The Robe

by Lloyd C. Douglas

  ‘Did the Captain know what he was talking about?’ inquired Lucia.

  Demetrius nodded, rather grudgingly, she thought.

  ‘Why can’t you tell me?’ Her tone was almost intimate.

  ‘It’s—it’s a long story,’ he stammered. ‘Perhaps I may tell you—sometime.’

  She took a step nearer, and lowering her voice almost to a whisper, asked, “Were you “out there”?’ He nodded reluctantly, avoiding her eyes. Then, impetuously abandoning the last shred of reserve, he spoke on terms of equality.

  ‘Don’t question him, Lucia. Treat him exactly as you have always done. Talk to him about anything—but Jerusalem. Be careful not to touch this sore spot. Maybe it will heal. I don't know. It’s very deep—and painful—this mental wound.’

  Her cheeks had flushed a little. Demetrius had made full use of the liberty she had given him: he had spoken her name. Well—why not? Who had a better right? They all owed much to this devoted slave.

  ‘Thanks, Demetrius,’ she said, gently. ‘It was good of you to tell me what to do.’

  At that, he abruptly terminated his brief parole, snapped to a stiff, military posture; looked through her without seeing her as he made a ceremonious salute; turned—2rd marched away. Lucia stood for a moment, indecisively, watching his dignified retreat with softened eyes.

  ***

  For the first hour after his arrival, it was difficult to reconcile Marcellus’ behavior and his slave’s warning. Parting from Demetrius, Lucia had hurried upstairs with the appalling news, and before she had finished devastating her mother with these sad tidings of her brother’s predicament, her father had returned. There was little to be said. They were awed, stunned. It was as if they had learned of Marcellus’ death, and were waiting for his body to be brought home.

  It was a happy surprise, therefore, when he breezed in with unusually affectionate greetings. True, he was alarmingly thin and his face was haggard; but good food and plenty of rest (boomed Father, confidently) would quickly restore him to full weight and vitality. As for his mental condition, Demetrius’ report had been wholly incorrect. What, indeed, had ailed the fellow—to frighten them with the announcement that his master was moody and depressed? Quite to the contrary, Marcellus had never been so animated!

  Without pausing to change after his journey, he had seemed delightfully eager to talk. In Mother’s private parlor, they had drawn their chairs close together, at his suggestion; though Marcellus had not sat down himself. He had paced about, like a caged animal, talking rapidly with an almost boisterous exuberance, pausing to toy with trifles on his mother’s table, halting to peer out at the window, but continuing to chatter about the ship, the ports of call, the aridity of Gaza, the crude life at Minoa. Under normal conditions, the family might have surmised that he had had too much wine. It wasn’t like Marcellus to talk so incessantly, or so fast. But they were glad enough that it wasn’t the other thing! He was excited over his homecoming; that was all. They listened attentively, their eyes shining. They laughed gaily at his occasional drolleries and cheered him on!

  ‘Do sit down, boy!’ Mother had urged, tenderly, at his first full stop. ‘You’re tired. Don’t wear yourself out.’

  So—Marcellus had sat down, in the very middle of a stirring story about the bandits who infested the old salt trail, and his voice had become less strident. He continued talking, but more slowly, pausing to grope for the right word. Presently his forced gaiety acknowledged his fatigue, and he stopped—quite suddenly, too, as if he had been interrupted. For an instant his widened eyes and concentrated expression made him appear to have seen or heard something that had commanded his full attention. They watched him with silent curiosity, their hearts beating hard.

  ‘What is it, Marcellus?’ asked Mother, trying to steady her voice. ‘Would you like a drink of water?’

  He tried unsuccessfully to smile, and almost imperceptibly shook his head, as the brightness faded from his eyes. The room was very quiet.

  ‘Perhaps you had better lie down, my son,’ suggested Father, trying hard to sound casual.

  Marcellus seemed not to have heard that. For a little while his breathing was laborious. His hands twitched, and he slowly clenched them until the thin knuckles whitened. Then the seizure passed, leaving him sagged and spiritless. He nervously rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. Then he slowly turned his pathetically sad face toward his father, stared at him curiously, and drew a long, shuddering sigh.

