The Robe

by Lloyd C. Douglas

  But Quintus’ failure to find Diana was for no lack of personal interest in this quest. For one thing, when they found Diana they would probably find Demetrius, too. He had a score to settle there. It fretted him that he had not been told of the Greek’s presence on the island when he had visited the Empress, at Gaius’ behest, to implore her to take Caligula off his hands.

  Of course it was possible that Diana and Demetrius might have been drowned. Their dory had been found adrift. The weather had been stormy. Nobody along the coast, all the way up from Formia to Capua, had seen anything of the fugitives.

  Little Boots fumed and shouted. Diana was the only person he knew who had regarded him with undisguised contempt. Moreover, according to the story of her escape from Capri, she had plenty of courage. It would be a pleasure to break her, he muttered. Quintus’ mobile lips still smiled obsequiously, but his brows contracted in a cautioning frown.

  ‘The slave Demetrius, Your Majesty, who contrived her flight, should be disposed of before the daughter of Gallus is taken.’

  ‘Why?’ barked Caligula, is the slave in love with her? You said she was in love with that mad Tribune who crucified the Jew, and lost his head over thinking he had killed a god.’

  Quintus’ eyes had lighted with surprise that Little Boots remembered what he had told him about the Galilean, and the large following he had attracted. Caligula had been so very drunk, and had seemed to pay no attention. Apparently the story had impressed him.

  ‘True, Your Majesty,’ said Quintus. ‘This Demetrius was the slave of Marcellus, the son of old Gallio. Doubtless he has sworn to protect Diana.’

  ‘If he can!’ sneered Caligula.

  ‘If he cannot, sire—and Diana is captured—this Greek would not hesitate to risk his life in avenging her.’

  ‘Pouf! What could he do? You are a timid fool, Quintus! Do you think this slave would force a violent entrance into our presence?’

  ‘The Greek is a dangerous man, Your Majesty,’ warned Quintus. ‘He was once reckless enough to attack a Tribune with his bare hands!’

  ‘And lived?’ shouted Caligula.

  ‘Quite openly! And became a member of the Emperor’s guard at the Villa Jovis!’

  ‘Did Tiberius know of the slave’s crime?’

  ‘Doubtless. The Empress knew—for I told her.’

  ‘Who was the Tribune that the Greek attacked?’

  Quintus fidgeted, and Caligula—eyeing him sharply—burst into laughter. Quintus flushed, and grinned sheepishly.

  ‘Emperor Tiberius never liked me, sire,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Perhaps the old man appointed the slave a member of his guard to reward him,’ chuckled Caligula. ‘Well—here is your chance to settle with this savage. Find him—and run him through!’ he advised, with an appropriate gesture.

  Quintus pursed his lips and slowly elevated a prudent shoulder.

  ‘I should not enjoy fighting a duel with a slave, Your Majesty.’

  Little Boots rocked with laughter.

  ‘Not with this one—in any easel’ He suddenly sobered and scowled. “You make haste to find that Greek! If you are afraid to meet him, let a braver man attend to it! We do not like the idea of his being at large. But—tell me more of this Marcellus, who threw himself into the sea. He became a follower of the Jew; eh? Does the daughter of Gallus entertain such notions?’

  Quintus said he didn’t know, but that he had reasons to believe the Greek slave was a Christian, as he had consorted with these people in Jerusalem.

  ‘But he fights; eh?’ commented Caligula, it was our understanding that this crazy Jesus-cult does not permit fighting.’

  ‘Well—that may be so, Your Majesty,’ conceded Quintus, 'but if this Greek is enraged, he will not ask anybody’s permission to fight. He is a wild animal!’

  Little Boots nervously picked at his pimples.

  ‘What do you think of the strength of our palace guard, Quintus?’

  ‘They are awake, sire, and loyal.’

  ‘It would be quite impossible for an assassin to enter our bedchamber; eh?’

  ‘From without, yes, Your Majesty. But if the Greek decided to kill the Emperor, he might not try to enter the palace. He would probably leap up over the Emperor’s chariot-wheel with a dagger.’

