The Robe

by Lloyd C. Douglas

  They had found a strange kinship in their remorse, but Peter—fired by his inspiring recollections of the Master-man—had declared it was the future that must concern them now. He had daring plans for his own activities. He was going to Caesarea—to Joppa—perhaps to Rome!

  ‘And what will you do, Marcellus?’ he asked, in a tone of challenge.

  ‘I am going home, sir.’

  ‘To make your report to the Emperor?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Peter laid his big hand heavily on Marcellus’ knee and earnestly studied his eyes.

  ‘How much are you going to tell him—about Jesus?’ he demanded.

  ‘I am going to tell the Emperor that Jesus, whom we thought dead, is alive—and that he is here to establish a new kingdom.’

  ‘It will take courage to do that, my young brother! The Emperor will not like to hear that a new kingdom is coming. You may be punished for your boldness.’

  ‘Be that as it may,’ said Marcellus, ‘I shall have told him the truth.’

  ‘He will ask you how you know that Jesus lives. What will you say?’

  ‘I shall tell him of the death of Stephanos—and the vision that he had. I am convinced that he saw Jesus!’

  ‘Emperor Tiberius will want better proof than that.’

  Marcellus was silently thoughtful. It was true, as Peter had said, such testimony would have very little weight with anyone disinclined to believe. Tiberius would scoff at such evidence, as who would not? Senator Gallio would say, You saw a dying man looking at Jesus. How do you know that is what he saw? Is this your best ground of belief that your Galilean is alive? You say he worked miracles: but you, personally, didn’t see any.’

  ‘Come,’ said Peter, getting to his feet. ‘Let us go back to the city.’

  They strode along with very little to say, each immersed in his thoughts. Presently they were in the thick of city traffic. Peter had said he was going back to John Mark’s house. Marcellus would return to the inn. Now they were passing the Temple. The sun was setting and the marble steps—throughout the day swarming with beggars—were almost deserted.

  One pitiful cripple, his limbs twisted and shrunken, sat dejectedly on the lowest step, waggling his basin and hoarsely croaking for alms. Peter slowed to a stop. Marcellus had moved on, a little way, but drifted back when he observed that Peter and the beggar were talking.

  ‘How long have you been this way, friend?’ Peter was saying.

  ‘Since my birth, sir,’ whined the beggar. ‘For God’s sake—an alms!’

  ‘I have no money,’ confessed Peter; then, impulsively, he went on—“but such as I have I give you!’ Stretching out both hands to the bewildered cripple, he commanded, in the name of Jesus—stand up—and walk!’ Grasping his thin arms, he tugged the beggar to his feet—and he stood! Amazed—and with pathetic little whimpers—half-laughing, half-crying, he slipped his sandals along the pavement; short, uncertain, experimental steps—but he was walking. Now he was shouting!

  A crowd began to gather. Men of the neighborhood who recognized the beggar were pushing in to ask excited questions. Peter took Marcellus by the arm and they moved on, walking for some distance in silence. At length Marcellus found his voice, but it was shaky.

  ‘Peter! How did you do that?’

  ‘By the power of Jesus' spirit.’

  ‘But—the thing’s impossible! The fellow was born crippled! He had never taken a step in his life!’

  ‘Well—he will walk now,’ said Peter, solemnly.

  ‘Tell me, Peter!’ entreated Marcellus. ‘Did you know you had this power? Have you ever done anything like this before?’

  ‘No—not like this,’ said Peter. ‘I am more and more conscious of his presence. He dwells in me. This power—it is not mine, Marcellus. It is his spirit.’

  ‘Perhaps he will not appear again—except in men’s hearts,’ said Marcellus.

  ‘Yes!’ declared Peter. ‘He will dwell in men’s hearts—and give them the power of his spirit But—that is not all! He will come again!’

  Chapter XX

  IT WAS common knowledge that Rome had the noisiest nights of any city in the world, but one needed a quiet year abroad to appreciate this fully.

  Except for the two celebrated avenues intersecting at the Forum—the Via Sacra and the Via Nova—which were grandly laid with smooth block of Numidian marble, all of the principal thoroughfares were paved with cobblestones ranging in size from plums to pomegranates.

