The Robe

by Lloyd C. Douglas

  ‘It keeps my hands employed,’ drawled Demetrius. You have your tapestry. I have my rope.’

  After his daily duties had been discharged, and he had seen Diana safely to her suite, it was his custom to take long walks in the night. The sentries on the grounds became acquainted with his strange nocturnal habits, and attached no significance to them. Striding along the winding paths, pausing for a leisurely chat with lonesome guards, he would descend the long stairways to the wharves where the boatmen and dock employees came to know him. Sometimes he lent a hand for an hour or two, darning rents in a sailcloth, splicing ropes, and caulking leaks with pitch and tow. Not infrequently, having urged Diana to order more than she wanted for dinner, he would appear at the docks with confections and other delicacies.

  ‘You seem immensely fond of those men down there,’ Diana had remarked; and Demetrius had explained that they did not have many good things to eat; and, besides, he enjoyed their friendship.

  Every night when he left the docks he would carry off as large a bundle of hemp as could be stowed under his tunic. Nobody cared. He was well liked and could do as he pleased. Sometimes he would take one of the idle dories and row up along the rocky rim of the island for an hour, explaining that he needed exercise. The lazy boatmen thought him peculiar, but were willing to humor him.

  Early every morning, a freight barge went across to Puteoli to meet the farmers and fruit-growers and butchers who came with their products for the island. One night when Demetrius appeared at the wharf he found the dock hands especially interested in his arrival. A large consignment of Arpino melons had come over in the forenoon, and one of the melons—if he would believe it—had been sent expressly to Demetrius. They gave it to him, and stood about, wide-eyed with curiosity, as he opened the small, slatted box.

  ‘Know somebody at Arpino?’ they inquired.

  ‘He’s got a girl in Arpino!’ guffawed a boatman.

  Demetrius couldn’t think of anyone who would be sending him a melon from Arpino—or anywhere else. He turned it over slowly in his hand. On one side, there had been lightly scratched with a knife-point a small, crude drawing.

  ‘Somebody’s name, is it?’ one asked. They all crowded in close to contribute the flavor of garlic to this mystery.

  ‘Probably just a joke,’ muttered an old boatman, turning away. ‘That silly Umbrian that skippers the barge has been playing a little trick on you.’

  Demetrius chuckled and said he’d get even; but he could hardly conceal his excitement. It wasn’t a bargeman’s hoax. The scrawl on the melon was an irregular, almost unrecognizable outline of a fish! So—Marcellus was in the melon business!

  Next morning, as they sat chatting in the pergola, Demetrius asked Diana if she had ever heard of Arpino melons, and she promptly remembered how much they had liked them at home.

  ‘Yesterday,’ said Demetrius, ‘when the freight barge came over from the mainland with melons, there was one sent specially to me.’ He rose and handed it to her. Diana inspected it with interest.

  ‘How odd! Do you know anyone there? What is this device? It looks like a fish. Does it mean anything?’

  ‘When the Christians in Judea and Galilee,’ explained Demetrius, sauntering back to his seat on the steps, ‘wanted to inform one another of their whereabouts, or the road they had taken, they drew a rough picture of a fish, in the sand by the roadside, on a rock at a crossing, or over a doorway. If two strangers met at a tavern table, and one of them wanted to know whether the other was a Christian, he idly traced the figure of a fish with his finger.’

  ‘Why a fish?’ inquired Diana.

  ‘The Greek word for fish is made up of initials for the words which mean, “Jesus Christ Son of God Savior.” ’

  ‘How interesting!’ exclaimed Diana. ‘But do you suppose there are any Christians at Arpino?’

  Demetrius looked into her eyes and smiled mysteriously.

  ‘There is at least one Christian in Arpino,’ he said, ‘and I think we both know who he is.’

  ‘Marcellus!’ whispered Diana, breathlessly.

  ***

  This afternoon, all Capri had been excited over the arrival of young Caligula. Demetrius had caught sight of him, kicking himself along at the side of the Empress as they entered the Villa Jovis. An hour later, the island had fairly rocked with the news that this repulsive youth would presently wear the crown. Coupled with this shocking rumor came the report that the Emperor had sunk into a deep coma from which his emergence was most unlikely.

