The Robe

by Lloyd C. Douglas

  ‘I am not a beggar, sir,’ said Marcellus, quietly.

  ‘Get out!’ snapped Kaeso.

  Marcellus rose, smiled, bowed, walked slowly toward the open peristyle, and down the broad marble steps, Kaeso following him as far as the portico. Sauntering through the village, he went back to the melon field, aware that he was being trailed at a little distance by a tall Macedonian. Vobiscus viewed his return with much interest.

  ‘Kaeso didn’t want you?’ he inquired.

  Marcellus shook his head, picked up a basket, and walked through the field until he came to the first little group of laborers. They glanced up with sour curiosity. One old man straightened, with a painful grimace, and looked him over with the utmost frankness.

  It was a fine day, observed Marcellus, pleasantly. For a backache, retorted the old man. This drew a sullen chortle from the neighbors, one of whom—a scowling old woman of twenty—bitterly admonished him that he’d better work awhile, and then tell them how fine a day it was.

  Conceding this point so cheerfully that the sulky girl gave him a reluctant but pathetically childish smile, Marcellus doffed his robe—folding it carefully and laying it on the ground beside the goat-skin bag—and fell to work with enthusiasm.

  ‘Not so fast, not so fast,’ cautioned the old man. ‘Kaeso won’t pay you any better for killing yourself.’

  ‘And Vobiscus will be bawling at us for shirking,’ added a cloddish fellow, up the line a little way.

  ‘These are the finest melons in the world!’ remarked Marcellus, stopping to wipe his dripping forehead, it’s a pleasure to work with the finest—of something. Not many people have a chance to do that. Sunshine, blue sky, beautiful mountains—and the finest—’

  ‘Oh—shut up!’ yelled the clod.

  ‘Shut up yourself!' put in the old woman of twenty. ‘Let him talk! They are good melons!’

  For some unknown reason everybody laughed at that, in various keys and tempers, and the mood of the sweating toilers brightened a little. Presently the overseer strolled over from the gate and the melon-pickers applied themselves with ostentatious diligence. He paused beside Marcellus, who looked up inquiringly. Vobiscus jerked his head toward the villa.

  ‘He wants to see you,’ he said, gruffly.

  Marcellus nodded, picked up his laden basket in his arms, and poured out a few into the old man’s basket. Then he gave some to the worn-out girl who raised her eyes in a smile that was almost pretty. On up the line of workers, he distributed his melons, emptying the last dozen of them into the basket of the oaf who had derided him. The sullen fellow pulled an embarrassed grin.

  ‘Will you be coming back?’ squeaked the old man.

  ‘I hope so, sir,’ said Marcellus. ‘It is pleasant work—and good company.’

  ‘Oh—it’s sir you are now, old one?’ teased the oaf. Much boisterous laughter rewarded this sally. The girl with the scowl did not join in the applause.

  ‘What’s paining you, Metella?’ yelled the witty one.

  She turned on him angrily.

  ‘It’s a pity that a stranger can’t show us a little decent respect without being cackled at!’

  As Marcellus turned to go, he gave her an approving wink that smoothed out the scowl and sent a flush through the tan. A dozen pairs of eyes followed him as he moved away at the side of Vobiscus, who had been an impatient spectator.

  ‘They’re not out here to joke—and play,’ mumbled Vobiscus.

  ‘You’d get more melons picked,’ advised Marcellus. ‘People work better when they’re happy. Don’t you think so?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Vobiscus. I never saw anybody working who was happy.’ He lengthened his steps. ‘You’d better stretch your legs, fellow. Kaeso isn’t good at waiting.’

  ‘He’s probably as good at waiting as I am at hurrying,’ replied Marcellus, dryly.

  ‘You don’t know Kaeso,’ muttered Vobiscus, with an ominous chuckle. ‘He doesn’t coddle people; only horses.’

  ‘I can believe that,’ said Marcellus. Throwing the old bag over his shoulder, he strolled out to the highway, tarried for another look at the mountain, and sauntered up the hill.

  ***

  Kaeso was at his desk when Marcellus was shown in. He was making a showy pretense of being busily engaged and did not glance up. After Marcellus had stood waiting before the desk for what seemed to him a long time, without receiving any attention, he turned away and walked over to a window that looked out upon a flower-garden.

