The Robe

by Lloyd C. Douglas

  ‘Careful!’ warned Justus. ‘We mustn’t be overheard.’

  Pushing his plate away, Marcellus folded his arms on the table. His hands were trembling.

  ‘If you think Jesus is alive,’ he muttered, ‘where is he?’

  Justus shook his head, made a hopeless little gesture with both hands, and drew a long sigh.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said, dreamily, “but I do know he is alive.’ After a quiet moment, Justus brightened a little. ‘I am always looking for him,’ he went on. ‘Everytime a door opens. At every turn of the road. At every street-corner. At every hillcrest.’

  Marcellus’ eyes had widened, and he nodded understandingly.

  ‘I knew you were always expecting to meet someone,’ he said, if you persist in that habit, you’ll lose your mind.’ Neither man spoke for some moments. Marcellus looked toward the door. ‘Do you mean to say,’ he asked cautiously, ‘that you wouldn’t be surprised if Jesus came in here now—and asked Shalum to serve him his supper?’

  Justus repressed a smile at the sight of Marcellus’ almost boyish expression of complete bafflement.

  ‘No,’ he replied, confidently. ‘I shouldn’t be surprised, at all. I confess I was badly shaken the first time I saw him. As you say, such things don’t happen. They’re quite impossible. Had I been alone, I should have doubted my senses—and my sanity, too.’

  ‘Where was this?’ demanded Marcellus, as seriously as if he expected to believe the story.

  ‘At Benyosef’s house; quite a little company of us; ten days after Jesus had been put to death. We had had a simple supper together. The sun had set, but the lamps had not yet been lighted. There had been much talk about Jesus’ reappearance. Several of the disciples claimed to have seen him. I, for one, didn’t believe it; though I kept still. There had been a lot of confusing reports. On the morning of the third day, some women had gone to the sepulcher and found it empty. One of them said she had seen Jesus, walking in the garden; said he had spoken to her.’

  ‘Hysterical, I dare say,’ put in Marcellus.

  ‘That’s what I made of it,’ admitted Justus. ‘And then there was a story that two men had seen him on the highway and asked him to have supper with them at an inn.’

  ‘Reliable people?’

  ‘I didn’t know them. One was a man named Cleopas, a cousin of Alphaeus. I never heard the other man’s name.’

  ‘Sounds like poor testimony.’

  ‘It occurred that way to me,’ said Justus. ‘Several of the disciples declared he had come into the room where they were sitting, that same night. But—they were terribly wrought up, and I thought they might have imagined seeing him, what with so many strange reports flying about—’

  ‘Naturally!’ agreed Marcellus. ‘Once the stories started, the hallucinations multiplied. Well—go on. You were at Benyosef’s house—’

  ‘John had been telling how he looked and what he said—’

  ‘He’s that dreamy young fellow, eh?’

  ‘Yes—that’s, the one,’ Justus went on, undisturbed by the implications of Marcellus’ query. ‘And when John had finished his story, Thomas stood up and spoke his mind—and my mind, too. “I don’t believe a word of it!” he shouted. “And I don’t intend to believe it until I have seen him with my own eyes—and touched his wounds with my hands!”’

  ‘He was a bold fellow,’ remarked Marcellus. ‘Was John offended?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Justus, absently. ‘He didn’t have much time to be offended. Jesus was standing there—at Thomas’ elbow.’

  ‘No—Justus!’

  ‘Yes—with the same compassionate smile we all knew so well.’

  ‘A specter?’

  ‘Not at all! He was a little thinner. You could see the effects of the bad treatment he had suffered. There were long scratches on his forehead. He held his hands out to Thomas—’

  ‘Did you all gather about him?’ asked Marcellus, with a dry throat.

  ‘No—I think we were stunned. I’m sure I was. I couldn’t have moved if I had tried. There was complete silence. Jesus stood there, holding out his hands and smiling into Thomas’ eyes. You could see the deep wounds in his palms. “Touch them,” he said, gently. This was too much for Thomas. He covered his face with his hands and cried like a child.’

  The dining-room had cleared. Twilight was settling. Shalum came over to inquire if there was anything else he could do for them. Marcellus glanced up bewilderedly at this summons back to reality.