  ‘And be instantly bludgeoned to death by the people,’ declared Caligula, his chin working convulsively.

  ‘Of course, Your Majesty,’ assented Quintus, not displeased to note Little Boots’ agitation. ‘But the bludgeoning might come too late to be of service to the Emperor. As for the Greek, if he decided to get revenge, he would not haggle at the price.’

  Caligula held up a shaky goblet and Quintus made haste to replenish it.

  ‘Hereafter, there must be better protection of our person when we are before the people. There must be a strong double guard marching on either side of the imperial chariot, Quintus. You shall see to it!’

  ‘Your Majesty’s order will be obeyed. But if I may venture to say so, this danger could be avoided, sire. Let the daughter of Gallus—if she still lives—go her way unmolested. The Emperor would have no comfort with her; and to keep her in chains might provoke much unrest in the army where Legate Gallus is held in high esteem.’

  Little Boots drank deeply, hiccoughed, and drew a surly grin.

  ‘When we need your advice, Quintus, we will ask for it. The Emperor of the Roman Empire does not inquire whether his decisions are approved by every legionary in the army.’ Little Boots’ voice rose shrilly. ‘Nor are we concerned over the mutterings of the fat old men in the Senate! We have the people with us!’

  Quintus smiled obediently, but offered no comment.

  ‘Speak up, fooll’ screamed Little Boots. ‘The people are with us!’

  ‘As long as they are fed, Your Majesty,’ ventured Quintus.

  ‘We shall feed them when we like,’ snarled Little Boots, thickly.

  Quintus did not reply to that. Observing that the large silver goblet was empty again, he refilled it.

  ‘And when we stop feeding them—then what?’ challenged Little Boots, truculently, is there to be disorder—and do we have to lash them back to their kennels?’

  ‘Hungry people, sire,’ said Quintus, quietly, ‘can make themselves very annoying.’

  ‘By petty pillaging? Let them steal! The owners of the markets are rich. Why should we concern ourself about that? But we will tolerate no mobs, no meetings!’

  ‘It is not difficult, Your Majesty, to deal with mobs,’ remarked Quintus. They can be quickly dispersed after the spokesmen are apprehended. It is not so easy to break up the secret meetings.’

  Caligula set down his goblet—and scowled darkly.

  ‘What kind of people are they who dare to hold secret meetings?’

  Quintus deliberated a reply, frowning thoughtfully.

  ‘I have not mentioned this to Your Majesty, because the Emperor is already burdened with cares; but it is believed that there are many followers of this new Galilean cult.’

  ‘Ah—the people who are forbidden to fight Let them meet! Let them whisper! How many are there?’

  ‘Nobody knows, sire. But we have word that the party is growing. Several houses, where numbers of men were seen to enter nightly, have been watched. In a few cases the patrol has entered, finding no disorder, no arms, and apparently no heated talk. In each instance, no more meetings were held in the house that had been investigated. That probably means they resolved to meet elsewhere. Prince Gaius had been investigating them for months, but without much success.’

  ‘It’s a small matter,’ mumbled Caligula, drowsily. ‘Let them meet and prattle. If they want to think their dead Jew is divine, what of it? Incitatus is divine’—he giggled, drunkenly—‘but nobody cares much.’

  ‘But these Christians claim that the Galilean is not dead, sire,’ rejoined Quintus. ‘According to their belief, he has been seen on many occasions since his crucifixion. They consider him their King.’

 
‘King!’ Little Boots suddenly stirred from his torpor. ‘We will see to that! Let them believe what else they please about this Jew—but we will have no nonsense about this kingship! Anest these rools, wherever you find them, and we will break this thing up before it starts!’

  ‘It has started, Your Majesty,’ said Quintus, soberly. ‘All Palestine is full of it. Recently the party has become strong enough to come out openly in Corinth, Athens, and other Grecian cities.’

  ‘Where are the authorities?’ demanded Caligula. ‘Are they asleep?’

  ‘No, Your Majesty. The leaders have been imprisoned and some have been put to death; but these people are fanatically brave. They think that if they die for this cause they shall live again.’

