The Robe

by Lloyd C. Douglas

  Approaching, Demetrius waited to be recognized. Simon glanced up, nodded soberly, and beckoned to him.

  ‘Sir, my master—Marcellus Gallio—earnestly desires a conversation with you, at your convenience,’ said Demetrius.

  ‘He that went into Galilee with Justus?’ queried Simon. To look for homespun—or so he said.’

  ‘My master did acquire a large quantity of homespun, sir,’ said Demetrius.

  ‘And what else?’ asked Simon, in his deep voice.

  ‘He became much interested in the life of Jesus, sir.’

  ‘I think he had that before he went,’ rumbled Simon, studying Demetrius’ eyes. ‘I think that was why he went.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ conceded Demetrius. ‘That was his real object in going to Galilee. He is deeply concerned—but full of questions. At present he is at Levi’s inn. May I tell him you will talk with him—in private?’

  ‘I will talk with him—on the morrow—at mid-afternoon,’ said Simon. ‘And as he desires privacy, let him come to me in the refuse-field, north of the city, the place they call Golgotha. There is a path through the field which leads to a knoll in the center of it.’

  ‘I know where it is, sir.’

  ‘Then show him the way. Bid him come alone.’ Simon rolled up the scroll; and, inattentive to Demetrius’ murmured thanks, walked toward the tables. There was a whispered demand for silence, and the confusion ceased, except for the crying of a baby. Those who were seated rose. In a powerful, resonant voice, Simon began to read.

  The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light. They that dwell in the shadow of death, upon them the light shines. For unto us a child is born. Unto us a son is given. The government shall be upon his shoulder.

  There was a clamor at the entrance, and all eyes turned apprehensively. Crisp commands were being shouted. The frightened people did not have long to wait in anxiety. The doors burst open, and a whole company of Legionaries marched in, deploying fanwise as they advanced. With their spears held horizontally, breast-high, they moved rapidly forward, pushing the terrified Christians before them. Some of the older ones fell down in their excitement. They were ruthlessly prodded to their feet and shoved on in the wake of the scurrying pack that was massing against the rear wall.

  Demetrius, who had remained near the window quite apart from the residents, found himself in the position of a spectator. The troops swept on relentlessly. Simon, a towering figure, stood his ground. He was alone, now, all the others having huddled at the wall. The Centurion shouted an order, and the company halted. He strode arrogantly toward Simon and faced him with a sardonic grin. They were of the same height, both magnificent specimens of manhood.

  ‘Are you, then, the one they call The Fisherman?’ demanded the Centurion.

  ‘I am!’ answered Simon, boldly. ‘And why are you here to break up a peaceful assembly? Has any one of us committed a crime? If so—let him be taken for trial.’

  ‘As you wish,’ snapped the Centurion, if you want to be tried for blasphemy and treasonable utterances, the Procurator will accommodate you....Take him away!’

  Simon turned about and faced his desperate people.

  ‘Be of good cheer!’ he shouted. ‘Make no resistance! I shall come back to you!’

  ‘That you will not!’ broke in the Centurion. In obedience to a sharp command and a sweep of his sword, two burly legionaries leaped forward, caught Simon by the arms, whirled him about, and started for the door. The company pressed forward toward the defenseless crowd. The Centurion called for silence. Palefaced women nervously cupped their hands over the mouths of their screaming children. An edict was read. By order of the Procurator, there was to be no further assembling of the blasphemers who called themselves Christians.

  Demetrius began slowly edging his way along the wall in the direction of the front door. He caught fragments of the Centurion’s announcement. This building was to be vacated immediately. Anyone found on the premises hereafter would be taken into custody. The name of Jesus, the blasphemer and traitor, was never again to be spoken.

  ‘Away with you now!’ yelled the Centurion. ‘Back to your homes! And do not inquire for your Fisherman! You will not see him any more!’

