The Robe

by Lloyd C. Douglas

  Lucia searched his face with a frown.

  ‘Well—I hope my brother’s genial attitude towards our servants is not going to make us lose our control of this house!’ she snapped, indignantly.

  ‘It need not,’ said Demetrius. ‘He believes in a little different kind of control; that is all. It is much more effective, I think, than controlling by sharp commands. More pleasant for everybody; and, besides, you get better service.’

  Marcellus was calling to her from the head of the stairs.

  ‘I am sorry I spoke impatiently, Demetrius,’ she said, as she moved away. ‘We are so glad you are home again.’

  He met her level eyes and they smiled. He raised his spear-shaft to salute. She pursed her lips, shook her head, and made a negligent gesture.

  ‘Never mind the salute,’ she said—‘this once.’

  Marcipor, who had been lingering impatiently in the alcove, waiting for this conversation to end, came forward as Lucia disappeared up the stairway. He fell into step with Demetrius and they strolled out through the peristyle into the moonlight.

  ‘It is amazing—how he has recovered!’ said Marcipor. ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘I shall tell you fully when there is an opportunity; later tonight, if possible. Marcellus has become an ardent believer. He toured through Galilee—’

  ‘And you?’ asked Marcipor. ‘Were you not with him?’

  ‘Only part of the time. I spent many weeks in Jerusalem. I have much to tell you about that. Marcipor—the Galilean is alive!’

  ‘Yes—we have heard that.’

  ‘“We"?—and who are “we”?’ Demetrius took hold of Marcipor’s arm and drew him to a sudden halt.

  ‘The Christians in Rome,’ replied Marcipor, smiling at his friend’s astonishment.

  ‘Has it then come to Rome—so soon?’

  ‘Many months ago—brought by merchants from Antioch.’

  ‘And how did you find out?’

  ‘It was being whispered about in the markets. Decimus, who is forever deriding the Greeks, was pleased to inform me that certain superstitious traders from Antioch had brought the report of a Jewish carpenter who had risen from the dead. Remembering what you had told me about this man, I was devoured with curiosity to hear more of it.’

  ‘And you found the men from Antioch?’ encouraged Demetrius.

  ‘The next day. They were quite free to talk, and their story sounded convincing. They had had it from an eye-witness of many astounding miraclcs—one Philip. Seeking to confirm it, several of them went to Jerusalem where they talked with other men who had seen this Jesus after his death—men whose word they trusted. All that—added to what you had reported—gave me cause to believe.’

  ‘So—you are a Christian!’ Demetrius’ eyes shone. You must tell the Tribune. He will be delighted!’

  Marcipor’s face grew suddenly grave.

  ‘Not yet—Demetrius. My course is not clear. Decimus made it his business to inform the Senator of this new movement, describing it as a revolution against lawful authority.’

  ‘Has the Senator done anything about it?’

  ‘Not that I know of, but is it not natural that his feeling toward the Christians should be far from complacent? He associates all this with his son’s misfortunes. Now—if Marcellus is told that we have a large body of believers here in Rome, he might impetuously throw himself into it. That would be dangerous. The Christians are keeping under cover. Already the patrols are beginning to make inquiries about their secret meetings. We must not cause a breach between Marcellus and his father.’

  ‘Very well, Marcipor,’ agreed Demetrius. ‘We will not tell the Tribune, but he will find it out; you may be sure of that. And as for estrangement, it is inevitable. Marcellus will not give up his belief, and it is quite unlikely that the Senator could be persuaded of its truth. Old men do not readily change their opinions. However—this new cause cannot wait, Marcipor, until all the opinionated old men have approved of it. This story of Jesus is our only hope that freedom and justice may come. And if it is to come—at all—it must begin now!’

  ‘I believe that,’ said Marcipor—‘but still—I shouldn’t like to see Marcellus offend his father. The Senator is not going to live long.’

  ‘There was just such a case reported to Jesus,’ said Demetrius. ‘I had this from a Galilean who heard the conversation. A young man, very much impressed that it was his duty to come out openly for this new way of life, said to Jesus, “My father is an old man, sir, with old views. This new'religion is an offense to him. Let me first bury my father, and then I shall come—and follow.” ’

  ‘That sounds reasonable,’ put in Marcipor, who was sixty-seven.

