Читать книгу The Robe - Lloyd C. Douglas - Страница 6

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The first day’s journey, from Gaza to Ascalon, was intolerably tedious, for the deep-rutted highway was crowded with creeping caravans and filthy with dust.

‘It will be better tomorrow,’ promised Melas, amused by the grotesque appearance of Demetrius who had rewound his turban about his face until only his eyes were visible.

‘Let us hope so!’ grumbled the Corinthian, tugging at the lead-donkey that was setting off toward a clump of thistles. ‘But how will it be better? These snails are all crawling to Jerusalem; are they not?’

‘Yes—but we leave the highway at Ascalon,’ explained Melas, ‘and take a shorter road through the hills. The caravans do not travel it. They’re afraid of the Bedouins.’

‘And we aren’t?’

‘We’re too many for them. They wouldn’t risk it.’

Centurion Paulus’ stocky, bow-legged, red-headed Thracian was enjoying himself. Not often was Melas in a position to inform his betters; and, observing that the status of Demetrius was enviable compared to his own, it had made him quite expansive to be on such friendly terms with the new Legate’s well-spoken slave.

‘It isn’t the camels that stir up the dust,’ advised Melas, out of his long experience. ‘Your camel lifts his big, padded paws and lays them down on top of the soft dirt. It’s the asses that drag their feet. But I hate camels!’

‘I am not very well acquainted with camels,’ admitted Demetrius, willing to show some interest in his education.

‘Nobody is,’ declared Melas. ‘You can live with a camel for years and treat him as your brother, but you can never trust him. See that?’ He tapped a badly disfigured nose. ‘I got that up in Gaul, a dozen years ago. The fleas and flies were driving my master’s old Menepthah crazy. I spent the better part of two days rubbing olive oil into his mangy hide. And he stood like a rock, and purred like a cat; because he liked it. When I was all through, he turned around and kicked me in the face.’

Demetrius laughed, as was expected, and inquired what sort of revenge Melas had considered appropriate, a query that delighted him, for there was more of the story.

‘I was so blind mad,’ continued Melas, ‘that I did the same thing to him—only Menepthah saw it coming and grabbed my foot. Ever have a camel bite you? Now—an ass,’ he expounded, ‘or a dog, will snap and nip and nibble at you; but if he is going to bite, he tells you. Your camel never lets you into the secret. When he bites, nobody knows what is in his mind—but himself. I was laid up for two weeks, the time Menepthah bit my foot. I don’t like camels,’ he added, reasonably enough, his new friend thought.

‘They can’t be blamed much for wanting to get even,’ observed Demetrius. ‘It’s a pretty rough life, I suppose.’

Melas seemed to be weighing this bland comment on his not very sensitive scales as they trudged along, and presently gave Demetrius a long, appraising look out of the tail of his eye. His lip curled in a sour grin. At length he ventured to give his thoughts an airing; having a care, however, to keep them on a leash.

‘It doesn’t do much good—trying to get even. Take your slave, now: he can’t get anywhere that way. Camels and asses and slaves are better off minding their masters.’ And when Demetrius did not comment, Melas added, encouragingly, ‘Or—don’t you think so?’

Demetrius nodded, without interest. He had no desire to discuss this matter.

‘If you’re going to serve another man, at all,’ he remarked casually, ‘it’s only good sense to serve him well.’

‘That’s what I always say,’ approved Melas, with such exaggerated innocence that Demetrius wondered whether the fellow was making a smug pretense of lily-white loyalty—or recklessly toying with a piece of crude irony. He thought it might be interesting to find out.

‘Of course, slavery is a bit different from the employment of freedmen,’ experimented Demetrius. ‘If a freedman finds his work distasteful, he can leave it, which is ever so much better than keeping on at it—and shirking it. The slave does not have this choice.’

Melas chuckled a little.

