‘Odd old creature,’ remarked Marcellus. ‘I’m not sure that I want to see any more of him. Do you think he is crazy?’
‘No,’ said Demetrius—‘far from it. He is a very wise old man.’
‘I think you feel that I should be making a mistake to come back here tomorrow.’
‘Yes, sir. Better forget all about that now.’
‘But—I wouldn’t have to talk about that wretched affair in Jerusalem,’ protested Marcellus. ‘I can simply say that I do not want to discuss it.’ His tone sounded as if he were rehearsing the speech he intended to make on that occasion. ‘And that,’ he finished, ‘ought to settle it, I think.’
‘Yes, sir; that ought to settle it,’ agreed Demetrius—but it won’t. Benjamin will not be easily put off.’
They strolled down the long grass-grown aisle toward the deserted stage.
‘Do you know anything about the customs and manners of the Jews, Demetrius?’ queried Marcellus, idly.
‘Very little, sir, about their customs.’
‘When old Benjamin said, “Peace be upon you,” what should I have replied? Is there a formulated answer to that?’
‘“Farewell” is correct usage, sir, I think,’ said Demetrius.
‘But I did say that!’ retorted Marcellus, returning with a bound from some faraway mental excursion.
‘Yes, sir,’ agreed Demetrius. He hoped they were not already slipping back into that pool of painful reflection.
They retraced their steps to the theater entrance.
‘I wonder how much the old man knows about Galilee,’ mused Marcellus.
‘He will tell you tomorrow.’
‘But—I’m not going back tomorrow! I don’t want to have this matter reopened. I intend to put the whole thing out of my mind!’
‘That is a wise decision, sir,’ approved Demetrius, soberly.
***
It was immediately apparent that this firm resolution was to be enforced. Leaving the Theater of Dionysus, they strolled through the agora where Marcellus paused before the market booths to exchange a bit of banter with rosy-cheeked country girls and slip copper denarii into the grimy incredulous hands of their little brothers and sisters. Then they went up on Mars’ Hill and spent an hour in the sacred grove where the great of the Greeks had turned to stone.
Turning aside from the main path, Marcellus sat down on a marble bench, Demetrius standing a little way distant. Both were silently reflective. After an interval, Marcellus waved an arm toward the stately row of mutilated busts.
‘Demetrius, it has just occurred to me that there isn’t a warrior in the lot! You Greeks are hard fighters, when you’re put to it; but the heroes who live forever in your public gardens are men of peace. Remember the Forum? Sulla, Antony, Scipio, Camillus, Julius, Augustus—all tricked out in swords and helmets! But look at this procession of Greeks, marching up the hill! Socrates, Epicurus, Herodotus, Solon, Aristotle, Polybius! Not a fighter among them!’
‘But—they all look as if they’d been to war, sir,’ jested Demetrius.
‘Ah, yes—we did that!’ said Marcellus, scornfully. ‘Our gallant Roman legions; our brave illiterates!’ He sat scowling for a moment; then went on, with unaccustomed heat: ‘Demetrius—I say damn all men who make war on monuments! The present may belong to the Roman Empire by force of conquest; but, by all the gods, the past does not! A nation is surely of contemptible and cowardly mind that goes to battle against another nation’s history! It didn’t take much courage to come up here and hack the ears off old Pericles! I daresay the unwashed, drunken vandal who nicked his broadsword on the nose of Hippocrates could neither read nor write! There’s not much dignity left in a nation that has no respect for the words and works of geniuses who gave the world whatever wisdom and beauty it owns!’
Deeply stirred to indignation, he rose and strode across the path, and faced the bust of Plato.
‘That man!—for example—he has no nationality! He has no fatherland! He has no race! No kingdom—in this world—can claim him—or destroy him!’ Abruptly, Marcellus stopped in the midst of what promised to be an oration. He stood silent, for a moment; then walked slowly toward Demetrius, and stared into his eyes.
‘Do you know, Demetrius—that is what the Galilean said of himself!’
‘I remember,’ nodded Demetrius. ‘He said his kingdom was not of the world—and nobody knew what he meant.’
