The Robe

by Lloyd C. Douglas

  Demetrius shook his head doubtfully.

  ‘Priests are notorious spies,’ he said. ‘At least they are in Rome, and it was true of them in Corinth. Doubtless it is the same here in Athens. I should think a temple would be about the last place that people would go for a private talk. We might find ourselves under suspicion of discussing a plot.’

  Theodosia flushed a little—and gave him a mischievous smile.

  ‘We will not be suspected of sedition,' she promised. ‘I shall see to that. Two very good friends will have come to the garden—not to arrange for poisoning the Prefect’s porridge—but to exchange pleasant compliments.’

  Demetrius’ heart quickened, but he frowned.

  ‘Don’t you think,’ he asked, prudently, ‘that you are taking a good deal for granted by trusting quite so much in the honesty of a slave?’

  ‘Yes,’ admitted Theodosia. ‘Go quickly now. I’ll join you presently.’

  Deeply stirred by the anticipation of this private interview, but obliged to view it with some anxiety, Demetrius obeyed. Theodosia’s almost masculine directness assured him that she was quite beyond a cheap flirtation, but there was no denying her winsome regard for him. Well—we would know, pretty soon, whether she was really concerned about Marcellus, or enlivening a dull afternoon with a bit of adventure. It was conceivable, of course, that both of these things might be true.

  As he neared the old wall, Demetrius firmly pressed his gray bandeau down over the ear that denied him a right to talk on terms of equality with a free woman. It gave him a rather rakish appearance which, he felt, might not be altogether inappropriate if this meeting was to be staged as a rendezvous. Sauntering in through the open gate, he strolled to the far end of the arbor and sat down on the commodious marble lectus. A well-nourished priest, in a dirty brown cassock, gave him an indifferent nod, and resumed his hoeing.

  He did not have long to wait. She was coming out of the temple, into the cloister, swinging along with her independent head held high. Demetrius stood to wait for her. It was hard to break an old habit, and his posture was stiffly conventional.

  ‘Sit down!’ she whispered. ‘And don’t look so serious.’

  He did not have to dissemble a smile as he obeyed her, for her command had been amusing enough. She dropped down close beside him on the stone seat and gave him both hands. The priest leaned on his hoe and sanctioned their meeting with an informed leer. Then he looked a bit puzzled. Presently he dropped the hoe, deliberately cut a large red rose, and waddled toward them, his shifty little eyes alive with inquiry. Drawing an almost sinister smile, he presented the rose to Theodosia. She thanked him prettily and raising it to her face inhaled luxuriously. The priest, with his curiosity about them still unsatisfied, was backing away.

  ‘Put your arm around me,’ she muttered, deep in the rose, ‘and hold me tight—as if you meant it.’

  Demetrius complied, so gently, yet so competently, that the priest wagged his shaggy head and ambled back to his weeds. Then, apparently deciding that he had done enough work for one day, he negligently trailed the hoe behind him as he plodded away to disappear within the cloister, leaving them in sole possession of the quiet garden.

  Reluctantly withdrawing his arm as Theodosia straightened, Demetrius remarked, with a twinkle, ‘Do you suppose that holy beast might still be watching us—through some private peek-hole?’

  ‘Quite unlikely,’ doubted Theodosia, with a gently reproving smile.

  ‘Perhaps we should take no risks,’ he cautioned, drawing her closer.

  She leaned back in his arm without protest.

  ‘Now’—she said, expectantly—‘begin at the beginning and tell me all about it. The Tribune is afraid of something—or somebody. Who is it? What is it?’

  Demetrius was finding it difficult to launch upon his narrative. Theodosia’s persuasive warmth was distracting his mind.

  ‘You are very kind to me,’ he said, softly.

  ‘I should have had a brother,’ she murmured. ‘Let’s pretend you are. You know—I feel that way about you—as if we’d known each other a long time.’

  Resolutely pulling himself together, Demetrius began his story, not at the beginning but at the end.

  ‘Marcellus,’ he declared soberly, ‘is afraid of a certain Robe—a brown, homespun, blood-stained Robe—that was worn by a man he was commanded to crucify. The man was innocent—and Marcellus knows it.’

