The Robe

by Lloyd C. Douglas

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ mumbled Marcellus, busy with his own thoughts. ‘What do you mean—“a Christian”?’

  ‘That’s the new name for people who believe in Jesus. They’re calling Jesus “The Christos”—meaning “The Anointed.”’

  ‘But that’s Greek! All of these people are Jews; aren’t they?’

  ‘By no means, sir! This movement is traveling fast—and far. Simon the tanner says there are at least three hundred banded together down in Antioch.’

  ‘Amazing!’ exclaimed Marcellus. ‘Do you suppose Justus knows?’

  ‘Of course.’

  This is astounding news, Demetrius! I had considered the whole thing a lost cause! How could it stay alive—after Jesus was dead?’

  Demetrius stared into his master’s bewildered eyes.

  ‘Don’t you—haven’t you heard about that, sir?’ he inquired, soberly. ‘Hasn’t Justus told you?’

  Both men turned at the sound of a shrill shout.

  ‘Who is the child?’ asked Demetrius, as Jonathan came running toward them. Marcellus explained briefly. The little boy’s pace slowed as he neared them, inquisitively eyeing the stranger.

  ‘Grandfather says you are to come and eat now,’ he said moving close to Marcellus, but giving full attention to the unexplained man in the shabby tunic.

  ‘Do you catch fish?’ he asked. ‘Have you a boat? Can I ride in it?’

  This man’s name is Demetrius,’ said Marcellus. ‘He is not a fisherman, and he does not own a boat. He borrowed the cap.’

  Demetrius smiled and fell in behind them as Marcellus, with the little boy’s hand in his, walked toward the tent. Jonathan turned around, occasionally, to study the newcomer who followed with measured steps.

  Justus, busily occupied at the fire, a few yards from the tent, glanced up with a warm smile of recognition and a word of greeting, apparently not much surprised at the arrival of their guest.

  ‘May I take over, sir?’ asked Demetrius.

  ‘It is all ready; thank you,’ said Justus. ‘You sit down with Marcellus, and I shall serve you.’

  Demetrius bowed and stepped aside. Presently Justus came to the low table he had improvised by drawing a couple of packing-cases together, and served Marcellus and Jonathan with the broiled fish and honey cakes. Jonathan motioned with his head toward Demetrius and looked up anxiously into Marcellus’ face.

  ‘Why doesn’t he come and eat with us?’ he inquired.

  Marcellus was at a loss for a prompt and satisfactory reply.

  ‘You needn’t worry about Demetrius, son,’ he remarked, casually. ‘He likes to stand up when he eats.’

  Instantly he divined that he had taken the wrong turn. Justus, who was sitting down opposite them, with his own dish, frowned darkly. He had some deep convictions on the subject of slavery. It was bad enough, his glum expression said, that Demetrius should be Marcellus’ slave. It was intolerable that this relationship should be viewed so casually.

  Jonathan pointed over his shoulder with his half-eaten cake in the direction of Demetrius who was standing before the fire, dish in hand, apparently enjoying his breakfast.

  ‘That man stands up when he eats, Grandfather!’ he remarked in a high treble, isn’t that funny?’

  ‘No,’ muttered Justus, ‘it is not funny.’ With that, he left the table, and went over to stand beside the slave.

  Marcellus decided not to make an issue of it and proceeded to some lively banter with Jonathan, hoping to distract the child’s attention.

  Demetrius surveyed Justus’ grim face and smiled.

  ‘You mustn’t let this slave business distress you, sir,’ he said, quietly. ‘My master is most kind and considerate. He would gladly give his life for me, as I would for him. But—slaves do not sit at table with their masters. It is a rule.’

  ‘A bad rule!’ grumbled Justus, deep in his throat. ‘A rule that deserves to be broken! I had thought better of Marcellus Gallio.’

  ‘It is a small matter,’ said Demetrius, calmly, if you wish to make my slavery easier, please think no more of it, sir.’

  At that, Justus’ face cleared a little. There was no use making a scene over a situation that was none of his business. If Demetrius was contented, there wasn’t much more to be said.

  After they had eaten, Justus carried a dish of food out to the donkeyboy, Jonathan trotting along, still perplexed about the little episode.

  ‘Grandfather,’ he shrilled, ‘Marcellus Gallio treats Demetrius no better than we treat our donkey-boy.’