‘I wonder’—Marcellus’ voice was dreamy. ‘Perhaps—some day—he’ll have a monument—like Plato’s....Come—let us go! We had decided to be merry, today; and here we've been owling it like old philosophers.’
It was late in the afternoon before they reached the inn. When they were drawing within sight of it, Marcellus remarked casually that he must call on the Eupolis family.
‘I should have done so earlier,’ he added, casually. ‘Upon my word, I don’t believe I’ve seen any of them since the night we arrived!’
“They will be glad to see you, sir,’ said Demetrius. ‘They have inquired about you frequently.’
‘I shall stop and see them now,’ decided Marcellus, impulsively. ‘You may return to our suite. I’ll be back presently.’
After they had separated, Demetrius reflected with some amusement that this renewal of acquaintance, after so strange a lapse, would be of much interest to the Eupolis household. Perhaps Theodosia would want to tell him about it.
Then he fell to wondering what she would think about himself in this connection. Had he not been so alarmed over his master’s condition that he had confided his distress to her? And here was Marcellus—supposedly mired in an incurable despair—drifting in to call, as jauntily as if he had never fretted about anything in his life! Would Theodosia think he had fabricated the whole story? But she couldn’t think that! Nobody could invent such a tale!
After a while one of the kitchen slaves came to announce that the Tribune would be dining with the family. Demetrius grinned broadly as he sauntered out alone to the peristyle. He wondered what they would talk about at dinner. The occasion would call for a bit of tact, he felt.
***
Early the next morning Marcellus donned a coarse tunic and set to work at his modeling-table with the air of a professional sculptor. Demetrius hovered about, waiting to be of service, until it became evident that nothing was desired of him today but his silence, perhaps his absence. He asked if he might take a walk.
Theodosia had set up a gaily colored target near the front wall that bounded the grounds and was shooting at it from a stadium’s distance. She made a pretty picture in the short-sleeved white chiton, a fringe of black curls escaping her scarlet bandeau. As Demetrius neared, he was surprised to see that she was using a man’s bow, and although she was not drawing it quite to top torsion her arrows struck with a clipped, metallic ping that represented an unusual strength, for a girl. And the shots were well placed, too. Demetrius reflected that if Theodosia wanted to, she could do a lot of damage with one of those long, bone-tipped arrows.
She smiled and inquired whether he had any suggestions for her. He interpreted this as an invitation to join her; but, reluctant, as before, to compromise them both by appearing in conversation together, he did not turn aside from the graveled driveway.
‘I think your marksmanship is very good,’ he halted to say. You surely need no instruction.’
She flushed a little, and drew another arrow from the quiver that leaned against the stone lectus. Demetrius could see that she felt rebuffed as she turned away. Regardless of consequences, he sauntered toward her.
‘Are you too busy for a quiet talk?’ she asked, without looking at him.
‘I was hoping you might suggest it,’ said Demetrius. ‘But we can’t talk here, you know.’
‘Ssss—ping!’ went the arrow.
‘Very well,’ said Theodosia. ‘I’ll meet you—over there.’
Walking quickly away, Demetrius made the circuitous trip to the Temple garden. Apparently the priests were occupi
ed with their holy employments, whatever they were, for no one was in sight. His heart speeded a little when he saw Theodosia coming. It was a new experience to be treated on terms of equality, and he was not quite sure how this amenity should be viewed. He needed and wanted Theodosia’s friendship—but how was he to interpret the freedom with which she offered it? Should she not have some compunctions about private interviews with a slave? It was a debatable question whether this friendship was honoring him, or merely demoting her.
Theodosia sat down by him, without a greeting, and regarded him soberly, at such short range that he noted the little flecks of gold in her dark eyes.
‘Tell me about the dinner-party,’ said Demetrius, wanting to get it over with.
‘Very strange; is it not?’ There was nothing ironical in her tone. ‘He is entirely recovered.’
Demetrius nodded.
‘I was afraid you might think I had misrepresented the facts,’ he said. ‘I could not have blamed you.’
‘No—I believed what you told me, Demetrius, and I believe it still. Something happened. Something very important happened.’
