The Robe

by Lloyd C. Douglas

  ‘That night,’ continued Stephanos, ‘it was decided that Simon should remain to oversee our Ecclesia. The others were to see how nearly ready the Christians were to attempt similar projects in Joppa, Caesarea, Antioch, and other good-sized cities. So—they scattered; John, James, Philip, Alphaeus, Matthew—’ Stephanos made an encircling gesture that included all the rest of them. ‘Simon is impetuous, you know. When he captures an idea, he saddles and bridles it and rides away at a gallop!’

  ‘And the Ecclesia grew!’ assisted Demetrius.

  ‘In numbers—yes! Large families, with next to nothing, moved in to live in idleness, lustily singing hymns and fervent in prayer, but hardly knowing what it was all about, except that they had three meals a day and plenty of good company.’

  ‘And how did the other people like it, the ones who had owned considerable property?’

  ‘Well—that was another problem. These people began to feel their superiority over the indigents. The more money you had contributed to the Ecclesia, the more right you thought you had to dictate the policies of the institution.’ Stephanos drew an unhappy smile. ‘Only this morning, one arrogant old fellow, who had been impudent and cross over something Simon had said, was discovered to have cheated in his dealings with the Ecclesia, and when Simon confronted him with it, he went into such a mad rage that he had a stroke. Died of itl And Simon will probably get the blame for it.’

  ‘It must be very discouraging,’ said Demetrius.

  ‘That isn’t all!’ sighed Stephanos. ‘This daily supper! Many merchants are coming to these meetings now—bringing their food along; I must give them credit for that—but quite clearly patronizing the Ecclesia to make friends for business reasons. In short—the Ecclesia is becoming too, too popular!’

  ‘What’s to be done about it?’ Demetrius wanted to know.

  Stephanos moved on slowly, shaking his head.

  ‘Demetrius—until this Ecclesia began to take in boarders, the Christian community in Jerusalem was a reckonable force. Men continued their gainful occupations, careful to deal honestly and charitably, eager to live according to Jesus’ commandments, and talking of his way of life to all who would give heed. And in the evening they would assemble to hearten one another. Simon would stand up and challenge them to greater efforts. He would repeat the words of Jesus, and renew their strength. He was magnificent!’ Stephanos stopped again and faced his friend sadly. ‘You heard him tonight—squandering his splendid energies in wheedling a lot of selfish, bickering people to forget their little squabbles and stop nagging one another. Did you notice that weak, solicitous smile on his face as he entreated them to be more generous with their gifts to the Ecclesia? Well—that wasn’t Simon! That wasn’t the Simon who fired the hearts of the men who used to meet in the night to repledge their all to the cause of our Christos! It is a disgrace!’ Stephanos clenched both hands in his tousled hair and shook his head hopelessly. ‘Is it for this,’ he cried, ‘that Jesus suffered on the cross—and died—and rose again?’

  ‘Have you talked with Simon about it?’ asked Demetrius, after a discreet interval.

  ‘Not lately. A couple of weeks ago, when it became evident there was going to be an open ruction between the Jews and Greeks, several of us inquired whether we could do anything to help him, and he appointed seven of us to oversee the fair apportioning of food and clothing; but—Demetrius—my feeling for Jesus and his worth to the world is a sort of exalted passion that can’t bring itself down to the low level of listening patiently to ill-mannered quarrels over whether Bennie Issacher was given a better coat than little Nicolas Timonodes.’

  Demetrius snorted his sympathetic disgust and suggested that his friend would do well to keep away from such annoyances.

  ‘I mean to do just that!’ declared Stephanos. ‘I made a decision tonight. I’m not going back there, any more!’

  ‘It is possible,’ said Demetrius, ‘that Julian may soon solve the Ecclesia’s difficulties. Had you heard anything about an attack? My master thinks the Christians are presently to be set upon by the Insula.’

  Stephanos laughed bitterly.

  ‘If the Procurator waits a little while, the Ecclesia will destroy itself, and save him the bother. But—tell me—how does your Roman master feel about Jesus, now that he has been in Galilee?’

  ‘Much impressed, Stephanos. He finds it difficult to believe that Jesus came alive, but he considers him the greatest man who ever lived. He wants to talk with you. He was deeply touched when you asked to see the Robe, and were so moved by the sight of it.’

