The Robe

by Lloyd C. Douglas

  ‘I’ll give you ten shekels.’

  That you won’t!’ muttered the legionary. ‘I don’t want any of that kind of money, fellow!’

  ‘I didn’t steal it,’ declared Demetrius. ‘My master gave it to me.’

  ‘Well—you can keep it!’ The legionary scowled and moved back from the door.

  Demetrius sat down dejectedly on the bench. He was very thirsty.

  Chapter XVII

  OF COURSE it was sheer nonsense to say that you had full confidence in Nathanael Bartholomew’s integrity but disbelieved his eye-witness account of the storm.

  Nor could you clarify this confusion by assuming that the old man had been a victim of hallucination. Bartholomew wasn’t that type of person. He was neither a liar nor a fool.

  According to his story, told at great length as they sat together in his little fig orchard, Jesus had rebuked a tempest on the Sea of Galilee; had commanded the gale to cease, and it had obeyed his voice—instantly! Jesus had spoken and the storm had stopped! Bartholomew had snapped his dry old fingers. Like that!

  And the story wasn’t hearsay. Bartholomew hadn’t heard it from a neighbor who had got it from his cousin. No, sir! The old man had been in the boat that night. He had heard and seen it all! If you couldn’t believe it, Bartholomew would not be offended; but it was truth!

  The tale was finished now. The aged disciple sat calmly fanning his wrinkled neck, drawing his long, white beard aside and loosening the collar of his robe. Marcellus, with no further comments to offer and no more questions to ask, frowned studiously at his own interlaced fingers, conscious of Justus’ inquisitive eyes. He knew they expected him to express an opinion; and, after a silence that was becoming somewhat constrained, he obliged them by muttering to himself, ‘Very strange! Very strange indeed!’

  The dramatic story had been told with fervor, told with an old man's verbosity, but without excitement. Bartholomew wasn’t trying to persuade you; nor was he trying to convert you. He had nothing to sell. Justus had asked him to tell about that storm, and he had done so. Perhaps it was his first opportunity for so complete a recital of all its incidents. Certainly it was the first time he had ever told the story to someone who hadn’t heard it.

  Shortly after Demetrius had set off alone, that morning, the little caravan had proceeded slowly down the winding road to the valley; had skirted the sparsely populated lake-shore to Tiberias where the ostentatious Roman palaces on the hills accented the squalor of the waterfront; had followed the beach street through the city; had passed the frowning old fort, and entered the sprawling suburbs of Capernaum.

  Jonathan had been promised a brief visit with Thomas—and the donkey; so they had turned off into a side street where, after many inquiries, they had found the little house and an enthusiastic welcome. Upon the urgent persuasion of Thomas and his mother, Jonathan was left with them, to be picked up on the morrow. Everybody agreed that the donkey recognized Jonathan, though the elders privately suspected that the sugar which had been melting in the little boy’s warm hand for the past two hours might have accounted for Jasper's flattering feat of memory.

  Regaining the principal thoroughfare, they had moved on toward the business center of the town which had figured so prominently in Justus’ recollections of Jesus. They had halted for a moment in front of Lydia's home, and Justus was for making a brief call, but Marcellus dissuaded him as it was nearing midday and a visit might be inopportune.

  The central plaza had seemed familiar. The synagogue—ironically more Roman than Jewish in its architecture, which was understandable because Centurion Hortensius had furnished the money—spread its marble steps fanwise into the northern boundary of the spacious square, exactly as Marcellus had pictured it; for it was from these steps that Jesus had addressed massed multitudes of thousands. It was almost deserted now, except for the beggars, tapping on the pavement with their empty bowls; for everybody who had a home to go to was at his noonday meal.

  Marcellus felt he had been here many times before. Indeed he was so preoccupied with identifying the cherished landmarks that he almost forgot they were to have met Demetrius here. Justus had reminded him, and Marcellus had looked about apprehensively. It would be a very awkward situation if Demetrius had been arrested. He had no relish for an interview with old Julian; not while on his present mission. Justus relieved his anxiety somewhat by saying he had told Demetrius where they would make camp, on the grounds of the old Shalum Inn; but what could be detaining Demetrius in the meantime?

  ‘Perhaps he misunderstood me,’ suggested Justus.

