The Robe

by Lloyd C. Douglas

  ‘My mother has spoken the truth, sir,' said Diana, weakly. ‘Please tell the Emperor that I must be excused. I am too ill.’

  ‘Perhaps you should be told,’ said Quintus, coldly, ‘that your friend Tribune Marcellus, now resting in a dungeon at the Palace, will be arraigned tomorrow on a charge of sedition. The Emperor’s judgment in this case may be tempered somewhat if the daughter of the Legate Gallus is disposed to be gracious to His Majesty.’

  ‘Very well.’ Diana’s voice was barely audible. ‘I shall come.’

  ‘If my husband were here,” announced Paula, throwing all prudence aside, ‘some blood would flow before this cruel thing came to pass!’

  ‘Madame—you are overwrought,’ observed Quintus. ‘May I suggest that it is not to your advantage to make such statements? I shall not report this to His Majesty—but I advise you to be more discreet.’ Bowing deeply, he turned and marched out through the peristyle, followed stiffly by his retinue.

  ***

  Marcellus was surprised at the consideration he was shown by the Palace Guards who arrested him and by the officials at the prison. Perhaps it was due to his rank. Roused from a deep sleep, at the Gallus villa, he had gone down to the atrium to face a Centurion attended by a deputation of twenty legionaries.

  Aware that it was useless to resist so formidable a party, he had asked permission to return to his room for his personal belongings, and the request was courteously granted. It was a sorry parting. Diana clung to him, weeping piteously.

  ‘Be brave, darling,’ he had entreated. ‘Perhaps this is only to humiliate me. The Emperor will probably rebuke me—and set me free—with an admonition. Let us not despair.’

  Tearing himself away, he had obediently followed the Centurion. They had offered him a horse; had put him in the midst of them; no one of the drunken merrymakers on the streets could have suspected that he was under arrest.

  At the Palace he was taken to the prison. It was subterranean, but well lighted and ventilated, and the room they gave him was comfortably furnished. The Centurion informed him that he was free to notify his friends of his whereabouts: his messages would be dispatched forthwith, and any visitors would be admitted.

  Marcellus sat down at once before the desk and wrote a letter.

  Marcipor: I am in the Palace prison, held on a charge of treason. Inform my family. You will be permitted to visit me, but perhaps it would be better if the Senator does not subject himself to such a painful errand. I am well treated. Bring me the Robe.—Marcellus.

  Shortly after dawn, Marcipor appeared. He bore himself with the gravity and weariness of a very old man. The guards retired after admitting him, their demeanor indicating that no effort would be made to listen to their conversation. Marcipor’s hands were cold and shaky. His eyes were full of trouble.

  ‘I would rather die, my son,’ he quavered, ‘than see you subjected to this grievous persecution.’

  ‘Marcipor—it has sometimes been found necessary for a man to give up his life in defense of a great cause. I am sorely troubled, but not for myself. I sorrow for those who love me.’

  ‘Let me send for Peter!’ entreated Marcipor. ‘He has great power. He might even be able to deliver you from prison.’

  Marcellus shook his head.

  ‘No—Marcipor; Peter’s life is too valuable to be put in jeopardy.’

  ‘But the Christos! Might he not come to your rescue—and Peter’s?’ asked the old man, tearfully.

  ‘It is not right to put the Christos to a test, Marcipor.’

  ‘Here is the Robe, sir.’ Marcipor unlaced his tunic and drew out the seamless garment.

  Marcellus held it in his arms.

  ‘Let not your heart be troubled, Marcipor,’ he said, gently, laying his hand on the old slave’s bowed shoulder. ‘Come again, tomorrow. There may be better tidings.’

  ***

  What hurt Diana most, as she sat at the high table beside the drunken Emperor, was the baffled look of disappointment in Senator Gallio’s eyes. He had come alone to the banquet, and only because he must. They had seated him at a distant table, but he and Diana had exchanged glances, and it was plain to see that he believed she had forsaken his son in his hour of peril. She longed to go to him and explain her predicament, but it was quite impossible. Their situation was already much too precarious.

