The Robe

by Lloyd C. Douglas

  Marcellus nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘I heard that story for the first time about an hour ago, Paulus. It is amazing!’

  ‘It is preposterous!’ shouted Paulus. ‘These fools should have contented themselves with tales of water changed to wine—and the magical healing of the sick.’ Paulus drank again, noisily. His ruddy face showed annoyance as he watched Marcellus absently toying with the stem of his goblet, his eyes averted. ‘You know well enough that the Galilean was dead!’ he stormed, angrily. ‘No one can tell you or me that he came to life!’ Drawing up the sleeve of his toga, Paulus tapped his muscular forearm with measuring fingers, and shrilled, ‘I thrust my spear into his chest that deep!’

  Marcellus glanced up, nodded, and dropped his eyes again, without comment. Paulus suddenly leaned forward over the table, and brought his fist down with a thump.

  ‘By the gods! Marcellus’—he shouted—‘you believe it!’

  There was a tense silence for a long moment. Marcellus stirred and slowly raised his eyes, quite unruffled by the Legate’s outburst.

  ‘I don’t know what to believe, Paulus,’ he said, quietly. ‘Of course my natural reaction is the same as yours; but—there is a great mystery here, my friend. If this story is a trumped-up lie, the men who have been telling it at the risk of their lives are quite mad; yet they do not talk like madmen. They have nothing to gain—and everything to lose—by reporting that they saw him.’

  ‘Oh—I’ll concede that,’ declared Paulus, loftily, it’s no uncommon thing for a fanatic to be reckless with his life; but—look you, Marcellus!—however difficult that is to understand—you can’t have a dead man coming back from his grave! Why—a man who could overcome death, could—’

  ‘Exactly!’ broke in Marcellus. ‘He could do anything! He could defy any power on earth! If he cared to, he might have the whole world for his kingdom!’

  Paulus drank greedily, spilling some of it on the table.

  ‘Odd thing to say,’ he muttered, thickly. ‘There was some talk at his trial—about his kingdom: remember? Pilate asked him—absurdly enough, I thought—if he were a king.’ Paulus chuckled mirthlessly. ‘He said he was—and it shook Pilate a little, too. Indeed—it stunned everybody, for a minute; just the cool audacity of it. I was talking with Vinitius, that night at the banquet, and he said the Galilean explained that his kingdom was not in the world; but—that doesn’t mean anything. Or does it?’

  ‘Well—it certainly wouldn’t mean anything if I said it,’ replied Marcellus. ‘But if a man who had been out of this life were able to return from—from wherever he had been—he might conceivably have a kingdom elsewhere.’

  ‘You’re talking rubbish, Marcellus,’ scoffed Paulus. ‘I’ll assist you,’ he went on, drunkenly. ‘You are my guest, and I must be polite. If it’s so—that a dead man—with some kind of elsewhere-kingdom—has come back to lifer—mind you, now, I know it isn’t so—but if it’s so—I’d rather it were this Jesus than Quintus or Julian or Pilate—or the half-witted Gaius that old Julia whelped.’ He laughed boisterously at his own absurdity. ‘Or old Tiberius! By the gods!—when crazy old Tiberius dies, I'll wager he stays dead! By the way—do you mean to go back and tell the old fool this story? He’ll believe it, you know, and it will scare the very liver out of him!’

  Marcellus grinned tolerantly, reflecting that the Legate—albeit pretty drunk—had said something worth thinking about.

  ‘Good idea, Paulus,’ he remarked, if we’re going to have a king who knows how to outlive all the other kings, it might be a great thing for the world if he were a person of good deeds and not evil ones.’

  The Legate’s face sobered, and Marcellus, noting his serious interest, enlarged upon his impromptu idea.

  ‘Consider these tales about Jesus, Paulus. He is reputed to have made blind men see: there is no story that he made any man blind. He is said to have changed water into wine; not wine into water. He made a crippled child walk; he never made any child a cripple.’

  ‘Excellent!’ applauded Paulus. ‘The kings have been destroyers, despoilers. They have made men blind, crippled, broken.’ He paused, and went on, muttering half to himself, ‘Wouldn’t the world be surprised if once it should have a government that came to the rescue of the blind and sick and lame? By the gods!—I wish this absurd tale about the Galilean were true!’

  ‘Do you mean that, Paulus, or are you jesting?’ demanded Marcellus, earnestly.

