The Robe

by Lloyd C. Douglas

  ‘He was ordered to crucify the Jew—and it made him ill.’ Gallio paused to sip his wine slowly, while the old man snuffled and bubbled into the huge goblet which the Chamberlain held to his lips.

  ‘Ill?’ Tiberius grinned sourly and belched. ‘Sick at his stomach?’

  ‘Sick in his head. If it is your pleasure, sire, I shall tell you about it,’ said Gallio; and when Tiberius had nodded assent, he proceeded to an account of Marcellus’ depression and strange behavior, and their decision to send him to Athens, where, they hoped, he might find mental diversion.

  ‘Well!’ grunted Tiberius, if your sensitive son cannot endure the scent of warm blood, we would not urge him to undertake the protection of our person. We had understood from the young daughter of Gallus that he was a brave man. In her sight he is highly esteemed, and it was to please her that we brought him home—and appointed him to command the Villa Guard. It is well for her that his weakness is made manifest before he has had an opportunity to bring disgrace upon her.’

  This was too bitter a dose for Gallio to take without protest.

  ‘Your Majesty places me in a difficult position,’ he declared, riskily, it would be most unseemly in me to express a contrary opinion; yet the Emperor would surely consider me mean and cowardly did I not venture some defense of my own flesh and blood!’

  Tiberius slobbered in the depths of his goblet for a moment that seemed very long to Gallio. At length he came up wheezing.

  ‘Very—hie—well! Say on!’ The old man scrubbed his wet chin with the back of a mottled hand. ‘Defend your son!’

  ‘Marcellus is not a weakling, sire. He is proud and brave; worthy of his Roman citizenship and his rank as a Tribune. I do not fully understand why he should have been so affected by the crucifixion of this Jew, except that—’

  ‘Go on! Except what?’

  ‘He thinks the Galilean was innocent of any crime deserving so severe a punishment. The Procurator himself declared the man innocent and tried to argue in his behalf.’

  ‘And then condemned him to death? What manner of justice does the Empire administer in Jerusalem? Who is the Prefect now—this sleek and slimy fellow—what’s his name—Herod?’

  ‘They tried him before Herod, yes—but it was Pontius Pilate who sentenced him. Pilate is the Procurator.’

  Tiberius laughed bitterly, coughed, and spat on the silk sleeve of his robe.

  ‘Pontius Pilate,’ he snarled reminiscently. 'He’s the dizzy one who built that damned aqueduct. Wife wanted gardens. Had to have water. Robbed the Temple to build aqueduct. Fool! Had all the Jews in turmoil. Cost us thousands of legionaries to put down the riots. Had we to do it again, we would let Pilate settle his own account with the Jews! I never thought much of the fellow, letting his silly, spoiled wife lead him about by the nose.’ The Emperor paused for breath. ‘An impotent nobody,’ he added, ‘afraid of his wife.’ Having grimly pondered this final observation, Tiberius startled his guest by breaking forth in a shrill drunken guffaw. ‘You are at liberty to laugh, too, Gallio,’ he shouted. ‘Afraid of his wife! Impotent nobody—’fraid of wife! Hi! Hi!’

  Gallio grinned obligingly, but did not join in the Emperor’s noisy hilarity over his self-debasing joke. Tiberius was drunk, but he would be sober again—and he might remember.

  ‘And this serpent—Herod!’ The Emperor rubbed his leaky old eyes with his fists, and rambled on, thickly. ‘Well do we know of his perfidies. A loathsome leech, fattening on the blood of his countrymen. Gallio—I have waged war in many lands. I have enslaved many peoples. I have put their brave defenders to death. But—though I commanded their warriors to be slain, I had much respect for their valor. But—this Herod! This verminous vulture! This slinking jackal!—pretending to represent the interests of his conquered fellow Jews—while licking our sandal-straps for personal favors!—what a low creature he is! Yes, yes—I know—it is to the Empire’s advantage to have such poltroons in high office throughout all our provinces—selling out their people—betraying them—’ Exhausted by his long speech, Tiberius broke off suddenly, gulped another throatful of wine, dribbled a stream of it down his scrawny neck, explored his lips with a clumsy tongue, retched, and muttered, ‘I hate a traitor!’

  ‘I have sometimes wondered, sire,’ remarked Gallio, thinking some rejoinder was expected, ‘whether it really is to the advantage of the Empire when we allow treacherous scoundrels like Herod to administer the affairs of our subjugated provinces. Is it safe? Does it pay? Our subjects are defrauded, but they are not deceived. Their hatred smoulders, but it is not quenched.’