  Now that Tiberius was no longer to be reckoned with, and Julia’s insufferable grandson was all but on the throne, the Empress would be capable of any atrocity that her caprice might suggest. She could even be vile enough, thought Demetrius, to insist on Diana’s showing favors to Caligula.

  By the time twilight fell, that evening, there was a confirmation of these forebodings. Diana had been invited to a quiet dinner with the Empress and her now eminent grandson. Despite the fact that the Emperor was snoring the tag end of his life away, young Caligula must have some pleasant diversion.

  Reluctantly, Diana accepted the invitation, realizing that it was nothing less than a command, Demetrius accompanying her to the Villa Dionysus, where, for two anxious hours, he paced to and fro on the frescoed pavement, waiting for her to reappear. When, at length, she came out through the peristyle into the bright moonlight, it was evident from her manner that something had happened. In an agitated voice she confided that the loathsome Caligula had paid her such impudent attentions that even Julia had muttered a stern word of caution.

  ‘That settles it!’ declared Demetrius, firmly. ‘You can’t stay here! I am going to try to take you off the island—tonight!’

  ‘But—it’s impossible, Demetrius!’ she protested.

  ‘We shall see. It will be dangerous. But it is worth trying.’ Briefly he instructed her what to do. Diana shuddered. ‘You won’t be afraid; will you?’ he demanded, searching her eyes.

  ‘Yes!’ she confessed. ‘Of course I’ll be afraid! I don’t see how I can do it! But—I’ll try! I’d rather drown than have that slimy idiot put his hands on me again.’

  ‘Slip out of the Jovis, then, and go alone to your pergola, an hour before midnight!’

  Leaving Diana at her door, Demetrius set out on his usual nightly excursion, going first to the pergola, where he dragged the long rope from its hiding-place, secured one end to a small pine tree, and tossed the length of it down the almost perpendicular precipice. For a moment he stood there looking down over the face of the slightly slanting rock to the dashing surf far below, and winced as he pictured Diana’s sensations when she confronted this hazardous adventure. Surely it would demand a great deal of courage. He wouldn’t have wanted to do it himself.

  Returning swiftly to his own quarters, he picked up the compact bundle of clothing he had assembled for Diana—a stonemason’s coarse smock and heavy leggings, and a knitted cap such as the wharfmen wore.

  Everywhere the inquisitive sentries detained him to chatter about the amazing events of the day, and he was obliged to tarry. Time was precious, but he must not arouse suspicion by an appearance of haste or stress. At the wharf he unchained the best dory available, shipped the oars, waved a hand to the boatmen, and made off slowly in the moonlight. As soon as it was discreet, he began to lengthen his strokes. It was a long, hard pull around the eastern point of the massive island. The waves grew suddenly rougher as he came out into the wind of the open sea.

  Demetrius’ heart pounded fiercely. It was not only the grueling exertion, but his fear that Diana might be overtaken. On an ordinary occasion it would have been next to impossible for her to go to her pergola so late at night without being questioned. But nothing was quite normal on Capri tonight. The Emperor was dying. Nobody’s behavior would be scrutinized. People would be scurrying about on unfamiliar errands. Maybe Diana would have no trouble in keeping her engagement; but, even if she were lucky enough to do that, it was a perilous risk she sti
ll had to face.

  At length he recognized, in the moonlight, the tall cliff and the overhanging eaves of the pergola. Maneuvering the heavy dory as close as he dared to the foot of the towering rock, Demetrius strained his eyes toward the summit. The boat was almost unmanageable in the insistent swells of a high tide. The agonizing minutes dragged along, as he scanned the ledge a full hundred and fifty feet above the waves.

  Now his heart gave a great bound! A little way from the top, a gray-clad figure began slipping down. Diana seemed very small and insecure. Demetrius wished she would take it more slowly. He had cautioned her about that. She would burn her hands; perhaps lose her grip. When a little more than halfway down, she slipped several feet before checking herself by twining her legs more tightly about the rope.

  Demetrius’ eyes widened at the amazing thing that was happening. Diana’s descent had slowed to a stop. Now she was actually moving up! He lifted his eyes to the top of the cliff. Two figures on the ledge above were toiling at the rope. Demetrius dropped the oars and funneled his hands about his mouth.