  ‘I have been telling my friend some things about Jesus,’ said Justus.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ nodded Shalum. ‘Once, when he honored my poor house, he was seated there, sir, where you are sitting.’

  ‘Did he rise and speak—at the dinner?’ asked Marcellus.

  ‘He did not rise to speak,’ remembered Justus.

  ‘He told a story,’ said Shalum. ‘It seems someone had asked him to explain what was meant by “my neighbor” as it is written in our law. And Jesus told a fable about a man who was traveling from Jerusalem to Jericho—a dangerous road—and beset by Bedouins who stripped, robbed, and wounded him, leaving him half-dead. A priest came along and saw him, but passed on. A Levite, too, paused—but went his way. Then a Samaritan came—we do not care much for Samaritans up here, sir—and tied up the man’s wounds—and took him to an inn. “Which of these men,” he asked, “was a neighbor to him who fell among thieves?”’

  ‘That was easily answered, I think,’ observed Marcellus. ‘Had I been here, I should have asked another question. I am told that Jesus did not believe in fighting—regardless of the circumstances. Now, if the brave Samaritan had arrived while the Bedouins were beating the life out of this unfortunate fellow, what was he supposed to do; join in the defense, or wait until the robbers had completed their work—and fled?’

  Shalum and Justus exchanged looks of inquiry, each inviting the other to reply.

  ‘Jesus was interested in binding up wounds,’ said Justus, solemnly; ‘not in inflicting them.’

  ‘Does that answer your question, sir?’ inquired Shalum.

  ‘No,’ said Marcellus. ‘Perhaps we should go, Justus. It is growing dark.’ They rose. ‘The fish was good, Shalum. Let us have another for breakfast.’

  Taking up the little lantern that Shalum had provided, Justus led the way across the well-kept grounds to the tent where he lighted their larger one and hung it to the center pole. Marcellus unlaced his sandal-thongs, took off his belt, and lounged on his cot, his eyes following Justus as he made his bed.

  ‘And then what happened,’ asked Marcellus, ‘after Thomas looked at the wounds?’

  ‘Benyosef filled a supper-plate, and offered it to Jesus,’ said Justus, sitting down on the edge of his cot. ‘There was a piece of broiled fish, a small loaf, and some honey in the comb. And Jesus took it—and ate.’

  ‘Not just a spirit then,’ commented Marcellus.

  ‘I don’t know,’ mumbled Justus, uncertainly. ‘He ate it—or some of it. The day was fading fast. Philip suggested that the lamps be lighted. Andrew, who was near the door to an adjoining room, went out and returned with a taper. Old Benyosef held up a lamp and Andrew lighted it. Jesus was not there.’

  ‘Vanished?’ Marcellus sat up.

  ‘I don’t know. It was getting dark in there. He might have gone out through the door. But nobody heard it open or close.’

  ‘Had he come in through the door?’

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t hear it. The first I knew, he was standing there beside Thomas. And then—when the lamp was lighted—he wasn’t there.’ ‘What do you suppose became of him?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Justus shook his head.

  There was a long silence.

  ‘Ever see him again?’ asked Marcellus.

  Justus nodded.

  ‘Once more,’ he said, ‘about a month afterward. But in the meantime, he was seen up here in Galilee. A very unfortunate thing happened on the night Jesus was tried. When they had him
before old Annas, Simon was waiting in the courtyard where the legionaries had built a fire. A servant-girl said to Simon, “Aren’t you a friend of this Galilean?” And Simon said, “No—I don’t know him.”’

  ‘But I thought Simon was a leader among the disciples,’ remarked Marcellus.

  ‘That’s what made it so bad,’ sighed Justus. ‘Ordinarily, Simon is a bold fellow, with plenty of courage. But he certainly did himself no credit that night. He followed along, at a distance, when they took Jesus to the Insula, and waited, across the street, while the trial was held. I don’t know where he went after the procession started out toward the place of execution, or where he spent the night and the next day. I heard him confess it all. He was sick with remorse, and hurried back home.’

  ‘So—Simon wasn’t present on that first occasion when the disciples thought they saw Jesus.’

  ‘No—but Jesus told them to be sure and tell Simon.’

  ‘Did Jesus know that Simon had denied his friendship?’

