The Robe

by Lloyd C. Douglas

  Marcipor laid his hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Come,’ he said, gently. ‘You must help. Go and find more blankets—and heat them.’

  ‘I cannot send for Marcellus, sir.’ Marcipor was tugging off his friend’s blood-soaked tunic. ‘There is no one in this house—except myself—who would be admitted to the Catacombs.’

  ‘And why should they admit you?’ challenged Gallio sharply. You are not one of them; are you?’

  Marcipor nodded gravely and busied himself unstrapping Demetrius’ sandals.

  ‘Then—saddle a couple of horses—and go!’ commanded Gallio. ‘Here!—let me do that!’ He turned back his sleeves and attacked the stiffened sandal-straps.

  Presently Tertia returned with additional blankets, followed by Lucia with a cup of mulled wine. Gallio took the spoon from her hand and poured a few drops of the hot stimulant between Demetrius’ parted lips. He swallowed unconsciously. Gallio raised him up a little and put the cup to his mouth, but he did not respond to it. Tertia was sobbing. Lucia gave her a gentle push and pointed to the door.

  ‘Your brother is alive!’ said Gallio, when they were alone.

  Lucia started, put both hands to her face, and opened her mouth in amazement—but no words came. She clutched at her father’s sleeve.

  ‘Marcipor has gone for him,’ murmured Gallio, continuing to administer the hot wine with the spoon. ‘I hope he gets here—in time.’

  ‘Marcellus—alive!’ whispered Lucia, incredulously. ‘Where is he?’

  Gallio frowned darkly.

  ‘In the Catacombs!’ he muttered.

  ‘Oh—but he can’t!’ exclaimed Lucia. ‘He mustn’t! Those people are all to be killed! Father!’ she moaned. ‘That’s where Tullus is! He has been ordered to raid the Catacombs!’

  Gallio passed his hand over his forehead as to rub away the stunning blow. Tertia pushed the door open to admit Sarpedon, who walked to the bed without speaking, and pushed up Demetrius’ eyelids with a practiced thumb. He pressed the back of his hand against the feeble beating in the throat, shook his head, laid his palm against his patient’s heart.

  ‘Hot water,’ he ordered. ‘Fomentations. It may be useless—but—we can try.’

  ***

  No explanations were needed to account for Diana’s employment in the vineyard. Everybody in Arpino knew her story; had known it and discussed it for nearly three weeks. The villa had not tried to make a secret of her presence there; and the villagers, pleased at being trusted, had felt a partnership in her protection.

  Kaeso was proud of his town. It was no small thing, he thought, for all Arpino to hold its tongue in the face of the reward offered for information leading to Diana’s discovery. There were, however, a couple of good reasons for this unanimous fidelity.

  In the first place, a reward promised by the Emperor was a doubtful claim, even if you had earned it honorably. When had the officials ever kept their promises to the people? In the opinion of Arpino, the fewer dealings you had with the Government, the better you were off. It was crammed with deceit and subterfuge, all the way from the Emperor and the other great ones on down to the lazy drunkard who rode over from Alatri once a year to collect the poll-tax. The Arpinos hadn’t a scrap of respect for the Government, either local or national, believing it to be operated by fools and rascals. Even if you were mean enough to disclose the whereabouts of Marcellus’ girl, you could be sure that whoever got the reward it wouldn’t be you. So reasoned the younger men, lounging of an evening on the green, after arguing idly for an hour on what one might do with a thousand sesterces.

  But—according to Antonia—there was a better reason than that why Arpino had kept its secret. Marcellus was gratefully remembered for the many benefits he had contrived. He was already in a fair way to become a legendary character. They had never known anyone like him. It was generally believed—for Arpino was amenable to superstitions—that Marcellus was under the special protectorate of this new Galilean god. Who, albeit devoted to peace and good will, had been known to enter people’s houses without knocking; and you didn’t care to risk having him appear at your bedside, some dark night, to shake you awake, and inquire why you had sold his friend Marcellus’ promised bride to Caligula.

  Early in the morning of Diana’s first day in the vineyard, Vobiscus halted a few of the older men and women as they entered, informing them that she would presently arrive for work—and why. They were to spread the word among the others that the daughter of Legate Gallus was to be treated as they treated one another. She was not to be favored or queried or stared at; nor was she to be shunned. If the legionaries should appear in the vineyard, everyone was to attend to his own business and make no effort to protect Diana, which might only draw attention to her.