‘Some slaves,’ he remarked, ‘are like asses. They snap at their masters, and get slapped for it. They sit down and balk, and get themselves whipped and kicked. There’s no sense in that. And then there are some slaves that behave like camels; just keep going on, and taking it, no matter how they’re used’—Melas’ tone was getting noticeably metallic, to match his heavy scowl—‘and, one day—when the master is drunk, maybe—the poor beast pays him off.’

‘And then what?’ demanded Demetrius.

Melas shrugged, sullenly.

‘Then he’d better run away,’ he concluded. Presently he muttered an afterthought: ‘Not much chance for a camel. Once in a while a slave gets away. Three years ago’—Melas lowered his voice, though there was no need of this precaution as they were far at the rear of the procession, and the furtive quality of the Thracian’s tone hinted at a conspiratorial confidence. ‘It was on this same trip—three years ago. Commander Vitelius’ slave, as cheerful and obedient as anybody you ever met—Sevenus, by name—managed to lose himself the next to the last day in Jerusalem. Nobody knows what became of him.’ Melas stepped nearer and muttered out of the corner of his mouth: ‘Nobody but me. Sevenus left for Damascus. Wanted me to go along. Sometimes I’ve wished I had taken him up. It’s easy enough. We’re more or less on our own in Jerusalem. The officers have themselves a good time. Don’t want the slaves hanging about. Bad for discipline.’ Melas winked significantly. ‘The Centurions like to play a little.’

Demetrius listened without comment to this lengthy speech; and Melas, a bit anxious, searched his eyes for advice as to the safety of proceeding farther.

‘Of course, it’s no secret,’ he proclaimed, doffing his air of mystery. ‘Everybody at Minoa knows about it—all but what I just told you.’

Demetrius knew he was making a mistake when he asked the question that implied a personal interest in this matter, but the story had stirred his curiosity.

‘What made this fellow Sevenus think he had a chance of freedom in Damascus?’

Melas’ eyes relighted.

‘Why—Damascus is Syrian. Those people up there hate Rome like poison! The old city’s full of Roman slaves, they say; living right out in the open, too; making no attempt to hide. Once you get there, you’re safe as a bug in a donkey’s ear.’

Early next morning, their caravan broke camp and moved off through the bare hills over a winding road which narrowed frequently, in long ravines and deep wadies, to a mere bridle-path that raveled out yesterday’s compact pilgrimage into a single thread.

It was a desolate country, practically uninhabited. Small herds of wild goats, almost indistinguishable from the jagged brown rocks on the treeless hillsides, grouped to stare an absurd defiance of any attempted trespass upon their domain. In the valleys, the spring rains had fraudulently invited an occasional tuft of vegetation to believe it had a chance of survival. Beside a blistered water-hole a brave little clump of violets drooped with thirst.

Demetrius was finding pleasure in this stage of the journey. The landscape was uninspiring, but it refreshed his spirit to be out in the open and at a comfortable distance from the uncouth Melas whose favorite topic had become disquieting. There was little doubt but the Thracian was building up toward a proposal of escape; either that, or was harboring an even more sinister design to engage him in a conspiracy and then expose him. Of course, this suspicion might be quite unfair to the fellow; but it would be dangerous to take any risks. No matter what he, himself, might say to Melas, on this touchy matter, it could easily become a weapon in the garrulous Thracian’s hand, in the event he were to be miffed about something or made envious of the unusual privileges accorded to the Commander’s more fortunate slave. Demetrius had resolved to be painstakingly prudent in any conversation with Melas, and—as much as possible—avoid being alone with him. Besides, there was much to think about, left over from a discussion between Marcellus and Paulus, last night; a most provocative—and highly amusing—survey of the gods, conducted by two men who had no piety at all. A good deal of it had been shockingly irreverent, but undeniably entertaining.

