The Robe

by Lloyd C. Douglas

  He turned about and looked into the bewildered eyes of the tall legionary.

  ‘That was a strange thing, sir!’ muttered the soldier.

  ‘More strange than you think!’ exclaimed Marcellus.

  ‘I would have sworn the Greek was dead! He thought he saw someone coming to rescue him!’

  ‘He did see someone coming to rescue him!’ shouted Marcellus, ecstatically.

  ‘That dead Galilean, maybe?’ queried the legionary, nervously.

  ‘That Galilean is not dead, my friend!’ declared Marcellus. ‘He is more alive than any man here!’

  Thoroughly shaken, his lips twitching with emotion, Marcellus moved away with the scattering crowd. His mind was in a tumult. At the first corner, he turned abruptly and retraced his steps. Nobody was interested in Stephanos now. The troops from the Insula, four abreast, were disappearing down the street. None of the friends of the intrepid Greek had yet ventured to put in an appearance. It was quite too soon to expect that any of them would take the risk.

  Dropping to one knee beside the battered corpse, Marcellus gently drew aside the matted hair and gazed into the impassive face. The lips were still parted in a smile.

  After a long time, old Benyosef hobbled out of the shop. His eyes were red and swollen with weeping. He approached diffidently, halting a few steps away. Marcellus looked up and beckoned to him and he came, pale with fright. Stooping over, with his wrinkled hands bracing his feeble knees, he peered into the quiet face. Then he searched Marcellus’ eyes inquisitively, but without recognition.

  ‘It was a cruel death, sir,’ he whimpered.

  ‘Stephanos is not dead!’ declared Marcellus. ‘He went away with Jesus!’

  ‘I beg of you—do not mock our faith, sir!’ pleaded Benyosef. ‘This has been a sad day for us who believe in Jesus!’

  ‘But did he not promise you that if you believe in him, you will never die?’

  Benyosef slowly nodded his head, staring into Marcellus’ eyes incredulously.

  ‘Yes—but you do not believe that, sir!’ he mumbled.

  Marcellus rose and laid his hand on the old man’s thin arm.

  ‘Jesus may never come for me, Benyosef,’ he said, quietly, ‘and he may never come for you—but he came for Stephanos! Go, now, and find a younger man to help me. We will carry the body into your shop.’

  Still pale with fright, the neighbors gathered about the mangled form of Stephanos as it lay on the long table in Benyosef’s work-room. They were all crying. Rhoda’s grief was inconsolable. Some of the men regarded Marcellus with suspicion that he might be there to spy upon them. It was no time to explain that he felt himself one of them. Presently he was aware of Demetrius at his elbow, and importuned him to stay and be of service.

  Taking Benyosef by the arm, he led the tearful old man into the corner back of his loom.

  There is nothing I can do here,’ he said, laying some gold coins in the weaver’s hand. ‘But I have a request of you. When Justus comes again to Jerusalem, tell him I saw Stephanos welcomed into Jesus’ kingdom, and am persuaded that everything he told me—in Galilee—is the truth.’

  ***

  It had been a long day for Simon, sitting there heavily manacled in the darkness. At noon they had brought him some mouldy bread and a pitcher of water, but he had not eaten; he was too heartsick for that.

  For the first hour after his incarceration, derisive voices from adjoining cells had demanded to know his name, his crime, and when he was to die. With noisy bravado, they jested obscenely about their impending executions, and taunted him for being too scared to speak. He had not answered them, and at length they had wearied of reviling him.

  The wooden bench on which he sat served also as a bed. It was wider than the seat of a chair, and Simon could not rest his back against the wall. This unsupported posture was fatiguing. Sometimes he stretched his huge frame out on the bench, but with little ease. The wall was damp, as was the floor. Huge rats nibbled at his sandals. The heavy handcuffs cut his wrists.

  He thought that he could have borne these discomforts and the threat of a death sentence with a better fortitude had he been able to leave behind him a determined organization to carry on the work that had been entrusted to him. Obviously he had blundered. Perhaps it had been a mistake to establish the Ecclesia. Maybe the time had not come for such a movement. He had been too impatient. He should have let it grow, quietly, unobtrusively, like yeast in meal, as Jesus had said.