  ‘Well’—compromised the Legate—‘I’m as serious as the matter warrants, seeing it hasn’t a leg to stand on.’ His forehead wrinkled in a judicial frown. ‘But—see here, Marcellus, aren’t you going in for this Jesus business a little too far for your own good?’

  Marcellus made no reply, other than an enigmatic pursing of the lips. Paulus grinned, shrugged, and replenished his goblet. His manner said they would drop that phase of the subject.

  ‘What else do they say about him, up here in the country?’ he asked negligently. ‘You seem to have been making inquiries.’

  ‘They have a story in Cana,’ replied Marcellus, casually, ‘about a young woman who discovered she could sing. The people think Jesus was responsible for it.’

  ‘Taught her to sing?’

  ‘No. One day she found that she could sing. They believe he had something to do with it. I heard her, Paulus. There hasn’t been anything quite like it—so far as I know.’

  ‘Indeed!’ enthused Paulus. ‘I must tell the Tetrarch. It’s part of my business, you know, to please the old rascal. He may invite her to entertain one of his banquets.’

  ‘No, Paulus, please!’ protested Marcellus. ‘This girl has been gently bred. Moreover, she is a cripple; can’t stand up; never leaves the neighborhood.’

  ‘He gave her a voice, and left her a cripple; eh?’ Paulus grinned. ‘How do you explain that?’

  ‘I don’t explain it; I just report it. But—I sincerely hope you will say nothing about her to Herod. She would feel very much out of place in his palace, if what I have heard about him is correct.’

  ‘If what you’ve heard is revolting,’ commented Paulus, bitterly, ‘it’s correct. But if you are so concerned about these Christians, it might be to their advantage if one of their daughters sang acceptably for the lecherous old fox.’

  ‘No!’ snapped Marcellus, hotly. ‘She and her family are friends of mine. I beg of you not to degrade her with an invitation to meet Herod Antipas or any member of his household!’

  Paulus agreed that they were a precious lot of scoundrels, including Herod’s incorrigible daughter Salome. A dangerous little vixen, he declared, responsible for a couple of assassinations, and notoriously unchaste. He chuckled unpleasantly, and added that she had come by her talents honestly enough, seeing that her father—if he was her father—hadn’t even the respect of the Sanhedrin, and her mother was as promiscuous as a cat. He snorted contemptuously, and drank to take the taste of them out of his mouth. Marcellus scowled, but made no comment. Presently he became aware that Paulus was regarding him with a friendly but reproachful inspection.

  ‘I wonder if you realize, Marcellus,’ Paulus was saying, ‘that your keen concern for these Christians might sometime embarrass you. May I talk to you about that, without giving offense?’

  ‘Why not, Paulus?’ replied Marcellus, graciously.

  ‘Why not? Because it may sound impertinent. We are of the same rank. It does not behoove me to give you advice—much less injunctions.’

  ‘Injunctions?’ Marcellus’ brows lifted a little. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand.’

  ‘Let me explain, then. I assume you know what has been happening in Palestine during the past year. For a few weeks, after the execution of the Galilean, his movement appeared to be a closed incident. The leaders of his party scattered, most of them returning to this neighborhood. The influential men of Jerusalem were satisfied. There were sporadic rumors that Jesus had been seen in various places after his death, but nobody with any sense took these tales
seriously. It was expected that the whole affair would presently be forgotten.’

  ‘And then it revived,’ remarked Marcellus, as Paulus paused to take another drink.

  ‘Revived is not the word. It hadn’t died. Undercover groups had been meeting in many cities. For a few months there were very few outward signs of it. The authorities had contempt for it, feeling that it was a thing of no importance, either as to size or quality. Then—one day—it began to dawn on the priests that their synagogues were not being patronized; the tithes were not paid. Then the merchants observed that their business was increasingly bad. In Jericho, more than half of the population now make no secret of their affiliations. In Antioch, the Christians are quite outspoken; adding daily to their numbers. Nor is interest in this party limited to the poor and helpless, as was at first supposed. Nobody knows how many there are in Jerusalem, but the Temple is beside itself with anxiety and anger, prodding the Insula to do something drastic. Old Julian is being harassed by the priests and merchants, who are making it plain that he must act—or resign.’

  “What does he think of doing about it?’ inquired Marcellus.

