The Robe

by Lloyd C. Douglas

  ‘Have you seen the Emperor?’ she asked; and when he shook his head absently—as if seeing the Emperor was a matter of small importance—she said, soberly, ‘Somehow I wish you didn’t have to talk with him. You know how eccentric he has been; his curiosity about magic and miracles and stars and spirits—and such things. Lately he has been completely obsessed. His health is failing. He doesn’t want to talk about anything else but metaphysical things.’

  ‘That’s not surprising,’ commented Marcellus, reaching for her hand.

  ‘Sometimes—all day long and far into the night,’ she went on, in that new, deep register that made every word sound confidential, ‘he tortures his poor old head with these matte's, while his queer sages sit in a circle about his bed, delivering long harangues to which he tries to listen—as if it were his duty.’

  ‘Perhaps he is preparing his mind for death,’ surmised Marcellus.

  Diana nodded with cloudy eyes.

  ‘He has been impatient for your return, Marcellus. He seems to think that you may tell him something new. These old men!’ She flung them away with a scornful gesture. ‘They exhaust him; they exasperate him; and they impose upon him—cruelly! That horrible old Dodinius, who reads oracles, is the worst of the lot. Always, at the Feast of the New Moon, he slaughters a sheep, and performs some silly ceremonies, and pretends he has had a revelation. I don’t know how.’

  ‘They count the warts on the sheep’s underpinning, I think,’ recalled Marcellus, ‘and they examine the entrails. If a certain kink in an intestine points east, the answer is “Yes”—and the fee is five hundred sesterces.’

  ‘Well’—Diana dismissed the details with a slim hand—‘however it is accomplished, dirty old Dodinius does it; and they say that he has occasionally made a true prediction. If the weather is going to be stormy, he always knows it before anyone else.’

  ‘Perhaps he feels the change in his creaking hinges,’ suggested Marcellus.

  ‘You’re a confirmed skeptic, Marcellus.’ She gave him a sidelong glance that played at rebuking him. There should be no frivolous comments about these holy men. Dodinius’ best forecast was when he discovered that Annaeus Seneca was still living, next day after the report had come that the old poet was dead. How he divined that, the gods only know; but it was true that Seneca had drifted into a deathlike coma from which he recovered—as you know.’

  ‘You don’t suppose he hired Seneca to play dead,’ ventured Marcellus, with a chuckle.

  ‘My dear—if Annaeus Seneca wanted to connive with somebody, it wouldn’t be an old dolt like Dodinius,’ Diana felt sure. Dropping the badinage, she grew serious. ‘About ten days ago, it was revealed to him—so he insists—that the Emperor is going to live forever. He hasn’t found it easy to convince the Emperor, for there is quite a lot of precedent to overcome; but you will find His Majesty immensely curious about this subject. He wants to believe Dodinius; sends for him, first thing in the morning, to come and tell him again all about the revelation; and Dodinius, the unscrupulous old reptile, reassures him that there can be no doubt of it. Isn't that a dreadful way to torment the Emperor in his last days when he should be allowed to die in peace?’

  Marcellus, with eyes averted, nodded non-committally.

  ‘Sometimes, my dear’—Diana impulsively leaned forward, shaking her head in despair—‘it makes me hot with shame and loathing that I have to live here surrounded by these tiresome men who fatten on frauds! All one ever hears, on this mad island, is a jumble of atrocious nonsense that no healthy person, in his right mind, would give a second thought to! And now—as if the poor old Emperor hadn’t heard enough of such stupid prattle—Dodinius is trying to persuade him to live forever.’

  Marcellus made no comment on that; sat frowningly gazing out on the sea. Presently he stirred, returned, and put his arm about her shoulders.

  ‘I don’t know what you have come to tell the Emperor, Marcellus,’ continued Diana, yielding to his caress, ‘but I do know it will be honest. He will want to know what you think of this crazy notion that Dodinius has put into his head. This may call for some tact.’

  ‘Have you a suggestion?’ asked Marcellus.

  ‘You will know what to say, I think. Tiberius is a wom-out old man. And he certainly doesn’t look very heroic. But there was a time when he was brave and strong. Perhaps—if you remind him—he will be able to remember. He wasn’t afraid to die when he was vigorous and had something to live for.’ Diana lightly traced a pattern on Marcellus’ forearm with her finger-tips. ‘Why should that weary old man want to live forever? One would think he should be glad enough to put his burden down—and leave all these scheming courtiers and half-witted prophets—and find his peace in oblivion.’

