The Robe

by Lloyd C. Douglas

  Unwilling to be trapped and probably killed with a lance thrust through the port, Demetrius threw his weight against the closing door and forced his way out into the corridor. Excited by the confusion, the prisoners set up a clamor of encouraging shouts that brought the elderly Captain of the guard and three others scurrying down the stone stairway. They paused, a few feet from the engagement. One of the younger guards was for rushing in to separate them, but the Captain put out an arm and barred the way. It wasn’t every day that you could see a determined fight waged with daggers. When angry men met at close range with daggers, it was rough sport.

  Cautious in their cramped quarters, the contestants were weaving about, taking each other’s measure. The Syrian, four inches shorter but considerably outweighing the Greek, crouched for a spring. One of the younger guards emptied his flat wallet into his hand.

  ‘Two shekels and nine denarii on the Syrian pig,’ he wagered. The others shook their heads. The Greek was at a disadvantage. The dagger was the favorite weapon with the Syrians—a dagger with a long, curving blade. The Syrian considered it good strategy to slip up behind an enemy in the dark and let him have it between the ribs a little below and to the right of the left shoulder. On such occasions one needed a long knife. Demetrius was not unfamiliar with daggers, but had never practiced with one that had been especially contrived for stabbing a man in the back.

  He was finding his borrowed weapon unwieldy in this narrow corridor. It was close-in fighting and decidedly dangerous business. The tall Syrian lurked far back in the darkness behind his companion. The stocky one, facing an appreciative audience of guards, seemed eager to bring the event to an early conclusion. They were sparring actively now, their clashing blades striking sparks in the gloom. Demetrius was gradually retreating, quite definitely on the defensive. The guards backed away to give them a chance. The pace of the fighting increased, the Syrian forcing the action.

  ‘Ha!’ he shouted; and a dark, red streak showed up on the Greek’s right sleeve, above the elbow. An instant later, a long gash appeared across the back of the Syrian’s hand. He gave a quick fling of his arm to shake off the blood, but not quick enough. A cut had opened over his collar-bone, dangerously close to his throat. He retreated a step. Demetrius pursued his advantage, and added another gash to his antagonist’s hand.

  ‘On guard—Greek!’ shouted the Captain. The tall Syrian in the rear had drawn back his arm to hurl a chunk of the broken waterjar. Demetrius dodged, at the warning, and the murderous missile grazed the side of his head.

  ‘Enough!’ yelled the Captain. Grasping Demetrius’ shoulder, he pushed him aside, the younger guards followed with lances poised to strike.

  ‘Come out of there, vermin!’ the Captain ordered. The Syrians sullenly obeyed, the stocky one yielding his bloody dagger as he squeezed by the guards. The procession started down the corridor and up the stairs. Arriving on the main floor, the Captain led the way along the spacious hall, and out into the courtyard. Water was brought, wounds were laved and crudely bandaged. Demetrius grabbed a water-jar, and drank greedily. The cut on his arm was deep and painful, and the wide abrasion on his temple burned, but now that he had had a drink, nothing else mattered much.

  The Captain gave a command to proceed and they re-entered the praetorium, turned to the left at a broad marble staircase, and ascended to the second floor. A sentry informed the guard at an imposing door that Captain Namius wished to see the Legate. The guard disappeared, returning presently with a curt nod. They advanced through the open door and filed into the sumptuous courtroom, brightly lighted with great lamps suspended from beautifully wrought chains.

  Demetrius’ wounds were throbbing, but he was not too badly hurt to be amused. Paulus, rattling a leather dice-cup, was facing Sextus across the ornately carved table that dominated the dais at the far end of the room. So—Paulus, transferred to the command of the fort at Capernaum, had brought his old gambling companion along. The guards and their quarry, preceded by two sentries in gay uniforms, marched forward. Legate Paulus glanced disinterestedly in their direction and returned his attention to the more important business in hand. Shaking the cup, he poured out the dice on the polished table, and shrugged. Sextus grinned, took the cup, shook it languidly, poured it out—and scowled. Paulus laughed, and sat down in the huge chair behind the table. Centurion Sextus came to attention.

  ‘What is it, Namius?’ yawned Paulus.

  ‘The Syrians were fighting this Greek prisoner, sir.’