  To relieve the congestion in these cramped, crooked streets and their still narrower tributaries, an ordinance—a century old—prohibited the movement of market-carts, delivery wagons, or any other vehicular traffic from sunrise to sunset, except imperial equipages and officially sanctioned parades on festal occasions.

  Throughout the daylight hours, the business streets were gorged with milling crowds on foot, into which the more privileged ruthlessly rode their horses or were borne on litters and portable chairs; but when twilight fell, the harsh rasp and clatter of heavy iron wheels grinding the cobblestones set up a nerve-racking cacophony accompanied by the agonized squawk of dry axles, the cracking of whips, and the shrill quarrels of contenders for the right of way; nor did this maddening racket cease until another day had dawned. This was every night, the whole year round.

  But the time to see and hear Rome at her utmost was during the full of a summer moon when much building construction was in progress, and everybody who had anything to haul took advantage of the light. Unable to sleep, thousands turned out in the middle of the hideous night to add their jostling and clamor to the other jams and confusions. Shopkeepers opened up to serve the meandering insomniacs with sweets and beverages. Hawkers barked their catch-penny wares; minstrels twanged their lyres and banged their drums; bulging camel-trains doggedly plodded through the protesting throng, trampling toes and tearing tunics; great wagons loaded with lumber and hewn stone plowed up the multitude, pitching the furrows against the walls and into open doorways. All nights in Rome were dreadful, and the more beautiful nights were dangerous.

  Long before their galley from Ostia had rounded the bend that brought the city into full view on that bright June midnight of their homecoming, Marcellus heard the infernal din as he had never heard it before; heard it as no one could hear it without the preparation of a month’s sailing on a placid summer sea.

  The noise had a new significance. It symbolized the confounded outcry of a competitive world that had always done everything the hard way, the mean way, and had very little to show for its sweat and passion. It knew no peace, had never known peace, and apparently didn’t want any peace.

  Expertly the galley slipped into its snug berth to be met by a swarm of yelling porters. Demetrius, one of the first passengers over the rail, returned in a moment with a half-dozen swarthy Thracians who made off with their abundant luggage. Engaging another port-wagon for themselves, the travelers were soon swallowed up in a bedlam of tangled traffic through which they inched along until Marcellus, weary of the delay, suggested that they pay off the driver and continue on foot.

  He had forgotten how insufferably rude and cruel the public could be. Massed into a solid pack, it had no intelligence. It had no capacity to understand how, if everyone calmly took his turn, some progress might be made. Even the wild animals around a water-hole in the jungle had more sense than this surly, selfish shoving mob.

  Marcellus’ own words, spoken with such bland assurance to the cynical Paulus, flashed across his mind and mocked him. The kingdom of good will, he had declared, would not come into being at the top of society. It would not be handed down from a throne. It would begin with the common people. Well—here were your common people! Climb up on a cart, Marcellus, and tell the common people about good will. Admonish them to love one another, aid one another, defer to one another; and so fulfill the law of Christ. But—look out!—or they will pelt you with filth from the gutters; for the common people are in no mood to be trifled with.

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  The reunion of the Gallio family, an hour later, was one of the happiest experiences of their lives. When Marcellus had left home a year ago, shaky, emaciated, and mentally upset, the three who remained mourned for him almost as if he were dead. True, there had been occasional brief letters assuring them that he was well, but there was a conspicuous absence of details concerning his experiences and only vague intimations of a desire to come home. Between the lines they read, with forebodings, that Marcellus was still in a state of mental upheaval. He had seemed very far away, not only in miles but in mind. The last letter they had received from him, a month ago, had said, in closing, ‘I am trailing an elusive mystery for the Emperor. Mysteries are his recreation. This one may turn out to be something more serious than a mere pastime.’ The Senator had sighed and shaken his head as he slowly rolled up the scroll.

  But now Marcellus had come back as physically fit as a gladiator, mentally alert, free of his despondency, in possession of his natural zest and enthusiasm.

  And something else had been added, something not easy to define, a curious radiance of personality. There was a new strength in Marcellus, a contagious energy that vitalized the house. It was in his voice, in his eyes, in his hands. His family did not at first ask him what this new thing was, nor did they let him know that it was noticeable; neither did they discuss it immediately with one another. But Marcellus had acquired something that gave him distinction.