  ‘Jesus didn’t think so,’ went on Demetrius, it was high time for a drastic change in men’s belief and behavior. The new message couldn’t wait for the departure of old men with old views. Indeed, these old men were already dead. Let them be buried by other dead ones.’

  ‘Did he say that?’ queried Marcipor.

  ‘Well—something like that.’

  ‘Sounds rather rough—to me—coming from so gentle a person.’

  Demetrius slipped his hand affectionately through the older Corinthian’s arm.

  ‘Marcipor—let us not make the mistake of thinking that, because this message of Jesus concerns peace and good will, it is a soft and timid thing that will wait on every man’s convenience, and scurry off the road, to hide in the bushes, until all other things go by! The people who carry this torch are going to get into plenty of trouble. They are already being whipped and imprisoned! Many have been slain!’

  ‘I know, I know,’ murmured Marcipor. ‘One of the traders from Antioch told me of seeing a young Greek stoned to death by a mob in Jerusalem. Stephanos was his name. Did you—by any chance—know him?’

  ‘Stephanos,’ said Demetrius, sadly, ‘was my closest friend.’

  ***

  Marcellus had not finished his breakfast when Marcipor came in to say that Senator Gallio was in his library and would be pleased to have a talk with the Tribune at his early convenience.

  ‘You may tell the Senator that I shall be down in a few minutes,’ said Marcellus.

  He would have preferred to postpone, for a few days, this serious interview with his father. It would be very difficult for the Senator to listen to his strange story with patience or respect. For some moments Marcellus sat staring out the open window, while he absently peeled an orange that he didn’t intend to eat, and tried to decide how best to present the case of Jesus the Galilean; for, in this instance, he would be more than an advocate. Marcellus would be on trial, too.

  Marcus Lucan Gallio was not a contentious man. His renown as a debater in the Senate had been earned by diplomacy; by his knowing when and how much to concede, where and whom to appease, and the fine art of conciliation. He never doggedly pursued an argument for vanity’s sake. But he was proud of his mental morality.

  If, for example, he became firmly convinced that at all times and everywhere water seeks a level, there would be no use in coming to him with the tale that on a certain day, in a certain country, at the behest of a certain man, water was observed to run uphill. He had no time for reports of events which disregarded natural laws. As for ‘miracles,’ the very word was offensive. He had no tolerance for such stories and not much more tolerance for persons who believed in them. And because, in his opinion, all religions were built on faith in supernatural beings and supernatural doings, the Senator was not only contemptuous of religion, but admitted a candid distaste for religious people. Anybody who went in for such beliefs was either ignorant or unscrupulous. If a man, who had any sense at all, became a religious propagandist, he needed watching; for, obviously, he meant to take advantage of the feebleminded who would trust him because of his piety. Some people—according to Senator Gallio—seemed to think that a pious man was inevitably honest, whereas the facts would show that piety and integrity were categorically irrelevant. It was quite prope
r for old Servius to importune his gods. One could even forgive old Tiberius for his consuming interest in religion, seeing that he was out of his head. But there was no excuse for such nonsense in a healthy, educated man.

  Marcellus had been treated with deep sympathy when he had come home a year ago. He had suffered a great shock and his mind was temporarily unbalanced. He couldn’t have said anything too preposterous for his father’s patience. But now he was sound in body and mind. He would tell the Senator this morning an amazing story of a man who had healed all manner of diseases; a man who, having been put to death on a cross, rose from his grave to be seen of many witnesses. And this would undoubtedly make the Senator very angry—and disgusted. ‘Bah!’ he would shout. ‘Nonsense!’

  ***

  This forecast of his father’s probable attitude had been appallingly accurate. It turned out to be a very unhappy interview. From almost the first moment, Marcellus sensed strong opposition. He had decided to begin his narrative with Jesus’ unjust trials and crucifixion, hoping thus to enlist the Senator’s sympathy for the persecuted Galilean, but he was not permitted to build up his case from that point.

