The Robe

by Lloyd C. Douglas

  ‘Yes, dear—I believe it.’

  ‘Then—I think he will take care of you, too.’

  ***

  The Chamberlain was waiting for him in the atrium and led him directly to the imperial suite. Opening the door, he stood aside deferentially, and when Marcellus had passed in, he noiselessly closed the door behind him.

  Tiberius, propped up high in his pillows, regarded him with a penetrating scowl as he crossed the room and approached the massive bed. Marcellus, bowing deeply, came to attention and waited the Emperor’s pleasure. For a long time the old man stared silently into his grave face.

  ‘It is plain to see,’ he said, soberly, ‘that you have decided to cast your lot with your Jesus. We were sure you would take that course.’

  Marcellus inclined his head—but made no audible reply.

  There was another long, strained silence.

  ‘That will be all, then,’ growled Tiberius. You may go!’

  Marcellus hesitated for a moment.

  ‘Go!’ shouted the Emperor. You are a fool!’ The shrill old voice rose to a scream. You are a fool!’

  Dazed and speechless in the face of the old man’s clamorous anger, Marcellus retreated unsteadily toward the door, which had swung open.

  ‘You are a fool!’ shrieked Tiberius. You will die for your folly!’ The cracked voice deepened to a hoarse bellow. ‘You are a brave, brave fool!’

  ***

  Stunned by the encounter, Marcellus walked slowly and indecisively into the atrium where the Chamberlain, bowing obsequiously, pointed him out toward the high-vaulted peristyle.

  ‘If you are ready, sir,’ he said, ‘the chair is waiting to take you down to the wharf. Your luggage has preceded you, and is on the barge.’

  ‘I am not ready to go,' declared Marcellus, crisply, I have another appointment here before I leave.’

  The Chamberlain drew a frosty smile and shook his head.

  ‘It is His Majesty’s command, sir. You are to go—immediately.’

  ‘May I not have a word with my slave?’ protested Marcellus. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Your Greek, sir, is temporarily in confinement. He objected so violently to seeing your effects packed and carried off that it was necessary to restrain him.’

  ‘He fought?’

  ‘One of the Nubians, sir, was slow about regaining consciousness. Your slave is rough—very rough. But—the Nubians will teach him better manners.’ The Chamberlain bowed again, with exaggerated deference, and pointed toward the luxurious chair. Four brawny iliracians stood at attention beside it, waiting for their passenger. He hesitated. A file of palace guards quietly drew up behind him.

  ‘Farewell, sir,’ said the Chamberlain. ‘A pleasant voyage to you.’

  Chapter XXII

  APPARENTLY the word had been circulated on the spacious deck that as soon as this belated passenger arrived the barge would put off, for much interest was shown at the rail when the chair drew up beside the gangway. There was some annoyance, too, especially on the patrician faces of a group of Senators unaccustomed to waiting the convenience of a tardy Tribune.

  The beautiful barge moved quietly away from the wharf, and the passengers—a score or more—disposed themselves in the luxurious chairs grouped under the gay awning. A light and lazy breeze ruffled the blue bay. The two banks of long oars swung rhythmically, gracefully, to the metallic beat of the boatswain’s hammers. Click! Clack! A crimson sail slowly climbed the forward mast; and, after a few indecisive flutters, resolved to aid the slaves below.

  Marcellus found a seat quite apart from the others and moodily surveyed the distant wharves of Puteoli, on the mainland. After a while, a dozen sleek and nearly naked Nubians came up from the hold, bearing silver trays high above their shaved brown heads, and spread fanwise among the passengers. The Emperor’s midday hospitality was generous, but Marcellus was not hungry.

  The Augusta, at her present speed, should be able to reach Rome by late afternoon of the day after tomorrow. For the first time in his life, Marcellus had no desire to go home. There would be endless explanations to make. His father would be disappointed, hurt, exasperated; his mother would resort to tears; Lucia would try to be sympathetic, but it would be sheer pity. He attempted to imagine a conversation with Tullus. They had been very close and confidential. What had they to talk about, were they to meet now? Tullus would inquire, rather gingerly, what all he had been up to, these past two years. Was there any conceivable answer to that question?

