The Robe

by Lloyd C. Douglas

  I doubt whether you would have any relish for this employment, my son. The Emperor is of strange, erratic mind. However—this is his command, and you have no choice but to obey. Fortunately, you are permitted to remain in Athens for a reasonable length of time, pursuing your studies. We are all eager to have you back in Rome, but I cannot counsel you to speed your return.

  There was no reference to Diana. Marcellus thought this odd, for surely Diana must have been at the Villa Jovis while his father was there. He was anxious to read her letter. It disquieted him to know that she was a guest on that sinister island. Someone had opened her scroll. Someone was spying on her. It was not a safe place for Diana.

  ***

  The House of Eupolis was apparently in a great state of excitement. It was not every day that a flashily uniformed Tribune arrived with a message from the Emperor of Rome; and the whole establishment—habitually reserved—was undeniably impressed by the occasion.

  Dion, grave-faced and perspiring freely, was pacing up and down the driveway as the battered old port-wagon entered the gate.

  ‘You must make haste, Marcellus!’ he pleaded, in a frightened voice, as they pulled up beside him. There is a message from the Emperor! The Tribune has been waiting in a rage, shouting that if you did not soon arrive he would report our house to the Tetrarch!’

  ‘Be at ease, Dion,’ said Marcellus, calmly. ‘You are not at fault.' Dismissing the carriage, he proceeded up the driveway, passing a huddle of scared garden-slaves who stared at him with awe and sympathy. Theodosia and her Aunt Ino hovered about her mother who sat stiffly apprehensive in the swing. The pompous figure of the Tribune strutted imperiously before the entrance to the house.

  Instantly Marcellus recognized Quintus Lucian! So—that was why the fellow was showing off. Gaius’ pet—Quintus! Doubtless the creature had had no stomach for his errand. That explained his obnoxious conduct on the ship. Gaius was probably in a red-hot fury because the old man at Capri had gone over his head with orders for Marcellus’ return from Minoa; and now the Emperor had sent this detestable Quintus with a message—and there hadn’t been anything that Quintus, or Gaius, either, could do about it.

  ‘And how long shall the Emperor’s envoy be kept waiting?’ he snarled, as Marcellus drew nearer with Demetrius following at a few paces.

  ‘I had not been advised to be on the alert for a message from His Majesty,’ rejoined Marcellus, trying to keep his temper. ‘But now that I am here, Tribune Quintus, I suggest that you perform your errand with the courtesy that a Roman expects from an officer of his own rank.’

  Quintus grunted crossly and handed over the gaudily gilded imperial scroll.

  ‘Are you to wait for a reply?’ inquired Marcellus.

  ‘Yes—but I advise you not to keep me waiting long! His Majesty’s envoys are not accustomed to wasting their time at Greek inns.’ The tone was so contemptuous that it could have only one meaning. Demetrius moved forward a step and stood at attention. Marcellus, white with anger, made no retort.

  ‘I shall read this in private, Quintus,’ he said, crisply, ‘and prepare a reply. You may wait—or you may return for it—as you prefer.’ As he strode away, he muttered to Demetrius, ‘You remain here.’

  After Marcellus had disappeared, on his way to his suite, Quintus swaggered toward Demetrius and faced him with a surly grin.

  ‘You his slave?’ He nodded in the general direction Marcellus had taken.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Who is the pretty one—by the swing?’ demanded Quintus, out of the corner of his mouth.

  ‘She is the daughter of Eupolis, sir,’ replied Demetrius, stiffly.

  ‘Indeed! We must make her acquaintance while we wait.’ Shouldering past Demetrius, he stalked haughtily across the lawn, accenting each arrogant step with a sidewise jerk of his helmet. Dion, pale and flustered, scurried along toward the swing. Demetrius slowly followed.

  With elegantly sandaled feet wide apart and arms akimbo, Quintus halted directly before Theodosia, ignoring the others, and looked her over with an appraising leer. He grinned, disrespectfully.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he demanded, roughly.

  ‘That is my daughter, sir!’ expostulated Dion, rubbing his hands in helpless entreaty.

  ‘You are fortunate, fellow, to have so fair a daughter. We must know her better.’ Quintus reached for her hand, and Theodosia recoiled a step, her eves full of feat. ‘Timid; eh?’ He laughed contemptuously. 'Since when was the daughter of a Greek innkeeper so frugal with her smiles?’