  ‘Were you—were you—out there—sir?’ he asked, weakly.

  ‘No—my son.’ It was the thin voice of an old, old man.

  Marcellus made a self-deprecating little chuckle, and shook his head, as if decrying his own foolishness. He glanced about with an attempted smile, vaguely questing their eyes for an opinion of this strange behavior. He swallowed noisily.

  ‘Of course, you weren’t,’ he said, disgusted with himself. ‘You have been here—all the time; haven’t you?’ Then he added, in a tired voice, ‘I think I should go to bed now, Mother.’

  ‘I think so too,’ said Mother, softly. She had made an earnest effort not to let him see how seriously she had been affected, but at the sight of his drooping head, she put both hands over her eyes and sobbed. Marcellus looked toward her pleadingly, and sighed.

  ‘Will you call Demetrius, Lucia?’ he asked, wearily.

  She stepped to the door, thinking to send Tertia, but it was unnecessary. Demetrius, who obviously had been waiting in the corridor, just outside the door, entered noiselessly and assisted his master to his feet.

  ‘I’ll see you—all—in the morning,’ mumbled Marcellus. He leaned heavily on his slave as they left the room. Lucia made a little moan and slipped away quietly. The Senator bowed his head in his hands, and was silent.

  ***

  Marcus Lucan Gallio had not made a quick and easy decision when he resolved to have a confidential, man-to-man conference with Demetrius. The Senator punctiliously practiced the same sort of justice in dealing with his slaves that he had ever proudly observed in his relations with freedmen; but he also believed in firm discipline for them. Sometimes it annoyed him when he observed a little gesture of affection—almost a caress, indeed!—in Lucia’s attitude toward Tertia; and on a couple of occasions (though this was a long time ago) he had had to remind his son that the way to have a good slave was to help him keep his place.

  Gallio had an immense respect for Marcellus’ handsome and loyal Corinthian. He would have trusted him anywhere and with anything, but he had never broken over the inexorable line which he felt should be drawn, straight and candid, between master and slave. It had now come to pass that he must invite Demetrius to step across that social boundary; for how else could he hope to get the full truth about the circumstances which had made such sad havoc of his son’s mind?

  Two days had passed, Marcellus remaining in his room. Gallio had gone up several times to see him, and had been warmly but shyly welcomed. A disturbing constraint on Marcellus’ part, a forced amiability, an involuntary shrinking away from a compassionate contact lest it inadvertently touch some painfully sensitive lesion—these strange retreats, in pathetic combination with an obvious wish to show a filial affection, constituted a baffling situation. Gallio didn’t know how to talk with Marcellus about it; feared he might say the wrong thing. No—Demetrius had the key to it. He must make Demetrius talk. In the middle of the afternoon, he sent for him to come to the library.

  Demetrius entered and stood at attention before Gallio’s desk.

  ‘I wish to have a serious talk with you, Demetrius, about my son. I am greatly disturbed. I shall be grateful to you for a full account of whatever it is that distresses him.’ The Senator pointed to the chair opposite his desk. ‘You may sit down, if you like. Perhaps you will be more comfortable.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,' said Demetrius, respectfully. ‘I shall be more comfortable standing, if you please, sir.’

  ‘As you choose,’ said Gallio, a bit curt
ly. ‘It occurred to me that you might be able to speak more freely—more naturally—if you sat.’

  ‘No, sir, thank you,’ said Demetrius. ‘I am not accustomed to sitting in the presence of my betters. I can speak more naturally on my feet.’

  ‘Sit down! snapped Gallio. ‘I don’t want you towering over me, answering questions in stiff monosyllables. This is a life-and-death matter! I want you to tell me everything I ought to know—without reserve!’

  Demetrius laid his heavy, metal-studded, leather shield on the floor, stood his spear against a pillar, and sat down.

  ‘Now, then!’ said Gallio. ‘Let’s have it! What ails my son?’

  ‘My master was ordered to bring a detachment of legionaries to Jerusalem. It was a custom, during the annual festival of the Jews, for representations from the various Palestinian forts to assemble at the Procurator’s Insula, presumably to keep order, for the city was crowded with all sorts.’