  ‘And the Robe?’ queried Theodosia.

  It was—as he had threatened—a long story; but Demetrius told it all, beginning with Minoa—and the journey to Jerusalem. Frequently Theodosia detained him with a question.

  ‘But—Demetrius,’ she interrupted, turning to look up into his face, ‘what was there about this Jesus then that made him seem to you such a great man? You say he was so lonely and disappointed, that morning, when the crowd wanted him as their king: but what had he done to make so many people admire him so much?’

  Demetrius had to admit he didn’t know.

  ‘It is hard to explain,’ he stammered. ‘You had a feeling that he was sorry for all of these people. This may sound very foolish, Theodosia; but it was as if they were homeless little children crying for something, and—’

  ‘Something he couldn’t give them?’ she wondered, thoughtfully.

  ‘There you have it!’ declared Demetrius. ‘It was something he couldn’t give them, because they were too little and inexperienced to understand what they needed. Maybe this will seem a crazy thing to say: it was almost as if this Galilean had come from some far-away country where people were habitually honest and friendly and did not quarrel; some place where the streets were clean and no one was greedy, and there were no beggars, no thieves, no fights, no courts, no prisons, no soldiers; no rich, no poor.’

  ‘You know there’s no place like that,’ sighed Theodosia.

  ‘They asked him, at his trial—I’ll tell you about that presently—whether he was a king; and he said he had a kingdom—but—it was not in the world.’

  Theodosia glanced up, a bit startled, and studied his eyes.

  ‘Now don’t tell me you believe anything like that,’ she murmured, disappointedly. You don’t look like a person who would—’

  ‘I’m not!’ he protested. ‘I don’t know what I believe about this Jesus. I never saw anyone like him: that’s as far as I can go.’

  ‘That’s far enough,’ she sighed. ‘I was afraid you were going to tell me he was one of the gods.’

  ‘I take it you don’t believe in the gods,’ grinned Demetrius.

  ‘Of course not! But do go on with your story. I shouldn’t have interrupted.’

  Demetrius continued. Sometimes it was almost as if he were talking to himself, as he reviewed the tragic events of that sorry day. He relived his strange emotions as the darkness settled over Jerusalem at mid-aftemoon. Theodosia was very quiet, but her heart was beating hard and her eyes were misty.

  ‘And he didn’t try to defend himself—at all?’ she asked, huskily; and Demetrius, shaking his head, went on to tell her of the gambling for the Robe, and what had happened that night at the Insula when Marcellus had been forced to put it on.

  When he had finished his strange story, the sun was low. Theodosia rose slowly, and they walked arm in arm toward the cloister.

  ‘Poor Marcellus,’ she murmured. ‘It would have to be something very exciting indeed—to divert his mind.’

  ‘Well—I’ve tried everything I can think of,’ sighed Demetrius. ‘And now I’m afraid he has completely lost confidence in me.’

  ‘He thinks the Robe is—haunted?’

  Demetrius made no answer to that; and Theodosia, tugging at his arm, impulsively brought him to a stop. She invaded his eyes, one at a time, bewildered.

  ‘But—you don’t believe that! Do you?’ she demanded.

  ‘For my unhappy master, Theodosia, the Robe is haunted. He is convinced of it—and that makes it so—for him.’

  ‘And what do you think
? Is it haunted for you?’

  He avoided her eyes for a moment.

  ‘What I am going to say may sound silly. When I was a very little boy, and had fallen down and hurt myself, I would run into the house and find my mother. She would not bother to ask me what in the world I had been doing to bruise myself that way; or scold me for not being more careful. She would take me in her arms and hold me until I was through with my weeping, and everything was all right again. Perhaps my skinned knee still hurt, but I could bear it now.’ He looked down tenderly into Theodosia’s soft eyes. ‘You see—my mother was always definitely on my side—no matter how I came by my mishaps.’

  ‘Go on,’ she said. 'I'm following you.’