  As he neared the door, realizing that the speech had ended and the troops would be promptly moving out, Demetrius speeded his going, ran to the street and crossed it, dodged into a narrow alley, pursued it to the next street, slowed to a brisk walk, and proceeded to Levi’s inn. Everything was quiet there. He entered and moved toward the stairway leading to Marcellus’ quarters. Levi, observant, called him back.

  ‘Your master is out,’ he said.

  ‘Do you know where he went, sir?’ inquired Demetrius, anxiously.

  ‘How should I?’ retorted Levi.

  Thinking that Marcellus might have left instructions in his room, Demetrius asked and was granted permission to go upstairs. A Greek slave-girl was putting the room to rights. She recognized him and smiled shyly. Informed of his errand, she joined in the search for a message.

  ‘Did you see my master this morning?’ asked Demetrius.

  She shook her head.

  “We had much trouble here, a little while ago,’ she said.

  Demetrius pressed her for particulars, and she told him what had occurred. He went to the window and stood for a long moment, looking out, trying to imagine what might be Marcellus’ reaction to this cruel business. He would be very angry, no doubt. He would want to do something about it, perhaps. It was not inconceivable that Marcellus might go to Julian and remonstrate. The more Demetrius deliberated on this possibility, the more reasonable it seemed. It would be an audacious thing to do, but Marcellus was impetuous enough to attempt it. After all—the word of a Tribune should have some weight.

  He turned about and met the Greek girl’s eyes. They were friendly but serious. Glancing cautiously toward the open door, she moved closer to him and whispered, ‘Are you one of us?’

  Demetrius nodded soberly, and she gave him an approving smile. With a sudden burst of interest in her duties, she began folding and patting the blankets on the bed, as if suspicious that she might be found idling.

  ‘Better stay off the streets today,’ she said, softly, out of the corner of a pretty mouth. ‘Go down to the kitchen. Youll be safe there.’

  Thanks,’ said Demetrius. ‘That’s not a bad idea. Besides—I’m hungry.' He was crossing the room. The girl laid her hand on his sleeve as he passed her.

  ‘Does your master know you are one of us?’ she whispered.

  Demetrius was not sure how this question should be answered, so he gave her an enigmatic smile which she was free to interpret as she chose, and left the room. The ever-present Levi met him at the foot of the stairs and unexpectedly informed him that it was a fine morning.

  ‘Beautiful!’ agreed Demetrius, aware that the Jew was sparring for news.

  ‘Had your master left instructions for you?’ asked Levi, amiably.

  ‘I am to have my breakfast, sir, and await his return.’

  ‘Very good,’ said Levi. ‘Go to the kitchen. They will serve you.’ He tagged along as far as the door. ‘I suppose everything was quiet on the streets this morning.’

  ‘It was still quite early, sir, when I left my lodgings,' replied Demetrius, unhelpfully.

  After his breakfast of bread, milk, and sun-cured figs, he paced restlessly up and down the small area bounded by the servants’ quarters. Nobody seemed inclined to talk. The girl who had served him was crying. He resolved to stroll over to the Insula and wait outside. Something told him that Marcellus was there. Where else could he be?

  ***

  Having finished his breakfast, which Levi himself had served with a disgusting show of servility, Marcellus began to be apprehensive about the safety of Demetrius, who, he felt, should have arrived by this time unless he had encountered some trouble.

  He did not know where Stephanos lived, but they could tell him at Benyosef’s shop. Then it occurred t
o him that Benyosef’s might have been visited by the legionaries. Doubtless they knew it was a meeting-place of the disciples of Jesus, and might be expected to deal severely with anyone found there. Prudence suggested that he keep out of that storm-center. If Demetrius had been arrested, it would be sensible to wait until order had been restored. Then he could learn where his slave was, and make an effort to have him released.

