‘Then—perhaps there is no reason why I should talk to him,’ said Diana, hopelessly, it would only hurt us both.’
‘Oh—it’s worth a trial. We pledged him not to talk with you until he had come to a decision, but we shall send him word that he is released from his promise. Perhaps you can help him decide.’
Diana rose and moved toward the door.
‘Better not confront him with our threat to give you to Gaius,’ called the old man. You are not supposed to know that.’
***
They sat close together on the marble lectus in the sequestered pergola, silently gazing out upon a calm summer sea. It lacked less than a half-hour of noon now and Marcellus would have to be going; for he had an urgent appointment with an old man, and old men—whatever their faults—had a high regard for punctuality.
Everything, it seemed, had been said. Diana, emotionally exhausted, leaned her head against Marcellus’ shoulder. Sometimes an involuntary sob tore into her breathing, and his arm would tighten about her protectingly.
When they had met here, three hours ago, Diana thought she had reason to hope that their love would solve the problem. Marcellus, strong but tender, had disclosed a depth of passion that had shaken them both. Nothing could tear them apart now; nothing! Diana was ecstatic. There could be no trouble for them now. So long as they had each other, let the world do what it liked. Let the Empire stand or fall! Let this Jesus go about forever doing good and ruling men by good will, or let him fail of it, and the world go on fighting and starving as it had always been fighting and starving: they had each other, and nothing could separate them! She hungrily raised her face to meet his kisses. He felt her heart pounding. They were one!
‘Come, now,’ Diana had whispered, breathlessly, let us sit down—and make some plans.’
They sat, very close together, and very much aware of each other, until Diana drew a little apart and shook her head. Her eyes were radiant, but her lips were trying to be resolute.
‘Please—Marcellus!’ she murmured, unsteadily. ‘Talk to me! Let us decide what we will say to the Emperor. He wants me to be happy, and he knows I love you. Why not ask him to give you something to do in Rome?’
‘But he expects you to live here,’ Marcellus reminded her.
‘Perhaps we can talk him out of that,’ hoped Diana. ‘My villa is not finished. Ill as he is, Tiberius knows he cannot supervise it. I think it worries him. He may be glad enough to have done with it. Let us tell him we want to go back to Rome—at least for a while—and visit our people—and be married. Maybe he will consent.’
‘He might,’ agreed Marcellus, from a considerable distance. ‘There’s no telling what the Emperor will think—about anything.’
‘And then’—went on Diana, with girlish enthusiasm—‘you could do all the things you liked to do, and renew your old friendships—and go to the Tribunes’ Club—’
Marcellus frowned.
‘Well—what’s the matter with the Tribunes’ Club?’ demanded Diana. You used to spend half your time there—in the gymnasium and the baths.’ Marcellus leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and stared moodily at his interlaced fingers.
‘That was before I knew what it had cost to erect that marble club-house,’ he said, soberly.
‘Oh, my dear—why can’t you leave off fretting over things you can’t help?’ implored Diana. ‘It distresses you that the marble was quarried by slaves. Well—and so was this marble we’re sitting on—and the marble that went into your villa at home. Let’s agree it’s too bad that some people are slaves; but—what are you going to do about it—all by yourself?’
Marcellus sighed deeply and shook his head. Then, suddenly straightening, he faced her with a surprisingly altered mood, his eyes alight.
‘Diana—I am bursting to tell you a story—about a man—about a remarkable man!’
‘If he’s the man I think you mean’—Diana’s face had lost its animation—i’d really rather you didn’t. He has caused you so much unhappiness, and I think it is time you put him out of your mind. I don’t believe he has been good for you.’
‘Very well,’ consented Marcellus, the smile fading from his eyes. ‘As you like.’ He fell silent.
Impetuously, Diana moved closer to him, repentant.
‘I shouldn’t have said that,’ she whispered. ‘Tell me about him.’