  ‘It’s possible,’ agreed Marcellus, ‘but unlikely. Demetrius has a good ear for instructions.’

  They had sauntered down to the beach, strewn with fishing-boats drawn up on the shingle, leaving the donkey-boy to keep an eye out for Demetrius.

  Justus had suggested that they eat their lunch on the shore. After waiting a half-hour for the Greek to show up, they had packed their lunch kit and proceeded northward, Marcellus anxious but still hopeful of meeting his loyal slave at the inn. It was a quiet spot—the Inn of Ben-Shalum—with spacious grounds for travelers carrying their own camping equipment. No one had seen anything of a tall Greek slave. Hastily unpacking, they put up the tent in the shade of two tall sycamores, and made off toward the home of Bartholomew, a little way up the suburban street.

  And now the old man had ended the story they had come to hear. In its preliminary phases, episodes had been introduced which bore no closer relation to the eventful storm than that they had occurred on the same day. Jesus had been very weary that night; so weary that he had slept at the height of the gale and had had to be awakened when it became clear that the little ship was foundering. Such deep fatigue had to be accounted for; so Bartholomew had elaborated the day’s activities.

  Sometimes, for a considerable period, the husky old voice would settle deep in the sparse white beard and rumble on in an almost inaudible monotone, and you knew that Bartholomew had deserted you and Justus for the great crowd that sat transfixed on a bairen coast—a weary, wistful, hungry multitude of self-contained people who, in the melting warmth of Jesus’ presence, had congealed into one sympathetic family, for the sharing of their food.

  ‘A clean, bright lad,' Bartholomew was mumbling to himself; ‘a nephew of Lydia’s, who had none of her own; he spent most of his time at her house. She had packed his little basket.’

  And then, suddenly remembering his guests, Bartholomew had roused from his reverie to tell Marcellus all about Lydia’s strange healing; and Justus had not intervened with a hint that their young Roman friend had already heard of her experience. Having finished with Lydia—and Jarius, too, whose little daughter had been marvelously restored that day—the old man had drifted back to his memories of the remarkable feast in the desert.

  ‘The boy must have been sitting at the Master’s feet,’ he soliloquized, with averted eyes. ‘He must have been sitting there all the time; for when Jesus said we would now eat our supper, there he was—as if he had popped up from nowhere—holding out his little basket.’

  It had taken Bartholomew a long time to tell of that strange supper; the sharing of bread, the new acquaintances, the breaking down of reserve among strangers, the tenderness toward the old ones and the little ones.... And then the tempo of the tale speeded. Wisps of chill wind lashed the parched reeds. Dark clouds rolled up from the northeast. The old man swept them on with a beckoning arm; black clouds that had suddenly darkened the sky. There was a low muttering of thunder. The crowd grew apprehensive. The people were scrambling to their feet, gathering up their families, breaking into a run. The long procession was on its way home.

  Darkness came on fast, the lowering black clouds lanced by slim, jagged, red-hot spears that spilled torrents splashing onto the sun-parched sand. Philip was for rushing to shelter in the little village of Bethsaida, two miles east. Peter was for beaching the big boat and using the mainsail for cover. And when they were all through making sugge
stions, Jesus said they would embark at once and return to Capernaum.

  ‘He said we had nothing to fear,’ went on Bartholomew, ‘but we were afraid, nevertheless. Some of them tried to reason with him. I said nothing, myself. Old men are timid,’ he paused to interpolate, directly to Marcellus. ‘When there are dangers to be faced, old men should keep still, for there’s little they can do, in any case.’

  ‘I should have thought,’ commented Marcellus, graciously, ‘that an elderly man’s experience would make him a wise counselor—on any occasion.’

  ‘Not in a storm, young man!’ declared Bartholomew. ‘An old man may give you good advice, under the shade of a fig tree, on a sunny afternoon; but—not in a storm!’

  The boat had been anchored in the lee of a bit of a cove, but it was with great difficulty that they had struggled through the waves and over the side. Unutterably weary, Jesus had dropped down on the bare bench near the tiller and they had covered him up with a length of drenched sail-cloth.