  The obsequious Levi helped him to a decision. Marcellus was stalking up and down in the courtyard, feverishly debating what to do, when the Jew appeared in the doorway, obviously much interested in his guest’s perturbation. Levi did not say anything; just stood there slowly blinking his brightly inquisitive eyes. Then he retreated into the little foyer and emerged a moment later carrying a chair, as to say that if the Tribune knew what was good for him today, he would stay where he was and avoid getting into trouble. Marcellus scowled, lengthened his stride; and, without a backward glance, marched down the steps to the street.

  To reach Benyosef’s shop, it was necessary to traverse a few blocks on the rim of the congested market district where the shabby hovels of the very poor huddled close to the reeking alleys. Here there was much excitement, frantic chatter, and gesticulations. Marcellus slowed his steps near one vociferous group of slatternly people and learned that the Christians’ meeting-place had been invaded, emptied, and locked up. The leaders had been dragged off to prison. Simon the Fisherman was to be beheaded.

  Marcellus quickened his pace. A little way down the street, in the vicinity of Benyosef's shop, a crowd had gathered. At the edge of it, apparently waiting for orders, ranged a company of legionaries, negligently leaning on their spears. Someone in the middle of the crowd was making an impassioned speech. In a moment Marcellus had drawn close enough to recognize the voice.

  It was Stephanos. Bareheaded, and in the brown tunic he wore at his loom, he had evidently been dragged out for questioning; and from the sullen silence of the throng, it was to be inferred that these people were willing to wait patiently until the reckless Greek had incriminated himself.

  Taller than most, Marcellus surveyed the spectators with curiosity to discover what manner of men they were. Instantly he divined the nature of this audience. They were well dressed, for the most part, representing the more substantial element from the business district. There was a sprinkling of younger priests, too. The face of the crowd was surly, but everybody was listening in a tense silence.

  Stephanos was not mincing his words. He stood there boldly, in the open circle they had formed about him, his long arms stretched out in an appeal to reason—but by no means an appeal for mercy. He was not defiant, but he was unafraid.

  It was no rabble-rousing speech addressed to the emotions of ignorant men, but a scathing indictment of Jerusalem’s leaders who, Stephanos declared, had been unwilling to recognize a cure for the city’s distresses.

  ‘You have considered yourselves the Chosen People!’ he went on, audaciously. ‘Your ancestors struggled out of one bondage into another, century after century, ever looking for a Deliverer, and never heeding your great teachers when they appeared with words of wisdom! Again and again, inspired leaders have risen among your people, only to be thwarted and reviled—not by the poor and needy—but by such as you!’

  A concerted growl rumbled through the angry crowd.

  ‘Which of the prophets,’ demanded Stephanos, ‘did your fathers not persecute? And now you have become the betrayers—and murderers—of the Just One!’

  ‘Blasphemer!’ shouted an imperious voice.

  ‘You!’ exclaimed Stephanos, sweeping the throng with an accusing hand—‘you—who claim to have received your law at the hands of angels—how have you kept it?’

  There was an infuriated roar, but no one moved to attack him. Marcellus wondered how much longer the suppressed fury of these maddened men would tolerate this rash excoriation.

  From far back on the fringe of the crowd, someone hurled a cobblestone. It was accurately thrown and struck Stephanos on the cheekbone, staggering him. Instinctively he reached up a hand to wipe away the blood. Another stone, savagely hurled by a practiced hand, crashed against his elbow. A loud clamor rose. For an instant, Marcellus hoped it might be a protest against this lawless violence, but it was quickly evident that the hoarse shouts were in denunciation of the speech, and not the stoning. A vengeful yell gave sinister applause to the good aim of another stone as it struck the Greek full in the face. Two more, not so well thrown, went over Stephanos’ head and drove into the crowd. Trampling upon one another, the dignitaries on the other side of the open circle scurried for cover against the walls and fences. Stephanos, shielding his bleeding head with his arms, backed away slowly from the hostile throng, but the stones kept coming.