  When Metella came in, Vobiscus detained her at the gate, explaining that she was to wait until Diana arrived. Then she was to conduct her to a section of the vineyard farthest from the highway, and show her what to do.

  ‘She needn’t really work, you know,’ grinned Vobiscus, ‘but she ought to know how, in case—’

  ‘I don’t see why you picked on me,’ complained Metella. ‘Will I be expected to carry her basket, so she won’t soil her lily-white hands?’

  ‘She will not impose on you,’ said Vobiscus. ‘I should think you would like to get acquainted with someone of her sort. You liked Marcellus; didn’t you?’

  ‘Get acquainted; eh?’ sniffed Metella. ‘I can just see her getting acquainted with anybody like me!’

  ‘Don’t be so touchy!’ said Vobiscus. ‘Here she comes now. Take her with you. Don’t be embarrassed. Treat her as if she was—a nobody.’

  ‘A nobody—like me; eh?’ commented Metella, bitterly.

  ‘Here I am, Vobiscus,’ announced Diana. ‘Tell me where I am to go, please.’

  ‘Metella will look after you.’ Vobiscus pointed his thumb at the girl, who stood by, scowling. She handed Diana a basket and stiffly led the way, Diana quickly coming abreast of her.

  ‘I hope I’m not going to be a nuisance, Metella. Maybe—if you show me how you do it—’

  ‘You won't need any showing,’ said Metella, crisply, staring straight ahead as they passed between rows of curious eyes. You’ll be just pretending to work.’

  ‘Oh—I shall want to do better than that,’ protested Diana, in the low voice that made everything she said sound like a secret.

  ‘It will spoil your hands,’ said Metella, sourly—after a long delay.

  ‘Come, now!’ coaxed Diana, if you’ll tell me what I’m doing or saying that makes me seem a snob, I’ll try to stop it.’

  Metella drew a slow, reluctant smile that lighted her face a little. Then the scowl returned, as she plodded along doggedly.

  ‘You had decided you weren’t going to like me,’ said Diana, ‘and I don’t think that’s fair. That isn’t the way one girl should treat another.’

  ‘But we aren’t just two girls together,’ objected Metella. ‘You’re somebody—and I’m nobody.’

  ‘That’s partly true,’ agreed Diana, soberly. ‘I am somebody—and I thought you were, too. You certainly don’t look like a nobody, but you ought to know.’

  Metella gave her a quick glance out of the tail of her eye, shrugged and grinned.

  ‘You’re funny,’ she said, half to herself.

  ‘I don’t feel very funny,’ confided Diana, i’m frightened, and I want to go home to my mother.’

  Metella’s steps slowed, and she regarded Diana with an almost sympathetic interest.

  ‘They will not look for you in the vineyard,’ she said. ‘But they might find you in the night, at the villa.’

  ‘I have thought of that,’ said Diana, “but there’s no place else for me to sleep.’

  Metella mumbled, That’s so,’ and put down her basket. She handed Diana a pair of short, heavy shears. ‘All you have to do,’ she demonstrated, ‘is to clip off the bunch close to the branch, and be careful not to bruise it.’ For some time
they worked side by side in silence.

  ‘Have you any room to spare in your house, Metella?’ asked Diana.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Metella. ‘It’s only a little house, with two small bedrooms. One for my father and mother.’ There was a long pause. You wouldn’t want to share my kennel.’

  ‘Why not?’ said Diana. ‘Would you let me?’

  ‘It would make me very happy,’ said Metella, wistfully.

  ‘I would pay you, of course.’

  ‘Please!’ murmured Metella. ‘Don’t spoil it.’

  Diana laid her hand gently on the girl’s thin shoulder, and looked squarely into her face.

  “You told me you were a nobody,' she murmured. ‘Aren't you ashamed?’

  Metella gave an embarrassed little chuckle and rubbed the corner of her eye with a tanned finger.

  ‘You’re funny, Diana,' she whispered.

  ***

  Marcipor rode swiftly, for his errand was urgent. The night air was chilly. The horses were lively, especially the Senator’s black gelding, capering alongside. Old Marcipor, who in recent years was not often in the saddle, wished he had chosen to ride Gallio’s mount. He could have controlled him better.