  Justus frowned, but made no attempt to explain. His grandson had given him something new to think about. In the meantime, Demetrius had joined Marcellus, his bearded lips puckered as he tried to discipline a grin.

  ‘Perhaps it will clear the air for everybody, sir,' he said, 'if I go on by myself to Capernaum. Let me meet you, late this afternoon.’

  ‘Very well,’ consented Marcellus. ‘Ask Justus where he proposes to stop. But—are you sure it is prudent for you to go down to Capernaum? We have a fort there, you know.’

  ‘I shall be watchful, sir,’ promised Demetrius.

  Take this!’ Marcellus poured a handful of coins into his palm. 'And keep your distance from that fort!’

  ***

  Demetrius, unencumbered, made good progress down the serpentine road to the valley floor. The air was hot. He carried his shabby coat and the disreputable cap under his arm. The lake-shore on this side was barren and unpopulated. Tossing off his clothing, he waded out and swam joyously, tumbled about like a dolphin, floated on his back, churned the water with long overhand strokes, luxuriating in his aquatics, and the thorough cleansing. He came out shaking his mop of hair through his fingers, the blazing sun drying him before he reached the little pile of patched and faded garments.

  Tiberias gleamed white in the mid-forenoon sun. The marble palace of Herod Antipas, halfway up the hill, appropriately set apart from the less noble but surprisingly lavish residences, glistened dazzlingly. Demetrius imagined he could see a sinuous shimmer of heat enveloping the proud structure, and was glad he did not have to live there. He was not envious of Herod’s privilege to spend the summer here. However, he reflected, the family had probably sought a more congenial altitude for the hot season, leaving a small army of servants to sweat and steal and quarrel until the weather eased with the coming of autumn.

  He had reached the little city now, and proceeded on through it, keeping close to the beach, where many fishing-boats had been drawn up on the sand, and the adjacent market-booths reeked of their merchandise. Occasionally he was viewed with a momentary curiosity by small groups of apathetic loungers, sitting cross-legged in the shade of dirty foodshops. The air was heavy with decaying fruit and the stench of rancid oil sizzling in tarnished pans. It had been a long time since breakfast, and Demetrius had had an unusual amount of exercise.

  He tarried before one of the unpleasant foodstalls. The swarthy cook scowled, and waved his wooden spoon at the shabby traveler with the uncouth cap—and no pack.

  ‘Be on your way, fellow!’ he commanded. ‘We have nothing to give you.’

  Demetrius jingled his money, and made a wry face.

  ‘Nor have you anything to sell that a dog would eat,’ he retorted.

  The greasy fellow instantly beamed with a wheedling smile, lifting his shoulders and elbows into a posture of servitude. It was this type of Jew that Demetrius had always despised, the Jew who was arrogant, noisy, and abusive until he heard a couple of coins clink. Immediately you were his friend, his brother, his master. You could pour out a torrent of invective on him now, if you liked. He would be weather proofed and his smile undiminished. He had heard the pennies.

  ‘Oh—not so bad as that, sir!’ exclaimed the cook. ‘The evil smell’—he wagged a confidential thumb toward the neighboring booth—‘it is that one who defiles the air with his stale perch and wretched oil.’ Tipping a grimy kettle forward, he stirred its steaming contents, appreciatively sucking his
lips. ‘Delicious!’ he murmured.

  A tousled, red-eyed legionary sauntered up from the waterfront, rested an elbow on the end of the high table, and sourly sniffed the heavy scent of burning fat. His uniform was dirty. Apparently he had slept where he fell. Doubtless he was ready for food now. He gave Demetrius a surly stare.

  ‘Have a bowl of this fine pottage, Centurion,’ coaxed the cook. ‘Choice lamb—with many costly spices. A great helping for only two farthings.’

  Demetrius repressed a grin. ‘Centurion’—eh? Why hadn’t the Jew gone the whole way and addressed the debauched legionary as ‘Legate’? But perhaps he knew where to stop when dishing up flattery. The unkempt Roman snarled a curse, and rubbed his clammy forehead with his dirty brown bandeau. The cook took up an empty bowl and smiled encouragingly at Demetrius, who scowled and shook his head.

  ‘None for me,’ he muttered, turning away.

  ‘I’ll have some!’ declared the legionary, truculently, slapping an empty wallet.