  The Centurion barked an order now and the legionaries sprang into action, plowing roughly through the pack, tossing men right and left, with utter disregard of their importance. Marcellus, who had been standing beside a tall soldier, followed him through, and was surprised to see him jab his elbow into the face of a stocky priest whose ponderous dignity hadn’t permitted him to move swiftly enough. Now the legionaries were lined up inside the semicircle of spectators. They had made a fence of their spears. The stones were coming faster now, and with telling effect. Marcellus began to realize that this was no impulsive, impromptu incident. The better citizens were not throwing stones, but without doubt they had planned that the stones should be thrown. The men who were doing it were expert.

  Stephanos was down now, on his elbows and knees, trying to protect his head with one bleeding hand. The other arm hung limp. The crowd roared. Marcellus recognized that bestial cry. He had heard it many a time in the Circus Maximus. He pushed his way on to the side of the tall legionary who, after a glance in his direction, made room for him.

  Several of the younger men in the shouting multitude now decided to take a hand in the punishment. The Centurion pretended not to notice when they dodged under the barricade of spears. Their faces were deeply flushed and contorted with rage. There was nothing more they could do to Stephanos, who had crumpled on the ground, but perhaps the stones they threw were to be merely tokens of their willingness to share the responsibility for this crime.

  Marcellus’ heart ached. There had been nothing he could do. Had Julian been there, he might have protested, but to have denounced the Centurion would have done no good. The fellow was obeying his orders. Poor Stephanos lay dead, or at least unconscious, but the dignitaries continued to stone him.

  Immediately in front of Marcellus—on the other side of the barrier—stood a young, bookish man, wearing a distinctive skull-cap with a tassel, evidently a student. He was of diminutive stature, but sturdily built. His hands were clenched and his rugged face was twisted with anger. Every thudding stone that beat upon the limp body had his approval. Marcellus studied his livid face, amazed that a man of his seeming intelligence could be so viciously pleased by such an exhibition of inhuman brutality.

  Presently a fat man, in an expensive black robe, ducked through the line, took off his robe, and tossed it to the short one, bidding him hold it. Another man of lofty dignity followed his friend in; and, handing his robe also to the bow-legged scholar, began clawing up a stone from the pavement.

  Marcellus, towering over the short-legged fellow, leaned forward and demanded, sternly, ‘What harm had he done to you?’

  The little man turned about and glanced up impudently into Marcellus’ eyes. He was a malicious creature, but no fool. It was a face to be remembered.

  ‘He is a blasphemer!’ he shouted.

  “How does the crime of blasphemy compare with murder?’ growled Marcellus. ‘You seem to be a learned man. Perhaps you know.’

  ‘If you will come to the Rabbinical School tomorrow, my friend,’ replied the little man, suddenly cooled by the prospect of airing his theology, ‘I shall enlighten you. Ask for Saul—of Tarsus,’ he added, proudly. ‘I am a Roman citizen—like yourself, sir.’

  T
here were no stones flying now. The crowd was growing restless. The young theologian had handed back the robes he had held and was shouldering out through the loosening throng. The legionaries were still maintaining their barricade, but were shifting their weight uneasily as if impatient to be off. The Centurion was soberly talking, out of the corner of his mouth, to a long-bearded Jew in an impressive black robe. The multitude was rapidly disintegrating.

  Marcellus, with brooding eyes fixed on the broken body of the gallant Greek, thought he saw a feeble movement there. Stephanos was slowly rising up on one elbow. A hush fell over the people as they watched him rise to his knees. The blood-smeared face looked up, and the bruised lips were parted in a rapturous smile. Suddenly Stephanos raised his arm aloft as if to clutch a friendly hand.

  ‘I see him!’ he shouted, triumphantly. ‘I see him! My Lord Jesus—take me!’ The eyes closed, the head dropped, and Stephanos crumpled down among the stones.

  The spectators, momentarily stunned, turned to go. Men did not pause to ask questions. They scurried away as if frightened. Marcellus’ heart was pounding and his mouth was dry. But he found himself possessed of a curious exaltation. His eyes were swimming, but his face trembled with an involuntary smile.