and beating throat.

  ‘Up you come, sir!’ he ordered, tugging Marcellus to his feet. ‘One more hard battle to fight, sir. Then you can sleep it off.’

  Marcellus slowly pulled himself together and rested both hands heavily on his slave’s shoulders while being stripped of his soiled clothing.

  ‘I’m dirty,’ he mumbled to himself. ‘I’m dirty—outside and inside. I’m dirty—and ashamed. Unnerstand—Demetrius? I’m dirty and ashamed.’

  ‘You were only obeying orders, sir,’ consoled Demetrius.

  ‘Were you out there?’ Marcellus tried to focus his eyes.

  ‘Yes, sir. A very sorry affair.’

  ‘What did you think of him?’

  ‘Very courageous. It was too bad you had it to do, sir.’

  ‘I wouldn’t do it again,’ declared Marcellus, truculently—‘no matter who ordered it! Were you there when he called on his god to forgive us?’

  ‘No—but I couldn’t have understood his language.’

  ‘Nor I—but they told me. He looked directly at me after he had said it. I’m afraid I’m going to have a hard time forgetting that look.’

  Demetrius put his arm around Marcellus to steady him. It was the first time he had ever seen tears in his master’s eyes.

  ***

  The Insula’s beautiful banquet-hall had been gaily d
ecorated for the occasion with many ensigns, banners, and huge vases of flowers. An orchestra, sequestered in an alcove, played stirring military marches. Great stone lamps on marble pillars brightly lighted the spacious room. At the head table, a little higher than the others, sat the Procurator with Marcellus and Julian on either side and the Commanders from Caesarea and Joppa flanking them. Everyone knew why Marcellus and Julian were given seats of honor. Minoa had been assigned a difficult task and Capernaum had a grievance. Pilate was glum, moody, and distraught.

  The household slaves served the elaborate dinner. The officers’ orderlies stood ranged against the walls, in readiness to be of aid to their masters, for the Procurator’s guests—according to a long-established custom—had come here to get drunk, and not many of them had very far to go.

  The representatives of Minoa were more noisy and reckless than any of the others, but it was generally conceded that much latitude should be extended in their case, for they had had a hard day. Paulus had arrived late. Melas had done what he could to straighten him up, but the Centurion was dull and dizzy—and surly. The gaiety of his table companions annoyed him. For some time he sat glumly regarding them with distaste, occasionally jerked out of his lethargy by a painful hiccough. After a while his fellow officers took him in hand, plying him with a particularly heady wine which had the effect of whipping his jaded spirits into fresh activity. He tried to be meny; sang and shouted; but no one could understand anything he said. Presently he upset his tall wine-cup, and laughed uproariously. Paulus was drunk.

  It pleased Demetrius to observe that Marcellus was holding his own with dignity. He was having little to say, but Pilate’s taciturnity easily accounted for that. Old Julian, quite sober, was eating his dinner with relish, making no effort to engage the Procurator in conversation. The other tables were growing louder and more disorderly as the evening advanced. There was much boisterous laughter; many rude practical jokes; an occasional unexplained quarrel.

  The huge silver salvers, piled high with roasted meats and exotic fruits, came and went; exquisitely carved silver flagons poured rare wines into enormous silver goblets. Now and then a flushed Centurion rose from the couch on which he lounged beside his table, his servant skipping swiftly across the marble floor to assist him. After a while they would return. The officer, apparently much improved in health, would strut back to his couch and resume where he had left off. Many of the guests slept, to the chagrin of their slaves. So long as your master was able to stagger out of the room and unburden his stomach, you had no cause for humiliation; but if he went to sleep, your fellow slaves winked at you and grinned.

  Demetrius stood at attention, against the wall, immediately behind his master’s couch. He noted with satisfaction that Marcellus was merely toying with his food, which showed that he still had some sense left. He wished, however, that the Commander would exhibit a little more interest in the party. It would be unfortunate if anyone surmised that he was brooding over the day’s events.

  Presently the Procurator sat up and leaned toward Marcellus, who turned his face inquiringly. Demetrius moved a step forward and listened.

  ‘You are not eating your dinner, Legate,’ observed Pilate. ‘Perhaps there is something else you would prefer.’

  ‘Thank you; no sir,’ replied Marcellus. ‘I am not hungry.’

  ‘Perhaps your task, this afternoon, dulled your appetite,’ suggested Pilate, idly.

  Marcellus scowled.

  ‘That would be a good enough reason, sir, for one’s not being hungry,’ he retorted.

  ‘A painful business, I’m sure,’ commented Pilate. ‘I did not enjoy my necessity to order it.’

  ‘Necessity?’ Marcellus sat up and faced his host with cool impudence. This man was not guilty of a crime, as the Procurator himself admitted.’

  Pilate frowned darkly at this impertinence.

  ‘Am I to understand that the Legate of Minoa disputes the justice of the court’s decision?’

  ‘Of course!’ snapped Marcellus. ‘Justice? No one knows better than the Procurator that this Galilean was unjustly treated!’

  ‘You are forgetting yourself, Legate!’ said Pilate, sternly.

  ‘I did not initiate this conversation, sir,’ rejoined Marcellus, ‘but if my candor annoys you, we can talk about something else.’

  Pilate’s face cleared a little.

  ‘You have a right to your opinions, Legate Marcellus Gallio,’ he conceded, ‘though you certainly know it is. Unusual for a man to criticize his superior quite so freely as you have done.’