  Crossing the river on the imposing stone bridge that Julius had built to serve the Via Appia, Marcipor left the celebrated highway and turned off to the right on a rutted road that angled southerly toward the extensive tufa quarries.

  It was quite too hazardous an adventure, he felt, to approach the Catacombs by the usual entrance. If the tunnel in the cypress grove were being watched, even from a distance, a man with two horses in charge would most certainly be challenged.

  He had never used the secret entrance when alone, and was far from sure that he would be able to find it, for it was skillfully concealed in one of the long-abandoned quarries. He knew he would recognize the quarry, when he came to it, for it was the next one beyond an old toolhouse beside the road. Arriving there, he tied the horses and made his way slowly down the precipitous grade to the floor of the quarry. Feeling his way carefully along the wall in the feeble light of a quarter-moon, the old man came upon a shallow pool—and remembered having waded through it. Beyond the pool there was a cleft in the jutting rock. He entered the narrow aperture and was moving cautiously into its deeper darkness when a gruff voice halted him. Marcipor gave his name, and the sentry—whom he recognized—told him to proceed.

  ‘I came for Marcellus Gallio,' he said. ‘His Greek slave, also one of us, lies dying of wounds. It is a hard trip for an old man, Thrason. Will you go and find Marcellus, giving him this message?’

  ‘If you will stand guard, Marcipor.’

  It seemed a long time, waiting in the stifling darkness, hearing no sound but the dull thump of his own aging heart. He strained to listen for the scrape of sandals on the rough tufa. At length he saw the frail glow of a taper, far down the slanting tunnel. As it approached, Marcipor saw that two men were following Thrason; Marcellus first, and—the Big Fisherman!

  There was a brief, low-voiced colloquy. It was agreed that Marcellus and Peter were to take the horses. Marcipor would spend the night in the Catacombs.

  ‘You told my father I was out here?’ asked Marcellus.

  ‘Yes—but he is so rejoiced to know you are alive, sir, that he was not disturbed by your being with the Christians. You may be sure he will keep your secret. Go now, sir. Demetrius had not long to live!’

  ***

  Lentius led the hot horses away. Lucia, waiting on the portico, ran down the steps and threw herself into her brother’s arms, weeping softly and clutching his sleeves in her trembling fingers.

  ‘Is Demetrius still alive?’ asked Marcellus, urgently.

  ‘He is still breathing,’ said Lucia—‘but Sarpedon says he is losing ground very fast and can’t live more than another hour.’

  Marcellus turned and beckoned to his companion.

  ‘This is Simon Peter, Lucia. He is lately come from Galilee. He, too, knows Demetrius.’

  The huge, heavily bearded outlander bowed to her.

  ‘Your servant, my sister!’ he said, in a rich, deep voice.

  ‘Welcome,’ said Lucia, tearfully. ‘Come—let us lose no time.’

  Gallio, aged and weary, met them at the top of the stairs, embracing his son in silence. Cornelia, much shaken by the night’s events, swayed weakly into his arms, whimpering incoherent endearments. Peter stood waiting on the stairway. The Senator turned toward him with a challenging stare. Lucia indifferently supplied the introduction.

  ‘A friend of Marcellus,’ she said. ‘What is your name, please?’

  ‘Peter,’ he said, in his deep guttural voice.

  The Senator nodded coolly, his attitude signifying that the ungroomed stranger was out of his proper environment. But now Peter, who had grown impatient over the delay, had a surprise for Senator Gallio. Advancing, the huge Galilean confronted his haughty Roman host with the authoritative air of one accustomed to giving commands.

  ‘Take me to Demetrius!’ he demanded.

  At the sound of this strange, insistent voice, Cornelia released Marcellus and gazed at the big, foreigner with open-mouthed curiosity. Gallio, dwarfed by the towering figtire, obediently led the way to Demetrius’ room. They all followed, and ranged themselves about the bedside, Marcellus laying his hand gently on the tousled head. At a sign from Gallio, who was obviously impressed by the determined manner of their mysterious guest, Sarpedon rose from his chair by the bed and made way for the newcomer. With calm self-assurance, Peter took up Demetrius’ limp hands in his great, brown fists and shook him.