  ‘But I implore you, Tribune!’ Dion’s voice was trembling. The House of Eupolis has ever been respectable. You must not offend my daughter!’

  “Must not—indeed!’ crowed Quintus. ‘And who are you—to be advising the envoy of the Emperor what he must not do? Be gone, fellow!’ He thrust out an arm toward Phoebe and Ino. You, tool’ he barked. ‘Leave us!’

  Deathly white, Phoebe rose unsteadily and took a few steps, Ino Supporting her. Dion held his ground for a moment, panting with impotent anger, but began edging out of range as their enemy fumbled for his dagger.

  ‘What are you doing here, slave?’ shouted Quintus, turning savagely to Demetrius.

  ‘My master ordered me to remain, sir,’ replied Demetrius; then, to Theodosia, You had better go with your father to the house.’

  Purple with rage, Quintus whipped out his dagger and lunged forward. Demetrius sprang to meet the descending arm which he caught at the wrist with a tiger-claw grip of his right hand while his left crashed into the Tribune’s face. It was a staggering blow that took Quintus by complete surprise. Before he could regain his balance, Demetrius had sent another full-weight drive of his left fist into the Tribune’s mouth. The relentless finger-nails cut deep into his wrist and the dagger fell from his hand. The battle was proceeding too rapidly for Quintus. Dazed and disarmed, he struck wildly, blindly, while Demetrius, pressing forward step by Step, continued to shoot stunning blows into the mutilated face.

  Quintus was quite at his mercy now, and Demetrius knew it would be simple enough to administer the one decisive upper-cut to the jaw that would excuse the Emperor’s envoy from any further participation in the fight; but a strong desire had laid hold on him to see how much damage could be inflicted on the Tribune’s face before he finally put him away. It was becoming a quite sanguinary engagement. Both of Demetrius’ fists were red with blood as they shot into the battered eyes and crashed against the broken nose. Quintus was making no defense now. Bewildered and blinded with blood, he yielded ground with staggering steps until he had been driven backward to a huge pine where he put out a hand for support. He breathed with agonized, whistling sobs.

  ‘You'll die for this!’ he squeaked, through swollen lips.

  ‘Very well!’ panted Demetrius, if I’m to die for punishing you—!’

  Grabbing Quintus by the throat-strap of his helmet, he completed the ruin of his shockingly mangled face. Then, satisfied with his work, he deliberately drew back his arm and put his full strength behind an ultimate drive at the point of the Tribune’s jaw. The knees buckled and Quintus sank limply to the ground.

  The Eupolis family had withdrawn some distance while the punishment was being administered. Now Dion came running up, ghastly pale.

  “Have you killed him?’ he asked, hoarsely.

  Demetrius, breathing heavily, was examining his bruised and bleeding hands. He shook his head.

  ‘We will all be thrown into prison,’ moaned Dion.

  ‘Don’t think of trying to escape,’ advised Demetrius. ‘Stay where you are—all of you. You had nothing to do with it. That can be proved.’ He started to walk away toward his master’s suite.

  ‘Shall I do anything for this fellow?’ called Dion.

  ‘Yes—bring a basin of water and towels. He will be coming around presently. And if he shows fight, send for me—and tell him that if I have to do this again, I shall kill him!’

  Very much spent, Demetrius walked sl
owly to their quarters and proceeded through to the peristyle where Marcellus sat at the table writing, his face brightly animated. He did not look up from his letter.

  ‘Demetrius! The Emperor commands me to go to Palestine and learn what is to be known—at first hand—about the Galilean!’ Marcellus’ voice was vibrant. ‘Could anything have been more to my liking? Tiberius wants to know how much truth there is in the rumor that Jesus was believed to be the Messiah. As for me—I care naught about that! I want to know what manner of man he was! What a chance for us, Demetrius! We will pursue our Aramaic diligently with old Benjamin. Come early spring, we will journey into Galilee!’ He signed his name to the letter, put down his stylus, pushed back his chair, looked up into Demetrius’ pale face. ‘Why—what on earth have you been doing?’ he demanded.

  ‘The Tribune,’ said Demetrius wearily.

  Marcellus sprang to his feet.