‘That is true. He found the Robe, while I was absent, and came by an entirely different attitude toward it. Once he had touched it, his horror of it suddenly left him. Last night he slept. Today he has been his usual self. I think his obsession has been cured. I don’t pretend to understand it!’
‘Naturally—I have thought of nothing else all day,’ confessed Theodosia. ‘If it was the Robe that had tormented Marcellus, it must have been a new view of the Robe that restored him. Maybe it’s something like this: I keep a diary, Demetrius. Every night, I write a few tilings I wish to remember. If someone who does not know me should read a page where I am happy and life is good, he might have quite a different impression of me than if he read the other side of the papyrus where I am a cynic, a stoic; cold and bitter. Now—you and Marcellus recorded many different thoughts on that Galilean Robe. Yours were sad, mostly, but they did not chide you. Marcellus recorded memories on it—and they afflicted him.’
She paused, her eyes asking whether this analogy had any merit at all. Demetrius signed to her to go on.
‘You told me that this Jesus forgave them all, and that Marcellus had been much moved by it. Maybe, when he touched the Robe again, this impression came back to him so strongly that it relieved his remorse. Does that sound reasonable?’
‘Yes—but wouldn’t you think, Theodosia, that after having had an experience like that—a sort of illumination, setting him free of his phobias—Marcellus would be in a great state of exaltation? True—he was ecstatic, for a while; but his high moment was brief. And for the most of the day, yesterday, he acted almost as if nothing had happened to him.’
‘My guess is that he is concealing his emotions,’ ventured Theodosia. ‘Maybe he feels this more deeply than you think.’
‘There is no reason for his being reticent with me. He was so stirred by his experience, the night before last, that he was half-indignant because I tried to regard it rationally.’
‘Perhaps that is why he doesn’t want to discuss it further. He thinks the problem is too big for either of you, so he’s resolved not to talk about it. You say he had a high moment—and then proceeded as if the experience had been of no consequence. Well—that’s natural; isn’t it? We can’t live on mountain-tops.’ Theodosia’s eyes had a faraway look, and her voice was wistful.
‘My Aunt Ino,’ she continued, ‘once said to me, when I was desperately lonely and blue, that our life is like a land journey, too even and easy and dull over long distances across the plains, too hard and painful up the steep grades; but, on the summits of the mountain, you have a magnificent view—and feel exalted—and your eyes are full of happy tears—and you want to sing—and wish you had wings! And then—you can’t stay there, but must continue your journey—you begin climbing down the other side, so busy with your footholds that your summit experience is forgotten.’
‘You have a pretty mind, Theodosia,’ said Demetrius, gently.
‘That was my Aunt Ino’s mind I was talking about.’
‘I am sorry you were lonely and depressed, Theodosia.’ Absently he rubbed his finger-tips over the small white scar on his ear. ‘I shouldn’t have thought you were ever sad. Want to talk about it?’
Her eyes had followed his hand with frank interest.
‘Not all slaves have had their ears marked,’ she said, pensively. ‘Your position is tragic. I know that. There is something very wrong with a world in which a man like you must go through life as a slave. But—really—is there much to choose between your social condition and mine? I am the daughter of an innkeeper. In your case, Demetrius, it makes no difference that you were brought up in a home of refinement and well endowed with a good mind: wicked men put you into slavery—and there you are! And where am I? It makes no difference that my father, Dion, is a man of integrity, well versed in the classics, acquainted with the arts, and bearing himself honorably before the men of Athens, as did his father Georgias. He is an innkeeper. Perhaps it would have been better for me if I had not been taught to love things beyond my social station.’
‘But—Theodosia, your advantages have made your life rich,’ said Demetrius, consolingly. You have so much to make you happy; your books, your music, your boundless vitality, your beautiful clothes——’
‘I have no place to wear my nice clothes,’ she countered, bitterly, ‘and I have no use for my vitality. If the daughter of an innkeeper wants to be happy, she should conform to the traditions. She should be noisy, pert, and not above petty larcenies. Then she could have friends—of her own class.’ Her eyes suddenly flooded. ‘Demetrius,’ she said, huskily, ‘sometimes I think I can’t bear it!’