  ‘Well’—Paulus flicked his hands in a baffled gesture—‘it’s obvious that the movement cannot be tolerated. It may look innocuous to a casual visitor like yourself; but, to the solid respectables of Jerusalem, it is treason, mutiny, blasphemy, and a general disintegration of their established ways. Julian doesn’t want a bloody riot on his hands, and has been playing for time; but the city fathers are at the end of their patience.’

  ‘But—surely they can’t find much fault with the things Jesus taught,’ interposed Marcellus. 'He urged kindness, fair dealing, good will. Don’t the influential men of Palestine believe in letting the people treat one another decently?’

  ‘That isn’t the point, Marcellus, and you know it,’ argued Paulus, impatiently. ‘These Christians are refusing to do business on the old basis. More and more they are patronizing one another. Why—right here in little Capernaum—if you don’t have the outline of a fish scrawled on the door of your shop, it doesn't pay to open up.’ He studied his friend’s interested face—and grinned. ‘I suppose you know what that fish stands for.’

  Marcellus nodded—and smiled broadly.

  ‘No—it isn’t a bit funny!’ warned Paulus, grimly. ‘And I must strongly counsel you that the less you see of these Christians, the better it will be for’—he checked himself, and finished lamely in a tone almost inaudible—‘for all of us.’

  ‘But—for me—in particular, I think you mean,’ said Marcellus.

  ‘Have it your own way.’ Paulus waved his arm. ‘I’m not having a good time—saying these things to you. But—I don’t want to see you get into trouble. And you easily could, you know! When the pressure is put on, it’s going to get rough! The fact that you’re a Roman Tribune will not count for much—once the stampede begins! We are going to make war on the Christians, Marcellus, no matter who they are! Why don’t you clear out before you are apprehended? Take your slave—and go!’

  ‘I do not know where he is,’ admitted Marcellus.

  ‘Well—I do,’ grinned Paulus. ‘He is in bed, somewhere here in the fort.’

  ‘A prisoner?’

  ‘No—but he ought to be.’ The Legate laughingly recounted the afternoon’s revelations. ‘By the way,’ he ended, ‘did you see him destroy Quintus?’

  Marcellus, who had been much amused by the recital, shook his head.

  ‘I saw the Tribune shortly afterward,’ he said. ‘The work had been well done, I assure you.’

  ‘It gratified me to hear about it,’ said Paulus, ‘as I have no respect for Quintus and his misfortunes do not annoy me; but’—he grew suddenly serious—‘this was no light offense, and may yet have to be settled for. Your Demetrius is free to go, but I hope he will not linger in this country; at least, not in my jurisdiction. Nor you, Marcellus! Consider your predicament: your slave is wanted for assaulting a Tribune; moreover, he is known to have been in close association with the Christian party in Jerusalem. He can be apprehended on either count. Now—it may be assumed that you know all this. In short, you have been harboring a criminal and a Christian; and your own position as a friend of the Christians is of no advantage to you. What do you intend to do about it?’

  ‘I had thought of remaining in Palestine for a few weeks, before proceeding to Rome,’ said Marcellus. ‘I have no definite plans.’

  ‘Better have some plans!’ advised Paulus, sternly. ‘Your situation is more hazardous than you think. It will do your pious Galilean friends no good to have you championing their cause. I tell you candidly that they are all in imminent danger of arrest. I advise you to pack your travel equipment early in the morning, go quietly across country to Joppa, and take the first ship that heads for home.’

  ‘Thanks for the counsel, Paulus,’ replied Marcellus, non-committally. ‘May I have a word with Demetrius now?’

  Paulus frowned darkly and dismissed the request with a gesture of exasperation.

  ‘The fact that your Greek slave is a superior fellow and your friend,’ he said, crisply, ‘does not alter his status in the opinion of my own retinue. I suggest that you wait until morning to see him.’

  ‘As you like,’ said Marcellus, unruffled.

  Paulus rose unsteadily.

  ‘Let us retire now,’ he said, more cordially, ‘and meet for breakfast at sunrise. Then’—he smiled meaningly—‘if you will insist upon leaving at once, I shall speed you on your way. I shall do better than that: I shall order a small detachment of legionaries, acquainted with the less traveled roads, to see you safely to Joppa.’

