‘I cannot tell you how I came by my gift,’ she said, “but I do not regret my lameness. Perhaps the people of Cana are more helped by the songs I sing—from my cot—than they might be if I were physically well. They all have their worries, agonies, defeats. If I had been made whole, perhaps they would say, “Oh—it’s easy enough for Miriam to sing and rejoice. Miriam has no trouble. Why indeed shouldn't she sing?"’
‘You’re a brave girl!’ declared Marcellus.
She shook her head.
‘I do not feel that I merit much praise, Marcellus. There was a time when my lameness was a great affliction—because I made it an affliction. It afflicted not only me but my parents and all my friends. Now that it is not an affliction, it has become a means of blessing. People are very tender in their attitude toward me. They come to visit me. They bring me little gifts. And, as Jesus said so frequently, it is more blessed to give than to receive. I am fortunate, my friend. I live in an atmosphere of love. The people of Cana frequently quarrel—but not with me. They are all at their best—with me.’ She flashed him a sudden smile. ‘Am I not rich?’
Marcellus made no response, but impulsively laid an open hand on the edge of the cot, and she gave him hers with the undeliberated trust of a little child.
‘Shall I tell you another strange story, Marcellus?’ she asked, quietly. 'Of course Justus must have told you that after Jesus had done some amazing things in our Galilean villages, the news spread throughout the country, and great crowds followed him wherever he went; hundreds, thousands; followed along for miles and miles and days and days! Men in the fields would drop their hoes and run to the road as the long procession passed; and then they too would join the throng, maybe to be gone from home for a week or more, sleeping in the open, cold and hungry, completely carried away! Nothing mattered—but to be close to Jesus! Well—one day—he was entering Jericho. You haven’t been to Jericho, have you? No—you came up through Samaria. Jericho is one of the larger towns of Judea. As usual, a big crowd followed him and the whole city rushed to the main thoroughfare as the word spread that he had come. At that time, the Chief Revenue Officer of Jericho was a man named Zacchaeus—’
‘A Greek?’ broke in Marcellus.
‘No—he was an Israelite. His name was Zaccai, really; but being in the employ of the Roman Government—’ Miriam hesitated, colored a little, and Marcellus eased her embarrassment with an understanding grin.
‘You needn’t explain. These provincial officers usually alter their names as soon as they begin to curry favor with their foreign masters. It’s fashionable now to have a Greek name; much smarter and safer than to have a Roman name. I think I know something about this Zaccai—alias Zacchaeus—without meeting him. He is a common type of rascally tax-collector; disloyal to everybody—to the Government—and his own countrymen. We have them in all of our provinces throughout the Empire. You can’t have an empire, Miriam, without scoundrels in the provincial seats of government. Think you that Tiberius could govern faraway Hispania and Aquitania unless certain of their men betrayed their own people? By no means! When the provincial officers go straight, the Empire goes to pieces!
...But—pardon the interruption, Miriam, and the long speech. Tell me about Zacchaeus.’
‘He was very wealthy. The people of Jericho feared and hated him. He had spies at every keyhole listening for some rebellious whisper. Anyone suspected of grumbling about the Government was assessed higher taxes, and if he protested, he was charged with treason. Zacchaeus had built a beautiful home on a knoll at the southern boundary of Jericho and lived like a prince. There were landscaped gardens and lagoons—and scores of servants.’
‘But no friends,’ surmised Marcellus.
‘Neither among the rich nor poor; but Zacchaeus did not care. He had contempt for their hatred. Well—on this day—having heard that Jesus was proceeding toward Jericho, Zacchacus came down into the city for a glimpse of him. The waiting crowd was so dense that he abandoned his carriage and struggled through the multitude to reach a spot where he might see. A legionary, recognizing him, assisted him to climb up into the fork of a tree, though this was forbidden to anyone else. Presently Jesus came down the street with his large company, and stopped by the tree. He called to Zacchacus, addressing him by name, though they had never met, saying, “May I dine with you today?”’
‘And what did the people of Jericho think of that?’ wondered Marcellus.