  Caligula was giving most of his attention to Salome. He had tried, without success, to have her repeat some of her ribald stories; but Salome, suspecting that she was being used as a catspaw, had assumed an air of virtue. Little Boots, not having seen her in this rôle, was at a loss to know what to do with her. His plan for his entertainment at this boresome banquet was getting quite out of hand. With Diana on his right, coldly dignified and taciturn, and Salome on his left, refusing to conspire with him for Diana’s discomfiture, the Emperor—who had arrived at the surly stage of his drunkenness—decided to better his position.

  Turning to Salome, he remarked, with intention that Diana should overhear:

  ‘We have captured one of these Christians who seem bent on overturning the government. His case is of special interest because lie is a Tribune. Would it amuse you, sweet Salome, to see a Christian Tribune recant—in the presence of the Praetorian Guard and the Senate?’

  Salome gave him an enigmatic smile, over her shoulder.

  ‘Unless the Emperor means to see it through,’ she drawled, ‘it is risky. These Christians do not recant, Your Majesty. My father once undertook to humiliate a Christian before our court; and the fellow—instead of recanting—delivered an address that practically ruined the reputation of the whole family! Me—especially! You should have heard the things he said about me! It was intolerable! We had to punish him.’

  Caligula’s malicious little, dose-set eyes sparkled.

  ‘Whip him?’ he asked—making sure Diana heard.

  ‘We beheaded him!’ rasped Salome.

  ‘Well—’ responded Caligula. ‘You did punish him; didn’t you? What do you do to people, up there in Galilee, when they say something false about you?’ He laughed loudly, punching Salome in the ribs with his elbow. Then he turned about to see how Diana was liking the conversation. She was deathly white.

  Quintus, acting as Praetor, arose to announce Cornelius Capito, who proceeded to make the worst speech of his life; for it was inevitable that it should be a eulogy of Caligula, and old Capito was an honest man. A chorus choir filed in and sang an ode. An Egyptian Prince delivered an address which all but put Caligula to sleep. He beckoned to Quintus, and Quintus whispered to an aide.

  ‘Now,’ said Little Boots to Salome, ‘we will look into the loyalty of our Christian Tribune. They have gone to fetch him.’

  ‘Remember what I said, sire! These people have no fear.’

  ‘Would you like to lay a little wager?’

  ‘Anything you say, Your Majesty,’ she shrugged.

  Caligula unclasped an emerald bracelet from his wrist and laid it on the table.

  Salome unfastened a gold locket from the chain about her neck and opened it.

  ‘Humph!’ grunted Caligula. ‘What is it—a lock of hair; eh?’

  ‘From the head of the only honest man I ever met,’ declared Salome. ‘He was also the bravest.’

  Caligula struggled to his feet and the entire assembly of Roman dignitaries rose and bowed. With a benevolent sweep of his arm, he bade them resume their seats. He was moved, he said, by the many expressions of fidelity to the Crown. It was apparent, he went on, thickly, that the Praetorian Guard and the Senate appreciated the value of a united loyalty to the Emperor and the Empire. They cheered him, briefly.

  It had lately come to the Emperor’s notice, he said, that a secret party of seditionists, calling themselves Christians, had been giving themselves to vain talk about a King—one Jesus, a Jewish brawler—who for treason and disturbance of the peace had been put to death in Jerusalem. His disciples—a small company of ignorant and superstitious fishermen—had spread the word t
hat their dead chieftain had come alive and intended to set up a Kingdom.

  ‘This foolishness,’ continued Caligula, ‘would hardly deserve our recognition were it confined to the feeble-minded fanatics and the brawlers who fan the flame of such superstitions in hope of gain. But it now comes to our attention that one of our Tribunes—Marcellus Gallio—’

  Slowly the eyes of the banquet guests moved toward Senator Gallio. He did not change countenance; sat staring, gray-faced, at Caligula; his mouth firm-set, his deep eyes steady.

  ‘We are reluctant to believe,’ went on Caligula, ‘that these reports concerning Tribune Marcellus are true. It is his right, under our law, to stand up before you—and make his defense!’

  ***

  Diana was so very proud of him; so very, very proud of him as he marched, head erect, in the hollow square of Palace Guards as they stalked into the banquet hall and came to a halt before the Emperor’s high table. The guards were all fine specimens of manhood, in their late twenties and early thirties; athletes, square-jawed, broad-shouldered, bronzed; yet—in every way—Marcellus, thought Diana, was the fittest of them all; and if ever this Jesus, whose own heroism had inspired her beloved Marcellus to endure this trial—if ever this Jesus was to have a champion worthy of him—surely he could ask for none more perfect than her Marcellus!