Marcellus was well prepared for this opportunity. He had given much thought to what he would say when the time came for him to tell Diana about Jesus. It would not be easy to make her understand. All of her instincts would be in revolt. She would be deeply prejudiced against the story. He had carefully planned the speech he would make to her, in which he must explain Jesus as a divine liberator of the world’s oppressed. But now—with Diana’s warm and supple contours snuggled close against him, he decided to abandon this larger appraisal and deal more simply with his story. He began by telling her about Jonathan and the donkey.
‘Why—what a perfectly mean thing to do to that little boy!’ she exclaimed, when Jonathan sorrowfully gave up his donkey to Thomas.
‘It was a severe test,’ admitted Marcellus, “but it made a little man of Jonathan.’
‘And why did they want Jonathan to be a little man?’ queried Diana, making it clear that if she were obliged to listen to this Galilean story, she reserved the right to make comments and ask questions. ‘I should have thought,’ she went on, innocently, ‘that Jonathan would have been ever so much more attractive as a little boy.’
Conceding that the phrase, ‘little man,’ had not been skillfully chosen, Marcellus thought he should tell her how children felt toward Jesus; how—according to Justus—they swarmed about him in his carpenter shop; how, when Jesus went home in the evening, a crowd of little ones accompanied him. And dogs.
‘Well—I’m glad about the dogs,’ drawled Diana. From what I had heard of his goodness, I had supposed that dogs might feel rather embarrassed in his company.’ Instantly she realized that this flippancy had stung. Marcellus recoiled as if she had slapped him.
‘His goodness was not negative, Diana, and it was not smug, and it was not weak,’ declared Marcellus. ‘May I reconstruct your picture of him?’
‘Please do,’ murmured Diana, absently. She caressingly retied the heavy silk cord at the throat of his tunic, and smiled into his sober eyes from under her long lashes, her full lips offering a forthright invitation. Marcellus swallowed hard, and gave her a fraternal pat on the cheek. She sighed and shouldered back under his arm.
Then he told her all about Miriam; all about the wedding feast—and Miriam’s voice.
‘And she never could sing before?’
‘No—she had never wanted to sing before.’
‘And you talked with her—and heard her sing? You liked her, I think. Was she pretty?’
‘Very!’
‘Jewess?’
‘Yes.’
‘They are very pretty, sometimes,’ conceded Diana, it’s too bad she was a cripple.’
‘She didn’t mind being lame. This other gift was so very important.’
‘Why didn’t Jesus let her walk?’
‘Sounds as if you thought he could,’ commented Marcellus, encouraged.
‘Well’—replied Diana, defensively—‘you think he could; don’t you? I’m taking your word for it.’
‘Miriam thinks she can do more good to the unfortunate in her town if she, too, has a disability—’
‘And can sing—in spite of her affliction,’ interposed Diana. ‘She must be a fine person.’
‘She hadn’t been a fine person,’ said Marcellus—‘not until this strange thing happened to her.’
‘Was she in love with Jesus?’
‘Yes—everybody was.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘No—I don’t think she was. Not that way.’
Diana thoughtfully rubbed her cheek against Marcellus’ sleeve.
‘Wasn’t Jesus in love with anyone?’
she murmured.
‘Everyone,’ said Marcellus.
‘Perhaps he thought it was wrong—to love just one person—above all others.’
‘I think that might have been wrong—for him. You see, Diana, Jesus was not an ordinary person. He had unusual powers, and felt that his life belonged to the public.’
‘What other things did he do?’ Diana’s curiosity seemed to be more serious. ‘There was little Jonathan’s foot, and Miriam’s voice—’
‘I must tell you about Lydia.’
But—before he went into the story of Lydia’s touching the Robe, Marcellus thought he should review his own peculiar experiences with it. Diana grew indignant as he relived that tragic night at the Insula in Jerusalem when Paulus had forced him to put on the Galilean’s Robe.
‘This poor Jesus had suffered enough!’ she exclaimed. ‘They had no right to make a mockery of his clothes! And he had been so brave—and had done no wrong!’
Heartened by her sympathy, Marcellus had gone on to tell her all about that afternoon in Athens when—desperate over his mental condition—he had decided to destroy himself.