  Marcellus bent over her and kissed her lips, and was thrilled by her warm response.

  ‘I love you, dear!’ he declared, passionately.

  ‘Then—take me away from here,’ she whispered. Take me some place where nobody is insane—and nobody talks metaphysical rubbish—and nobody cares about the future—or the past—or anything but just now!’ She hugged him closer to her. ‘Will you, Marcellus? The Emperor wants us to live here. That’s what this horrible villa is about.’ Diana’s voice trembled. ‘I can’t stay here! I can’t! I shall go mad!’ She put her lips close to his ear. ‘Let us try to slip away. Can’t we bribe a boat?’

  ‘No, darling,’ protested Marcellus. ‘I shall take you away, but not as a fugitive. We must bide our time. We don’t want to be exiles.’

  ‘Why not?’ demanded Diana. ‘Let us go some place—far, far away—and have a little house—and a little garden—close by a stream—and live in peace.’

  ‘It is a beautiful picture, dear,’ he consented, `but you would soon be lonely and restless; and besides—I have some important work to do that can’t be done—in a peaceful garden. And then, too—there are our families to consider.’

  Diana relaxed in his arms, earnestly thinking.

  ‘I’ll be patient,’ she promised, ‘but don’t let it be too long. I am not safe here.’

  ‘Not safe!’ exclaimed Marcellus. “What are you afraid of?’

  Before she could reply, they both started—and drew apart—at the sound of footsteps. Glancing toward the villa, Marcellus saw the guard approaching who had directed him to the pergola.

  ‘Tiberius is too feeble and preoccupied to be of any protection to me,’ said Diana, in a low voice. ‘The Empress is having more and more to say about our life here on this dreadful island. Gaius comes frequently to confer with her—’

  ‘Has that swine been annoying you?’ broke in Marcellus.

  ‘I have managed to avoid being alone with him,’ said Diana, “but old Julia is doing her utmost to—’

  The guard had halted, a little distance away.

  ‘Yes—Atreus?’ inquired Diana, turning toward him.

  ‘The Emperor is ready to receive Tribune Marcellus Gallio,' said the guard deferentially.

  ‘Very well,’ nodded Marcellus. ‘I shall come at once.’

  The guard saluted and marched stiffly away.

  ‘When and where do we meet, dear?’ asked Marcellus, rising reluctantly. At dinner, perhaps?’

  ‘Not likely. The Emperor will want to have you all to himself this evening. Send me a message—to my suite at the Jovis—when you are at liberty. If it is not too late, I may join you in the atrium. Otherwise, let us meet here in the pergola, early in the morning.’ Diana held out her hand and Marcellus kissed it tenderly.

  ‘Does this Atreus belong to you?’ he asked.

  Diana shook her head.

  ‘I brought only two maids from home,’ she said. ‘All the others who attend me belong here. Atreus is a member of the guard at the Jovis. He follows me about wherever I go.’

  ‘Is he to be trusted?’ asked Marcellus, anxiously.

  Diana shrugged—and drew a doubtful smile.

  ‘How can one tell who is to be trusted in this hotbed of conspiracy? Atreus is res
pectful and obliging. Whether he would take any risks in my behalf—I don’t know. Whether he is now on his way to tell old Julia that he saw you kiss me—I don’t know. I shouldn’t care to bet much on it—either way.’ Diana rose, and slipped her arm through his. 'Go, now,’ she whispered. ‘The poor old man will be waiting—and he is not patient. Come to me—when you can.’

  Marcellus took her in his arms and kissed her.

  ‘I shall be thinking of nothing else,’ he murmured—‘but you!’

  ***

  The last time Marcellus had seen the Emperor—and that at a considerable distance—was on the opening day of the Ludi Florales, eleven years ago. Indeed, it was the last time that anyone had seen him at a public celebration.

  His recollection was of an austere, graying man, of rugged features and massive frame, who paid but scant attention to the notables surrounding him in the imperial box, and even less to the spectacles in the arena.