  ‘Bah!’ shouted Caligula. ‘Not many will be found believing in such rubbish! And the few who do believe it will be helpless nobodies!’

  Quintus sat silently for a while with his eyes averted.

  ‘Cornelius Capito is anxious about it, sire. He estimates that there are more than four thousand of these Christians in Rome at the present hour.’

  ‘And what is he doing about this treason?’ demanded Caligula.

  Quintus shook his head.

  ‘It is a shange movement, sire. It has only one weapon; its belief that there is no death. Cornelius Capito is not equipped to crush something that refuses to die when it is killed.’

  ‘You are talking like a fool, Quintus!’ mumbled Caligula. ‘Command this cowardly old dotard to come here tomorrow, and give an account of himself! And—see you to it that the Greek slave is arrested before many days have passed. Bring him here alive, if possible.’ The imperial voice was becoming incoherent. ‘Call the Chamberlain. We would retire.’

  ***

  If, on his faraway travels, some chance acquaintance had asked Marcellus Gallio whether he knew his way about in Rome, he would have replied that he surely ought to know Rome, seeing he had lived there all his life.

  He was now discovering that it was one thing to know Rome from the comfortable altitude of a wealthy young Tribune, son of an influential Senator, and quite another thing to form one’s estimates of Rome from the viewpoint of an unemployed, humbly dressed wayfarer with temporary lodging at a drovers’ tavern hard by the public markets that crawled up the bank of the busy Tiber to front a cobbled, crowded, littered street, a street that clamored and quarreled and stank—all day and all night.

  It had not yet been disclosed to Marcellus why he had felt impelled to return to Rome. He had been here ten days now, jostled by the street crowds, amazed and disgusted by the shameless greed, filth, and downright indecency of the unprivileged thousands who lived no better than the rats that overran the wharf district. The Arpinos had been poor and dirty, too, and ragged and rude; but they were promptly responsive to opportunities for improvement. Surely these underdogs of Rome were not of a different species. Marcellus tried to analyze the problem. Perhaps this general degradation was the result of too much crowding, too little privacy, too much noise. You couldn’t be decent if you weren’t intelligent; you couldn’t be intelligent if you couldn’t think—and who could think in all this racket? Add the stench to the confusion of cramped quarters, and who could be self-respecting? Marcellus felt himself deteriorating; hadn’t shaved for three days. He had a good excuse. The facilities at Apuleius’ tavern were not conducive to keeping oneself fit. Nobody shaved; nobody was clean; nobody cared.

  On the day of the Emperor’s funeral, Marcellus was in the sweating, highly flavored throng that packed the plaza in front of the Forum Julium as the solemn procession arrived for the ceremonies. He was shocked to see how his father had aged in these recent weeks. Of course he had had much to worry about. There was a haunted expression on the faces of all these eminent men, and no wonder; for the Empire was in a shameful plight indeed! Marcellus winced at the sight of Senator Gallio, who had ever borne himself with such stately dignity, and had now surrendered to despair. It made his heart ache.

  Day after day, for another fortnight, he wandered about the streets, pausing now and then to listen to a hot dispute, or ask a friendly question of a neighbor; but usually men turned away when he tried to engage them in conversation. By his tone and manner, he was not their sort, and they distrusted him. And always the memory of his father’s melancholy face and feeble step haunted him.

  One evening, intolerably depressed, he dispatched a message to Marcipor, stating briefly where he was living, and requesting a private interview at such a time and place as Marcipor might suggest; preferably not at the tavern of Apuleius. Two hours later the messenger returned with a letter directing Marcellus to go out, the next day, along the Via Appia, until he came to the old Jewish cemetery. Marcipor would meet him there about mid-afternoon.

  Marcellus remembered the place. There was an interesting story about it. Two centuries ago, when Antiochus had conquered Palestine, life had been made so wretched for the Jews that thousands of them had migrated, and Rome had got more than her share.

  Alarmed by the volume of this immigration, laws were passed to restrict the liberties of these refugees. They were banished to the wrong side of the Tiber, limited as to the occupations they might pursue, denied Roman citizenship, and—as the animosity against them increased—ruthlessly persecuted.