  ‘Oh, yes—he knew. You see that's why he was so anxious to have Simon know that everything was all right again. Well—the next morning, the Zebedee brothers and Thomas decided to take old Bartholomew home. He had been sick. They put him on a donkey and set out for Galilee where they found Peter, restless and heart-sore, and told him what had happened. He was for rushing back to Jerusalem, but they counseled him to wait; for the news of Jesus’ return was being noised about, and the priests were asking questions. And Benyosef’s shop was being watched. So—that night, they all went fishing. In the early morning, at sunrise, they left off and sailed toward the east shore. Bartholomew said that when they were within about two hundred cubits of the beach—chilled and drowsy from their long night on the water—they were suddenly roused by a loud shout and a splash. Simon had jumped overboard and was swimming. They all leaped up to see what had come over Simon. And they saw Jesus standing at the water’s edge, waiting. It was a very tender meeting, he said, for Simon had been quite broken-hearted.’

  ‘And then’—Marcellus’ voice was impatient—‘did he vanish—as before?’

  ‘Not at once. They broiled fish for breakfast on the beach. He sat and talked with them for above an hour, showing special attention to Simon.’

  ‘What did he talk about?’

  ‘Their future duties,’ replied Justus, ‘to remember and tell the things he had taught. He would come back, he said, though he could not tell them the day or the hour. They were to be on the alert for his coming. After they had eaten, someone suggested that they return to Capernaum. They had beached the boat, and all hands—except Jesus—fell to work, pushing off into the water. Bartholomew was up in the bow, rigging a sail. The others scrambled over the side and shipped the oars. When they looked about for Jesus, he was nowhere to be seen.’

  ‘But he appeared again—another time?’

  ‘The last time he was seen,’ said Justus, ‘I was present. It was on a hill top in Judea, a few miles north of Jerusalem. Perhaps I should tell you that the disciples and other friends of Jesus were closely watched, through those days. Such meetings as we had were late in the night and held in obscure places. In Jerusalem, the Temple people had the legionaries of the Insula patrolling the streets in search of us. Up here in Galilee, Herod Antipas and Julian the Legate had threatened death to anyone who so much as spoke Jesus’ name.’

  ‘They too believed that he had returned to life?’ inquired Marcellus. ‘Perhaps not. I don’t know. But they knew they had failed to dispose of him. They thought the people would soon forget and settle down to their old ways; but it soon appeared that Jesus had set some forces in motion—’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ broke in Marcellus. ‘What forces?’

  ‘Well—for one thing—the Temple revenues were falling off. Hundreds of people, accustomed to paying tithes, stayed away from the synagogues whose priests had persecuted Jesus. There was no violence; but in the market-places throughout all Judea, Samaria, and Galilee, merchants who had thought to win favor with the authorities by denouncing Jesus found that their business was failing. The Christians were patronizing one another. It was apparent that they were in collusion and had a secret understanding. An edict was published prohibiting any assembly of Jesus’ adherents. We agreed among ourselves to hold no more meetings until such time as it might be more prudent.’

  ‘How many Christians were there in Jerusalem, at that time?’ asked Marcellus. ‘A score, perhaps?’

  ‘About five hundred that had declared themselves. One afternoon, about five weeks after the crucifixion, Alphaeus came to my house saying that Simon had called a meeting. A week hence, we were to assemble shortly after sunrise on a hill, quite off the highway, where we had often spent a day of rest when Jesus was with us. Knowing it was dangerous to be seen on the roads in company with others of our belief, we journeyed singly. It was a beautiful morning. As I came to the well-remembered footpath that led across the fields toward the hills, I saw—in the early dawn-light—several men preceding me; though I could identify none but Simon, who is a tall man. As the grade grew steeper, I overtook old Bartholomew leaning on his staff, already tired and laboring for breath.’

  ‘He had walked all that way from Capernaum?’ asked Marcellus.

  ‘And had spent the whole week at it,’ said Justus. ‘But it seemed that the hill would be too much for him. I counseled him not to try; that his heart might fail him; but he wouldn’t listen. So I gave him an arm and we trudged along slowly up the winding path that became more difficult with every turn. Occasionally we had glimpses of the others, widely separated, as they climbed the ragged grade. We were about halfway up when Bartholomew stopped, pointed with his staff, and hoarsely shouted, ‘‘Look you! On the rock!” I looked up—and there he was! He was wearing a white robe. Tire sunshine made it appear dazzling. He was standing on the big white rock—at the summit—waiting.’