  ‘You say you are a scrivener?’ called Kaeso, sharply.

  ‘No, sir.’ Marcellus slowly retraced his steps. ‘Your man asked me if I could read, write, and compute. I can do that—but I am not a scrivener by profession.’

  ‘Humph! How much do you want?’

  ‘You will know, sir, how much my services are worth to you. I shall accept what you think is just.’

  ‘I gave the last man ten sesterces—and his keep.’

  ‘It seems a trifling wage,’ observed Marcellus, ‘but if you cannot afford to pay more—’

  ‘It’s not a question of what I can afford!’ retorted Kaeso, pompously, it’s a question of what you will take!’

  ‘I shouldn’t have thought that a proud and successful man like you, sir, would want a stranger to donate part of his time to serving you. You called me a beggar, an hour ago, in a tone indicating that you had no respect for beggars. Perhaps I misunderstood you.’

  Kaeso pushed his folded arms halfway across the desk and glared up into Marcellus’ complacent eyes. He appeared to be contemplating a savage rejoinder; but impulsively changed his tactics.

  ‘I’ll give you twenty,’ he grumbled—‘and let me tell you something!’ His voice was rising to an angry pitch. ‘There’s to be no shirking—and no mistakes—and no—’

  ‘Just a moment!’ broke in Marcellus, coolly. ‘Let me tell you something! You have a bad habit of screaming at people. I can’t believe that you get any pleasure out of terrorizing others who can’t help themselves. It’s just a habit—but it’s a hateful habit—and I don’t like it—and you’re not to indulge in it when you’re addressing me!’

  Kaeso rubbed his jaw with the back of his hand.

  ‘Not ody ever dared to talk to me like that!’ he smouldered. ‘I don’t know why I let you do it.’

  ‘I’ll gladly tell you.’ Marcellus laid his hands flat on the desk and leaned far forward with a confidential smile. ‘You have accumulated a great deal of property and power—but you are not contented. There is something you lack—something you would like to have. You are not sure what it is—but you think I know. That is why you sent for me to come back, Kaeso.’

  ‘I sent for you, fellow’—Kaeso was wagging his head truculently—'because I need a scrivener!’

  ‘Well—I’m not a scrivener,’ drawled Marcellus, turning away, ‘and you're shouting again. If you will excuse me, I'll go back to the melon field. I found some very companionable people out there.’

  ‘What? Companionable? Those melon-pickers?’ rasped Kaeso. ‘They’re a pack of dirty, lazy thieves!’

  ‘Not naturally, I think,’ said Marcellus, judicially. ‘But for their extreme poverty and drudgery, they might be quite decent and industrious and honest—just as you, sir, might be a very charming person if you had no opportunity to be a bully.’

  ‘See here, fellow!’ snarled Kaeso. ‘Are you going out there to gabble with these idlers—and try to make them believe they’re unjustly treated?’

  ‘No—any man who works from dawn to dusk at hard labor—for three sesterces—will not need to be told that he’s getting bad treatment.’

  ‘So!—they’ve been complaining; eh?’

  ‘Not to me, sir. When I left them, I thought they were in quite a merry mood.’

  ‘Humph! What have they got to be merry about?’ Kaeso pushed back his chair, rose; and, opening a tall cabinet in the corner, drew out a large sheaf of papyrus sheets and an armful of scrolls. Dumping the correspond
ence on his desk, he pointed to it significantly.

  ‘Sit down!’ he commanded. ‘Take up that stylus, and I’ll tell you how to reply to these letters. They are orders from markets and great houses in Rome—for melons—and grapes—and pears. You will read them to me and I shall tell you what to say. And have a care! I do not read—but I will know what they are saying!’

  Disinclined to argue, and alive with curiosity to see what might come of this unfamiliar business, Marcellus sat down and began to read the letters aloud. Kaeso seemed childishly pleased. He was selling melons! Cartloads and cartloads of choice Arpino melons! And getting a top price for them! And advance orders for grapes in August. Presently Marcellus came upon a letter written in Greek, and started to read it in that language.

  ‘Ah—that Greek!’ snorted Kaeso. ‘I do not understand. What does it say?’ And when Marcellus had translated it, he inquired, with something like respect, ‘You write Greek, too? That is good.’ He rubbed his hands with satisfaction. It would be pleasant to let these great ones know that he could afford to have a scholar for a scrivener. When the letter was ended, he remarked, irrelevantly, ‘We will find you a better tunic.’