  What, he wondered, would become of the Christian cause now, with all of them scattered and in hiding? Who would rise up as their leader? Philip? No—Philip was a brave and loyal fellow, but—he lacked boldness. The leader would have to be audacious. John? No. James? No. They had the heart for it, but not the voice. There was Stephen. Stephen might do it—but not in Jerusalem. The Jews would insist on an Israelite, as perhaps they should; for the Christian heritage was of the Hebrew people.

  Why had the Master permitted this dreadful catastrophe? Had he changed his plans for the prosecution of his work? Had he lost confidence in the leader he had appointed? Simon’s memory reconstructed the eventful day when Jesus had said to him, ‘Simon—I shall call you Peter; Peter the Rock! I shall build on this Rock!’ Simon closed his eyes and shook his head as he compared the exultation of that moment with the utter hopelessness of his present plight.

  When night fell, a guard with a flickering torch noisily unlocked each cell in turn and another replenished the water-pitcher. Noting that his bread had not been eaten, the guard did not give him any more; nor did he offer any comment. Perhaps it was not unusual for men, awaiting death, to take but little interest in food.

  At feeding time there had been much rattling of chains and scuffling of feet, but everything was quiet now. Simon grew drowsy, slumped back uncomfortably with his head and shoulders against the old wall, and slept. After a while, he found himself experiencing a peculiar dream; peculiar in that it didn’t seem like a dream, though he knew it was, for it couldn’t be real. In his dream, he roused, amazed to find that the manacles had slipped from his hands and were lying open on the bench. He lifted his foot. The weight was gone. He drew himself up and listened. Everything was quiet but the rhythmic breathing of his fellow prisoners. He had never had a dream of such keen vividness.

  Simon stood up and stretched his long arms. He took three or four short steps toward the cell-door, slipping his sandals along the stone floor as he felt his way in the darkness. There was no sound of the scuffling of his sandals on the flagging. Except for this, the dream was incredibly real. He put out his hand and touched the heavy, nail-studded door. It noiselessly retreated. He advanced his hand to touch the door again. It moved forward. He took another step—and another. There had never been such a dream! Simon was awake and could feel his heart pounding, and the rapid pulse-beat in his neck; but he knew he was still asleep on the bench.

  He put his hand against the damp wall and moved on with cautious steps that made no sound. At the end of the long corridor, a feeble light showed through the iron bars of a door. As he neared it the door swung open so slowly and noiselessly that Simon knew the thing was unreal! He walked through with firmer steps. In the dim light he saw two guards sitting on the floor, with their arms around their knees and their heads bent forward in sleep. They did not stir. He proceeded toward the massive entrance gates, recognizing the ponderous lock that united them. He expected his dream to swing them open, but they had not moved. He put his hand on the cold metal, and pushed, but the heavy gates remained firm.

  By this he knew that the dream was over, and he would rouse to find himself manacled in his cell. He was chilly. He wrapped his robe more tightly about him, surprised that he still had the unimpeded use of his hands. He glanced about, completely bewildered over his strange mental condition. Suddenly his eye lighted on a narrow gate, set within one of the greater gates. It was open. Simon stepped through, and it closed behind him without a sound. He was on the street. He started to walk brisk
ly. At a crossing, he stumbled against a curbing in the darkness. Surely this rough jar would waken him. Simon stood still, looked up at the stars, and laughed softly for joy. He was awake! He had been delivered from prison!

  What to do now? Where to go? With lengthened steps, he made his way to Benyosef’s, where all was dark. He moved on to the home of John Mark. A frail light showed from an upstairs window. He tapped at the high wicket gate. After a little delay, the small port in the gate was opened and he saw the frightened face of Rhoda.

  She screamed and fled to the open house-door.

  ‘It is Simon!’ he heard her shout. ‘Simon has returned from the dead!’

  Rushing back to the gate, she unbolted it and drew it open. Her eyes were swollen with weeping, but her face was enraptured. She threw her arms around Simon, hugging him fiercely.

  ‘Simon!’ she cried. ‘Jesus has brought you back from death! Did you see Stephen? Is he coming too?’