  Traditionally respectful to their dead, the Jews were greatly distressed when Rome assigned them a burial ground far south of the city where only a shallow deposit of soil covered a massive tufa rock fully a hundred feet deep. Passionate patriots made it a practice to go out there by night and desecrate the graves.

  At a prodigious cost of labor, the afflicted Jews proceeded to carve an oblique tunnel into the solid stone. On the lower level, they made long, labyrinthine corridors in the walls of which they dug crypts for their dead, and rooms where hard-pressed fugitives might hide.

  As time passed, the persecutions eased. Many wealthy Jews, having contributed generously to the erection of state buildings and monuments, were admitted to citizenship; and by their influence the burdens laid upon their less lucky kindred were lightened. The old burial ground fell into disuse. Few persons visited ‘The Catacombs’ now except students of antiquities. Marcellus wondered why Marcipor, who was getting to be an old man, had selected this place for their meeting. It was a long walk.

  He arrived somewhat earlier than the appointed time, but Marcipor was already there, waiting for him in the cypress grove that extended from the busy highway a full quarter-mile to the abandoned subterranean tombs.

  Marcipor, who had been sitting on the ground, scrambled to his feet and hurried forward with outstretched hands, his deep-lined face contorted with emotion. Deeply moved by the old servitor’s attitude, Marcellus grasped his hands hungrily. He was not a Tribune now. Time swung backward for both of them. The little boy, who had so often come running to the calm and resourceful Corinthian when there was a cut finger or a broken toy, now put his arms around the old man, and held him close.

  ‘We feared you were dead,’ said Marcipor, brokenly. ‘The family has mourned for you. Tell me’—he held Marcellus at arm’s length and studied his face—‘why did you afflict them so? It was not like you to do that, my son.... Come—let us sit down. I am very weary.’

  ‘Good Marcipor, I was forced to an unhappy choice of afflictions for my family. If they thought me dead, they would grieve; but they would remember me with affection. Had I come home, sworn to spend my life in the service of a cause which demands the complete breaking away from the manner of life expected of Senator Gallio’s son, I should have caused them all a greater sorrow. As it stands, they are bereaved; but not humiliated.’

  ‘And why have you told me?’ asked Marcipor. ‘This is indeed a weighty secret to confide to one who would be loyal to his master.’

  ‘I saw my father on the day of the Emperor’s funeral, Marcipor. His handsome face was haggard, his eyes were dulled with despair, his shoulders slumped, the proud, statesmanly bearing was gone. The light was out. I trie
d to forget that harrowing glimpse of my father, but it tortured me. That is why I have sought your counsel. Shall I return? Is there anything I can do?’

  With bowed head and downcast eyes, Marcipor meditated a reply.

  ‘Of course you will say,’ continued Marcellus, ‘that I should renounce the work I have undertaken and resume my former place in my father’s house. I cannot expect you to understand the obligation that is laid on me, for you have had no opportunity to—’

  ‘No—my sonl’ broke in Marcipor. ‘You could not renounce your new calling; not even if you tried! I am not as ignorant of this matter as you think. Once a man has become convinced that Jesus is the living Son of God, who is here to set up a kingdom of justice and good will for all people, he does not surrender that faith! If—for any reason—he turns away from it, that means he never had it!’

  Marcellus leaned forward to listen, with widening eyes.

  ‘Marcipor!’ he exclaimed. ‘You are a Christian?’

  ‘When you were at home, the last time, Demetrius thought I should tell you of my belief, and my association with the other Christians in Rome—’

  ‘Other Christians?’ repeated Marcellus, amazed.

  ‘Yes, my son—and they are in grave danger. I knew that if you were told of a growing Christian party in Rome, you would join it. These men—for the most part obscure—can assemble secretly, in small groups, without attracting much attention. A Tribune could not do that. I thought it more prudent that you keep away from these meetings. Now—in the past few days—the new Emperor has published an edict threatening death to anyone found in an assembly of Christians. What will happen to our cause in Rome remains to be seen. Young Caligula is cruel and headstrong, they say.’