  ‘Well—let them hate us, then,’ growled Tiberius, tiring of the subject—‘and much good may it do them! The Roman Empire does not ask to be loved. All she demands is obedience—prompt obedience—and plenty of it!’ His voice shrilled, truculently. ‘Let them hate us! Let the whole world hate us!’ He clenched his gnarled old fists. The Chamberlain gently stroked his pillow to soothe his passion, and ducked as one of the bony elbows shot up unexpectedly in his direction.

  Presently the heavy old head drooped. The Chamberlain ventured a beseeching glance at the Senator who half-rose from his chair, uncertain whether to take the initiative in a withdrawal. Tiberius roused and swallowed hard, making a wry face.

  ‘We have gone far afield, Gallio,’ he mumbled. ‘We were discussing your frail son. He crucified a harmless Jew, and the injustice of it put him to bed, eh? And weeks afterward, he is still brooding. Very peculiarl How do you account for it?’

  ‘The case is full of mystery, sire,’ sighed Gallio. ‘There is one small matter of which I have not spoken. It concerns this Jew’s Robe.’

  ‘Eh?’ Tiberius leaned forward, spurred to curiosity. ‘Robe? What about a robe?’

  Gallio debated with himself, for a moment, how best to proceed, half-sorry he had alluded to the incident.

  ‘My son was accompanied by his Greek slave, a quite intelligent fellow. It is from him that I have this feature of the story. It seems that when the Galilean was crucified, his discarded Robe lay on the ground, and my son and other officers—whiling the time—cast dice for it. Marcellus won it.’

  Tiberius was sagging into his pillows, disappointed with so dull a tale.

  ‘That night,’ continued Gallio, ‘there was a banquet at Pilate’s Insula. According to the slave, my son was far from happy, but there was nothing peculiar in his behavior during or after the crucifixion. He had been drinking heavily, but otherwise was of normal mind. At the banquet, one of his staff officers from Minoa, far gone with wine, urged him to put on this Jew’s Robe.’ Gallio paused, and the old man’s face showed a renewed interest.

  ‘Well?’ he queried, impatiently. ‘Did he put it on?’

  Gallio nodded.

  ‘Yes—and he has never been the same since.’

  ‘Ha!’ exclaimed the Emperor, brightening. 'Now we are getting some place with this story! Does your son think the Jew laid a curse on his Robe?’

  ‘It is hard to say what my son thinks, sire. He is very reticent.’

  Suddenly a light shone in the old man’s eyes.

  ‘Ah—I see! That is why you sent him to Athens! He will consult the learned astrologers, soothsayers, and those who commune with the dead! But why Athens? There are better men at Rhodes. Or, you might have sent him here! There are no wiser men than my Rhodesian, Telemarchus!’

  ‘No—Your Majestry; we did not send Marcellus to Athens to consult the diviners. We urged him to go away, for a time, so that he might not be embarrassed by meeting friends in his unhappy state of mind.’

  ‘So—the dead Jew’s Robe is haunted?’ Tiberius smacked his lips. This tale was much to his liking. ‘The Jews are a queer people; very religious; believe in one god. Evidently this Galilean was a religious fanatic, if he got himself into trouble with the Temple; had some new kind of religion, maybe.’

  ‘Did your Majesty ever hear of the Messiah?’ inquired Gallio.

  The Emperor’s jaw slowly dropped and
his rheumy eyes widened.

  ‘Yes,’ he answered, in a hoarse whisper. ‘He that is to come. They’re always looking for him, Telemarchus says. They’ve been expecting him for a thousand years, Telemarchus says. He that is to come—and set up a kingdom.’ The old man chuckled, mirthlessly. ‘A kingdom, Telemarchus says; a kingdom that shall have no end; and the government shall be upon his shoulder. Telemarchus says it is written. I let him prattle. He is old. He says the Messiah will reign, one day, in Rome! Hi! Hi! I let Telemarchus prattle. Were he younger, by a century or two, I would have him whipped for his impudence. A Messiah—huh! A kingdom—pouf! Well’—Tiberius returned from his rumbling monologue—‘what were you starting to say about the Messiah?’

  ‘Nothing, sire—except that there was a strong feeling among the common people—my son’s slave says—that this Galilean Jew was the promised Messiah.’

  ‘What?’ shouted Tiberius. You don’t believe that, Gallio!’

  ‘I am not religious, sire.’