  ‘I have heard all that, my son,’ said Gallio, crisply. ‘You need not review it. Tell me of the journey you made into the country where this man lived.’

  So—Marcellus had told of his your with Justus; of little Jonathan, whose crippled foot had been made strong; of Miriam, who had been given a voice; of Lydia, who had found healing by a touch of his Robe; of old Nathanael Bartholomew, and the storm at sea—while his father gazed steadily at him from under shaggy frowning brows, offering no comments and asking no questions.

  At length he had arrived at the phase of the story where he must talk of Jesus’ return to life. With dramatic earnestness he repeated everything that they had told him of these reappearances, while the lines about the Senator’s mouth deepened into a scowl.

  ‘It all sounds incredible, sir,’ he conceded, ‘but I am convinced that it is true.’ For a moment, he debated the advisability of telling his father about the miracle he had seen with his own eyes—Peter’s healing of the cripple. But no—that would be too much. His father would tell him he had been imposed upon by these miracle stories reported to him by other men. But there would be nothing left for the Senator to say except you lie!’ if he told him that he himself had seen one of these wonders wrought.

  ‘On the testimony of a few superstitious fishermen!’ growled Gallio, derisively.

  ‘It was not easy for me to accept, sir,’ admitted Marcellus, ‘and I am not trying to persuade you of it. You asked me to tell you what I had learned about Jesus, and I have told you truly. It is my belief that this Galilean is still alive. I think he is an eternal person, a divine person with powers that no king or emperor has ever possessed, and I further believe that he will eventually rule the world!’

  Gallio chuckled bitterly.

  ‘Had you thought of telling Tiberius that this Jesus intends to rule the world?’

  ‘I may not need to say that to Tiberius. I shall tell him that Jesus, who was put to death, is alive again. The Emperor can draw his own conclusions.’

  ‘You had better be careful what you say to that crazy old man,’ warned Gallio. ‘He is insane enough to believe you, and this will not be pleasant news. Don’t you know he is quite capable of having you punished for bringing him a tale like that?’

  ‘He can do no more than kill me,’ said Marcellus, quietly.

  ‘Perhaps not,’ drawled Gallio; ‘but even so light a punishment as death—for an aspiring young man—might be quite an inconvenience.’

  Marcellus humored his father’s grim jest with a smile.

  ‘In sober truth, sir, I do not fear death. There is a life to come.’

  ‘Well—that is an ancient hope, my son,’ conceded Gallio, with a vague gesture. ‘Men have been scrawling that on their tombs for three thousand years. The only trouble with that dream is that it lacks proof. Nobody has ever signaled us from out there. Nobody has ever come back to report.’

  ‘Jesus did!’ declared Marcellus.

  Gallio sighed deeply and shook his head. After a moody silence, he pushed back his chair and walked slowly around the big desk, as Marcellus rose to meet his approach.

  ‘My son,’ he said, entreatingly, laying his hands on the broad shoulders, ‘go to the Emperor and tell him what you have learned of this Galilean prophet. Quote Jesus’ words of wisdom. They are sensible and should do Tiberius much good if he would heed them. Tell him—if you must—about the feats of magic. The old man will believe them, and the more improbable they are the better they—and you—will please him. That, in my opinion, should be sufficient.’

  ‘Nothing about Jesus’ return to life?’ inquired Marcellus, respectfully.

  ‘Why should you?’ demanded Gallio. ‘Take a common-sense view of your predicament. Through no fault of yours, you have had an unusual experience, and are now obliged to report on it to the Emperor. He has been mad for a dozen years or more and everybody in Rome knows it. He has surrounded himself with scores of scattcr-brained philosophers, astrologers, soothsayers, and diviners of oracles. Some of them are downright impostors and the rest of them are mentally unhinged. If you tell Tiberius what you have told me, you will be just one more monkey added to his menagerie.’

  It was strong medicine, but Marcellus grinned; and his father, feeling that his argument was gaining ground, went on, pleadingly.