  ‘Let go!’ he shouted.

  There was a tense moment of indecision in which Diana was tugged up another foot.

  ‘Jump, Diana!’ called Demetrius.

  The uncontrolled dory was carried broadside on a wave that almost dashed it against the rock. Suddenly Diana leaped free of the rope and came hurtling down into a huge comber. Its retreat swept her far out. For a long moment, she was not to be seen. Bending to his oars, Demetrius tugged the dory away from the cliff, desperately searching the water. Now her head appeared on the curve of a great swell. Diana was swimming. Demetrius pulled alongside and threw an arm about her. She was badly frightened and her breath was coming in gasps and sobs. He bent far over the side of the boat. Diana put her arms around his neck, and he tugged her in over the rail. She crumpled up in a heap at his feet, drenched and exhausted.

  Demetrius dragged the cumbersome dory about, and began the laborious trip around the curve of the island, keeping close in the shadow of the rock. It was hard going. Sometimes they seemed to be making no progress at all. Neither spoke until they were in the quiet water on the bay side. Thoroughly spent, Demetrius pulled the dory into the dark mouth of a grotto, and slumped over with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.

  ‘You are a brave girl, Diana!’ he said, huskily.

  ‘I don’t feel very brave,’ she said, in a weak voice, “but I am terribly cold.’

  ‘There is some dry clothing for you in the locker at the bow.’ He took her hand and steadied her as she climbed over his seat. ‘Lift up the trap,’ he said, ‘and you will find it.’

  ‘Is this supposed to be a disguise?’ she inquired, presently.

  ‘No—it’s intended to keep you warm.’

  ‘Why didn’t Acteus and that other guard shoot at me?’ asked Diana.

  ‘Because they might have hit you,’ said Demetrius. ‘You need not be afraid of an arrow. Acteus was told to keep you on the island; not to harm you. Did you know he was following you?’

  ‘Not until I was almost at the pergola. I heard them behind me, and recognized the voice of Acteus when he called. It was an awful feeling when I found myself being drawn up.’ Diana shuddered, it was hard to let go of that rope.’

  ‘I should think it might have been. Are you getting warm now?’ Demetrius was taking up the oars. ‘Did you find the cap?’

  ‘Yes—it’s dreadful. Where are we going now, Demetrius?’

  ‘Over off the mainland—and up the coast to some open beach.’

  ‘And then what—and where?’

  ‘Hide for the day—and row all night tomorrow—and leave the boat somewhere near Formia. But—don’t worry. You are off this dangerous island. Nothing else matters.’

  Diana was quiet for a long time. Demetrius had settled to his heavy task. The oars swept steadily, powerfully, as the dory drove into a rapidly rising breeze. An occasional wave splashed against the rail and showered them with spray.

  ‘Demetrius!’ called Diana. ‘How far is it from Formia to Arpino?’

  ‘Fifty miles—northeast,’ shouted Demetrius, between strokes.

  ‘Were you ever there? You seem to be acquainted with that country.’

  ‘No—never there—looked it up—on the map.’

  ‘Are we going to Arpino?’

  ‘Want to?’

  Diana did not reply. The breeze was growing stronger and Demetrius was laboring hard. A wave broke over the side.

  ‘You’ll find—leather bailing bucket—up there,” called Demetrius. ‘You aren’t frightened—are you?’

  ‘No—not now,’ she sang out cheerfully.

  ‘Keep me headed for that row of lights at Puteoli.’

  ‘A little to the right, then. Demetrius—it seems almost as if someone were looking after us tonight.’

  ‘Yes, Diana.’

  ‘Do you believe that—truly?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Think he will take care of us—if a storm blows up?’

  Demetrius tugged the unwieldly old tub out of the trough, and for an interval rowed hard. Then he replied, in detached phrases, measured by the sweep of the long oars.

  ‘He has been known—to take care—of his friends—in a storm.’

  ***

  So impatient was Caligula to occupy his exalted office that the state funeral of Tiberius—which he did not attend because of some slight indisposition—was practically eclipsed by lavish preparations for the coronation; and, as for Uncle Gaius’ obsequies, not many Princes had been put away with less pomp or at so modest an expense.