  ‘What do you mean—you’re not religious? You believe in the gods; do you not?’

  ‘I have no convictions on the subject, Your Majesty. The gods are remote from my field of study, sire.’

  Tiberius scowled his stem disapproval.

  ‘Perhaps Senator Gallio will presently be telling us that he does not believe his Emperor is divine!’

  Gallio bowed his head and meditated a reply.

  ‘How about it?’ demanded the old man, hotly, is the Emperor divine?’

  ‘If the Emperor thought he was divine,’ replied Gallio, recklessly, ‘he would not need to ask one of his subjects to confirm it.’

  This piece of impudence was so stunning that Tiberius was at a loss for appropriate words. After a long, staring silence he licked his dry lips.

  ‘You are a man of imprudent speech, Gallio,’ he muttered, ‘but honest withal. It has been refreshing to talk with you. Leave us now. We will have further conversation in the morning. We are sorry your son cannot accept our appointment.’

  ‘Good night, sire,’ said Gallio. He retreated toward the door. Something in his weighted attitude stirred the old man’s mellowed mind to sympathy.

  ‘Stay!’ he called. ‘We shall find a place for the son of our excellent Gallio. Marcellus shall do his sculpture and attend the learned lectures. Let him dabble in the arts and drowse over the philosophies. Let him perfect himself in logic and metaphysics. By the gods!—there are other things needful at this court besides watching at keyholes and strutting with swords! Your son shall be our preceptor. He shall lecture to us. We are weary of old men’s counsel. Marcellus shall give us a youthful view of the mysteries. Gallio—inform your son of our command!’

  ‘Your Majesty is most kind,’ murmured the Senator, gratefully. ‘I shall advise my son of your generous words, sire. Perhaps this appointment may help to restore his ailing mind.’

  ‘Well—if it doesn’t’—the old man yawned mightily—‘it won’t matter. All philosophers are sick in the head.’ He grinned, slowly sank back into his pillows, and the leathery lips puffed an exhausted breath. The Emperor of Rome was asleep.

  ***

  Informed by the Chamberlain that His Imperial Majesty was not yet awake, the Senator breakfasted in his room and set out for a walk. It had been many years since he had visited Capri; not since the formal opening of the Villa Jovis when the entire Senate had attended the festivities, memorable for their expensiveness rather than their impressiveness. Although fully informed about the enormously extravagant building operations on the island, he had not clearly pictured the magnitude of these undertakings. They had to be seen to be believed! Tiberius might be crazy, but he was an accomplished architect.

  Walking briskly on the broad mosaic pavement to the east end of the mall, Gallio turned aside to a shaded arbor, sank into a comfortable chair, and dreamily watched the plume of blue smoke floating lazily above Vesuvius. Somehow the sinister old mountain seemed to symbolize the Empire; tremendous power under compression; occasionally spewing forth sulphurous fumes and molten metals. Its heat was not the kind that warmed and cheered, nor did its lava grow harvests. Vesuvius was competent only as a destroyer. They who dwelt in its shadow were afraid.

  The same thing was tme of the Empire, reflected Gallio. ‘Let them hate usl’ old Tiberius had growled. 'Let the whole world hate us!' Long before the Caesars, that surly boast had brought disaster to the Persians, the Egyptians, and the Greeks. Nemesis had laughed at their arrogance, and swept them—cursing impotently—into servitude.

  Gallio wondered if he would be alive to witness the inevitable break-up of the Empire. What plans had Nemesis in mind for the disposal of Rome? What would be the shape of the new dynasty? Who would arise—and whence—to demolish the thing that the Caesars had built? Last night the disgusting old drunkard Tiberius had seemed almost frightened when he rehearsed the cryptic patter of the Jewish prophets. ‘He that is to come.’ Ah, yes—Tiberius saw the crisis nearing! Maybe the superstitious old fellow had never defined his exact reasons for being so deeply interested in the oracles and enchantments and ponderous nonsense of his avaricious soothsayers and stargazers; but that was it! Tiberius saw the Empire drifting toward the cataract! ‘He that is to come!’ Well—somebody would come—and the government would be upon his shoulder—but he wouldn’t be a Jew! That was impossible! That was ridiculous!

  Completely absorbed by his grim speculations, Gallio did not observe Diana’s arrival until she stood directly before him, tall, slim, vital. She smiled and graciously held out her hand.