  Manning the oars, they had maneuvered into open water, had put out a little jib and promptly hauled it in, the tempest suddenly mounting in fury. No one of them, Bartholomew said, had ever been out in such a storm. Now the boat was tossed high on the crest, now it was swallowed up, gigantic waves broke over their heads, the flood pounded them off their seats and twisted the oars out of their hands. The tortured little ship was filling rapidly. All but four oars had been abandoned now. The rest of the crew were bailing frantically. But the water was gaining on them. And Jesus slept!

  Justus broke into the narrative here as Bartholomew—whose vivid memory of that night’s hard work with a bailing-bucket brought big beads of perspiration out on his deep-lined forehead—had paused to wield his palm-leaf fan.

  ‘You thought Jesus should get up and help; didn’t you?’ Justus was grinning broadly.

  The old man’s lips twitched with a self-reproachful smile.

  ‘Well,' he admitted, ‘perhaps we did think that after getting us into this trouble he might take a hand at one of the buckets. Of course'—he hastened to explain—‘we weren’t quite ourselves. We were badly shaken. It was getting to be a matter of life or death. And we were completely exhausted—the kind of exhaustion that makes every breath whistle and burn.’

  ‘And so—you shouted to him,’ prodded Justus.

  ‘Yes! We shouted to him!’ Bartholomew turned to address Marcellus. ‘I shouted to him! “Master!” I called. “We are going to drown! The boat is sinking! Don’t you care?”’ The old man dropped his head and winced at the memory. ‘Yes’—he muttered, contritely. ‘I said that—to my Master.’

  After a moment’s silence, Bartholomew drew a deep sigh, and continued. Jesus had stirred, had sat up, had stretched out his long, strong arms, had rubbed his fingers through his drenched hair.

  ‘Not alarmed?’ inquired Marcellus.

  ‘Jesus was never alarmed!’ retorted Bartholomew, indignantly. ‘He rose to his feet and started forward, wading through the water, hands Teaching up to steady him as he made for the housing of the mainmast. Climbing up on the heavy planking, he stood for a moment with one arm around the mast, looking out upon the towering waves. Then he raised both arms high. We gasped, expecting him to be pitched overboard. He held both hands outstretched—and spoke! It was not a shrill shout. It was rather as one might soothe a frightened animal. “Peace!” he said. “Peace! Be still!”’

  The climax of the story had been built up to such intensity that Marcellus found his heart speeding. He leaned forward and stared wide-eyed into the old man’s face.

  ‘Then what?’ he demanded.

  The storm was over,’ declared Bartholomew.

  ‘Not immediately!’ protested Marcellus.

  Bartholomew deliberately raised his arm and snapped his brittle old fingers.

  ‘Like that!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘And the stars came out,’ added Justus.

  ‘I don’t remember,’ murmured Bartholomew.

  ‘Philip said the stars came out,’ persisted Justus, quietly.

  ‘That may be,’ nodded Bartholomew. ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘Some have said that the boat was immediately dry,’ murmured Justus, with a little twinkle in his eyes as if anticipating the old man’s contradiction.

  ‘That was a mistake,’ sniffed Bartholomew. ‘Some of us bailed out water all the way back to Capernaum. Whoever reported that should have helped.’

  ‘How did you all feel about this strange thing?’ asked Marcellus.

  ‘We hadn’t much to say,’ remembered Bartholomew. ‘I think we were stunned. There had been so much confusion—and now everything was quiet. The water, still coated with foam, was calm as a pond. As for me, I experienced a peculiar sensation of peace. Perhaps the words that Jesus spoke to the storm had stilled us too—in our hearts.’

  ‘And what did he do?’ asked Marcellus.

  ‘He went back to the bench by the tiller and sat down,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘He gathered his Robe about him, for he was wet and chilled. After a while he turned to us, smiled reproachfully, and said, as if speaking to little children, “Why were you so frightened?” Nobody ventured to answer that. Perhaps he didn’t expect us to say anything. Presently he reclined, with his arm for a pillow, and went to sleep again.’

  ‘Are you sure he was asleep?’ asked Justus.

  ‘No—but he was very quiet and his eyes were closed. Perhaps he was thinking. Everyone thought he was asleep. There was very little talk. We moved to the center of the boat and looked into each other’s faces. I remember Philip’s whispering, “What manner of man is this—that even the winds and waves obey him?”’