  ‘I have a better tunic, thank you,’ said Marcellus, without looking up.

  ‘Is it that you like flowers?’ asked Kaeso, after they had finished for the day; and when Marcellus had nodded, he said, condescendingly, ‘The scrivener is permitted to walk in the gardens of the villa. If you like horses, you may visit my stables.’

  ‘Very gracious of you, sir,’ said Marcellus, absently.

  ***

  Antonia Kaeso was at least a dozen years younger than her husband. But for her tightly pursed mouth and unlighted eyes she might have been considered attractive, for her features were nicely moulded, her figure was shapely, and her tone was refined. Marcellus, encountering her among the roses with garden shears and a basket, had reasons for surmising that she was a victim of repression.

  She greeted him casually, unsmilingly, remarking in a flat monotone that she supposed he must be her husband’s new scrivener. Marcellus admitted this, adding that he was pleased to find employment in such a pleasant environment, which drew a sidelong, bitter smile from her eyes, a smile in which her lips had no share.

  ‘You mean the flowers—and the mountain,’ she said.

  ‘Yes—they are beautiful.’ He was for sauntering on, seeing that his permission to walk in the garden had not included the right to a leisurely chat with the mistress of the villa; but the enigmatic wife of Kaeso detained him.

  ‘What is your name, scrivener? My husband did not say.’

  ‘Marcellus Gallio.’

  ‘There is a Senator of that name—Gallio.’ She was cutting the halfopened roses with long stems and tossing them at random toward the basket. Marcellus stooped and began arranging them in orderly fashion.

  ‘Yes—that is true,’ he said.

  ‘Are you related?’ she asked, much occupied with her task.

  Marcellus laughed, self-deprecatingly.

  ‘Would a humble scrivener be related to a Senator?’ he countered.

  ‘Probably not,’ she agreed, coolly. ‘But you are not a humble scrivener. You are patrician.’ She straightened up and faced him with level eyes, it's in your voice, in your face, in your carriage.’ The short upper lip showed a row of pretty teeth, as she pointed with her shears. ‘Look at your hands! They’re not accustomed to work—of any kind! Don’t be alarmed,’ she went on, with a little shrug, ‘I won’t give you away, though that silk tunic may. Weren’t you rather indiscreet to put it on? I saw you in the other one, this morning, from my window. Wherever did you find it?’ She was stooping low, busy with her shears. ‘How do you like masquerading as a scrivener, Marcellus Gallio? Are you sure you aren’t related to the Senator?’

  ‘He is my father,’ said Marcellus.

  ‘I believe that,’ she replied, turning her face toward him with an honest smile. ‘But why do you tell me?’

  ‘Because you seem to like frankness—and because I prefer to tell you the truth. I have not tried to deceive your husband. He did not ask my name.’

  ‘But I think you would be pleased if he did not know.’

  ‘Yes—I should prefer that he does not know.’

  ‘That is unfortunate,’ she said, ironically. ‘You are robbing Appius Kaeso of much pleasure. Were he able to say that he had the son of a Senator for his scrivener, he would be unbearably exalted.’

  ‘Perhaps you don’t understand Kaeso,’ soothed Marcellus.

  ‘I don’t understand Kaeso!’ she exclaimed. ‘By all the gods! That is my occupation—understanding Kaeso!’

  ‘He requires special handling, my friend,’ declared Marcellus. ‘Kaeso is immensely proud of his power over all these people in Arpino. They obey him because they fear him. He could have even more power over them if they obeyed because they liked him.’

  ‘Imagine Kaeso doing anything to make them like him!’ she scoffed.

  ‘I can imagine it,’ rejoined Marcellus, quietly. ‘And if we can induce him to make the experiment, it will greatly improve the atmosphere of this place. Would you like to cooperate with me?’

  ‘It’s much too late,’ she objected. ‘Kaeso could never win their friendship—no matter what he might do for them. And you must remember that the common laborers of Arpino are a dirty, ignorant lot!’