  ‘Demetrius!’ he called, as if he were shouting to him at a vast distance; as if the dying Greek were miles and leagues away. There was no response; not so much as the flicker of an eyelid. Peter called again—in a booming voice that could easily have been heard over on the avenue. ‘Demetrius! Return!’

  Nobody breathed. The company about the bed stood statuesque, waiting. Suddenly Peter straightened to his full height and faced them with extended arms and dismissing hands.

  ‘Go!’ he commanded. ‘Leave us—alone—together!’

  They silently obeyed, filing out into the corridor; all but Marcellus, who lagged to ask if he should go, too. Peter nodded. He was stripping off his homespun robe as Marcellus closed the door. They all drifted along the corridor to the head of the stairway where, for some time, they stood silently listening for further loud calls from the big Galilean who had taken possession of their house. Marcellus expected to hear some whispers of protest, but no one spoke. A tense silence prevailed. No sound came from Demetrius’ room.

  After a while the Senator broke the tension by turning toward the stairs. With the cautious tread of a frail old man he slowly descended. Sarpedon sullenly followed, and eased himself into a chair in the atrium. Cornelia took Marcellus by the arm and led him into her bedchamber, Lucia following. No one was left in the corridor now but Tertia, who tiptoed back to Demetrius’ door. Crouching down beside it, she waited and listened, hearing nothing but her own stifled sobs.

  A half-hour later, Marcellus came out of his mother’s room, and queried Tertia with a whisper. She shook her head sadly. He went down to the library and found his father seated at his desk, with no occupation. The haggard old Senator pointed to a chair. After a long moment, he cleared his throat and drew a cynical smile.

  ‘Does your unkempt friend think he is a miracle-worker?’

  ‘Peter is strangely gifted, sir,’ said Marcellus, feeling himself at a serious disadvantage.

  ‘Very unusual procedure, I must say! He takes command of the case, discharges our physician, dismisses us from the room. Do you expect him to perform some supernatural feat up there?’

  ‘It would not surprise me,’ said Marcellus. ‘I admit, sir, Peter has no polish, but he is thoroughly honest. Perhaps we should withhold judgment until we see what happens.’

  ‘Well—the thing that will happen is the death of Demetrius,’ said Gallio
. ‘However—it would have happened, in any event. I should have protested against this nonsense, if there had been the shadow of a hope that Demetrius might recover with proper treatment. I wonder how long we will have to wait for this Jew to finish his incantations—or whatever he is doing.’

  ‘I don’t know, sir,’ confessed Marcellus. After a considerable pause, he asked, ‘Have you learned any of the particulars about Demetrius’ injuries?’

  Gallio shook his head.

  ‘You will have heard, of course, that he helped Diana escape from Capri? It is said that he is wanted on an old charge of assaulting a Tribune.’

  Marcellus came to his feet and leaned over his father’s desk.

  ‘She escaped! I haven’t heard a word of it. Where is she now?’

  ‘No one seems to know. She is not at home. The Emperor pretends to be much concerned about her welfare, and has had searching parties looking for her.’

  ‘And why is he so interested?’ asked Marcellus, indignantly; and when his father made no reply, he added, ‘Perhaps Demetrius knows where she is. Maybe he got into trouble on her account.’

  Gallio made a weary, hopeless gesture.

  ‘If Demetrius knows,’ he said, ‘he will take his secret along with him, my son.’

  Restless and distraught, Marcellus returned to his mother’s room and found her sleeping. Lucia was curled up on a couch. He sat down beside her and held her hand. The gray-blue light of dawn had begun to invade the dark corners.

  ‘Is that man still in there?’ whispered Lucia.

  Marcellus nodded dejectedly, walked to the door, opened it and looked down the corridor. Tertia had left her post. He closed the door, and resumed his seat on the couch beside his sister.

  ***

  Tertia started at the sound of the door-latch. The bearded face of the massive Galilean peered out into the corridor.

  ‘Go—quietly,’ whispered Peter—‘and prepare some hot broth.’

  ‘Oh—is he going to live?’ breathed Tertia.

  Peter closed the door softly, without replying. Sensing that the family was not yet to be summoned, Tertia slipped down the rear stairway. When she returned, she tapped gently on the door and Peter opened it only far enough to admit her, and closed it again. Demetrius, very white, was propped up in the pillows, awake, but seemingly dazed. He regarded her with a listless glance.