  It was the first time he had had an opportunity for conversation with her, beyond the brief greetings they had exchanged when she came to visit Lucia. Until lately, Diana was only a little girl, shy and silent in his presence, but reputed to be high-spirited almost to the extent of rowdiness. In recent weeks, apprised of a growing attachment between his son and the daughter of Gallus, he had become somewhat more aware of her; but, this morning, it was almost as if he had never seen her before. Diana had grown up. She had taken on the supple grace and charming contours of a woman. She was beautiful! Gallio did not wonder that Marcellus had fallen in love with her.

  He came to his feet, bowed deeply, and was warmed by her firm handclasp. Her steady eyes were set wide apart, framed in long, curling lashes, and arched by exquisitely modeled brows. The red silk bandeau accented the blueblackness of her hair, the whiteness of her patrician forehead, the pink flush on her cheeks. Gallio looked into the level eyes with frank admiration. They were quite disturbingly feminine, but fearless and forthright as the eyes of a man; an inheritance from her father, perhaps. Gallus had a delightful personality, and an enviable poise, but—just underneath his amiability—there was the striking strength of a coiled spring in a baited trap. Diana’s self-possessed smile and confident handclasp instantly won the Senator’s respect, though the thought darted through his mind that the arrestingly lovely daughter of Gallus was equipped with all the implements for having her own way, and—if any attempt were made to thwart her—would prove to be a handful indeed.

  ‘May I join you, Senator Gallio?’ Diana’s full lips were girlish, but her well-disciplined voice was surprisingly mature.

  ‘Please sit down, my dear.’ The Senator noted the easy grace of her posture as she took the chair opposite, artless but alert. ‘I was hoping to have a talk with you,’ he went on, resuming his seat.

  Diana smiled encouragingly, but made no rejoinder; and Gallio, measuring his phrases, proceeded in a manner almost didactic:

  ‘Marcellus came home from his long voyage, a few days ago, ill and depressed. He was grateful—we are all grateful, Diana—for your generous part in bringing him back to us. Marcellus will be eager to express his deep appreciation. But—he is not ready to resume his usual activities. We have sent him away—to Athens—hopeful that a change of environment may divert his gloomy mind.’

  Gallio paused. He had anticipated an involuntary exclamation of surprise and regret; b
ut Diana made no sound; just sat there, keenly attentive, alternately studying his eyes and his lips.

  ‘You see’—he added—‘Marcellus has had a severe shock!’

  ‘Yes—I know,’ she nodded, briefly.

  ‘Indeed? How much do you know?’

  ‘Everything you told the Emperor.’

  ‘But—the Emperor is not yet awake.’

  ‘I have not seen him,’ said Diana. ‘I had it from Nevius.’

  ‘Nevius?’

  ‘The Chamberlain.’

  Gallio stroked his cheek thoughtfully. This Nevius must be quite a talkative fellow. Diana interpreted his dry smile.

  ‘But you had intended to tell me, had you not?’ she reminded him. ‘Nevius is not a common chatterer, sir: I must say that for him. He is very close-mouthed. Sometimes,’ she went on, ingenuously, ‘it is difficult to make Nevius tell you everything that is going on at the Villa.’

  The Senator’s lips slowly puckered and his shoulders twitched with a silent chuckle. He was on the point of asking her if she had ever thought of taking up diplomacy as a profession; but the matter at issue was too serious for badinage. He grew suddenly grave.

  ‘Now that you know—about Marcellus—I need not repeat the painful story.’

  ‘It is all very strange.’ Diana’s averted eyes were troubled. ‘According to Nevius, it was an execution that upset Marcellus.’ Her expressive eyes slowly returned to search the Senator's sober face. ‘There must be more to it than that, sir. Marcellus has seen cruel things done. Who has not? Is not the arena bloody enough? Why should Marcellus sink into grief and despair because he had to put a man to death?—no matter who—no matter howl He has seen men die!’

  ‘This was a crucifixion, Diana,’ said the Senator, quietly.

  ‘And perfectly ghastly, no doubt,’ she agreed, ‘and Nevius says there was much talk of the man’s innocence. Well—that wasn’t Marcellus’ fault. He didn’t conduct the trial, nor choose the manner of execution. I can understand his not wanting to do it, but—surely no amount of brooding is going to bring this poor Jew back to life! There is a mystery behind it, I think. Nevius had a tale about a haunted Robe—and darkness in the middle of the afternoon—and a confused jumble about a predicted Messiah, or something like that. Does Marcellus think he has killed a person of great importance? Is that what’s fretting him?’