  The cook’s eager face collapsed, but he was not in a position to refuse the penniless soldier. With a self-piteous shrug, he half-filled the bowl and put it down on the filthy table.

  ‘Business is so bad,’ he whined.

  ‘So is your pottage,’ mumbled the legionary, nursing a hot mouthful. ‘Even that slave would have none of it.’

  ‘Slave, sir?’ The cook leaned over the high table to have another look at the tall Greek, who was moving leisurely up the street. ‘He has a wallet full of money. Good money, too—from the sound of itl A thief, no doubt!’

  The legionary put down his spoon. His lip curled in a crafty grin. If an overdue soldier could reappear at the fort with a prisoner in tow, he might make a better case for his absence all night.

  ‘Hi—you!’ he shouted. ‘Come back here!’

  Demetrius hesitated, turned, held a brief parley with himself, and retraced his steps. It would do no good to attempt an escape in the neighborhood of a fort.

  ‘Did you call me, sir?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘How do you happen to be in Tiberias alone, fellow?’ The legionary wiped his stubbled chin. ‘Where is your master? Don’t pretend you’re not a slave—with that ear.’

  ‘My master is on the way to Capernaum, sir. He sent me on to seek out a desirable camping-place.’

  This sounded reasonable. The legionary untidily helped himself to another large spoonful of the pottage.

  ‘Who is your master, fellow? And what is he doing in Capernaum?’

  ‘A Roman citizen, sir; a merchant.’

  ‘A likely tale!’ snorted the legionary. “What manner of merchandise does a Roman find in Capernaum?’

  ‘Homespun, sir,’ said Demetrius. ‘Galilean rugs and robes.’

  The legionary chuckled scornfully and scraped the bottom of his bowl with a shaky spoon.

  ‘Greek slaves are usually better liars than that,’ he growled. ‘You must think me a fool. A slave in rags and patches, seeking a camp-site for a Roman who comes all the way to little Capernaum to buy clothing!’

  ‘And with much money on him!’ shrilled the cook. ‘A robber he is!’

  ‘Shut up, pig!’ bellowed the legionary, I should take you along, were you not so filthy.’ Setting his soiled bandeau at a jaunty angle, he rose, tightened his belt, belched noisily, and motioned to Demetrius to fall in behind him.

  ‘But why am I apprehended, sir?’ demanded Demetrius.

  ‘Never mind about that!’ snarled the legionary. ‘You can tell your story at the fort.’ With an exaggerated swagger, he marched stiffly up the street without turning to see whether his captive was following.

  Demetrius hesitated for a moment, but decided that it would be foolhardy to attempt an escape in a vicinity so well patrolled. He would go along to the fort and try to send a message to Marcellus.

  Beyond the limits of Tiberias the grim old sand-colored barracks loomed up on the arid hillside. Above the center of the quadrangle reared the parapets of the inevitable praetorium. The legionary strutted on toward the massive wooden gate. A sentry sluggishly unbarred the heavy barricade. They passed into the treeless, sun-blistered drill-ground and on between orderly rows of brown tents, unoccupied now, for it was noon and the legion would be in the mess-hall. Presently they brought up before the relatively impressive entrance to the praetorium. A gray-haired guard made way for them.

  ‘Take this slave below and lock him up,’ barked the legionary.

  ‘What’s your name, fellow?’ demanded the guard.

  Demetrius told him.

  ‘And your master’s name?’

  ‘Lucan—a Roman citizen.’

  ‘Where does he live?’

  ‘In Rome.’

  The guard gave the disheveled legionary an appraising glance. Demetrius thought he saw some hesitancy on the part of the older man.

  ‘What’s the charge?’ asked the guard.

  ‘Suspicion of theft,’ said the legionary. ‘Lock him up, and let him explain later how he happens to be wandering about, away from his master, dressed like a fisherman—and with a wallet full of money.’

  ‘Write his name on the slate, then,’ said the guard. ‘The Centurion is at mess.’

  The legionary fumbled with the chalk, and handed it to Demetrius.

  ‘Can you write your name, slave?’ he inquired gruffly.

  In spite of his predicament, Demetrius was amused. It was obvious that neither of these Romans could write. If they couldn’t write, they couldn’t read. He took the chalk and wrote:

  ‘Demetrius, Greek slave of Lucan, a Roman encamped in Capernaum.’