  ‘He still has it, I suppose,’ murmured Stephanos. ‘Do you think he would let me see it again, Demetrius? So much has happened, lately, to depress me. Do you know—my friend—that when I touched the Robe, that night, it—it did something for me! I can’t explain it—but—’

  ‘Let us go to the inn!’ said Demetrius, impetuously. ‘Now! He will still be up, and glad to see you. I think you need to have a talk with each other.’

  ‘Are you sure he won’t think it an intrusion?’ asked Stephanos, anxiously.

  ‘No—he will welcome you. It will be good for you both.’

  Once the decision was made, Stephanos set the pace with long, determined strides.

  ‘Are you going to tell the Tribune about the Ecclesia?’ he asked.

  ‘By no means!’ declared Demetrius. ‘I believe that Marcellus is on the way to becoming a Christian. He is infatuated with the story of Jesus, and talks of nothing else. If he decides to be a Christian, he will be a good one and a brave one; you can depend on thatl But we mustn’t expose him to things that might disgust him. If he knew that some of his companions in this cause were mere quarrelsome idlers, he might not want to debase himself.’

  ‘Those are hard words, my friend,’ said Stephanos.

  ‘It gave me no pleasure to say them,’ rejoined Demetrius. ‘But I know the Tribune very well. It is true he has been brought up as a pagan, but he is particular about the company he keeps.’

  They found Marcellus alone and reading. He greeted them warmly, showing an instant interest in Stephanos, who was ready with an apology for the untimely call.

  There is no one I would rather see, Stephanos,’ he said, cordially, offering him a chair. ‘You sit down too, Demetrius. You men have had a pleasant reunion, I think.’

  ‘Did you have an interesting journey in Galilee, sir?’ asked Stephanos, rather shyly.

  ‘Interesting—and bewildering,’ replied Marcellus. ‘Justus was a good guide. I heard many strange stories. It is difficult to believe them—and difficult not to believe them.’ He paused, his expression inviting a rejoinder; but Stephanos, at a disadvantage in the presence of this urbane Roman, merely nodded, with averted eyes.

  ‘I was greatly attracted by old Nathanael Bartholomew,’ went on Marcellus.

  ‘Yes,’ said Stephanos, after a tongue-tied interval.

  Demetrius, growing restless, thought he would come to his timid compatriot’s rescue.

  ‘I think Stephanos would like to see the Robe, sir,’ he suggested.

  ‘Gladly!’ agreed Marcellus. ‘Will you find it for him, Demetrius?’

  After some moments in the adjoining room, during which time Marcellus and Stephanos sat silent, Demetrius returned and laid the folded Robe across his friend’s knees. Stephanos gently smoothed it with his finger-tips. His lips were trembling.

  ‘Would you like to be alone—for a little while?’ asked Marcellus, softly. ‘Demetrius and I can take a walk in the garden.’

  Stephanos gave no sign that he had heard. Gathering the Robe up into his arms, he glanced at Marcellus and then at Demetrius, with a new light of assurance in his eyes.

  ‘This was my Master’s Robe!’ he announced, in confident tones, as if delivering a public address. ‘He wore it when he healed the sick and comforted the sorrowing. He wore it when he spoke to the multitudes as no man has ever spoken. He wore it when he went to the cross to die—for me—a humble weaver!’ S
tephanos boldly searched Marcellus’ astonished face. ‘And for you—a wealthy Tribune!’ He turned toward Demetrius. ‘And for you—a slave!’

  Marcellus leaned forward on the arms of his chair, baffled by the suddenly altered manner of the Greek who had thrown aside his reticence to declare his faith in such resonant tones.

  ‘You killed my Lord, Tribune Marcellus!’ went on Stephanos, boldly.

  ‘Stephanos! Please!’ entreated Demetrius.

  Marcellus held up a cautioning hand toward his slave.

  ‘Proceed, Stephanos!’ he commanded.

  ‘It was forgivable,’ went on Stephanos, rising to his feet, ‘for you did not know what you were doing. And you are sorry. The Temple and the Insula killed him! And they did not know what they were doing. But they are not sorry—and they would do it again—tomorrow!’ He took a step toward Marcellus, who rose from his chair, and stood, as one receiving an order. ‘You—Tribune Marcellus Gallio—can make amends for what you have done! He forgave you! I was there! I heard him forgive you! Make friends with him! He is alive! I have seen him!’

  Demetrius was at his elbow now, murmuring half-articulate entreaties. Gently taking the Robe from him, he tugged him back to his chair. They all sat down, and there was a long moment when no one spoke.

  ‘Forgive me, sir,’ said Stephanos, contritely. He clumsily rubbed the back of a nervous hand across his brow. ‘I have been talking too freely.’