‘They were indignant, of course,’ said Miriam. ‘And Jesus’ closest friends were very unhappy. Zacchacus had been so mean—and now Jesus had singled him out for special attention. Many said, “This Galilean is no better than the priests, who are ever truckling to the rich.”’
‘I suppose Zacchaeus made the most of their discomfiture,’ commented Marcellus.
‘He was much flattered; hurried down from the tree and swaggered proudly at Jesus’ side as the procession moved on. And when they arrived at his beautiful estate, he gave orders that the multitude might enter the grounds and wait—’
‘While he and his guest had dinner,’ assisted Marcellus. ‘They must not have liked that.’
‘No—they were deeply offended; but they waited. And saw Jesus enter the great marble house of Zacchacus. After they had sat waiting for almost an hour, Zacchaeus came out and beckoned to the people. They scrambled to their feet and ran to hear what he might say. He was much disturbed. They could see that something had happened to him. The haughtiness and arrogance was gone from his face. Jesus stood a little way apart from him, sober and silent. The great multitude stood waiting, every man holding his breath and staring at this unfamiliar face of Zacchaeus. And then he spoke, humbly, brokenly. He had decided, he said, to give half of all he owned to feed the poor. To those whom he had defrauded, he would make abundant restitution.’
‘But—what had happened?’ demanded Marcellus. 'What had Jesus said to him?’
Miriam shook her head.
‘Nobody knows,’ she murmured; then, with averted, reminiscent eyes, she added, half to herself: ‘Maybe he didn’t say anything at all. Perhaps he looked Zacchaeus squarely in the eyes until the man saw—reflected there—the image of the person he was meant to be.’
‘That is a strange thing to say,’ remarked Marcellus. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand.’
‘Many people had that experience,’ said Miriam, softly. ‘When Jesus looked directly into your eyes—’ She broke off suddenly, and leaned far forward to face him at close range. ‘Marcellus,’ she went on, in an impressive tone lowered almost to a whisper, ‘if you had ever met Jesus—face to face—and he had looked into your eyes until—until you couldn’t get away—you would have no trouble believing that he could do anything—anything he pleased! If he said, ‘‘Put down your crutches!” you would put them down. If he said, “Pay back the money you have stolen!” you would pay it back.’
She closed her eyes and relaxed against the cushions. Her hand, still in his, was trembling a little.
‘And if he said, “Now you may sing for joy!”’ ventured Marcellus, ‘you would sing?’
Miriam did not open her eyes, but a wisp of a smile curved her lips. After a moment, she sat up with suddenly altered mood, reclaimed her hand, patted her curls, and indicated that she was ready to talk of something far afield.
‘Tell me more about this Greek who worked for Benyosef,’ she suggested. ‘Evidently he too is interested in Jesus, or he wouldn’t have had the confidence of the men who meet one another there.’
‘It will be easy to talk about Demetrius,’ replied Marcellus, ‘for he is my closest friend. In appearance he is tall, athletic, handsome. In mind, he is widely informed, with a sound knowledge of the classics. At heart, he is loyal and courageous. As to his conduct, I have never known him to do an unworthy thing.’ Marcellus paused for a moment, and went on resolutely. ‘When I was seventeen, my father presented Demetrius to me—a birthday gift.’
‘But—you said he is your closest friend!’ exclaimed
Miriam. ‘How can that be? Does he not resent being enslaved?’
‘No man can be expected to like slavery, Miriam; but, once you have been a slave, there is not very much you could do with your freedom if you achieved it. I have offered Demetrius his liberty. He is free to come and go as he likes.’
‘You must have been a good master, Marcellus,’ said Miriam, gently.
‘Not always. At times—especially during the past year—I have made Demetrius very unhappy. I was moody, restless, wretched, sick.’
‘And why was that?’ she asked. ‘Would you like to tell me?’
‘Not on this fair day,’ rejoined Marcellus, soberly. ‘Besides—I am well now. I need not burden you with it.’
‘As you please,’ she consented. ‘But—how did Demetrius happen to be working in Benyosef’s shop?’
‘That is a long story, Miriam.’
‘You—and your long stories,’ she put in, dryly.
Marcellus feigned a wince—and smiled.