  The Senator had been working late in his library. He had finished his task, had put away his writing materials, and had risen from his desk-chair when he heard confident footsteps.

  Leaving Demetrius in the driveway to await the arrival of their luggage, Marcellus—joyfully recognized by the two old slaves on guard at the front door—had walked swiftly through to the spacious atrium. His father’s door was partly open. Bursting in on him unceremoniously, he threw his arms around him and hugged him breathless. Although the Senator was tall and remarkably virile for his years, the Tribune’s overwhelming vitality completely engulfed him.

  ‘My sonl My sonl’ Gallio quavered, fervently. You are well again! Strong again! Alive again! The gods be praised!’

  Marcellus pressed his cheek against his father’s and patted him on the back.

  ‘Yes, sir!’ he exclaimed. ‘More alive than ever! And you, sir, grow more handsome every day! How proud I am to be your son!’

  Lucia, in her room, suddenly stirred in her sleep, sat up wide-awake, listened, tossed aside the silk covers, listened again with an open mouth and a pounding heart.

  ‘Oh!’ she called. ‘Tertia! My robe! Tertia! Wake up! Hurry! My sandals! Marcellus is here!’ Racing down to the library, she threw herself into her brother’s arms, and when he had lifted her off her feet and kissed her, she cried, ‘Dear Marcellus—you are well!’

  ‘And you—my sweet—are beautiful! You have grown up; haven’t you?’ He lightly touched her high coronet of glossy black hair with caressing fingers. 'Lovely!’

  The Senator put his arms around both of them, to their happy surprise, for it was not his custom to be demonstrative with his affection.

  ‘Come,’ he said gently. ‘Let us go to your mother.’

  ‘It is very late,’ said Marcellus. ‘Should we waken her?’

  ‘Of course!’ insisted Lucia.

  They crowded through the doorway, arm in arm. In the dimly lit atrium, a little group of the older servants had assembled, tousled and sleepy, their anxious eyes wondering what to expect of the son and heir who, on his last visit home, had been in such a distressing state of mind.

  ‘Ho!—Marcipor!’ shouted Marcellus, grasping the outstretched hand. ‘Hi!—Decimus!’ It wasn’t often that the stiff and taciturn butler unbent, but he beamed with smiles as he thrust out his hand. ‘How are you, Tertia!’ called Marcellus to the tall, graceful girl descending the stairs. They all drew in closer. Old Servius was patted on the shoulder, and the wrinkled, toothless mouth chopped tremulously while the tears ran unchecked.

  ‘Welcome! Welcome!’ the old man shrilled. The gods bless you, sir!’

  ‘Ah—Lentius!’ hailed Marcellus. ‘How are my horses?’ And when Lentius had made bold to reply that Ishtar had a filly, three months old—which made them all laugh merrily as if this were a good joke on somebody—Marcellus sent them into another gale of laughter by demanding, ‘Bring in the filly, Lentius! I must see her at once!’

  There were more than a score of slaves gathered in the atrium now, all of them full of happy excitement. There had never been such an utter collapse of discipline in the Gallio household. Long-time servants, accustomed to moving about soberly and on tiptoe, heard themselves laughing hilariously—laughing here in the atrium!—laughing in the presence of the Senator! And the Senator was smiling, too!

  Marcellus was brightening their eyes with his ready recognition, calling most of them by name. A pair of pretty Macedonian twins arrived, hand in hand, dressed exactly alike; practically indistinguishable. He remembered having had a glimpse of them, two years ago, but had forgotten their names. He looked their way, and so did everyone else, to their considerable embarrassment.

  ‘Are you girls sisters?’ he inquired.

  This was by far the merriest thing that anyone had said, and the atrium resounded with full-throated appreciation.

  ‘Decimus!’ shouted the Senator, and the laughter ceased. ‘You will serve supper! In an hour! In the banquet-room! With the gold service! Marciporl—let all the lamps be lighted! Throughout the villa! And the gardens!’