  ‘What? You haven’t been fighting—with Quintus!’

  ‘Not exactly fighting,’ said Demetrius. ‘He insulted the family—Theodosia in particular—and I rebuked him.’

  ‘Well—from the look of your hands, I should say you had done a good job. But—Demetrius!—this is very serious! Greek slaves can’t do that—not to Roman Tribunes—no matter how much it is needed!’

  ‘Yes—I know, sir. I must run away. If I remain here, you will try to defend me—and get into trouble. Please—shall I not go—at once?’

  ‘By all means!’ insisted Marcellus. ‘But—where will you go? Where can you go?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. I shall try to get out into the country, into the mountains, before the news spreads.’

  ‘How badly is Quintus hurt?’ asked Marcellus, anxiously.

  ‘He will recover,’ said Demetrius. ‘I used no weapons. His eyes are swollen shut—and his mouth is swollen open—and the last few times I hit him on the nose, it felt spongy.’

  ‘Has he gone?’

  ‘No—he was still there.’

  Marcellus winced and ran his fingers through his hair.

  ‘Go—wash your hands—and pack a few things for your journey.’ Walking past Demetrius, he went to his bedroom and unlocking his strong-box filled a silk bag with gold and silver talents and other coins of smaller value. Returning, he sat down at the table, took up his stylus, wrote a page, stamped it with his heavy seal ring, rolled it, and thrust it into a scroll. ‘Here you are,’ he said, when Demetrius reappeared. ‘This money will befriend you for the present—and this scroll contains your manumission. I shall remain here until spring; the ides of March, approximately. Then I shall go to Jerusalem. I cannot tell how long I may be touring about in the Palestinian provinces; all summer, certainly; perhaps longer. Then I am to return to Capri and report to the Emperor. For that I have no relish; but we will not borrow trouble.’

  ‘Would I were going with you, sir!’ exclaimed Demetrius.

  ‘I shall miss you, Demetrius; but your first duty now is to put yourself quickly out of danger. Try to let me know, as soon as safety permits, where you are in hiding. Remember that I shall be burning with desire to learn that you have not been apprehended! Notify me of your needs. If you are captured, I shall leave no stone unturned to effect your deliverance.’

  ‘I know that, sir.’ Demetrius’ voice was unsteady. ‘You are very kind. I shall take the money. As for my freedom—not now.’ He laid the scroll on the table, if I were caught with this on me, they might think you had rewarded me for punishing Quintus.’ Drawing himself stiffly to attention, he saluted with his spear. ‘Farewell, sir. I am sorry to go. We may never meet again.’

  Marcellus reached out his hand.

  ‘Good-bye, Demetrius,’ he said, huskily. ‘I shall miss you sorely. You have been a faithful friend. You will be much in my thoughts.’

  ‘Please tell Theodosia why I did not tarry to bid her farewell,’ said Demetrius.

  ‘Anything between you two?’ inquired Marcellus, with sudden interest.

  ‘That much—at least,’ admitted Demetrius.

  They silently gripped each other’s hands—and Demetrius sped away through the rose garden.

  Marcellus moved slowly back into the house, relocked his strong-box, and went out by the front door. Dion was approaching, pale and agitated.

  ‘You have heard, sir?’ he asked, anxiously.

  ‘How is he?’ inquired Marcellus.

  ‘Sitting up—but he is an unpleasant sight. He says he is going to have us all punished.’ Dion was shaken with fear.

  ‘Tell me—what really happened?’

  ‘The Tribune showed much disrespect for Theodosia. Your slave remonstrated, and the Tribune lunged at him with his dagger. After that—well—your Demetrius disarmed him and began striking him in the face with his fists. It was a very brutal beating, sir. I had not thought your gentle-spoken slave could be so violent. The Tribune is unrecognizable! Has your slave hidden himself?’

  ‘He is gone,’ said Marcellus, much to Dion’s relief.

  Proceeding through the grove, they came upon the wretched Quintus, sitting slumped under the tall pine, dabbing at his mutilated face with a bloody towel. He looked up truculently and squinted through the slim red slit in a purpling eye.

  ‘When I inform the Tetrarch,’ he claimed, thickly, ‘there will be prison for you—and beheadings for the others.’