  ‘What about?’ asked Paulus, impatiently.

  Captain Namius didn’t know. The Syrian slaves were feeding the prisoners, and ‘somehow got mixed up with this Greek.’

  ‘Step nearer, Greek.’ Paulus’ eyes had narrowed. He was searching his memory. Demetrius stepped forward, scowling to keep from smiling. Sextus leaned over and mumbled something. Paulus’ eyes lighted. He nodded and grinned dryly.

  ‘Take the Syrians away for the present, Captain,’ he said. ‘I would talk with this Greek.’ He waited until the guards and the Syrians had left the room.

  ‘Are you badly hurt, Demetrius?’ asked Paulus, kindly.

  ‘No, sir.’ Demetrius was becoming aware that the room was slowly revolving and growing dark. The Legate’s ruddy face was blurred. He heard Paulus bark an order and felt the edge of a chair pushed up behind him. He slumped down in it weakly. A sentry handed him a glass of wine. He gulped it. Presently the vertigo cleared. ‘I am sorry, sir,’ he said.

  ‘How do you happen to be here, Demetrius?’ inquired Paulus. ‘But no—that can wait. Where is your master?’

  Demetrius told him.

  ‘Here?—in Capernaum!’ exclaimed Paulus. ‘And whatever brings the excellent Tribune Marcellus to this sadly pious city?’

  ‘My master has taken a fancy to Galilean homespun, sir. He has been touring about, looking for—such things.’

  Paulus frowned darkly and stared into Demetrius’ face.

  ‘Is he well—in his head, I mean?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir,’ said Demetrius, ‘quite so, sir.’

  ‘There was a rumor—’ Paulus did not finish the sentence, but it was evident that he expected a rejoinder. Demetrius, unaccustomed to sitting in the presence of his betters, came unsteadily to his feet.

  ‘The Tribune was ill, sir, for several months. He was deeply depressed. He went to Athens—and recovered.’

  ‘What was he so depressed about, Demetrius?’ asked Paulus; and when the reply was not immediately forthcoming, he added, ‘Do I know?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Demetrius.

  ‘Something cracked—when he put on that Robe—at the Procurator’s banquet.’

  ‘Yes, sir. It did something to him.’

  ‘I remember. It affected him strangely.’ Paulus shook himself loose from an unpleasant recollection. ‘Now—for your case. Why are you here?’

  Demetrius explained in a few words, and when Paulus inquired about the fight, he replied that he had wanted water and the Syrian wouldn’t give it to him.

  ‘Bring Captain Namius in!’ commanded Paulus. A sentry went out and returned almost immediately with the guards and the Syrians. The examination proceeded swiftly. Namius gave an account of the duel in the corridor.

  ‘We stopped it,’ he concluded, ‘when this Syrian picked up a shard of the broken water-jar and threw it at the Greek.’

  Take him out and give him thirty-nine lashes with a bull-whip!’ shouted Paulus. ‘Lock the other pig up—and don’t try to fatten him. That will be all, Captain.’

  ‘And the Greek, sir?’ asked Namius.

  ‘Put him to bed, and have the physician attend to his cuts.’

  Namius gave an order. The guards made off with the Syrians.

  ‘Shall I go now, sir?’ asked Demetrius.

  ‘Yes—with the Captain. No—wait. You may go, Namius. I shall summon you.’ Paulus watched the retreating figure of the old guard until he reached the door; then, glancing about the room, he said quietly, ‘You may a
ll go.’ He looked up over his shoulder. ‘You, too, Sextus. I want a word alone with Demetrius.’

  ***

  They had almost nothing to say to each other on the way back to the inn. Justus, preoccupied and somehow elevated, as if the afternoon with Bartholomew had reinvigorated his spirit, strode along with confident steps.

  As for Marcellus, the old disciple’s story had impressed and disturbed him. Had he never known of Jesus until today, and Bartholomew had said, ‘I heard this man speak to a storm—and the storm ceased,’ he could have dismissed that statement as utterly preposterous. But the testimony about Jesus’ peculiar powers had been cumulative. It had been coming at him from all directions.

  Marcellus’ footsteps lagged as his thoughts became more involved. Justus, appreciating his dilemma, gave him an understanding smile, lengthened his stride, and moved on alone, leaving his bewildered patron to follow at his leisure.