  Marcellus brushed through the scattering crowd and bounded up the stairs. Cornelia met him in the corridor, outside her door, and he gathered her hungrily into his arms. They had no adequate words for each other; just stood there, clinging together, Cornelia smoothing his close-cropped hair with her soft palm and sobbing like a child, while the Senator, with misty eyes, waited a little way apart, fumbling with the silk tassels on his broad sash.

  Her intuition suggesting that Marcellus and their emotional mother might need a quiet moment alone together, Lucia had tarried at the foot of the staircase for a word with Decimus about the supper. All the other servants had scurried away to their duties, their very sandal-straps confiding in excited whispers that this was a happy night and a good place to be.

  ‘Not too much food, Decimus,’ Lucia was saying. ‘Some fresh fruit and cold meats and wine—and a nut-cake if there is one. But don’t cook anything. It is late, and the Senator will be tired and sleepy before you have time to prepare an elaborate dinner. Serve it in the big dining-room, as he said, and use the gold plate. And tell Rhesus to cut an armful of roses—red ones. And let the twins serve my brother. And—’

  With suddenly widened eyes, she sighted Demetrius—tall, tanned, serious, and handsome—entering the atrium. Dismissing the butler with a brief nod, Lucia held her arm high and waved a welcome, her flowing sleeve baring a shapely elbow. Decimus, keenly observant, scowled his displeasure and stalked stiffly away.

  Advancing with long strides, Demetrius came to a military halt before her, bowed deferentially, and was slowly bringing up his spear-shaft to his forehead in the conventional salute when Lucia stepped forward impulsively, laying both hands on his bronzed arms.

  ‘All thanks, good Demetrius,’ she said, softly. “You have brought Marcellus home—well and strong as ever. Better than ever!’

  ‘No thanks are due me for that,' he rejoined. ‘The Tribune needed no one to bring him home. He is fully master of himself now.’ Demetrius raised his eyes and regarded her with frank admiration. ‘May I tell the Tribune’s sister how very—how very well she is looking?’

  “Why not—if you think so?’ Lucia, toying with her amber beads, gave him a smile that meant to be non-committal. ‘There is no need asking you how you are, Demetrius. Have you and the Tribune had some exciting experiences?’ Her eyes were wincingly exploring a long, new scar on his upper arm. He glanced down at it with a droll grin. ‘How did you get that awful cut?’ she
asked, squeamishly.

  ‘I met a Syrian,’ said Demetrius. They are not a very polite people.’

  ‘I hope you taught him some of the gentle manners of the Greeks,’ drawled Lucia. Tell me—did you kill him?’

  ‘You can’t kill a Syrian,’ said Demetrius, lightly. ‘They die only of old age.’

  Lucia’s little shrug said they had had enough of this banter and her face slowly sobered to a thoughtful frown.

  ‘What has happened to my brother?’ she asked. ‘He seems in such extraordinarily high spirits.’

  ‘He may want to tell you—if you give him time.’

  ‘You’re different, too, Demetrius.’

  ‘For the better, I hope,’ he parried.

  ‘Something has expanded you both,’ declared Lucia. ‘What is it? Has Marcellus been elevated to a more responsible command?’

  Demetrius nodded enthusiastically.

  ‘Will his new assignment take him into danger?’ she asked, suddenly apprehensive.

  ‘Oh, yes, indeed!’ he answered, proudly.

  ‘He doesn’t appear to be worrying much about it. I never saw him so happy. He has already turned the whole villa upside-down with his gaiety.’

  ‘I know. I heard them.’ Demetrius grinned.

  ‘I hope it won’t spoil them,’ she said, with dignity. ‘They aren’t used to taking such liberties; though perhaps it will not hurt—to have it happen—this once.’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ said Demetrius, dryly. ‘It may not hurt them—to be really happy—this once.’

  Lucia raised her brows.

  ‘I am afraid you don’t understand,’ she remarked, coolly.

  ‘I’m afraid I do,’ he sighed. ‘Had you forgotten that I too am a slave?’

  ‘No.’ She gave a little toss of her head. ‘But I think you have.’

  ‘I did not mean to be impudent,’ he said, contritely. ‘But what we are talking about is very serious, you know; discipline, slavery, mastery, human relations—and who has a right to tell others when they may be happy.’