  The story was finished. Marcellus, for whose benefit the tale had been told, knew they were waiting for him to say whether he believed it. He sat bowed far forward in his chair, staring into the little basket he had made of his interlaced fingers. Bartholomew wasn’t willfully lying. Bartholomew was perfectly sane. But—by all the gods!—you couldn’t believe a story like that! A man—speaking to a storm! Speaking to a storm as he might to a stampeded horse! And the storm obeying his command! No!—you couldn’t have any of that! He felt Justus’ friendly eyes inquiring. Presently he straightened a little, and shook his head.

  ‘Very strange!’ he muttered, without looking up. ‘Very strange indeed!’

  ***

  The afternoon was well advanced when the gray-haired captain of the guard came down to free the legionary who had sliced off the ear of a visiting fellow-in-arms from Minoa.

  Demetrius listened attentively at the little port in his door as his neighbor’s bolt was drawn, hoping to overhear some formal conversation relative to the prisoner’s release; but was disappointed. Neither man had spoken. The heavy door was swung back and the legionary had emerged. The captain of the guard had preceded him down the dusky corridor. The sound of their sandals, scraping on the stone floor, died away.

  Shortly afterward there was a general stir throughout the prison; guttural voices; unbolting of doors and rattling of heavy earthenware bowls and basins; the welcome sound of splashing water. Feeding time had arrived and was being greeted with the equivalent of pawing hoofs, clanking chains, and nostril-fluttering whimpers in a stable. Demetrius’ mouth and throat were dry; his tongue a clumsy wooden stick. His head throbbed. He couldn’t remember ever having been that thirsty; not even in the loathsome prison-ship on the way from Corinth to Rome, long years ago.

  It seemed they would never reach his end of the corridor. He hoped the water would hold out until they came to his cell. That was all he wanted—water! As for food, it didn’t matter; but he had to have water—now!

  At length they shuffled up to his door, unbolted it, and swung it wide open. Two burly, brutish, ear-slit Syrian slaves appeared in the doorway. The short, stocky one, with the spade beard, deep pockmarks, and greasy hands, plunged his gourd-dipper into an almost empty bucket of malodorous pottage and pointed angrily to the food-basin on the shelf. Demetrius, wi
th nothing on his mind but his consuming thirst, had been waiting with his water-bowl in hand. He reached up for the food-basin, and the surly Syrian dumped the gourdful of reeking hot garbage into it. Then he rummaged in the bottom of a filthy bag and came up with a small loaf of black bread which he tossed onto the bare bench. It bounced and clattered like a stone.

  Retreating to make room for his companion, the stocky one edged out into the corridor and the tall one entered with a large water-jar on his shoulder. Half-crazed with thirst, Demetrius held his water-bowl high. The Syrian, with a crooked grin, as if it amused him to see a Greek in such a predicament, tipped the jar, and from its considerable height poured a stream that overflowed the bowl, drenching the prisoner’s clothing. There was hardly more than a spoonful left. The Syrian was backing toward the door.

  ‘Give me water!’ demanded Demetrius, huskily.

  The fellow sneered, tipped the jar again, and poured the remainder of the water over Demetrius’ feet. Chuckling, but vigilant, he moved back into the doorway.

  Though the bowl was not large, it was heavy and sturdy pottery, and in the hand of a man as recklessly thirsty and angry as Demetrius it was capable of doing no small amount of damage. But for the thick mop of kinky hair that covered his forehead, the bowl might have cracked the Syrian’s skull, for it was delivered with all the earnestness that Demetrius could put into it.

  Dropping the water-jar, which broke into jagged fragments, the dizzied Syrian, spluttering with rage, whipped out a long dagger from his dirty sash, and lunged forward. Hot pottage would not have been Demetrius’ choice of weapons, but it was all he had to fight with; so he threw it into his assailant’s face. Momentarily detained by this unexpected onslaught, the Syrian received another more serious blow. Raising the heavy food-basin in both hands, Demetrius brought it down savagely on the fellow’s forearm, knocking the dagger from his hand.

  Unarmed, the Syrian reeled back into the corridor where the stocky one, unable to force his way into the cell, was waiting the outcome of the battle. Demetrius took advantage of this moment to pick up the dagger. With the way cleared, the stocky one—dagger in hand—was about to plunge in; but when he saw that the prisoner had armed himself, he backed out and began swinging the door shut.