  ‘Often I have thought—’ He interrupted himself to interpolate, ‘Slaves get very lonesome, my friend!—Often I have thought there should be—for grown-up people—some place where they could go—when badly hurt—and find the same kind of assurance that a little child experiences in his mother's arms. Now—this Robe—it isn’t haunted—for me—but—’

  ‘I think I understand, Demetrius.’

  After a moment’s silence, they separated, leaving as they had arrived. Demetrius went out through the gate in the old wall. His complete review of the mysterious story had had a peculiar effect on him. Everything seemed unreal, as if he had spent an hour in a dream-world.

  The clatter of the busy street, when he had turned the corner, jangled him out of his reverie. It occurred to him—and he couldn’t help smiling—that he had spent a long time with his arm around the highly desirable Theodosia, almost oblivious of her physical charms. And he knew she had not been piqued by his fraternal attitude toward her. The story of Jesus—inadequately as Demetrius had related it out of his limited information—was of an emotional quality that had completely eclipsed their natural interest in each other’s affections. Apparently the Galilean epic, even when imperfectly understood, had the capacity for lifting a friendship up to very high ground.

  ***

  It was quite clear now to Marcellus that the time for decisive action had arrived. Life, under these humiliating conditions, was no longer to be endured.

  He had not fully shared his father’s earnest hope that a sojourn in Athens—with plenty of leisure and no embarrassing social responsibilities—would relieve his mental strain. He knew that he would be carrying his burden along with him.

  It was possible, of course, that time might dim the tragic picture that filled his mind. He would pursue a few distracting studies, give his restless hands some entertaining employments, and try to resume command of his thoughts.

  But it was hopeless. He had no interest in anything! Since his arrival in Athens—far from experiencing any easing of the painful nervous tension—he had been losing ground. The dread of meeting people and having to talk with them had deepened into a relentless obsession. He was afraid to stir from the house. He even shunned the gardeners.

  And now—he had gone to pieces. In an utter abandonment of all emotional control, he had made a sorry spectacle of himself in the sight of his loyal slave. Demetrius could hardly be expected to maintain his patience or respect much longer.

  This afternoon, Marcellus had been noisy with his threats and recriminations. At the rate he was breaking up, by tomorrow afternoon he might commit some deed of violence. It was better to have done with this dreadful business before he brought harm to anyone else.

  His people at home would be grieved when they learned the sad tidings, but bereavement was ever so much easier to bear than disgrace. As he sat there in the peristyle, with his head in his hands, Marcellus made a mental leave-taking of those he had loved best. He saw Lucia, in the shaded pergola, her slim legs folded under her as she sat quietly reading. He briefly visited his distinguished father in his library. He didn’t worry so much about his father’s reception of the bad news. Senator Gallio would not be surprised: lie would be relieved to know that the matter was settled. Marcellus went up to his mother’s room, and was glad to find her quietly sleeping. He was thankful that his imagination had at least spared him the anguish of a tearful parting.

  He bade good-bye to Diana. They were together in the pergola, as on that night when he had left for Minoa. He had taken her in his arms, but rather diffidently, for he felt he would not be coming back; and it wasn’t quite honest to make promises. This time he held Diana tightly—and kissed her.

  Demetrius had unquestionably deceived him about the dagger he had bought in Corfu. It had been believed that the silver-handled dagger he had carried for years had been lost somehow on The Vestris. Marcellus had doubted that. Demetrius, alarmed over his melancholy state, had taken the weapon from him. However—the theft had been well enough meant. Marcellus had not pressed the matter; had even consented unprotestingly to the theory that the dagger was lost. At Corfu, he had found another. It was less ornamental than serviceable. Next day after leaving Corfu, it was missing. Marcellus had thought it unlikely that any of his fellow passengers would steal a dagger of such insignificant value. Demetrius had it: there was no question about that. Very likely, if he searched his slave’s gunny-sack. He would find both of them.

  Of course, it was possible that Demetrius might have thrown the weapons overboard, but he was so scrupulously honest that this seemed improbable. Demetrius would hold them against the arrival of a day when he thought it safe to restore them.

  Unbuckling the belt of his tunic and casting it aside, Marcellus entered the Corinthian’s small bedchamber, and saw the gunny-sack on his couch. His hands were trembling as he moved forward toward it; for it was no light matter to be that close to death.