‘Briefly, then—we were in Athens. Through no fault of his, and in defense of some helpless people, Demetrius engaged in combat with a man who held a position of authority, but had not been advised that a blow delivered by this Greek slave would stun on ox. It was a well-justified battle, albeit one-sided and of short duration. But we thought it prudent for Demetrius to lose no time increasing the distance between himself and the Athenian jail. So—he drifted to Jerusalem, and because he had some knowledge of carding and spinning—’
‘And how had he picked that up?’ asked Miriam, busy again with her precise stitches.
‘At a weaver’s shop in Athens. He was studying Aramaic under the weaver’s instruction—and made himself useful.’
‘Was that where you got your Aramaic, Marcellus?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you learn carding and spinning, too?’
‘No,’ laughed Marcellus. ‘Just Aramaic—such as it is.’
‘That was in preparation for this your of Galilee, I think,’ ventured Miriam. ‘And when you have learned all you wish to know about Jesus—what then?’
‘My plans are uncertain.’ Marcellus frowned his perplexity. ‘I must go back to Rome, though my return is not urgent. Naturally I want to rejoin my family and friends, but—’
Miriam took several little stiches before she looked up to ask, almost inaudibly—‘But what?’
‘Something tells me I am going to feel quite out of place in Rome,' he confessed. ‘I have been much impressed by what I have heard of your brave Galilean’s teachings about human relations. They seem so reasonable, so sensible. If they became popular, we could have a new world. And, Miriam, we must have a new world! Things can’t go on this way! Not very much longer!’
Miriam put down her work and gave him her full attention. She had not seen him in such a serious mood before.
‘During these past few days,’ he went on, ‘I have had a chance to look at the world from a different angle. It wasn’t that I had never stopped to think about its injustice, its waste, its tragic unhappiness. But—out here in this quiet country—I lie at night, looking up at the stars, and suddenly I recall Rome!—its greed and gluttony at the top; its poverty and degredation growing more and more desperate all the way down to the bottom of damp dungeons and galleys and quarries. And Rome rules the world! The Emperor is a lunatic. The Prince Regent is a scoundrel. They rule the world! Their armies control the wretched lives of millions of people!’ He paused, patted a damp brow, and muttered, ‘Forgive me, my friend, for haranguing you.’
“Would it not be wonderful,’ exclaimed Miriam, ‘if Jesus were on the throne?’
‘Impossible!’ expostulated Marcellus.
‘Maybe not,’ said Miriam, quietly.
He studied her eyes, wondering if she were really serious, and was amazed at her sober sincerity.
‘You can’t be in earnest!’ he said. ‘Besides—Jesus is dead.’
‘Are you sure of that?’ she asked, without looking up.
‘I agree that his teachings are not dead, and something should be done to carry them to as many people as can be reached!’
‘Do you intend to tell your friends about him—when you go home?’
Marcellus sighed.
‘They would think me crazy.’
‘Would your father think you were crazy?’
‘He would, indeed! My father is a just man of generous heart, but he has contempt for people who interest themselves in religion. He would be embarrassed—and annoyed, too—if I were to discuss these things with our friends.’
‘Might he not think it brave of you?’
‘Brave? Not at all! He would think it was in very bad taste!’
Justus and Reuben were sauntering in from the vineyard, much occupied with their low-voiced conversation.
‘How long will you be here, Marcellus?’ asked Miriam, with undisguised concern. ‘Will I see you again; tomorrow, maybe?’
‘Not tomorrow. We go to Capernaum tomorrow, Justus says. He wants me to meet an old man named Nathanael. Ever hear of him?’
‘Of course! You will like him. But you are coming back to Cana, aren’t you, before you return to Jerusalem?’
‘I’d like to.’
‘Please. Now you let me have a word with Justus, alone; will you?’
‘Justus,’ said Marcellus, as the men approached, ‘I shall go back to the village, and meet you there at your convenience.’
He offered his hand to Reuben, who clasped it cordially. Evidently Justus had given Reuben a friendly account of him.
‘Good-bye, Miriam,’ he said, taking her hand. ‘I shall see you next week.’