  ‘They are dirty!’ agreed Marcellus. ‘And you can’t expect dirty people to be decent. They antagonize one another because each man despises himself—and no wonder. I was thinking about that, this morning. These people should have bathing facilities. There’s not much temptation to get into this ice-cold mountain stream. It should not be much of a task to build a large swimming-pool, and let the hot sun warm the water. There is a quarry hard by. The people could construct the pool themselves in the idle interval between the melons and the grapes—if they had any encouragement.’

  ‘Ah—you don’t know the Arpinos!’ protested the wife of Kaeso.

  ‘If they are worse than other people, there must be a reason,’ said Marcellus. ‘I wonder what it is.’

  ‘Why should you care, Marcellus Gallio?’

  A handsome youth in his early teens was strolling toward them. There was no question about his identity. His resemblance to his mother was so striking as to bring a smile.

  ‘Your son, I think,’ said Marcellus.

  ‘Antony,’ she murmured, with an ecstatic little sigh. ‘He is my life. He wants to be a sculptor. His father does not approve, and will not consent to his having instruction. He is such a lonely, unhappy child ... Come here, Antony, and meet the new scrivener, Marcellus Gallio.’

  ‘Your mother tells me you are fond of modeling,' said Marcellus, when Antony had mumbled an indifferent greeting. ‘Would you like to let me see what you are doing?’

  Antony screwed up a sensitive mouth.

  ‘Would you know anything about it?’ he asked, with his mother’s disconcerting candor.

  ‘Enough to make a few suggestions, perhaps.’

  ***

  Antony couldn’t wait until morning, but went to the scrivener’s quarters after dinner, carrying the model he had been working on—two gladiators poised for action. He put it down on Marcellus’ table and backed off from it shyly, murmuring that he knew it wasn’t much.

  ‘It’s not at all bad, Antony,’ commended Marcellus. ‘The composition is good. The man on this side is a foolhardy fellow, though, to take that stance. What are their names?’

  Suspecting that he was being teased, Antony grinned and said he hadn’t named them.

  ‘To do your best work on them,’ said Marcellus, seriously, ‘they must have personality. You should consider them as real people, and know all about them. Let us attend to that first; shall we?’ He drew up a chair for Antony and they sat, facing the model.

  ‘Now—the man on this side is Cyprius. The legionaries captured him down in Crete, burned his house down, drove off his cattle, murde
red his wife and son—a boy about your age—and took him to Rome in a prison-ship. He was an excellent swordsman, so they gave him his choice of dueling in the arena or pulling an oar in a galley. So, he chose the arena, and now he is fighting for his life, hoping to kill this other man whom he never saw before.’

  ‘Oh—you’re just making that up,’ accused Antony, glumly.

  ‘Yes—but that’s the way these duels are staged in the arena, Antony, between men who must kill or be killed. Now—your other man is a Thracian. His name is Galenzo. He had a little farm, and a vineyard, and some goats, and three small children. His wife tried to hide him in the hay when the legionaries came, but they struck her down before the children’s eyes and dragged Galenzo away on a chain. He fought so hard that they sold him to a praetor who needed gladiators for the games at the Feast of Isis. Now Cyprius and Galenzo are fighting, so the people may have a chance to lay wagers on which one will kill the other. How were you betting, Antony? I shall risk a hundred sesterces on Galenzo. I don’t like the way Cyprius stands.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of betting,’ said Antony, dispiritedly. He turned to Marcellus with pouting lips. ‘You don’t like fighting; do you?’

  ‘Not that kind.’

  ‘Maybe you never fought,’ challenged Antony. ‘Maybe you would be afraid to fight.’

  ‘Maybe,’ rejoined Marcellus, undisturbed by the boy’s impudence.

  ‘I’ll take that back!’ spluttered Antony. ‘I don’t think you’d be afraid to fight. I’ll bet you could. Did you ever?’

  ‘Not in the arena.’

  ‘Did you ever kill anyone, sir?’

  Marcellus postponed his reply so long that Antony knew his question could have but one answer. His eyes were bright with anticipation of an exciting story.

  ‘Did he put up a good fight, sir?’

  ‘It is not a pleasant recollection,’ said Marcellus. There was an interval of silence. ‘I wish you had chosen some other subject for your model, Antony. I’m not much interested in this one’—he suddenly invaded Antony’s moody eyes—‘nor are you, my boy! You’re not the type that goes in for slaughter. You don’t believe in it; you don’t like it; and if you had it to do, it would turn your stomach. Isn’t that so?’