  The trouble was: once you began to concede that there might be an element of truth in some of these stories, it was unreasonable to draw an arbitrary line beyond which your credulity would not go. It was childish to say, ‘Yes—I believe Jesus could have done this extraordinary thing, but I don’t believe he could have done that!’

  Some of the stories permitted a common-sense explanation. Take Hariph’s naive account of the wedding-feast, for example. That wasn’t hard to see through. The porous water-jars had previously held wine. Of course you had to concede the astounding effect of Jesus’ personality on the wedding-guests who loved, admired, and trusted him. Not everybody could have made that water taste like wine. You were willing to grant that. Mean and frugal fare could be made pleasantly palatable when shared with a well-loved friend. If the water-into-wine episode had been the only example of Jesus’ inexplicable power, it would present no problem at all. But there was Miriam’s sudden realization that she possessed an inspired voice; had made this amazing discovery on the same day that the other thing had happened in the home of Hariph. If you consented to Miriam’s story—and its truth was self-evident—you might as well accept Hariph’s. And there was the strange feeding of the five thousand. You could explain that without difficulty. Under Jesus’ persuasive words about human brotherhood, they had shared their food. You had to concede nothing here but the tremendous strength of Jesus’ personality, which you were glad enough to do because you believed in it yourself. Demosthenes had wrought wonders with his impassioned appeals to the Greeks. Such infusions of courage and honesty required no miracle.

  But there was little Jonathan. The whole town of Sepphoris knew that Jonathan had been born a cripple. Of course you could maintain that Jesus could have manipulated that crooked little foot and reduced its dislocation; and if that were the only story of Jesus’ surprising deeds, your explanation might suffice. To be sure, that leaves the entire population of Sepphoris believing something that wasn’t true; but even that was possible. There was no limit to the credulity of unsophisticated people. Indeed, they rather liked to believe in the uncanny.

  There was Lydia, healed of a long-time disease by touching Jesus’ Robe. Well—you couldn’t say that was impossible in the face of your own experience. You had impulsively told Justus that you believed it, and Justus felt that you were ready to hear about the storm. If you believed that Jesus’ supernormal power could heal the physical and mental sickness of those who merely touched his Robe, by what reasoning do you disbelieve that he could still a storm? Once you impute to him supernormal power, what kind of impertinence consents to your drawing up an itemized list of the peculiar things he can and cannot do? Yet this storm story was too, too much! Here you have no human multitude yielding to the entreating voice. This is an inanimate, insensible tempest! No human being—however persuasive—could still a storm! Concede Jesus that power, and you admit that he was divine!

  ‘I have taken the liberty of asking Shalum to bake us a fish,’ announced Justus, as Marcellus slowly sauntered toward the tent. ‘We will have supper at the inn. It will be a relief from my poor cooking.’

  ‘Very well,’ agreed Marcellus, absently. ‘Haven’t seen anything of Demetrius?’

  ‘No—and I inquired at the inn.’

  ‘I had almost forgotten about the poor fellow,’ confessed Marcellus. ‘There has been much to think about, this afternoon.’

  ‘If Demetrius has been arrested, he will give an account of himself,’ said Justus, reassuringly. ‘You will learn his whereabouts promptly, I think. They will surrender hira—for a price—no matter what the indictment is. Valuable slaves don’t stay long in jail. Shall we go to supper now, sir?’

  The dining-hall had accommodations for only a score of guests, but it was tastefully appointed. Because the lighting facilities in small town hostelries were not good, travelers dined early. The three dignified Pharisees, whose commodious tent had been pitched in the sycamore grove during the afternoon, occupied a table in the center of the room. Two centurions from the fort were enjoying their wine at a table by a western window while they waited to be served. Shalum—grizzled, bow-legged, obsequious—led the way to a corner table, bowing deeply when Justus introduced his friend.

  ‘Is he a Christian?’ asked Marcellus, as Shalum waddled away.

  Justus blinked with surprise, and Marcellus grinned.

  ‘Yes,’ said Justus, in a barely audible tone that strongly counseled caution.

  ‘You didn’t think I knew that word; did you?’ murmured Marcellus.