  Perhaps, had Emperor Tiberius been a more popular hero, public sentiment might have demanded a better show of respect for the old man’s departure, but so little had been heard of him for the past dozen years that nobody really cared whether he lived or died. Even in the Senate, where the most eloquent of the Romans were skilled in saying things they did not mean, the orations extolling Tiberius were of an appalling dullness.

  There was no decent interval of perfunctory mourning. All night, workmen were busy tearing down the funereal trappings along the Corso and the Via Sacra through which the Emperor had taken his last ride that afternoon. The older patricians were shocked by this irreverence; not that they any longer cared a fig about Tiberius, who, for the Empire’s sake, should have had the goodness to die years ago; but it boded ill for Rome, they felt, to be crowning a youth so impudently defiant of the proprieties. But the traditions meant as little to Caligula as the counsel of his dismayed ministers. The stories of his insane egotism, his fits and rages, and his utter irresponsibility swept through the city like a fire.

  The coronation festivities lasted for a week and were conducted with an extravagance that knew no precedent in the experience of any nation’s capital. Hundreds of thousands were fed and wined and welcomed to the games, which for wanton brutality and reckless bloodshed quite surpassed anything that Rome had ever seen. The substantial citizenship of the Empire stood aghast, stunned to silence. As for the habitually empty-bellied rabble, Little Boots was their man. So long as he dished out bread and circuses it was no concern of theirs how or whether the bill was settled. Indeed, Little Boots led them to believe that it was by his personal generosity that they were fed and entertained, and was forthright in his denunciation of the wealthy, who, he shouted, were responsible for the people’s poverty.

  Old Sejanus, frightened and desperate, came before the Senate to remonstrate and plead for immediate action; but nothing was done, and that night Sejanus was assassinated. Crafty old Julia, who had come to Rome expecting to be glorified as the Empress dowager, was hustled onto the imperial barge without ceremony and shipped back to Capri.

  The palace reeked of dissolute parties that continued for days and nights and days. All the common decencies were abandoned. Uninvited hundreds crowded into the banquets. Priceless art objects were overturned and broken on the mosaic floors. Riotous guests slipped and rolled down
the slimy marble stairways. Never had so many been so drunk.

  Triumphal processions, hastily improvised in celebration of some halfforgotten holiday, would move out unannounced into the avenue, bearing in the foremost golden chariot the garishly arrayed, drunken, disheveled, grimacing, twitching Emperor, sowing handfuls of sesterces into the hysterical street-crowds from a grain-bag that Quintus held in his arms, while the greedy rabble fought in the filthy gutters like dogs, and the pompous Quintus—Little Boots’ favorite—laughed merrily at the sport, his lips still cut and swollen from the brutal slapping he had received from the bejeweled hands of old Julia’s whimsical grandson.

  The patricians kept to their villas, inarticulate and numb with cold anger and despair. There was nothing they could do. They did not protest when Caligula ordered the heads knocked off the venerated busts of the great in the Forum, and marble models of his own installed with impressive ceremonies. They did not protest when he fitted up a gold-and-ivory stall in the palace for his hone Incitatus, nor did they protest when he elevated Incitatus to the rank of Consul.

  The populace laughed inopportunely when Little Boots announced that Incitatus was divine; and, annoyed that this declaration should have been taken lightly, he brought forth an edict demanding that his distinguished horse must henceforth be worshiped in the temples, to the considerable embarrassment of the priests, whose dignity—by reason of other eccentric orders from the throne—was already somewhat in need of repair.

  Almost every day the Emperor savagely inquired of Quintus whether any progress had been made in his search for the haughty and beautiful daughter of Gallus, and would be freshly enraged to learn that no trace of her had been discovered. A guard had been set about the absent Legate Gallus’ villa. Paula’s movements—if the unhappy woman could be said to move at all—were carefully watched. Her servants were questioned, threatened, tortured. On Capri, the guard Acteus and three wharf attendants had been put to death. And Quintus had been advised that he had better contrive some more favorable news of his far-flung investigation if he knew what was good for him.