  She had been so, so afraid he might not understand her being here beside this sick and drunk and loathsome little wretch, with the pasty skin and beady eyes and cruel mouth. But no—but no!—Marcellus understood. Their eyes met, his lighting in an endearing smile. His lips pantomimed a kiss! Diana’s heart beat hard—and her eyes were swimming.

  Marcellus was asked to stand forth—and he stepped forward to face the Emperor. Everybody stood. The silence in the hall was oppressive. Outside in the Palace plaza the procession was forming that would convey Rome’s lawgivers to the Temple of Jupiter. The triumphal music was blaring discordantly from a dozen gaudily decorated equipages in the waiting cavalcade, and the sweating crowds that had massed in the avenue were shouting drunkenly; but, within the spacious banquet-hall, the silence was tense.

  ‘Tribune Marcellus Gallio,’ began Caligula, with attempted dignity, ‘you have been accused of consorting with a party of revolutionists known as Christians. It is said that these promoters of sedition—for the most part slaves and vandals—have proclaimed the kingship of one Jesus, a Palestinian Jew, who was put to death for treason, blasphemy, and disturbances of the public peace. What have you to say?’

  Diana searched her beloved’s impassive face. There was not a trace of fear. Indeed, to judge by his demeanor, the Emperor might have been bestowing an honor. How handsome he was in his Tribune’s uniform! What was that brown garment that he held tightly in his folded arms? Diana’s throat tightened as she identified the Robe. A hot tear rolled down her cheek. Oh—please—Christos! Marcellus is carrying your Robe! Please—Christos—Marcellus loves you so! He has given up so much for you! He is trying so hard to atone for what he did to you! Please—Christos! Do something for my Marcellus!

  ‘It is true, Your Majesty,’ Marcellus was replying, in a steady voice that could be heard through the banquet-hall, ‘I am a Christian. But I am not a seditionist. I am not engaged in a plot to overthrow the Government. This Jesus, whom I put to death on a cross, is indeed a King; but his Kingdom is not of this world. He does not seek an earthly throne. His Kingdom is a state of mind and heart that strives for peace and justice and good will among all men.’

  ‘You say you put this Jew to death?’ barked Caligula. “Why, then, are you risking your life to serve as his ambassador?’

  ‘It is a fair question, sire. This Jesus was innocent of any crime. At his trial, the Procurator, who sat in judgment, entreated the prosecutors to release him. He had gone about among the country people advising them to be kind to one another, to be honest and truthful, merciful and forbearing. He had healed their sick, opened the eyes of the blind, and had spoken simple words of consolation to the distressed. They followed him—thousands of them—from place to place—day by day—hanging on his words and crowding close to him for comfort. They forsook their synagogues, where their priests had been interested in them only for their tithes and lambs, and banded themselves together to barter only with men who weighed with honest scales.’ Marcellus paused, in his lengthy speech.

  ‘Proceed!’ commanded the Emperor. ‘You are an able advocate!’ He smiled contemptuously. You are almost persuading us to be a Christian.’

  ‘Your Majesty,’ went on Marcellus, in a remorseful tone, ‘I was ordered to conduct the execution. The trial had been held in a language I did not understand; and not until my crime had been committed did I realize the enormity of it.’

  ‘Crime—you say?’ shouted Caligula, truculently. ‘And was it a crime, then, to obey the command of the Empire?’

  ‘The Empire, Your Majesty, is composed of fallible men who sometimes make mistakes. And this, sire, was the greatest mistake that was ever made!’

  ‘So!—the Empire makes mistakes, then!’ growled Caligula. ‘Perhaps you will be foolhardy enough to say that the Emperor himself might make a mistake!' it is I, Your Majesty, who am on trial; not the Emperor,' said Marcellus, bowing.

  Caligula was not quite prepared to deal with that comment. He flushed darkly. A throaty little chuckle came up from Salome’s direction, spurring his anger.

  ‘What is that brown thing you have clutched in your arms?’ he demanded, pointing his finger.

  ‘It is his Robe, Your Majesty.’ Marcellus held it up for inspection. ‘He wore it to the cross.’