  ‘Is Stephen dead, Rhoda?’ asked Simon, sadly.

  Her grip relaxed, and she slumped down into a dejected little figure of hopeless grief. Simon raised her up tenderly and handed her over to Mark’s mother.

  ‘We heard they had killed you,’ said Mark.

  ‘No,’ said Simon. ‘I was delivered from prison.’

  They moved slowly into the house, Rhoda weeping inconsolably. The place was crowded with Christians. Their grieving eyes widened and their drawn faces paled as Simon entered, for they had thought him dead. They made way for him in silence. He paused in the midst of them. Some great experience had come to Simon. He had taken on a new dignity, a new power. Slowly he raised his hand and they bowed their heads.

  ‘Let us pray,’ said Peter the Rock.

  ‘Blessed be God who has revived our hope. Though in great heaviness for a season, let us rejoice that this trial of our faith—more precious than gold—will make us worthy of honor when our Lord returns.’

  ***

  After walking up and down on the other side of the street facing the Insula for an hour or more, Demetrius’ anxiety overwhelmed his patience. He must have been mistaken in his surmise that Marcellus would visit Julian himself on behalf of the persecuted Christians.

  Abandoning his vigil, he made off rapidly for Benyosefs shop. While still a long way off, he began meeting well-dressed, sullen-faced men, apparently returning from some annoying experience. When he saw the sunshine glinting on the shields of an approaching military force, Demetrius dodged into an alley, and continued the journey by a circuitous route.

  In spite of the edict prohibiting any further assembly of Christians, fully a score were crowded into the shop, silently gathered about a dead body. To his amazement, Demetrius saw his master in the midst of the people, almost as if he were in charge. He shouldered his way through the sorrowing group. Rhoda was down on her knees before the body, sobbing piteously. It seemed very unreal to find Stephanos, with whom he had talked only a few hours ago, lying here broken and dead.

  Marcellus had taken him aside, when he had regained his composure.

  ‘You remain with them, Demetrius,’ he had said. ‘Assist them with the burial. My presence here is an embarrassment. They cannot account for my interest, and are suspicious. I am going back to the inn.’

  ‘Did you see this happen, sir?’ Demetrius had asked.

  ‘Yes.’ Marcellus drew closer and said confidentially, ‘And much more happened than appears here! I shall tell you—later.’

  After they had put poor Stephanos away—and no one had molested them while on their errand—Demetrius had returned home with John Mark, thinking he would be free presently to rejoin Marcellus at the inn. But Mark’s mother, Mary, and Rhoda too, had insisted so urgently on his remaining with them that he dared not refuse. When their unwanted supper had been disposed of and darkness had fallen, friends of the family began to arrive singly and by twos and threes until the lower rooms were filled. No one acted as a spokesman for the pensive party. There was much low-voiced conversation about a vision that appeared to Stephen before he died, but none of them had been close enough to know exactly what had happened. Demetrius had not attached much significance to the rumors. The only one who felt confident was Rhoda.

  And then, to the utter amazement of everyone, Simon had arrived; a more important, more impressive figure than he had been before. He seemed reluctant to tell the details of his release from prison; but, by whatever process that had come to pass, the experience had built Simon up. He even seemed taller. They all felt it, and were shy about initiating conversation with him; hesitant about asking questions. Oddly enough, he had quietly announced that henceforth they should call him Peter.

  Beckoning John Mark apart, Demetrius had suggested that they ask Simon Peter to lodge there. As for himself, he would cheerfully surrender his room and return to the inn. So—it had been arranged that way and Demetrius had slipped out unobtrusively. It was nearing midnight when he tapped at Marcellus’ door, finding him awake and reading. They had talked in whispers until daybreak, their master-slave relationship completely ignored in their earnest discussion of the day’s bewildering experiences.

  ‘I too am a Christian!’ Marcellus had declared, when he had finished his account of the stoning of Stephanos, and it seemed to Demetrius that the assertion had been made with more pride than he had ever put into ‘I am a Roman!’ It was very strange, indeed, this complete capitulation of Marcellus Gallio to a way of belief and behavior so foreign from his training and temperament.