  ‘But I am not going to Joppa, Paulus,’ declared Marcellus, firmly. ‘I am not leaving Palestine until I have fully satisfied myself about this story of the Galilean’s return to life.’

  ‘And how are you to do that?’ demanded Paulus. ‘By interviewing a few deluded fishermen, perhaps?’

  ‘That’s one way of putting it,’ rejoined Marcellus, unwilling to take offense. ‘I want to talk with some of the leaders.’

  They are not here now,’ said Paulus. ‘The foremost of them are in Jerusalem.’

  ‘Then I am going to Jerusalem!’

  For a moment, Paulus, with tight lips, deliberated a reply. A sardonic grin slowly twisted his mouth.

  ‘If you start tomorrow for Jerusalem,’ he predicted ominously, ‘you should arrive about the right time to find them all in prison. Then—unless you are more prudent than you appear to be at present—you will get into a lot of trouble.’ He clapped his hands for the guard. 'Show the Tribune to his room,’ he ordered. Offering his hand, with his accustomed geniality, he smiled and said, ‘I hope you rest well. We will see each other in the morning.’

  Chapter XIX

  THEY entered the city unchallenged two hours before sunset. The sentries at the Damascus Gate did not so much as bother to ask Marcellus his name or what manner of cargo was strapped to the tired little donkeys. It was evident that Jerusalem was not on the alert.

  The journey from Capernaum had been made with dispatch, considering the travelers were on foot. By rising before dawn and keeping steadily at it—even through the sultry valleys, where all prudent rested in the shade while the sun was high—the trip had been accomplished in three days.

  Warned by Paulus’ grim forecast of drastic action about to be taken against the Christians, Marcellus had expected to encounter arrogant troops and frightened people, but the roads were quiet and the natives were going about their small affairs with no apparent feeling of insecurity. If it were true that a concerted attack on them had been planned, it was still a well-guarded secret.

  Their leave-taking of Capernaum had been almost without incident. Arriving early at the tent, they found that Justus had disappeared. Shalum had no explanation to offer. The mother of little Thomas, when they stopped at her home to make inquiries, had no more to say than that Justus and Jonathan had left for Sepphoris an hour ago. Marcellus
had a momentary impulse to follow them and reassure Justus; but, remembering Paulus’ injunction that, the Galileans would now be better served if he gave them no further attention, he proceeded on his way with many misgivings. It was no small matter to have lost Justus’ friendship. He wanted to stop in Cana and have a farewell word with Miriam, but decided against it.

  After supper that first night out—they had camped in a meadow five miles southeast of Cana—Marcellus had insisted on hearing all about Demetrius’ experiences with the Christians in Jerusalem, especially with reference to their belief in the reappearance of Jesus. The Greek was more than willing to tell everything he knew. There was no uncertainty in his mind about the truth of the resurrection story.

  ‘But—Demetrius—that is impossible, you know!’ Marcellus had declared firmly when his slave had finished.

  ‘Yes, I know, sir,’ Demetrius had admitted.

  ‘But you believe it!’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Well—there’s no sense to be made out of that!’ grumbled Marcellus, impatiently. ‘To admit a thing’s impossible, and in the next breath confess your belief in it, leaves your argument in very bad shape.’

  ‘If you will pardon me, sir,’ ventured Demetrius, ‘I was not arguing. You asked me: I told you. I am not trying to persuade you to believe in it. And I agree that what I have been saying doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Then the story is nonsense!’ reasoned Marcellus; and after he had given his slave ample time to reply, he added crisply, isn’t it?’

  ‘No, sir,’ reiterated Demetrius, ‘the story is true. The thing couldn’t happen; but it did.’

  Feeling that this sort of conversation didn’t have much to recommend it, Marcellus had mumbled good night and pretended to sleep.

  On the next day and the day thereafter, the subject had been discussed on the road, as profitlessly. Jesus had been seen after his death. Such things didn’t happen; couldn’t happen. Nevertheless, he had been seen; not once, but many times; not by one man only, but by a score. Demetrius was advised that he was losing his mind. He conceded the point without debate and offered to change the subject. He was told that he had been duped and deluded, to which accusation he responded with an indulgent nod and a smile. Marcellus was thoroughly exasperated. He wanted to talk about it; wanted Demetrius to plead his case, if he had one, with an air of deep conviction. You couldn’t get anywhere with a man who, when you called him a fool, calmly admitted it.