  ‘Were you amazed?’

  ‘No—not amazed; but eager to press on. Bartholomew urged me to leave him. He would make it alone, he said. But the good old man was half-dead with weariness, so I supported him the rest of the way. When we came out at length on the little plateau in a shady grove, we saw him. Jesus was standing, with both arms outstretched in a gesture of blessing. The disciples were kneeling about his feet. Simon, with his great hands covering his face, had bowed over until his head nearly touched the ground. Poor old Bartholomew, much moved and thoroughly spent, couldn’t take another step. He fell to his knees. So did I, though we were at least a hundred cubits from the others. We bowed our heads.’ Justus’ voice broke, and for a moment he was overcome with emotion. Marcellus waited silently for him to regain his self-control.

  ‘After a while,’ continued Justus, thickly, ‘we heard the murmuring of voices. We raised our eyes. He was gone.’

  ‘Where, Justus? Where do you think he went?’ asked Marcellus, huskily.

  ‘I don’t know, my friend. I only know that he is alive—and I am always expecting to see him. Sometimes I feel aware of him, as if he were close by.’ Justus smiled faintly, his eyes wet with tears, it keeps you honest,’ he went on. You have no temptation to cheat anyone, or lie to anyone, or hurt anyone—when, for all you know, Jesus is standing beside you.’

  ‘I’m afraid I should feel very uncomfortable,’ remarked Marcellus, ‘being perpetually watched by some invisible presence.’

  ‘Not if that presence helped you defend yourself against yourself, Marcellus. It is a great satisfaction to have someone standing by—to keep you at your best.’ Justus suddenly came to his feet, and went to the door of the tent. A lantern was bobbing through the trees.

  ‘Someone coming?’ inquired Marcellus, sitting up.

  ‘A legionary,’ muttered Justus.

  ‘News of Demetrius, perhaps.’ Marcellus joined Justus at the tent-door. A tall legionary stood before them.

  ‘I bear a message,’ he announced, ‘from Legate Paulus to Tribune Marcellus Lucan Gallio.’

  ‘Tr
ibune!’ murmured Justus—in an agitated voice.

  ‘The Legate presents his compliments,’ continued the legionary, in formal tones, ‘and desires his excellent friend, Tribune Marcellus, to be his guest tonight at the fort. If it is your wish, you may accompany me, sir, and I shall light your way.’

  ‘Very good,’ said Marcellus. ‘I shall be ready in a moment. Tarry for me at the gate.’

  The legionary brought up his spear in a salute and marched away.

  ‘Apparently Demetrius is safe!’ exclaimed Marcellus, brightly.

  ‘And I have betrayed my people!’ moaned Justus, sinking down on his cot. ‘I have delivered my friends into the hands of their enemies!’

  ‘No—Justus—no!’ Marcellus laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘All this may seem disquieting to you, but I assure you I am not a spy! It is possible I may befriend you and your people. Wait for me here. I shall return by midday tomorrow.’

  Justus made no response; sat dejectedly, with his face in his hands, until Marcellus’ footsteps faded away. It was a long night of agony and remorse. When the first pale blue light appeared, the heavy-hearted Galilean gathered up his few belongings; made his way to the silent street, and trudged along, past the old fort, to the plaza. For a long time, he sat on the marble steps of the synagogue, and when the sun had risen he proceeded to the little house where he had left Jonathan.

  Thomas’ mother was in the kitchen, preparing breakfast.

  ‘You are early,’ she said. ‘I was not expecting you so soon. I hope all is well with you,’ she added, searching his troubled face.

  ‘I wish to be on the road as soon as may be,’ he replied.

  ‘But where is your young Roman—and your little pack-train?’

  They are remaining here,’ said Justus. ‘Jonathan and I are going home.’

  Chapter XVIII

  PAULUS had been in command of the fort at Capernaum only a week, but he already knew he wasn’t going to like it here.

  For a dozen years he had been hoping to get out of Minoa. It was a disgrace to be stationed there, and the Empire meant you to realize that an appointment to this fort was a degradation.