  Marcellus had not been surprised at the glum detachment of this dour-faced man; for it was generally known that Tiberius, who had always detested crowds and the extravagance of festivals, was growing alarmingly morose. Elderly men—like Senator Gallio—who could remember the wanton profligacy of Augustus, and had rejoiced in the Tiberian economies which had brought an unprecedented prosperity to Rome, viewed the Emperor’s increasing moodiness with sympathetic regret. The younger generation, not quite so appreciative of the monarch’s solid virtues, had begun to think him a sour and stingy old spoil-sport, and earnestly wished he would die.

  Tiberius had not fully accommodated them in this respect, but he had done the next thing to it; for, not long afterward, he had taken up his residence on Capri, where his subsequent remoteness from the active affairs of government was almost equivalent to an abdication.

  That had been a long time ago; and as Marcellus—in full uniform—sat in the spacious, gloomy atrium, waiting to be summoned into the imperial bedchamber, he prepared his mind for the sight of a very old man. But nobody could prepare himself for an interview with this old man who, on first sight, seemed to have so little of life left in him; but, when stirred, was able to mobilize some surprisingly powerful reserves of mental and physical vigor.

  The Emperor was propped up in his pillows, an indistinct figure, for the sun was setting and the huge room was tull of shadows. Nothing appeared to be alive in the massive bed but the cavernous eyes that had met Marcellus at the door and accompanied him through the room to the straight-backed chair. The face in the pillows was a scaffolding of bulging bones thinly covered with wrinkled parchment. The neck was scrawny and yellow. Under the sparse white hair at Tiberius’ sunken temple a dogged artery beat slow but hard, like the tug of an exhausted oar at the finish of a long race. The bony hand that pointed to the chair—which had been drawn up uncomfortably close to the bedside—resembled the claw of an old eagle.

  ‘Your Majesty!’ murmured Marcellus, bowing deeply.

  ‘Sit down!’ rumbled Tiberius, testily. ‘We hope you have learned something about that haunted Robe!’ He paused to wheeze asthmatically. ‘You have been gone long enough to have found the river Styx—and the Jews’ Garden of Eden! Perhaps you rode home on the Trojan Horse—with the Golden Fleece for a saddle-blanket!’

  The old man turned his head to note the effects of his acidulous drollery, and Marcellus—thinking that the Emperor might want his dry humor appreciated—risked a smile.

  ‘Funny; is it?’ grumped Tiberius.

  ‘Not if Your Majesty is serious,’ replied Marcellus, soberly.

  ‘We are always serious, young man!’ Digging a sharp elbow into his pillow, the Emperor drew himself closer to the edge of the bed. ‘Your father had a long tale about the crucifixion of a mad Galilean in Jerusalem. That fellow Pilate—who forever gets himself into trouble with the Jews—ordered you to crucify this fanatic, and it went to your head.’ The old man licked his dry lips. ‘By the way—how is your head now?’

  ‘Quite well, Your Majesty,’ responded Marcellus, brightly.

  ‘Humph! That’s what every crazy man thinks. The crazier he is, the better he feels.’ Tiberius grinned unpleasantly, as one fool to another, and added, ‘Perhaps you think your Emperor is crazy.’

  ‘Crazy men do not jest, sire,’ parried Marcellus.

  Tiberius screwed up a mouth that looked like the neck of an old, empty coin-purse, and frowningly cogitated on this comforting thought.

  ‘How do you know they don't?’ he demanded. ‘You haven’t seen all of them—and there are no two alike. But’—suddenly irritable—‘why do you waste the Emperor’s time with such prattle? Be on with your story! But wait! It has come to our ears that your Greek slave assaulted the son of old Tuscus with his bare hands. Is this true?’

  ‘Yes—Your Majesty,’ admitted Marcellus, ‘it is true. There was great provocation; but that does not exonerate my slave, and I deeply regret the incident.’

  ‘You’re a liar!’ muttered Tiberius. ‘Now we shall believe nothing you say! But—tell us that story first.’

  The malicious old eyes grew brighter as Marcellus obediently reported the extraordinary episode under the trees at the House of Eupolis, and by the time Quintus had been unrecognizably disfigured by the Greek’s infuriated fists the Emperor was up on one elbow, his face beaming.

  ‘And you still have this slave?’ barked Tiberius. ‘He should have been put to death! What will you take for him?’