  ‘I know that, sir,’ nodded Marcellus, respectfully. ‘It is unusual to criticize one’s superior. But this is an unusual case.’ He paused, and looked Pilate squarely in the eyes. ‘It was an unusual trial, an unusual decision, an unusual punishment—and the convict was an unusual man!’

  ‘A strange person, indeed,’ agreed Pilate. ‘What did you make of him?’ he asked, lowering his voice confidentially.

  Marcellus shook his head.

  ‘I don’t know, sir,’ he replied, after an interval.

  ‘He was a fanatic!’ said Pilate.

  ‘Doubtless. So was Socrates. So was Plato.’

  Pilate shrugged.

  ‘You’re not implying that this Galilean was of the same timber as Socrates and Plato!’

  The conversation was interrupted before Marcellus had an opportunity to reply. Paulus had risen and was shouting at him drunkenly, incoherently. Pilate scowled, as if this were a bit too much, even for a party that had lost all respect for the dignity of the Insula. Marcellus shook his head and signed to Paulus with his hand that he was quite out of order. Undeterred, Paulus staggered to the head table, leaned far across it on one unstable elbow, and muttered something that Demetrius could not hear. Marcellus tried to dissuade him, but he was obdurate and growing quarrelsome. Obviously much perplexed, the Commander turned and beckoned to Demetrius.

  ‘Centurion Paulus wants to see that Robe,’ he muttered. ‘Bring it here.’

  Demetrius hesitated so long that Pilate regarded him with sour amazement.

  ‘Go—instantly—and get it!’ barked Marcellus, angrily.

  Regretting that he had put his master to shame, in the presence of the Procurator, Demetrius tried to atone for his reluctant obedience by moving swiftly. His heart pounded hard as he ran down the corridor to the Legate’s suite. There was no accounting for the caprice of a man as drunk as Paulus. Almost anything could happen, but Paulus would have to be humored.

  Folding the blood-stained, thorn-rent Robe over his arm, Demetrius returned to the banquet-hall. He felt like a traitor, assisting in the mockery of a cherished friend. Surely this Jesus deserved a better fate than to be abandoned—even in death—to the whims of a drunken soldier. Once, on the way, Demetrius came to a full stop and debated seriously whether to obey—or take the advice of Melas—and run.

  Marcellus glanced at the Robe, but did not touch it.

  ‘Take it to Centurion Paulus,’ he said.

  Paulus, who had returned to his seat, rose unsteadily; and, holding up the Robe by its shoulders, picked his way carefully to the head table. The room grew suddenly quiet, as he stood directly before Pilate.

  ‘Trophy!’ shouted Paulus.

  Pilate drew a reproachful smile and glanced toward Marcellus as if to hint that the Legate of Minoa might well advise his Centurion to mend his manners.

  ‘Trophy!’ repeated Paulus. ‘Minoa presents trophy to the Insula.’ He waved an expansive arm toward the banners that hung above the Procurator’s table.

  Pilate shook his head crossly and disclaimed all interest in the drunken farce with a gesture of annoyance. Undaunted by his rebuff, Paulus edged over a few steps and addressed Marcellus.

  ‘Insula doesn’t want trophy!’ he prattled idiotically. Very well! Minoa keep trophy! Legate Marcellus wear trophy back to Minoa! Put it on, Legate!’

  ‘Please, Paulus!’ begged Marcellus. ‘That’s enough.’

  ‘
Put it on!’ shouted Paulus. ‘Here, Demetrius; hold the Robe for the Legate!’ He thrust it into Demetrius’ hands.

  Someone yelled, ‘Put it on!’ And the rest of them took up the shout, pounding the tables with their goblets. ‘Put it on!’

  Feeling that the short way out of the dilemma was to humor the drunken crowd, Marcellus rose and reached for the Robe. Demetrius stood clutching it in his arms, seemingly unable to release it. Marcellus was pale with anger.

  ‘Give it to me!’ he commanded, severely. All eyes were attentive, and the place grew quiet. Demetrius drew himself erect, with the Robe held tightly in his folded arms. Marcellus waited a long moment, breathing heavily. Then suddenly drawing back his arm he slapped Demetrius in the face with his open hand. It was the first time he had ever ventured to punish him.

  Demetrius slowly bowed his head and handed Marcellus the Robe; then stood with slumped shoulders while his master tugged it on over the sleeves of his toga. A gale of appreciative laughter went up, and there was tumultuous applause. Marcellus did not smile. His face was drawn and haggard. The room grew still again. As a man in a dream, he fumbled woodenly with the neck of the garment, trying to pull it off his shoulder. His hands were shaking.

  ‘Shall I help you, sir?’ asked Demetrius, anxiously.

  Marcellus nodded; and when Demetrius had relieved him of the Robe, he sank into his seat as if his knees had suddenly buckled under him.

  ‘Take that out into the courtyard,’ he muttered, hoarsely, ‘and burn it!’

  Demetrius saluted and walked rapidly across the hall. Melas was standing near the doorway. He moved in closer as Demetrius passed.

  ‘Meet me—at midnight—at the Sheep Gate,’ he whispered.

  ‘I’ll be there,’ flung back Demetrius, as he hurried on.

  ***

  ‘You seem much shaken.’ Pilate’s tone was coolly derisive. ‘Perhaps you are superstitious.’

  Marcellus made no reply. It was as if he had not heard the sardoniccomment. He took up his wine-cup in a trembling hand and drank. The other tables, now that the unexpected little drama had been played out, resumed their banter and laughter.

  ‘I suspect that you have had about enough for one day,’ added the Procurator, more considerately. ‘If you wish to go, you may be excused.’