  ‘Pontius Pilate is the Prefect of Jerusalem: is that not true?’

  ‘Yes, sir. He is called the Procurator. There is another provincial governor residing in Jerusalem.’

  ‘Ah—I remember. A vain fellow—Herod. A rascal!’

  ‘Doubtless,’ murmured Demetrius.

  ‘Jealous of Pilate, I am told.’

  ‘No one should be jealous of Pilate, sir. He permits the Temple to dictate to him. At least he did, in the case I must speak of.’

  ‘The one that concerns my son?’ Gallio leaned forward on his folded arms and prepared to listen attentively.

  ‘May I inquire, sir, whether you ever heard of the Messiah?’

  ‘No—what is that?’

  ‘For hundreds of years the Jews have been expecting a great hero to arise and liberate them. He is their promised Messiah. On these yearly feast-weeks, the more fanatical among them are on the alert, thinking he may appear. Occasionally they have thought they had found the right man—but nothing much ever came of it. This time—’ Demetrius paused, thoughtfully, stared out at the open window, and neglected to finish the sentence.

  ‘There was a Jew from the Province of Galilee’—he continued—‘about my own age, I should think, though he was such an unusual person that he appeared almost independent of age—or time—’

  ‘You saw him, then?’

  ‘A great crowd of country people tried to persuade him that he was the Messiah; that he was their King. I saw that, sir. It happened the day we arrived.’

  ‘“Tried to persuade him” you say.’

  ‘He had no interest in it, at all, sir. It appears that he had been preaching, mostly in his own province, to vast throngs of people; a simple, harmless appeal for common honesty and kindness. He was not interested in the Government.’

  ‘Probably advised them that the Government was bad,’ surmised Gallio.

  ‘I do not know, sir; but I think he could have done so without violating the truth.’

  The crow’s-feet about Gallio’s eyes deepened a little.

  ‘I gather that you thought the Government was bad, Demetrius.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Perhaps you think all governments are bad.’

  ‘I am not acquainted with all of them, sir,’ parried Demetrius.

  ‘Well,’ observed Gallio, ‘they’re all alike.’

  ‘That is regrettable,’ said Demetrius, soberly.

  ‘So—then—the young Galilean repudiated kingship—and got into trouble, I suppose, with his admirers—’

  ‘And the Government, too. The rich Jews, fearing his influence in the country, insisted on having him tried for treason. Pilate, knowing he had done no wrong, made an effort to acquit him. But they would have him condemned. Against his will, Pilate sentenced him to death.’ Demetrius hesitated. ‘Sentenced him to be crucified,' he went on, in a low tone. The Commander of the fort at Minoa was ordered to conduct the execution.’

  ‘Marcellus? Horrible!’

  ‘Yes, sir. He fortunately was blind drunk when he did it. A seasoned Centurion, of the Minoa staff, had seen to that. But he was clear enough to realize that he was crucifying an innocent man—and—well, as you see, sir, he didn’t get over it. He dismisses it from his mind for a while—and then it all sweeps over him again, like a bad dream. He sees the whole thing—so vividly that it amounts to acute painl It is so real to him, sir, that he thinks everybody else must have known something about it; and he asks them if they do—and then he is ashamed that he asked.’

  Gallio's eyes widened with sudden understanding.

  ‘Ah!’ he exclaimed. ‘"Were you out there?” So—that’s it!’

  ‘That is it, sir; but not quite all.' Demetrius’ eyes traveled to the window and for a moment he sat tapping his finger-tips together as if uncertain how to proceed. Then he faced the Senator squarely and went on. ‘Before I tell you the rest of it, sir, I should like to say that I am not a superstitious person. I have not believed in miracles. I am aware that you have no faith in such things, and you may find it very hard to accept what I must now tell you.’

  ‘Say on, Demetrius!’ said Gallio, thumping his desk impatiently.

  ‘This Jesus of Galilee wore a simple, brown, homespun Robe to the cross. They stripped it off and flung it on the ground. While he hung there, dying, my master and a few other officers sat near-by playing with dice. One took up this Robe and they cast for it. My master won it. Later in the evening, there was a banquet at the Insula. Everyone had been drinking to excess. A Centurion urged my master to put on the Robe.’