  As the afternoon wore on, Marcellus’ disinclination to return to Rome was crystallizing to a definite decision, and he began to consider alternatives. At sunset, he sauntered to the Captain’s quarters and inquired casually whether The Augusta was calling at any of the coast ports before reaching Ostia, and was advised that she was making no stops; not even at Ostia.

  He was hungry at dinner-time. A smart breeze had risen, as the twilight came on, and the deck was abandoned. Marcellus went to his cabin, opened his largest bag, and took out the Galilean Robe, folding it as compactly as possible. Wrapping it around his leather wallet, he secured it with a strap. The wallet was heavy.

  On the evening he had left home, his father had sent Marcipor down to the galley with a parting gift. Distraught, Marcellus had not opened it until he and Demetrius were on board The Cleo. He was amazed. As if to make amends for his part in the estrangement, the Senator had provided him with a very large sum of money. It was all in gold pieces of high denomination. Marcellus had been touched by his father’s lavish generosity; saddened, too, for it was almost as if the Senator had said that his son would now be free to go his own way.

  Removing his toga, Marcellus rolled it up and stuffed it into the big bag to replace the Robe. Then, having refastened the bag, he stretched it out on his berth and waited for the time to pass. Most of his thoughts were about Diana, and his loss of her. Occasionally he glanced at the hourglass on his bedside tabic. Four times he reversed it. If his computation was correct, The Augusta would round the promontory off Capua about midnight.

  There was only one sentry patrolling the afterdeck when Marcellus strolled aimlessly toward the stern with his package buckled to the back of his heavy tunic-sash. The sentry paid him but little attention as he stood at the rail. Doubtless the restless passenger had come out to look at the stars. Perhaps a gratuity might be forthcoming if a little service were offered.

  A light blinked in the darkness a mile away.

  ‘That is the lighthouse at Capua, sir,’ volunteered the sentry.

  ‘Yes,’ said Marcellus, indifferently.

  ‘May I bring you a chair, sir?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The water was not uncomfortably cold. Marcellus had let himself into it feet-first, without a splash. It was a gratifyingly long time before the sentry gave the alarm. Evidently he had made quite a business of finding a comfortable chair for the Tribune. Now there were other shouts. The boatswain had stopped beating on his anvil. The Augusta could not be more than two stadia away, but she was only a row of dim lights, her black hull already blended into the darkness.

  Marcellus turned his face toward the shore and proceeded with long, overarm strokes to pull Capua nearer. After a while, flipping over on his back, he looked for The Augusta. Only the lamp at the masthead was visible. Doubtless the barge had resumed her journey.

  It was the longest swim that Marcellus had ever undertaken. His clothing weighted him. The packet of gold was heavy. Once he thought seriously of tugging off the heavy silk tunic that dragged at his arms, but the threat of arriving at Capua clad only in trunks and a sheer subucula induced him to struggle on. He tried to unfasten his sandal-straps, but found it impossible. The beacon in the lighthouse seemed to be growing brighter. He hoped he was not imagining this, for he was getting very tired.

  At length the choppy waves began to smooth out into long combers. Lower lights shone feebly along the shore. The surf grew rougher. Marcellus could hear it crash against the seawall. He shift
ed his course leftward to avoid the lighthouse escarpment and the huddle of docks. It was hard going, across the rip-tide. His lungs were beginning to hurt. A great wave carried him forward; and, retreating, left him a temporary footing. Bracing against the weight of its undertow, he held his ground until it had run out. All but spent, he staggered toward the beach and flung himself down in the lee of a fishing-dory, his teeth chattering with the cold. It occurred to him that he should feel immensely gratified over the success of his difficult adventure, but found himself indifferent.

  Wringing the water out of his clothes, Marcellus vigorously swung his arms to warm himself, and plodded up wearily through the deepening sand until he found a dry spot that still retained something of its daytime heat. There he spent the rest of the night, sleeping lightly, and anxious for the dawn. When the sun rose, he spread out the Robe on the sand. It dried quickly and he put it on over his damp tunic, comforted by its warmth. He was in better spirits now, glad to be alive.