  Now he stopped! There it was—the Thing! He slowly retreated and leaned against the wall. Ah!—so the ingenious Demetrius had anticipated his decision! He was going to defend his stolen daggers with the Robe! Marcellus clenched his hands and growled. He would have it out with this Thing!

  Resolutely forcing his feet to obey, he moved slowly to the couch and stretched out a shaking hand. The sweat was pouring down his face and his legs were so weak he could hardly stand. Suddenly he brought his hand down with a violent movement as if he were capturing a living thing.

  For a long moment Marcellus stood transfixed, his fingers buried in the long-feared and hated garment. Then he sat down on the edge of the couch and slowly drew the Robe toward him. He stared at it uncomprehendingly; held it up to the light; rubbed it softly against his bare arm. He couldn’t analyze his peculiar sensations, but something very strange had happened to him. His agitation was stilled. Rising, as if from a dream, he laid the Robe over his arm and went out into the peristyle. He sat down and draped it across the broad arms of his chair. He smoothed it gently with his hand. He felt a curious elation; an indefinable sense of relief—relief from everything! A great load had been lifted! He wasn’t afraid any more! Hot tears gathered in his eyes and overflowed.

  After a while he rose and carried the Robe back to Demetrius’ room, placing it where he had found it. Unaccustomed to his new sense of wellbeing, he was puzzled about what to do next. He went into the studio and laughed at Demetrius’ poor little statuette. The house wasn’t quite large enough to hold him; so, donning his toga, he went out into the garden.

  It was there that his slave found him.

  Demetrius had approached the house with a feeling of dread. He knew Marcellus well enough to surmise that he wasn’t going to be able to endure much more humiliation.

  Entering the house quietly, he looked into his master’s bedchamber and into the studio. Then he went out to the peristyle. His heart sank.

  Then he saw Marcellus sauntering in the garden. He walked toward him eagerly, realizing instantly that a great change had come over him.

  ‘You are feeling better, sir! Are you not?’ said Demetrius, staring into his face incredulously.

  Marcellus’ lips twitched as he smiled.

  ‘I have been away from you a long time, Demetrius,’ he said, unsteadily.

  ‘Yes, sir.
I need not tell you how glad I am that you have returned. Is there anything I can do for you?’

  ‘Did you tell me that you had learned of a good weaver; one who might mend that Robe?’

  Enlightenment shone in Demetrius’ eyes.

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  ‘After we have had our supper,’ said Marcellus, ‘we will try to find him.’ He sauntered slowly toward the house, Demetrius following him, his heart almost bursting with exultation. When they reached the peristyle, Demetrius could no longer keep silent.

  ‘May I ask you, sir, what happened?’ he queried. ‘Did you touch it?’

  Marcellus nodded and drew a bewildered smile.

  ‘I was hoping you would, sir,’ said Demetrius.

  ‘Why? Have you had any strange experiences with it?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘What did it do to you?’

  ‘I can’t quite define it, sir,’ stammered Demetrius, There’s a queer energy—belonging to it—clinging to it—somehow.’

  ‘Don’t you know that’s a very crazy thing to say?’ demanded Marcellus.

  ‘Yes, sir. I have tried to account for it. I saw him die, you know. He was very brave. Perhaps I invested this Robe with my own admiration for his courage. When I look at it, I am ashamed of my own troubles, and I want to behave with fortitude, and——’

  He paused, uncertain how to proceed.

  ‘And that explains it, you think?’ persisted Marcellus.

  ‘Y-yes, sir,’ stammered Demetrius. ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘There’s more to it than that, Demetrius, and you know it!’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Chapter IX

  WAKING at dawn, Marcellus was ecstatic to find himself unencumbered by the weight that so long had oppressed him. It was the first time he had ever realized the full meaning of freedom.

  Pausing at Demetrius’ open door he noted with satisfaction that his loyal slave, whose anxiety had been as painful as his own, was still soundly sleeping. That was good. Demetrius deserved a rest—and a forthright apology, too.