  ‘You have a bright future before you, my son, if you will it so; but not if you pursue this course. I wonder if you realize what a tragedy may be in the making for you—for all of us! It will be a bitter experience for your mother, and your sister, and your father, to know that our friends are telling one another you have lost your mind; that you are one of the Emperor’s wise fools. And what will Diana say?’ he continued, earnestly. ‘That beautiful creature is in love with you! Don’t you care?’

  ‘I do care, sir!' exclaimed Marcellus. ‘And I realize that she may be sadly disappointed in me, but I have no alternative. I have put my hand to this plow—and I am not turning back!’

  Gallio retreated a step and lounged against his desk, with a sly smile.

  ‘Wait until you see her before you decide to give her up.’

  ‘I am indeed anxious to see her, sir.’

  ‘Will you try to meet her, down there, before you talk to Tiberius?’

  ‘If possible, yes sir.’

  ‘You have made your arrangements for the voyage?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Demetrius has seen to it. We leave this evening. Galley to Ostia. To Capri on The Cleo.’

  ‘Very good,’ approved Gallio, much encouraged. He slapped Marcellus on the back. ‘Let us take a walk in the gardens. And you haven’t been to the stables yet.’

  ‘A moment, please, sir—before we go.’ Marcellus’ face was serious. ‘I know you have a feeling that everything is settled now, according to your wish, and I would be happy to follow your counsel if I were free to do so.’

  ‘Free?’ Gallio stared into his son’s eyes. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I feel obliged, sir, to tell the Emperor of Jesus’ return to life.’

  ‘Well, well, then,’ consented Gallio, brusquely, ‘if you must talk about that, let it be as a local rumor among the country people. You don’t have to tell Tiberius that you believe it! If you want to say that a few fishermen thought they saw him, that should discharge your obligation. You have no personal knowledge of it. You didn’t see him!’

  ‘But I saw a man who did see him, sir!’ declared Marcellus. I saw this man looking at him!’

  ‘And that constitutes proof—in your opinion?' scoffed Gallio.

  ‘In this instance—yes, sir! I saw a Greek stoned for his Christian belief. He was a brave man, ready to risk his life for his faith. I knew him, and trusted him. When everyone thought him dead, he raised up, smiled, and shouted, “I see him!” And—I know that he saw him!’

  ‘But you don’t have to te
ll that to Tiberius!’ said Gallio, testily.

  ‘Yes, sir! Having heard and seen that, I should be a coward if I did not testify to it! For I, too, am a Christian, sir! I cannot do otherwise!’

  Gallio made no reply. With bent head, he turned away slowly and left the room, without a backward glance.

  Lamenting his father’s disappointment, Marcellus sauntered out to the pergola, feeling sure that Lucia would be waiting for him. She saw him coming and ran to meet him. Linking their arms, she tugged him along gaily toward their favorite rendezvous.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ she insisted, shaking his arm. ‘Have a row with the Senator?’

  ‘I hurt his feelings,’ muttered Marcellus.

  ‘I hope you weren’t talking to him about that awful business up there in Jerusalem that made you sick!’

  ‘No, dear; but I was telling him about that man—and I would be glad to tell you, too.’

  ‘Thanks, my little brother!’ chaffed Lucia. ‘I don’t want to hear a word of it! High time you forgot all about it!...Here, Bambo!...Make a fuss over him, Marcellus. He hardly knows you.’ Her lips pouted. ‘Neither do I,’ she murmured. ‘Aren’t you ever going to be happy any more? Last night we all thought you were well again. I was so glad I lay awake for hours, hugging myself for joy! Now you’re blue and moody.’ Big tears stood in her eyes. ‘Please, Marcellus!’

  ‘Sorry, sister.’ He put his arm around her. ‘Let us go look at the roses....Here, Bambo!’

  Bambo strolled up and consented to have his head patted.

  ***

  The Emperor had not been well for many weeks. Early in April, while rashly demonstrating how tough he was, the old man had ambled down to the uncompleted villa on the easternmost end of the mall in a drenching rain and had taken a severe cold, the effects of which had depleted his not too abundant vitality.

  In normal circumstances Tiberius, customarily careful of his health, would have taken no such risk; or, having taken it, would have gone at once to bed, fuming and snorting, to be packed in hot fomentations and doctored with everything that the court physicians could devise.