  At a fisherman’s hut he asked for something to eat, but he was eyed with suspicion by the surly old couple, who told him they had no food. Up farther in the town, at a sailor’s inn, he was Crudely served with black bread and a greasy pottage. Disheveled loungers gathered about him to ask questions which he made no effort to answer satisfactorily. When he opened his wallet to pay, they drew in closer about him, eyes wide with avaricious interest; but as he overtopped them all and appeared unalarmed by their curiosity, no one made a move to detain him.

  Proceeding through the dirty little town, he turned eastward on a dusty, deserted highway. His sandals were drying now, and felt more comfortable, though they had begun to look quite disreputable. Marcellus was bareheaded, having lost his bandeau in the sea. Nobody could have mistaken him for a Tribune.

  The expensive leather wallet was inappropriate, and he concealed it in the breast of his tunic. At the first village, three miles inland, he spent a few coppers for a well-worn goatskin bag, of considerable capacity, emptied his wallet into it; and, later, dropped the wallet into an abandoned cistern.

  Before reaching the next village, he took off his tunic, wrapped it around the package of gold that had nearly drowned him last night, and bought another off the washline of a vintner’s cottage, paying the owner ten sesterces, for which he was so well satisfied that he and his wife chuckled behind Marcellus’ back as he moved away. The brown tunic was coarsely woven and had seen hard scrvice, but it was clean.

  The sun was high now, and Marcellus carried the Galilean Robe folded over his arm. He frequently paused to rest in the shade beside the descending stream that grew more and more active as the grade stiffened toward the foothills of the distant, snow-capped Apennines. He had no plans, but he was not depressed; nor was he lonesome. Indeed, he had a curious sense of well-being. The country was beautiful. The trees were in full leaf, the nesting birds were busy and happy, the wild-flowers along the bank of the lively stream were exquisite in their fragile beauty. Marcellus drew deep sighs of contentment, gratified but surprised that he could feel so free of any care. He regarded his own appearance with amusement. He had never looked like this before. He stroked his stubbly jaw and wondered whether a razor could be found in one of the villages. If not, no matter. That night, with the Robe for a cover, he slept in the open, remembering—as he drifted off—something Justus had said of Jesus’ homelessness: ‘The foxes had holes, the birds had nests; but Jesus had no bed, no pillow.’ Marcellus drew the Robe closer about him. It was not heavy, but it was warm and comforting. He fell asleep thinking of Diana, but not hopelessly. In the morning he rose refreshed, bathed in the cold stream, and breakfasted on wild strawberries.

  The stone mileposts had been announcing, with increasing optimism, that travelers on this uphill road were nearing Arpino. Marcellus cudgeled his memory. What did he know about Arpino? Delicious little melons! Arpino melons! And exactly the right time for them, too.

  The road was wider now and showed better care. The fences were well-kept. On either side of the highway, vineyards—the plentiful grapes still green—were being cultivated and irrigated. The traffic on the road was increasing. Here were the melon fields; acres and acres of ripening melons; a procession of high-boxed carts laden with melons; dozens and scores of men, women, and children, scattered through the fields, all bent to the task of gathering melons.

  Near a busy open gate, Marcellus sat down on the stone fence and viewed the scene. The little town at the top of the rise seemed to be built on a comparatively level terrain, sheltered on the east by a sheer wall of rock that based one of the loftiest peaks of the range. The village itself—or as much as could be seen of it—was composed of small square cottages crowded closely together. North of this cramped huddle of houses and on slightly higher ground the red-tile roofs of a quite imposing villa shone through the trees surrounding it, doubtless the home of the big man who owned the melon business.

  After a while, Marcellus decided to move on up to the village. The swarthy overseer at the open gate, importantly checking the emerging carts on a slate held in the crook of his hand, hailed him. Was he looking for work?

  ‘What kind of work?’ Marcellus wanted to know.

  The overseer jabbed a thumb toward the melon field.

  ‘Two sesterces,’ he said, gruffly—‘and a cot—and food.’

  ‘But the day is nearly half done, sir,’ said Marcellus. ‘Perhaps one sesterce would be sufficient. I have had no experience in picking melons.’

  The bewildered overseer rested the heavy slate on his hip, spat thoughtfully, and stared at the newcomer, apparently lacking a formula for dealing with this unprecedented situation. While he deliberated, Marcellus picked up one of the big willow baskets from a heap piled beside the gate and was moving off toward his new occupation.