‘You may find it hard to understand, dear, how a person could come to a decision to take his own life.’
‘Oh, no!’ Diana shook her head. ‘I can understand that, Marcellus. I could easily come to that decision—in certain circumstances.’
‘It is a lonely business—suicide,’ muttered Marcellus.
‘Perhaps that is why I can understand it,’ said Diana. ‘I am well acquainted with loneliness.’
Then Marcellus proceeded to tell her about his finding of the Robe, and the peculiar effect it had on him. Diana looked up into his face, her eyes swimming with tears.
‘There’s no use trying to explain,’ he went on. ‘I gathered up the Robe in my hands—and it healed my mind.’
‘Maybe that was because you knew it had belonged to another lonely man,’ suggested Diana.
‘Curiously enough,’ said Marcellus, ‘that was the sensation I had when I held the Robe in my arms. Some strange friendship—a new, invigorating friendship—had come to my rescue. The painful tension was relaxed. Life was again worth living.’ He gravely studied her brooding eyes, I wonder if you believe what I am saying.’
‘Yes, dear—I believe it; and, considering your earlier experience with his Robe, I am not very much surprised.’ She was silent for a moment, and then said, ‘Tell me now about this Lydia.’
It was quite a lengthy story, with many unforeseen excursions. Diana had remarked that it must almost have killed Lydia when she had to force her way into that huge crowd of strangers in the street. And that had led Marcellus to interrupt himself long enough to describe those crowds; how the poor people had dropped their sickles and left their looms and followed for days, sleeping on the ground, going hungry and footsore—if only they might stay close to Jesus.
Diana listened with rapt attention, nanowed eyes, parted lips, as the Galilean story went on—and on—toward its close.
‘And you honestly think he is alive—now?’ she asked, earnestly.
Marcellus nodded his head, and after a moment continued with an account of the reappearances.
‘And you really think Stephanos saw him?’ asked Diana, in an awed voice.
‘Do you find that so hard to believe, dear, after the other things I have told you?’
‘I want to believe what you believe, Marcellus.’
He had drawn her into his arms and kissed her.
‘It means much to me, my darling, to have shared this story with you, he said, tenderly. ‘Knowing how you felt about the supernatural, I hardly expected you to be so understanding.’
‘Well—this is different!’ Diana suddenly released herself and sat up to face him. ‘What I feared was that it might somehow affect your life—and mine, too. It is a beautiful story, Marcellus, a beautiful mystery. Let it remain so. We don’t have to understand it. And we don’t have to do anything about it; do we? Let us plan to live—each for the other—just as if this hadn’t happened.’
She waited a long time for his reply. His face was drawn, and his eyes were transfixed to the far horizon. Diana’s slim fingers traced a light pattern on the back of his hand.
‘But it has affected my life, darling!’ said Marcellus, firmly. ‘I can’t go on as if it hadn’t happened.’
‘What had you thought of doing?’ Diana’s voice was unsteady.
‘I don’t know—yet,’ he replied, half to himself. ‘But I know I have a duty to perform. It is not clear—what I am to do. But I couldn’t go back to living as I did—not even if I tried. I couldn't!’
Then, with a depth of earnestness that stilled her breathing, Marcellus poured out his pent-up convictions about this strange thing that had come to pass. It wasn’t just a brief phenomenon that had mystified the country people of little Galilee. It was nothing less than a world-shaking event! For thousands of years, the common people of the whole earth had lived without hope of anything better than drudgery, slavery, and starvation. Always the rapacious rulers of some empire were murdering and pillaging the helpless.
‘Look at our record!’ he exclaimed, with mounting indignation. The Roman Empire has enslaved half the population of the world! And we have thought it brave to subdue these little, undefended states! Look at the heroic sculpture and the bronze tablets dedicated to Emperors and Princes, Knights and Prefects, Legates and Tribunes, who have butchered thousands whose only crime was their inability to protect themselves and their lands! This, we thought, was a great credit to the Empire; a gallant thing to do! ‘‘I sing of men and of arms!” chants old Publius Vergilius. Sounds brave; doesn’t it?