  Justus did not reply: sat with arms folded, staring out into the garden.

  ‘Demetrius picked it up in Joppa,’ explained Marcellus, quietly.

  ‘We must be careful,’ admonished Justus. ‘Pharisees have small hearts, but big ears.’

  ‘Is that a saying?’ Marcellus chuckled.

  ‘Yes—but not a loud saying,’ warned Justus, breaking one of the small brown loaves. He raised his voice a little and said, casually, ‘Shalum bakes good bread. Have some.’

  ‘You come here frequently?’

  ‘This is the first time for a year and a half,’ confided Justus. ‘Last time I was in this room, it was full. Shalum gave a dinner for Jesus. All of the disciples and a few others were here; and there must have been a hundred outside. Shalum fed them too.’

  ‘Nothing secret about it then.’

  ‘No—not then. The priests were already plotting how they might destroy his influence with the people, but they were not yet openly hostile.’

  ‘That’s strange,’ said Marcellus. ‘When Jesus was alive and an active menace to the priests' business, no effort was made to keep his doings a secret. Now that he is dead and gone—you must talk about him in whispers.’

  Justus looked Marcellus squarely in the eyes—and smiled. He seemed about to make some rejoinder, but refrained. An old servitor came with their supper; the baked fish on a large platter, lentils in cream, stewed figs, and a pitcher of wine. It was an attractive meal and they were hungry.

  ‘Did you sit close to Jesus at that dinner?’ asked Marcellus, after some moments devoted to their food.

  ‘No—I sat with Matthias, over yonder by the door.’

  ‘Where did Jesus sit?’ inquired Marcellus.

  ‘There,’ nodded Justus, ‘where you’re sitting.’

  Marcellus started.

  ‘No one should ever sit here!’ he declared.

  Justus’ eyes mellowed, and he approved Marcellus' sentiment with a comradely smile.

  ‘You talk like a Christian yourself, my friend,’ he murmured; adding, after a moment, ‘Did you enjoy Bartholomew’s story?’

  ‘It wasn’t meant to be enjoyed!’ retorted Marcellus. ‘I confess I’m thoroughly bewildered by it. Bartholomew is a fine old man. I’m convinced that he believes his story true.’

  ‘But you don’t believe it,’ said Justus.

  ‘Bartholomew made one statement, Justus, that may throw a little light on the matter. Do you remember his saying that he felt at peace, that he felt calmed, when Jesus spoke to the storm? May
be that’s where the storm was stilled, the storm in these men’s minds! Jesus spoke to their fears, and they were reassured.’

  ‘Does that explanation content you?’ asked Justus, soberly.

  ‘Of course not!’ admitted Marcellus. ‘But—see here, Justus! You can’t have Jesus stopping a storm!’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Justus, gently.

  ‘Why not! Don’t you realize that he has to be superhuman to do that? Can’t you see that such an act makes him a god?’

  ‘Well—and if it does—’

  Then you’re left with a lot more explaining to do. Suppose you say that Jesus is divine; a god! Would he permit himself to be placed under arrest, and dragged about in the night from one court to another, whipped and reviled? Would he—this god!—consent to be put to death on a cross? A god, indeed! Crucified—dead—and buried!’

  Justus sat for a moment, saying nothing, staring steadily into Marcellus’ troubled eyes. Then he leaned far forward, grasped his sleeve, and drew him close. He whispered something into Marcellus’ ear.

  ‘No, Justus!’ declared Marcellus, gruffly. ‘I’m not a fool! I don’t believe that—and neither do you!’

  ‘But—I saw him!’ persisted Justus, unruffled.

  Marcellus swallowed convulsively, and shook his head.

  ‘Why do you want to say a thing like that to me?’ he demanded, testily. ‘I happen to know it isn’t true! You might make some people believe it—but not me! I hadn’t intended to tell you this painful thing, Justus, but—I saw him die! I saw a lance thrust deep into his heart! I saw them take his limp body down—dead as ever a dead man was!’

  ‘Everybody knows that,’ agreed Justus, calmly. ‘He was put to death and laid away in a tomb. And on the morning of the third day, he came alive, and was seen walking about in a garden.’

  ‘You’re mad, Justus! Such things don't happen!’