  ‘Wait, fellow!’ called the overseer. ‘Can you read and write?’

  Marcellus admitted that he could.

  ‘And compute?’

  Yes—Marcellus could compute.

  ‘Kaeso has discharged his scrivener.’

  ‘Who is Kaeso?’ inquired Marcellus, so unimpressed that the overseer drew himself to full height before declaiming—with a sweep of his arm embracing the fields and the town—that Appius Kaeso owned everything in sight. He pointed toward the villa.

  ‘Go up there,’ he said, ‘and ask for Kaeso. Tell him Vobiscus sent you. If he does not hire you, come back and work on the melons.’

  ‘I’d much rather work on the melons,’ said Marcellus.

  The overseer blinked a few times, uncertainly.

  ‘A scrivener is better paid and has better food,’ he said, slightly nettled by the traveler’s stupidity.

  ‘I suppose so,’ nodded Marcellus, adding, with cool obstinacy, ‘I should prefer to pick melons.’

  ‘Doesn’t it make any difference to you, fellow,’ snapped the overseer, ‘whether you make two sesterces or ten?’

  ‘Not much,’ confessed Marcellus. ‘I am not specially interested in money—and it’s quite beautiful out here in the open, with that majestic mountain in sight.’

  Vobiscus, shielding his eyes, gazed up at the towering peak beyond Arpino, frowned, looked up again, grinned a little, and rubbed his chin.

  ‘You aren’t crazy; are you?’ he asked, soberly, and when Marcellus had said he didn’t think so, the overseer told him to go on up to the villa.

  ***

  Kaeso had the traditional arrogance of a short-statured man of wealth and authority. He was of a pugnacious stockiness, fifty, smooth-shaven, expensively dressed, with carefully groomed, grizzled hair and amazingly well-preserved teeth. It was immediately evident that he was accustomed to barking impatient questions and drowning timorous replies in a deluge of belittling sarcasm.

  Marcellus had stood quietly waiting while the restless, bumptious fellow marched heavily up and down the length of the cool atrium, shouting his unfavorable opinions of scriveners in general and his most recent one in particular. They were all alike; dishonest
, lazy, incompetent. None of them was worth his salt. Every time Kaeso passed the applicant, he paused to glare at him belligerently.

  At first, Marcellus had regarded this noisy exhibition with an impassive face, but as it continued, he found himself unable any longer to repress a broad grin. Kaeso stopped in his tracks and scowled. Marcellus chuckled good-humoredly.

  ‘It is to laugh—is it?’ snarled Kaeso, jutting his chin.

  ‘Yes,’ drawled Marcellus, ‘it is to laugh. Maybe it wouldn’t be funny if I were hungry—and in dire need of work. I suppose that’s the way you talk to everybody who can’t afford to talk back.’

  Kaeso’s mouth hung open and his eyes nanowed with unbelief.

  ‘But—go right on.’ Marcellus waved a hand negligently. ‘Don’t mind me; I’ll listen. Do you care if I sit down? I’ve been walking all morning, and I’m tired.’ He eased into a luxurious chair and sighed. Kaeso stalked toward him and stood with feet wide apart.

  ‘Who are you, fellow?’ he demanded.

  ‘Well, sir,’ replied Marcellus, with a smile, ‘while your question, asked in that tone, deserves no answer at all, I am an unemployed wayfarer. Your man Vobiscus insisted that I offer my services as a scrivener. Realizing that this is your busiest season, I thought I might do you a good turn by helping out for a few days.’

  Kaeso Tan his stubby fingers through his graying hair and sat down on the edge of an adjacent lectus.

  ‘And you, sir,’ went on Marcellus, ‘instead of giving me an opportunity to explain my call, began to pour forth.’ His eyes drifted about through the well-appointed atrium, if I may venture to say so, you probably do not deserve to live in such a beautiful villa. Your manner of treating strangers doesn’t seem to belong here. In these lovely surroundings, there should be nothing but quiet courtesy—and good will.’

  Kaeso, stunned by the stranger’s impudence, had listened with amazement. Now he came to his feet, his face contorted with anger.

  ‘You can’t say things like that to mel’ he shouted. ‘Who do you think you are? You insult me in my house—yet you look like a common vagrant—a beggar!’