  ‘You need no reproach yourself, Stephanos,’ replied Marcellus, huskily. ‘You have not offended me.’

  There was a long, constrained silence which no one seemed disposed to break. Stephanos rose.

  ‘It is late,’ he said. ‘We should go.’

  Marcellus held out his hand.

  ‘I am glad you came, Stephanos,’ he said, soberly. You are welcome to come again.... Demetrius—I shall see you here in the morning.’

  ***

  Badly shaken and perplexed, Marcellus sat for an hour staring at the wall. At length, he was overcome by the day’s fatigue. Stretching out on his bed, he fell asleep. Shortly before dawn he was roused by hoarse cries and shrill screams accompanied by savage commands and thudding blows. It was not unusual, at an inn, to be annoyed at almost any hour of the day by loud lamentations signifying that some hapless kitchen-slave was being flogged; but this pandemonium, which seemed to emanate from the courtyard below, sounded as if the whole establishment was in trouble.

  Marcellus pushed his long legs over the edge of his bed, walked to the window, and looked down. Instantly he knew what was happening. Julian’s threatened day of wrath had arrived. A dozen legionaries, in full battle equipment, were clubbing the household slaves into a corner of the courtyard. Evidently other troops were inside, chasing their quarry out. The entire lower floor was in confusion. There were blows and protestations, scuffling of feet, splintering of door-panels. Presently there was a scurry of sandals on the stairs. Marcellus’ door was thrown open.

  ‘Who are you?’ bawled a brutish voice.

  ‘I am a Roman citizen,’ replied Marcellus, coolly. ‘And you would do well, fellow, to show better manners when you enter the room of a Tribune.’ 'We have no manners today, sir,’ retorted the legionary, with a brief grin. “We are searching for Christians.’

  ‘Indeed!’ growled Marcellus. ‘And does Legate Julian think these poor, harmless people are important enough to warrant all this racket at daybreak?’

  ‘The Legate does not tell me what he thinks, sir,’ scored the legionary, ‘and it is not customary for ordinary troops to ask him. I am obeying orders, sir. We are rounding up all the Christians in the city. You are not a Christian, and I am sorry I have disturbed you.’ He was retreating into the hall.

  ‘Stay!’ shouted Marcellus. ‘How do you know I am not a Christian? Can’t a Roman Tribune be a Christian?’

  The legionary chuckled, shrugged, tugged off his heavy metal helmet, and wiped his dripping forehead with a swipe of his rough sleeve.

  ‘I’ve no time for jesting, sir, if the Tribune will excuse me.’ He resumed his helmet, saluted with his spear, and stamped down the hall.

  The cries outside were subsiding now. Apparently the evacuation had been completed. A terrified group of slaves had huddled against the area wall, nursing their bruises. Apart from them a little way stood a few shabbily clad, frightened guests. The aging wife of Levi, the innkeeper, hovered close to them. She was pale, and her head kept jerking up involuntarily with some nervous quirk. Marcellus wondered whether she did that all the time or only when she was badly scared.

  The tall, handsome Centurion marched forward, faced the victims, shouted for silence, drew out an impressive scroll to its full length, and in a dry crackle read an edict. It was pompously phrased. There was to be no further assembling of the blasphemers who called themselves Christians. There was to be no further mention, in public or private, of the name of Jesus the Galilean, who had been found guilty of treason, blasphemy, and offenses against the peace of Jerusalem. This edict was to be considered the first and last official warning. Disobedience would be punishable by death.

  Rolling up the scroll, the Centurion barked an order, the detachment stiffened, he stalked toward the street, they fell in behind him. After a moment, one old retainer, with blood oozing through the sparse white hair on his temple and trickling down over his bare shoulder, quietly crumpled into a shapeless heap. A slave-girl of twenty stooped over him and cried aloud. A bearded Greek bent down and listened with his ear against the old man’s chest. He raised up and shook his head. Four of them picked up the limp body and moved off slowly toward the servants’ quarters, most of the others trudging dejectedly after them. The innkeeper’s wife turned slowly about. Her head was bobbing violently. She pointed to a fallen broom. A limping slave with a crooked back took up the broom and began ineffectively sweeping the tiled pavement. Except for him, the courtyard was empty now. Marcellus turned away from the window, scowling.

  ‘Brave old Julian!’ he muttered. ‘Brave old Roman Empire!’