‘Good-bye, Marcellus,’ she said. ‘I shall be looking for you.’ The bearded Galilean stood by and watched them exchange a lingering look. Reuben frowned a little, as if the situation perplexed him. The frown said that Reuben didn’t want his girl hurt. This Roman would go away and forget all about her, but Miriam would remember.
‘You’re coming back this way, then,’ said Reuben to Justus, as Marcellus moved away.
‘It seems so.’ Justus grinned.
‘Let me tell Naomi that you will tarry and break bread with us,’ said Reuben.
When they were alone, Miriam motioned to Justus to sit down beside her.
‘Why don’t you tell Marcellus everything?’ she asked. ‘He is deeply concerned. It seems he knows so little. He was in Jerusalem and attended the trial at the Insula, heard Jesus sentenced to death, and knows that he was crucified. And that is all. So far as he is aware, the story of Jesus ended that day. Why haven’t you told him?’
‘I intend to, Miriam, when he is prepared to hear it. He would not believe it if I were to tell him now.’ Justus moved closer and lowered his voice. ‘I thought perhaps you would tell him.’
‘I almost did. Then I wondered if you might not have some reason—unknown to me—for keeping it a secret. I think Marcellus has a right to know everything now. He thinks it such a pity that no plans have been made to interest people in Jesus’ teachings. Can’t you tell him about the work they are doing in Jerusalem—and Joppa—and Caesarea? He hasn’t the faintest idea of what is going on!’
‘Very well,’ nodded Justus. ‘I shall tell him—everything.’
‘Today!’ urged Miriam.
‘Tell me truly, daughter,’ said Justus, soberly. ‘Are you losing your heart to this foreigner?’
Miriam took several small, even stitches before she looked up into his brooding eyes.
‘Marcellus doesn’t seem a bit foreign to me,’ she said, softly.
***
Aimlessly sauntering back to the tent Marcellus began sorting over the homespun he had accumulated, wondering what he should do with it. Now that there was no longer any reason for pretending an interest in such merchandise, the articles already purchased were of no value to him. The thought occurred—and gave him pleasure—that he might take them to Miriam. She would be glad to see that they were distributed among the poor.
He took up a black robe and held it against the light. It was of good wool and well woven. He had paid twenty shekels for it. Fifteen would have been enough, but the woman was poor. Besides, he had been trying to make a favorable impression on Justus by dealing generously with his fellow countrymen.
With nothing better to entertain him, Marcellus sat down on the edge of his cot, with the robe in his hands, and indulged in some leisurely theorizing on the indeterminate value of this garment. If you computed the amount of skilled labor invested by the woman who wove it, on a basis of an adequate wage per hour for such experienced workmanship, the robe was easily worth thirty shekels. But not in Sepphoris, where she lived; for the local market was not active. In Sepphoris it was worth twelve shekels. A stranger would have been asked fifteen. Marcellus had made it worth twenty. Now it wasn’t worth anything!
He would give it to Miriam, who had no use for it, and it still wouldn’t be worth anything until she had donated it to someone who needed it. At that juncture, the robe would begin to take on some value again, though just how much would be difficult to estimate. If the man who received this excellent robe should be inspired by it to wash his hands and face and mend his tom sandals—thereby increasing public confidence in his character, and enabling him to find employment at a better wage—the robe might eventually turn out to be worth more than its original cost. If the man who received it was a lazy scalawag, he might sell it for whatever it would fetch, which wouldn’t be much; for no person of any substance would want—at any price—a garment that had been in the possession of this probably verminous tramp. You could amuse yourself all day with speculations concerning the shifting values of material things.
Marcellus had been doing an unusual amount of new thinking, these past few days, on the subject of property. According to Justus, Jesus had had much to say about a man’s responsibility as a possessor of material things. Hoarded things might easily become a menace; a mere fire-and-theft risk; a breeding-ground for destructive insects; a source of worry. Men would have plenty of anxieties, but there was no sense in accumulating worries over things! That kind of worry destroyed your character. Even an unused coat, hanging in your closet; it wasn’t merely a useless thing that did nobody any good; it was an active agent of destruction to your life. And your life must be saved, at all costs. What would it advantage a man—Jesus had demanded—if he were to gain the whole world—and lose his own life?
The Robe Page 37