He slipped his arm about her, and they sat for a long moment in silence. Then she straightened, and regarded him soberly.
‘Why don’t you run away?’ she demanded, in a whisper. ‘I would—if I were a man.’
‘Where would you go?’ he asked, with an indulgent grin.
Theodosia indicated with a negligent gesture that the question was of secondary importance.
‘Anywhere,’ she murmured vaguely. ‘Sicily—maybe. They say it is lovely—in Sicily.’
‘It’s a land of thieves and cutthroats,’ declared Demetrius, it is in the lovely lands that life is most difficult, Theodosia. The only places where one may live in peace—so far as I know—are arid desolations where nothing grows and nothing is covetable.’
‘Why not Damascus? You thought of that once, you know.’
‘I should die of loneliness up there.’
You could take me along.’ She laughed lightly, as she spoke, to assure him the remark was intended playfully, but they quickly fell silent. Rousing from her reverie, Theodosia sat up, patted her bandeau, and said she must go.
Demetrius rose and watched her as she drifted gracefully away; then resumed his seat and unleashed his thoughts. He was becoming much too fond of Theodosia, and she was being too recklessly generous with her friendship. Perhaps it would be better to avoid any more private talks with her, if he could do so without hurting her feelings. She was very desirable and her tenderness was endearing, ibe freedom with which she confided in him and the artless candor of her attitude—sometimes but little short of a caress—had stirred him deeply. Until now, whatever devotion he had to offer a woman was silently, hopelessly given to Lucia. As he reflected upon his feeling for her now, Lucia was in the nature of a shrine. Theodosia was real! But he was not going to take advantage of her loneliness. There was nothing he could ever do for her. They were both unhappy enough without exchanging unsecured promises. He was a slave—but not a thief.
The day was still young and at his disposal; for Marcellus did not want him about. Perhaps that was because he wished to be undistractcd while he made experiments with his modeling-clay; perhaps, again, he needed solitude for a reshaping of his preconceived theories about supernatural phenomena.
S
trolling out of the Temple garden, Demetrius proceeded down the street which grew noisier and more crowded as he neared the agora. He aimlessly sauntered through the vasty market-place, savoring the blended aromas of ground spices, ripe melons, roasted nuts, and fried leeks; enjoying the polyglot confusion. Emerging, he lounged into a circle gathered about a blind lute-player and his loyal dog; drifted across the cobbled street to listen to a white-bearded soothsayer haranguing a small, apathetic company from the portico of an abandoned theater; was jostled off the pavement by a shabby legionary who needed much room for his cruise with a cargo of wine. Time was beginning to hang heavy on his hands.
It now occurred to him that he might trump up some excuse to have a talk with Benjamin. Purchasing a small basket of ripe figs, he proceeded to the weaver’s house; and, entering, presented himself before the old man’s worktable.
‘So—he decided not to come; eh?’ observed Benjamin, glancing up sourly and returning immediately to his stitches. ‘Well—you’re much too early. I have not finished. As you see, I am at work on it now.’
‘I did not come for the Robe, sir.’ Demetrius held out his gift. ‘It was a long day, and I had no employment. I have been strolling about. Would you like some figs?’
Benjamin motioned to have the basket put down on the table beside him; and, taking one of the figs, slowly munched it, without looking up from his work. After a while, he had cleared his mouth enough to be articulate.
‘Did you say to yourself, “I must take that cross old Jew some of these nice figs”?—or did you say, ‘‘I want to ask Benjamin some questions, and I’ll take the figs along, so he’ll think I just dropped in to be friendly”?’
‘They’re quite good figs, sir,’ said Demetrius.
‘So they are.’ Benjamin reached for another. ‘Have one yourself,’ he mumbled, with difficulty. ‘Why did you not want him to come back and see me today? You were afraid I might press him to talk about that poor, dead Jew? Well—and why not? Surely a proud young Roman need not shrink from the questions of an old weaver—an old Jewish weaver—in subjugated Athens!’
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