  Early in the afternoon, Demetrius accompanied him to the edge of the disreputable field that was called Golgotha. They were quiet as they approached it. Acrid smoke curled lazily from winnows of charred refuse. In the distance a grass-covered knoll appeared as a green oasis in a desert.

  ‘Do you remember the place, sir?’ asked Demetrius, halting.

  ‘Vaguely,’ murmured Marcellus. ‘I’m sure I couldn’t have found it. Is it clear in your memory, Demetrius?’

  ‘Quite so. I came late. I could see the crosses from here, and the crowd.’

  ‘What was I doing when you arrived?’ asked Marcellus.

  ‘You and the other officers were casting dice.’

  ‘For the Robe?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Neither spoke for a little while.

  ‘I did not see the nailing, Demetrius,’ said Marcellus, thickly. Paulus pushed me away. I was glad enough to escape the sight. I walked to the other side of the knoll. It has been a bitter memory, I can tell you.’

  ‘Well, sir,’ said Demetrius, ‘here is the path. I shall wait for you at the inn. I hope you will not be disappointed, but it seems unlikely that Simon Peter would try to keep his appointment.’

  ‘He will come, I think,’ predicted Marcellus. ‘Simon Peter is safer from arrest today than he was yesterday. Both the Insula and the Temple have tried to convince the public that the Christians have no legal or moral sanction for their beliefs. Having captured their leader, with the expectation of making a tragic example of him, they are now stunned by the discovery that their victim has walked out of prison. Neither Julian nor Herod will want to undertake an explanation of that event. I think they will decide that the less said or done now, in the case of The Big Fisherman, the better it will be for everybody concerned. I fully expect Simon Peter will meet me here—unless, in all the confusion, he has forgotten about it.’

  ***

  Peter had not forgotten. Marcellus saw him coming, a long way off, marching militantly with head up and a swinging stride that betokened a confident mind. The man had leadership, reflected the admiring watcher.

  As The Big Fisherman neared the grassy knoll, however, his steps slowed and his shoulders slumped. He stopped and passed an unsteady hand over his massive forehead. Marcellus rose and advanced to meet him as he mounted the slight elevation with plodding feet. Peter extended his huge hand, but did not speak. They sat down on the grass near the deep pits where the crosses had stood, and for a long time they remained in silenc
e.

  At length, Peter roused from his painful meditation and glanced at Marcellus with heavy eyes, which drifted back to the ground.

  I was not here that day,’ rumbled the deep, throaty voice, I did not stand by him in the hour of his anguish.’ Peter drew a deep sigh.

  Marcellus did not know what to say, or whether he was expected to say anything. The big Galilean sat ruefully studying the palms of his hands with a dejection so profound that any attempt to relieve it would have been an impertinence. Now he regarded Marcellus with critical interest, as if noting him for the first time.

  ‘Your Greek slave told me you were interested in the story of Jesus,’ he said, soberly. ‘And it has come to me that you were of friendly service, yesterday, when our brave Stephen was taken away. Benyosef thought he heard you profess the faith of a Christian. Is that true, Marcellus Gallio?’

  ‘I am convinced, sir,’ said Marcellus, ‘that Jesus is divine. I believe that he is alive, and of great power. But I have much to learn about him.’

  ‘You have already gone far with your faith, my friend!’ said Peter, warmly. ‘As a Roman, your manner of living has been quite remote from the way of life that Jesus taught. Doubtless you have done much evil, for which you should repent if you would know the fullness of his grace. But I could not ask you to repent until I had told you of the wrongs which I have done. Whatever sins you may have committed, they cannot compare to the disloyalty for which I have been forgiven. He was my dearest friend—and, on the day that he needed me, I swore that I had never known him.’

  Peter put his huge hands over his eyes and bowed his head. After a long moment he looked up.

  ‘Now’—he said—‘tell me how much you know about Jesus.’

  Marcellus did not immediately reply, and when he did so, his words were barely audible. He heard himself saying, as if someone else were speaking:

  ‘I crucified him.’

  ***

  The sun was low when they rose to return to the city. In those two hours, Marcellus had heard the stirring details of a story that had come to him previously in fragments and on occasions when his mind was unprepared to appreciate them.