  ‘What had you thought of telling the Tetrarch, Quintus?’ inquired Marcellus, with a derisive grin. ‘And what do you think they will say, at the Insula, when you report that after you had insulted a respectable young woman, and had tried to stab a slave who intervened, you let the fellow disarm you and beat you with his bare hands until you couldn’t stand up? Go, Quintus, to the Insula!’ went on Marcellus, mockingly. ‘Let them all see how you look after having had a duel with a Greek slave! The Tetrarch will probably tell you it was disgraceful enough for a Roman Tribune to be engaged in a fight with a slave, even if he had come out of it victorious! Come, then; let us go to the Insula, Quintus. I shall accompany you. I wouldn’t miss it for the world!’

  Quintus patted his face gingerly.

  ‘I shall not require your assistance,’ he muttered.

  ‘Let me put you up, sir,’ wheedled Dion, ‘until you feel better.’

  ‘That is a good suggestion,’ advised Marcellus. ‘Dion certainly owes you nothing for playing the scoundrel on his premises, but if he is willing to give you shelter until you are fit to be seen, you would be wise to accept his offer. I understand you are sailing on The Vestris, the day after tomorrow. Better stay under cover here, and go directly to the ship when she is ready to put off. Then none of your acquaintances at the Insula will have an amusing story to tell about you, next time he visits Rome.’

  ‘I shall have that slave of yours whipped to ribbons!’ growled Quintus.

  ‘Perhaps you might like to do it yourself!’ retorted Marcellus. ‘Shall I summon him?’

  ***

  The gray days were short, cold, and tiresome. Marcellus had discovered how heavily he had leaned on his Corinthian slave, not only for personal service but friendship and entertainment. Demetrius had become his alter ego. Marcellus was lost and restless without him.

  Nothing interesting happened. The days were all alike. In the moming he went early to old Benjamin’s shop for his regular ration of Aramaic, offered mostly in the form of conversation. At noon he would return to the inn and spend the rest of the daylight in his studio, hacking away without much enthusiasm or inspiration on a marble head that resembled Diana Gallus less and less, every day. It was still apparent that she was a girl, a Roman girl, a quite pretty girl; but no one would have guessed that she was Diana.

  And perhaps this was to be accounted for, surmised Marcellus, by the increasing vagueness of Diana on the retina of his imagination. She was very far away—and retreating. He had had two letters from her. The first, from Capri, had been written in haste. She knew all about the Emperor’s orders that he was to continue his studies in Athens and then proce
ed to Jerusalem and the northern provinces of Palestine for authentic information about that mysterious young Jew.

  As for herself, Diana said, the Emperor had insisted on her remaining at Capri for a few weeks; and, in view of his valued favors, she had decided to do so. He had been very kind; he was lonesome; she must stay.

  Her second letter had been written from home. It, too, sounded as if the carriage were waiting and someone were reading the words over her shoulder. The letter was friendly enough, solicitous of his welfare, but wanting in the little overtones of tenderness and yearning. It was as if their love had been adjourned to await further development in some undated future. Marcellus re-read this letter many times, weighing and balancing its phrases, trying to decide whether Diana had been taking extra precautions in case the scroll were read by a third party, or whether she was losing interest in their affection. It might be one or the other: it might indeed be both. Her words were not softly whispered. They were gentle—but dearly audible. And they made him very lonesome.

  It was an important occasion, therefore, when the long letter arrived from Demetrius. A light snow had fallen in the night and the sky was heavily overcast. Marcellus had stood for a long time at the studio window debating whether to go to Benjamin’s shop today. But the light was too poor for sculpturing. And the old man would be expecting him. With a mood to fit the sullen sky, he made his way to the shop where Benjamin greeted him with bright-eyed excitement.

  ‘Here is a letter for you!’

  ‘Indeed! Why was it sent here?’

  ‘In my care. Addressed to me—but intended for you. It was brought by a slave attached to a caravan, and delivered here last night by Zenos, the noisy boy who runs errands for my friend Popygos. Demetrius, as you will see, is in Jerusalem. I read that much of it. Your slave is prudent. Fearing a letter addressed to you might be examined and reveal his whereabouts, he has sent it to me.’ Benjamin laughed as he handed over the scroll. ‘Now you will have an opportunity to put your Aramaic to practical use. It’s very good Aramaic, too!’ he added proudly.