  He finished his dressing and went below. Levi met him at the foot of the stairs with much bowing and fumbling of hands. He hoped the Tribune had not been disturbed by all the commotion. And would he have his breakfast served at once? Marcellus nodded.

  ‘We will have less trouble with these Christians now,’ declared Levi, to assure his Roman guest that his sympathies were with the Insula.

  ‘Had they been causing you trouble?’ asked Marcellus, negligently.

  Levi hunched his shoulders, spread out his upturned fingers, and smirked.

  ‘It is enough that their sect is in disfavor with the Government,’ he parried, discreetly.

  ‘That wasn’t what I asked you,' growled Marcellus. ‘Have these Christians, who were being knocked about here this morning, given you any cause for complaint? Do they steal, lie, fight? Do they get drunk? Are they brawlers? Tell me—what sort of people are they?’

  ‘In truth, sir,' admitted Levi, ‘I cannot complain of them. They are quiet, honest, and faithful. But, sir, as the Insula has decreed, we cannot tolerate blasphemy!’

  ‘Blasphemy? Rubbish!’ snarled Marcellus. ‘What does the Insula know or care about blasphemy? What is it that these people blaspheme, Levi?’

  ‘They have no respect for the Temple, sir.’

  ‘How could they, when the Temple has no respect for itself?’

  Levi shrugged a polite disapproval, though he still smiled weakly.

  ‘The religion of our people must be protected, sir,' he murmured, piously. Marcellus made a little grimace and sauntered out into the sunny arcade where he found, laying his breakfast table, the slave-girl who had been so deeply grieved over the old man’s death in the courtyard. Her eyes were red with weeping, but she was going about her duties competently. She did not look up when Marcellus took his seat.

  ‘Was that old man related to you?’ he asked, kindly.

  She did not reply. Sudden tears overflowed her eyes and ran down her cheek
s. In a moment she moved away, obviously to return to the kitchen for his breakfast. Levi strolled toward his table.

  ‘How was this girl related to the old man they killed?’ asked Marcellus.

  ‘He was her father,’ said Levi, reluctantly.

  ‘And you are making her serve the table?’

  Levi’s shoulders, elbows, eyebrows, and palms came up in a defensive gesture.

  ‘Well—it is her regular task, sir. It is not my fault that her father was killed.’

  Marcellus rose, and regarded his host with cool contempt.

  ‘And you prate about your religion! What a mean fellow you are, Levi!’ He strode toward the door.

  ‘But, please, sir!’ begged Levi. ‘I myself shall serve you! I am sorry to have given offense!’ He toddled off toward the kitchen. Marcellus, angrily returning to his table, wondered if the loathsome creature would slap the girl for unwittingly creating an awkward incident.

  ***

  Demetrius had risen at daybreak so that he might have time to do an errand at the Ecclesia before going on to attend his master at the inn. He had tried to dress without waking his friend who, he knew, had spent a restless night; but Stephanos roused and sat up, rubbing his eyes.

  ‘I’ll see you this evening,’ whispered Demetrius, as if his companion were still asleep and shouldn’t be awakened. ‘Shall I meet you here?’

  ‘At the Ecclesia,’ mumbled Stephanos.

  ‘Thought you weren’t going there any more.’

  ‘I can’t let good old Simon down, Demetrius. He is alone, now that the other disciples are away on missions.’

  Tiptoeing out of the house, Demetrius walked rapidly toward the Ecclesia, where he hoped to have a private word with Simon. It had seemed almost disloyal not to counsel with Stephanos about this, but Marcellus had insisted upon secrecy. He wanted an interview with Simon. Demetrius was to arrange for it, if he could. There had been no opportunity to ask Simon, last night. Perhaps he would have a better chance to see him alone this morning before the day’s activities began.

  The Ecclesia was already astir. Cots were being folded up and put away to make room for tables. Tousled, half-dressed children of all sizes were racing about, babies were crying, old men were crouching in out-of-the-way corners, scowling meditatively as they stroked their patriarchal beards. The women were bustling back and forth between the kitchen at the rear and the breakfast-tables which their men were setting up. Demetrius approached the nearest group and inquired for Simon. One of them glanced about and pointed. Simon was standing by a window, quite apart from the others, brooding over a tattered scroll. Even in this relaxed position there was something majestic about this huge Galilean. If only he had a suitable setting and a courageous constituency, thought Demetrius, Simon would have great weight. The man was of immense vitality and arresting personality, a natural leader. Not much wonder the people wanted him to lay his hands upon their sick.