  ‘And you have the impudence to bring it along to your trial; eh? Hand it to the Commander of the Guard.’

  Marcellus obeyed. The Centurion reached out a hand, rather reluctantly, and in effecting the transfer, the Robe fell to the floor. The Centurion haughtily waited for the prisoner to pick it up, but Marcellus made no move to do so.

  ‘Hand that garment to the Commander!’ ordered Caligula.

  Marcellus stooped, picked up the Robe, and offered it to the Commander who motioned to the guard beside him to receive it. The guard took it—and dropped it. All breathing was suspended in the banquet-hall.

  ‘Bring that thing here!’ shouted Caligula, bravely. He extended his hand with fingers outspread. Marcellus moved to obey. Salome glanced up suddenly, caught Caligula’s eye, and ventured a warning frown. ‘Hand it to the daughter of Legate Gallus,’ he commanded. ‘She will keep it for you—as a memento.’

  It was a most impressive moment. Marcellus reached up and handed the Robe to Diana, who leaned forward eagerly to receive it. They exchanged an intimate, lingering smile quite as if they were alone together. Marcellus stepped back to his place beside the Commander, and all eyes were fixed on Diana’s enraptured face as she gathered the Robe to her bosom, regarding it with a tenderness that was almost maternal.

  Little Boots was not easily embarrassed, but it was plain to see that the situation was becoming somewhat complicated. He had intended it as a drama to impress the Senate. These great ones needed to learn that their new Emperor expected unqualified loyalty and obedience, and plenty of it, whether the subject be a penniless nobody or a person of high rank. The play hadn’t gone well. The other actors were neglecting to furnish cues for the imperial speeches. His face was twisted with a mounting rage. He glared at Marcellus.

  ‘You seem to attach a great deal of significance to this old coat!’

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ replied Marcellus, quietly.

  ‘Are you fool enough to believe that there is some magic in it?’ it does possess a peculiar power, Your Majesty, for those who believe that it was worn by the Son of God.’

  There was a concerted stir throughout the great room; sound of a quick, involuntary intake of breath; throaty sound of incredulous murmurs; metallic sound of sidearms suddenly jostled in their scabbards as men turned about to dart inquiring glances at their neighbors.

  ‘Blasphemer!’ be
llowed Caligula. ‘Have you the effrontery to stand there—at this sacred feast in honor of Jupiter—and calmly announce that your crucified Jew is divine?’

  ‘It is not in disrespect to Jupiter, Your Majesty. Many generations of our people have said their prayers to Jupiter, and my King is not jealous of that homage. He has compassion upon every man’s longing to abide under the shadow of some sheltering wing. Jesus did not come into the world to denounce that aspiration, but to invite all who love truth and mercy to listen to his voice—and walk in his way.’

  Diana was so proud; so very proud of Marcellus! Really—it wasn’t Marcellus who was on trial! Everybody in the great room was on trial—all but Marcellus! Caligula was storming—but he had no case! Oh—she thought—what an Emperor Marcellus would have made! She wanted to shout, “Senators! Give Marcellus the crown! Let him make our Empire great!’

  The stirring music from the plaza was growing in volume. The shouts of the multitude were strident, impatient. It was time for the procession to start.

  ‘Tribune Marcellus Gallio’—said Caligula, sternly—‘it is not our wish to condemn you to death in the presence of your aged father and the honorable men who, with him, serve the Empire in the Senate. Deliberate well, therefore, when you reply to this final question, Do you now recant—and forever renounce—your misguided allegiance to this Galilean Jew—who called himself a King?’

  Again a portentous hush fell over the banquet-hall. Salome was observed to glance up with an arch smile and a little shrug, as she picked up the Emperor’s emerald bracelet and clasped it on her arm.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ replied Marcellus, ‘if the Empire desires peace and justice and good will among all men, my King will be on the side of the Empire and her Emperor. If the Empire and the Emperor desire to pursue the slavery and slaughter that have brought agony and terror and despair to the world’—Marcellus’ voice had risen to a clarion tone—‘if there is then nothing further for men to hope for but chains and hunger at the hands of our Empire—my King will march forward to right this wrong! Not tomorrow, sire! Your Majesty may not be so fortunate as to witness the establishment of this Kingdom—but it is coming!’