  ‘I should not like to sell him, sire; but I shall gladly lend him to Your Majesty—for as long as—’

  ‘Long as we live; eh? rasped the old man. ‘A few weeks; eh? Perhaps we may live longer! Perhaps your Emperor may never die!’ The lean chin jutted forward challengingly. ‘Is that silly?’

  ‘It is possible for a man to live forever,’ declared Marcellus.

  ‘Rubbish!’ grunted Tiberius. ‘What do you know about it?’

  ‘This Galilean, sire,’ said Marcellus, quietly. ‘He will live forever.’

  ‘The man you killed? He will live forever? How do you make that out?’

  ‘The Galilean came to life, sire.’

  ‘Nonsense! You probably bungled the crucifixion. Your father said you were drunk. Did you stay until it was over—or can you remember?’

  Yes—Marcellus had stayed. A Centurion had driven his spear deep into the dead man’s heart—to make doubly sure. There was no question about his death. The third day afterward, he had come to life, and had been seen on many occasions by different groups of people.

  ‘Impossible!’ yelled Tiberius. ‘Where is he now?’

  Marcellus didn’t know. But he did know that this Jesus was alive; had eaten breakfast with friends on a lake-shore in Galilee; had appeared in people’s houses. Tiberius propped himself up on both elbows and stared, his chin working convulsively.

  ‘Leaves footprints when he walks,’ resumed Marcellus. ‘Turns up unexpectedly. Talks, eats, shows his wounds which—for some curious reason—do not heal. Doesn’t bother to open the door when he enters. People have a queer feeling of a presence beside them; they look about, and there he is.’

  Tiberius glanced toward the door and clapped his dry old hands. The Chamberlain slipped in noiselessly and instantly, as if—upon being summoned—he hadn’t had far to come.

  ‘Lights—stupid one!’ shouted the old man, shrilly. He snuggled down, shivered, and drew the covers up over his emaciated shoulder. ‘Proceed,’ he muttered. ‘Doesn’t open the door; eh?’

  ‘Two men are walking along the highway, late afternoon, discussing him,’ went on Marcellus, relentlessly. ‘Presently he falls into step with them. They invite him to supper at an inn, some twelve miles from Jerusalem.’

  ‘Not a ghost, then!’ put in Tiberius.

  ‘Not a ghost; but this time he does not eat. Breaks the bread, murmurs thanks to his God, and disappears. Enters a house in Jerusalem, a few minutes later; finds friends at supper—and eats.’

  ‘Might show up almost anywhere; eh?’ speculated Tib
erius, adding, half to himself, ‘Probably not if the place were well guarded.’ And when Marcellus had let this observation pass without hazarding an opinion, the old man growled, ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think it wouldn’t make any difference,’ ventured Marcellus. ‘He will go where he pleases. He opens the eyes of the blind and the ears of the deaf; heals lepers, paralytics; lunatics. I did not believe any of these things, Your Majesty, until it was impossible not to believe them. He can do anything!’

  ‘Why, then, did he let them put him to death?’ demanded Tiberius.

  ‘Your Majesty, well versed in the various religions, will remember that among the Jews it is customary to make a blood offering for crimes. It is believed that the Galilean offered himself as an atonement gift.’

  ‘What crimes had he committed?’ asked Tiberius.

  ‘None, sirel He was atoning for the sins of the world.’

  ‘Humph! That’s an ingenious idea.’ Tiberius pondered it gravely, his eyes on the ceiling. ‘All the sins; everybody’s sins! And, having attended to that, he comes alive again, and goes about. Well—if he can make atonement for the sins of the whole world, it’s presumable that he knows what they are and who has committed them. Cosmic person; eh? Knows all about the whole world; eh? Are you fool enough to believe all that?’

  ‘I believe—Your Majesty’—Marcellus was proceeding carefully, spacing his words—‘that this Jesus—can do whatever he wills to do—whenever—wherever—and to whomever he pleases.’

  ‘Including the Emperor of Rome?’ Tiberius’ tone recommended prudence.

  ‘It is conceivable, sire, that Jesus might visit the Emperor, at any time; but, if he did, it would surely be in kindness. Your Majesty might be greatly comforted.’

  There was a long, thoughtful moment before Tiberius wanted more information about the strange appearances and disappearances. ‘Quite absurd—making himself visible or invisible—at will. What became of him, while invisible? Did he—did he blot himself out?’