The Robe

by Lloyd C. Douglas

  ‘And that is your final word?’ asked Caligula.

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ said Marcellus.

  Caligula drew himself up erectly.

  ‘Tribune Marcellus Gallio,’ he announced, ‘it is our decree that you be taken immediately to the Palace Archery Field—and put to death—for high treason.’

  Even while the sentence was being passed, a fresh sensation stirred the audience. Diana had left her place at the Emperor’s table and was walking proudly, confidently, down the steps of the dais, to take her stand beside Marcellus. He slipped his arm about her, tenderly.

  ‘No, darling—no!’ he entreated, as if no one heard. ‘Listen to me, my sweetheart! You mustn’t do this! I am willing to die—but there is no reason why you should risk your life! Bid me farewell—and leave me!’

  Diana smiled into his eyes, and faced the Emperor. When she spoke, her voice was uncommonly deep, for a girl, but clearly audible to the silent spectators of this strange drama.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ she said, calmly, ‘I, too, am a Christian. Marcellus is my husband. May I go with him?’

  There was an inarticulate murmur of protest through the banquet-hall. Caligula nervously fumbled with his fingers and shook his head.

  ‘The daughter of Gallus is brave,’ he said, patronizingly. ‘But we have no charge against her. Nor have we any wish to punish her. You love your husband—but your love will do him no good—when he is dead.’

  ‘It will, sire, if I go with him,’ persisted Diana, ‘for then we will never part. And we will live together—always—in a Kingdom of love—and peace.’

  ‘In a Kingdom; eh?’ chuckled Caligula, bitterly. ‘So—you, too, believe in this nonsense about a Kingdom. Well’—he flicked a negligent gesture—‘you may stand aside. You are not being tried. There is no indictment.’

  ‘If it please Your Majesty,’ said Diana, boldly, ‘may I then provide evidence to wauant a conviction? I have no wish to live another hour in an Empire so far along on the road to ruin that it would consent to be governed by one who has no interest in the welfare of his people.’

  There was a spontaneous gasp from the audience. Caligula, stunned to speechlessness, listened with his mouth open.

  ‘I think I speak the thoughts of everyone present, sire,’ went on Diana, firmly. ‘These wise men all know that the Empire is headed for destruction—and they know why! As for me—I have another King—and I desire to go with my husband—into that Kingdom!’

  Little Boots’ face was livid.

  ‘By the gods—you shall!’ he screamed. ‘Go—both of you—into your Kingdom!’

  He jerked a gesture toward the Commander of the Guards. There was an order barked. A bugle sounded a strident blast. The drums rattled a prolonged roll. The tall soldiers, marking time, waited the crisp command. The word was given. Marcellus and Diana, hand in hand, marched in the hollow square, as it moved down the broad aisle toward the imposing archway. Old Gallio, trembling, pushed forward through the crowd, but was detained by friendly hands and warning murmurs.

  As the procession of guards, and the condemned, disappeared through the great marble arch, the audience was startled by the harsh, drunken laughter of Little Boots.

  Amid loud, hysterical guffaws, he shrieked, They are going into a better Kingdom! Ha! Ha! They are going now to meet their King!’

  But nobody—except Little Boots—thought it was an occasion for derisive laughter. There was not a smile on any face. They all stood there, grim and silent. And when Little Boots observed that his merriment was not shared, he suddenly grew surly, and without a dismissing word, stumbled toward the steps of the dais where Quintus took his arm. Outside—the metal music blared for Jupiter.

  Hand in hand, Diana and Marcellus kept step with the Guards. They were both pale—but smiling. With measured tread the procession marched briskly the length of the corridor, and down the marble steps into the congested plaza. The massed multitude, not knowing what was afoot, but assuming that this was the first contingent of the notables who would join the gaudy parade to the Temple of Jupiter, raised a mighty shout.

  Old Marcipor strode forward from the edge of the crowd, tears streaming down his face. Marcellus whispered something into Diana’s ear. She smiled—and nodded.

  Slipping between two of the guards, she tossed the Robe into the old man’s arms.

  ‘For the Big Fisherman!’ she said.