  ‘Shocking idea!’ grumbled Gallio. ‘Did he do it?’

  ‘He did it—quite unwillingly. He had been very far gone in wine, in the afternoon, but was now steadied. I think he might have recovered from the crucifixion horror if it had not been for the Robe. He put it on—and he has never been the same since!’

  ‘You think the Robe is haunted, I suppose.' Gallio’s tone was almost contemptuous.

  ‘I think something happened to my master when he put it on. He tore it off quickly, and ordered me to destroy it.’

  ‘Very sensible! A poor keepsake!’

  ‘I still have it, sir.’

  ‘You disobeyed him?’

  Demetrius nodded.

  ‘My master was not himself when he gave that order. I have occasionally disobeyed him when I felt that the command was not to his best interest. And now I am glad I kept the Robe. If it was the cause of his derangement, it might become the instrument of his recovery.’

  ‘Absurd!’ expostulated Gallio. ‘I forbid you to let him see it again!’

  Demetrius sat silent while Gallio, rising angrily, paced the floor. Presently he stopped short, rubbed his jaw reflectively, and inquired:

  ‘Just how do you think this Robe might be used to restore my son’s mind?’

  ‘I do not know, sir,’ Demetrius confessed. ‘I have thought about it a great deal. No plan has suggested itself.’ He rose to his feet and met the Senator’s eyes directly. ‘It has occurred to me that we might go away for a while. If we were alone, an occasion might arise. He is quite on the defensive here. He is confused and ashamed of his mental condition. Besides—there is something else weighing heavily on his mind. The daughter of Legate Gallus will return soon. She will expect my master to call on her, and he is worrying about this meeting. He does not want her to see him in his present state.’

  ‘I can understand that,’ said Gallio. Perhaps you are right. Where do you think he should go?’

  ‘Is it not customary for a cultured young man to spend some time in Athens? Should he decide to go there—either to attend lectures or practice some of their arts—no questions would be asked. Your son has always been interested in sculpture. My belief is that it will be difficult to do very much for him while he remains here. He should not be confined to the house; yet he knows he is in no condition to see his friends. The word may get about that something is wrong. This would be an embarrassment for him—and the family. If it is your wish, sir, I shall try to persuade him to go
to Athens. I do not think it will require much urging. He is very unhappy.’

  ‘Yes—I know,’ muttered Gallio, half to himself.

  ‘He is so unhappy’—Demetrius lowered his voice to a tone of intimate confidence—‘that I fear for his safety. If he remains here, Diana may not find him alive when she returns.’

  ‘You mean—Marcellus might destroy himself rather than face her?’

  ‘Why not? It’s a serious matter with him.’

  ‘Have you any reason to believe that he has been contemplating suicide?’

  Demetrius was slow about replying. Drawing a silver-handled dagger from the breast of his tunic, he tapped its keen blade against the palm of his hand. Gallio recognized the weapon as the property of Marcellus.

  ‘I think he has been toying with the idea, sir,’ said Demetrius.

  ‘You took this from him?’

  Demetrius nodded.

  ‘He thinks he lost it on the boat.’

  Gallio sighed deeply; and, returning to his desk, he sat down, drew out a sheet of papyrus and a stylus, and began writing rapidly in large letters. Finishing, he affixed his seal.

  ‘Take my son to Athens, Demetrius, and help him recover his mind. But no man should ask a slave to accept such a responsibility.’ He handed the document to Demetrius. ‘This is your certificate of manumission. You are a free man.’

  Demetrius stared at the writing in silence. It was hard for him to realize its full significance. Free! Free as Gallio! He was his own man! Now he could speak—even to Lucia—as a freedman! He was conscious of Gallio’s eyes studying him with interest as if attempting to read his thoughts. After a long moment, he slowly shook his head and returned the document to the Senator.

  ‘I appreciate your generosity, sir,’ he said, in an unsteady voice. ‘In any other circumstance, I should be overjoyed to accept it. Liberty means a great deal to any man. But I think we would be making a mistake to alter the relationship between my master and his slave.’