  ‘Long name—for a slave,’ remarked the legionary, if you have written anything else—’

  ‘My master’s name, sir.’

  ‘Put him away, then,’ said the legionary, turning to go. The old guard tapped on the floor with his lance and a younger guard appeared. He signed with a jerk of his head that Demetrius should follow, and strode off down the corridor to a narrow stairway. They descended to the prison. Bearded faces appeared at the small square apertures in the cell-doors; Jewish faces, mostly, and a few tough-looking Bedouins.

  Demetrius was pushed into an open cell at the far end of the narrow corridor. A perpendicular slit, high in the outer wall, admitted a frugal light. The only furniture was a wide wooden bench. Anchored to the masonry lay a heavy chain with a rusty manacle. The guard ignored the chain, retreated into the corridor, banged the heavy door shut and pushed the bolt.

  Slumping down on the bench, Demetrius surveyed his ciamped quarters, and wondered how long he would have to wait for some official action in his case. It suddenly occurred to him that if the dissipated legionary suspected the entry on the slate he might have thought it safer to rub it out. In that event, the new prisoner stood a good chance of being forgotten. Perhaps he should have made a dash for it when he had an opportunity. Assuming a speedy trial, how much should he tell? It would be difficult to explain Marcellus’ business in Galilee. Without doubt, old Julian the Legate was under orders to make short work of this Christian movement. There was no telling what attitude he might take if he learned that Marcellus had been consorting with these disciples of Jesus.

  As his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, Demetrius noticed a shelf in the corner bearing an earthenware food-basin and a small water fowl. He had been hungry an hour ago. Now he was thirsty. Moving to the door he crouched—for the barred port was not placed for a tenant of his height—and looked across the narrow corridor into a pair of inquisitive Roman eyes framed in the opposite cell-door. The eyes were about the same age as his own, and seemed amused.

  ‘When do we get food and water?’ asked Demetrius, in circus Latin.

  ‘Twice,’ replied the Roman, amiably. ‘At mid-morning—you should have arrived earlier—and again at sunset. Praise the gods—I shan’t be here for the next feeding. I’m getting out this afternoon. My week is up.’

  ‘I can’t wait until sunset for water,’ muttered Demetrius.
r />   ‘I’ll wager you ten sesterces you’ll wait until they bring it to you,’ drawled the Roman. He straightened to relieve his cramped position, revealing a metal identification tablet on the chain around his neck.

  ‘What is your legion?’ inquired Demetrius, seeing his neighbor was disposed to be talkative.

  ‘Seventeenth: this one.’

  ‘Why aren’t you in the legion’s guardhouse,’ ventured Demetrius, ‘instead of down in this hole with the civilians?’

  ‘The guardhouse is full,’ chuckled the legionary.

  ‘Was there a mutiny?’ inquired Demetrius.

  Not a mutiny, the legionary explained. They had had a celebration. Julian the Legate had been transferred to Jerusalem. The new Legate had brought a detachment of fifty along with him from his old command, to guard him on the journey. During the festivities, much good wine had flowed; much good blood, too, for the detachment from Minoa was made up of quarrelsome legionaries—

  ‘From Minoa!’ exclaimed Demetrius. ‘Is Tribune Paulus your new Legate?’

  ‘Indeed he is!’ retorted the legionary. 'And plenty hard! Old Julian was easy-going. This fellow has no mercy. As for the fighting, it was nothing; a few dagger cuts, a couple of bloody noses. One man from Minoa lost a slice off his ear.’ He grinned reminiscently. ‘I sliced it off,’ he added, modestly, it didn’t hurt him much. And he knew it was accidental.’ After a little pause, ‘I see somebody nicked you on the ear.’

  ‘That wasn’t accidental,’ grinned Demetrius, willing to humor the legionary, who laughed appreciatively, as if it were a good joke on the Greek that he had been enslaved.

  ‘Did you run away?’ asked the Roman.

  ‘No—I was to have joined my master in Capernaum.’

  ‘He’ll get you out. You needn’t worry. He’s a Roman, of course.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Demetrius, ‘but he doesn’t know I’m here.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I wonder if you could get a message to him. I’d gladly give you something for your trouble.’

  The legionary laughed derisively.

  ‘Big talk—for a slave,’ he scoffed. ‘How much? Two denarii, maybe?’