‘Diana, dear,’ he went on, gravely, ‘while on the ship coming home I fell to thinking about the Roman splendors, the monuments in the Forum, the marble palaces; and then I remembered that all of these beautiful and impressive things have either been stolen from other people of better talents than our own, or built with tribute money extorted from the ragged and hungry! And I hated these things! And I hated what we had called Heroism!’
‘But you can’t do anything about that, Marcellus,’ protested Diana, weakly.
Marcellus’ storm was subsiding to a mutter. With bitter irony he growled: invincible old Rome—that lives in sloth and luxury—paid for by people up in Aquitania, Anglia, Hispania, Gaul—and down in Crete—and over in Cappadocia, Pontus, and Thrace—where little children cry for food! Ah, yes—our brave ones will sneer, no doubt, at the unarmed Jesus. They will revile him as a weakling, because the only blood he ever shed was his own! But the time will come, my dear, when this Jesus will have his own way!’
‘So—then—what will you do?’ Diana asked, with a weary sigh.
‘For the present, I’m sure only of what I will not do!’ declared Marcellus, passionately. ‘I shall not be going back to lounge about in the Tribunes’ Club, pretending to have forgotten I know a man who can save the world! I am done with this iniquity! I am free of this shame!’
‘But—do you mean to cut yourself off from all your old friends—and—and go about with these poor slaves?’ asked Diana.
‘It is we who are the poor slaves, my dear,’ deplored Marcellus. ‘These ragged ones, who follow the divine Galilean, are on their way to freedom!’
‘You mean—they will band together—and revolt?’
‘They may still wear chains on their wrists, Diana, but not on their souls!’
‘You’re not thinking of joining them!’ Diana’s cheeks were pale.
‘I have joined them!’ muttered Marcellus.
Impetuously springing to her feet, Diana gave way to a surprising outburst of desperate disappointment.
‘Then you can leave me out of it!’ she cried. Burying her face in her arms, and weeping inconsolably, she went on, half-incoherently, if you’re going to ruin yourself—and make an outcast of yourself—and become an object of ridicule—that’s for you to decide—but—’
As impulsivel
y as she had tom away from him, Diana slumped down dejectedly on the lectus, and threw her arms tightly around his neck.
‘You are dreaming, Marcellus!’ she sobbed. ‘You are making a new world out of people and things that don’t exist! And you know it! If men would stop fighting—if men would live as your Jesus wants them to—if men would be honest and merciful—then there would be a new world! Nobody would be killed! Little children would have enough to eat! Yes—but men are not made that way. Maybe there will come a time when people will stop mistreating one another—and weeds will stop growing—and lions will stop biting—but not in our time! Why shall we make ourselves wretched? Why not accept things as they are? Why throw your life away?’ Diana pressed her wet face hard against his shoulder. ‘Marcellus,’ she moaned piteously, ‘don’t you know you are breaking my heart? Don’t you care?’
‘My darling,’ said Marcellus, huskily, ‘I care—so much—that I would rather die than see you in sorrow. I am not choosing—which way I shall go. I am not permitted a choice.’
There seemed nothing to say, after that. It was nearing noon and Marcellus would have to go to the Emperor. Diana raised her face and glanced at the sundial. Her eyes were heavy with weeping and the tight little curls on her forehead were damp. Marcellus’ throat ached in pity as he looked down into her flushed face. She smiled pensively.
‘I must be a dreadful sight,’ she sighed.
Marcellus kissed her eyes.
‘You must not keep him waiting,’ she murmured, lifelessly. ‘Come back to me—this afternoon—soon as you can—and tell me about it.’
He drew her tightly to him. Her lips trembled as he kissed her.
‘Our happiness was too sweet to last, Marcellus. Go, now, dear, I shall try to understand. I know this has been as hard for you as for me. I shall always love you.’ Her voice fell to a whisper, ‘I hope your Jesus will take care of you.’
‘Do you believe what I told you about him?’ asked Marcellus, gently.
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