Late yesterday afternoon, when the company had halted near a spring—on city property, a mile northeast of Ascalon—Demetrius had been happy to receive a summons to attend his master, for he had begun to feel lonesome and degraded. He was amazed at the smart appearance of the camp. Almost by magic the brown tents had risen in four precise rows, the commissary had unpacked and set up its field equipment, chairs and tables and bunks had been unfolded and put in order. Banners were flying. Sentries were posted. The local Roman representative—a seedy, unprepossessing old fellow, with the bright pink nose of a seasoned winebibber, accompanied by three obsequious Jewish merchants—came out to read and present an illuminated scroll which eloquently (and untruthfully) certified to Ascalon’s delight that the famed Legion of Minoa had deigned to accept the city’s poor but cheerful hospitality. They had brought with them four huge wineskins bulging with the best of the native product, and were invited to remain for supper, after the Commander had formally replied—with his staff ranged stiffly to the rear of him—that Minoa was fully as glad to be in Ascalon as Ascalon was to entertain Minoa, which his slave considered deliciously droll.

After the evening meal had been disposed of, and his immediate duties performed, Demetrius had stretched out on the ground in the shadow of the Commander’s tent—a quite imposing tent, it was, larger than the others, trimmed with red flouncing, red silk curtains at the entrance, and a canopy over the doorway supported by slanting spear-shafts. With his fingers interlaced behind his head, Demetrius lay gazing up at the stars, marveling at their uncommon brightness, and effortlessly listening to the subdued voices of his master and Paulus, lounging in camp-chairs under the gaudy canopy. Apparently the visitation of the local dignitaries, who had now left for home, accounted for the conversation. Paulus was holding forth with the leisurely drawl of an amateur philosopher—benign, tolerant, and a little bit tight. Demetrius cocked an ear. Occasionally, in such circumstances, a man imprudently spoke his honest convictions about something; and, if Paulus had any convictions, it might be interesting to learn what they were.

‘The Jews,’ Paulus was saying, ‘are a queer people. They admit it themselves; brag about it, in fact; no other people like them in the whole world. For one thing, they’re under a special divine protection. Their god, Jehovah—they have only one, you know—isn’t interested in anybody else but the Jews. Of course, there would be nothing positively immoral about that belief, if it weren’t for the fact that their Jehovah created the world and all its inhabitants; but has no use for any of the other people; says the Jews are his children. Presumably the rest of the world can look out for itself. If they’d just admit that Jehovah was a sort of local deity—’

‘Oh—but we do the same thing, Paulus; don’t we?’ rejoined Marcellus. ‘Isn’t Jupiter a sort of general superintendent of the universe, with unlimited jurisdiction?’

‘Not at all; not at all, sir,’ protested Paulus, lazily. ‘Jupiter hasn’t any interest in the Egyptians, but he doesn’t claim he made them what they are, and then despised them for being no better. And he never said that the Syrians are a lousy lot, for not lighting bonfires on his feast-day. And Jupiter never said he was going to see that the Romans had the best of it—all the time.’

‘Did Jehovah say that to the Jews?’

Demetrius laughed silently. He had suspected that Marcellus wasn’t very well informed about the various religions, but his master’s almost complete ignorance on the subject was ludicrous.

‘Why—certainly!’ Paulus was orating. ‘Started them off in a garden where he had grown a fruit they were forbidden to eat. Of course they ate it, not to satisfy their hunger but their curiosity.’

‘One would think Jehovah might have been delighted over their curiosity,’ put in Marcellus, ‘seeing that every good thing we have was discovered through someone’s inquisitiveness.’

‘Yes—but this made Jehovah angry,’ explained Paulus, ‘so he pitched them out into the desert, and let them get tricked into slavery. Then he told them how to escape, and turned them loose in a wilderness. Then he promised them a land of their own—’

‘And this is it!’ laughed Marcellus. ‘What a promised land!’

‘There isn’t a more worthless strip of country in the world!’ declared Paulus. ‘And now the Jews have lost control of it. You’d think that after about fifteen hundred years of hard knocks, poverty, and slavery, these specially favored children of Jehovah would begin to wonder whether they might not be better off without so much divine attention.’

‘Perhaps that accounts for this Messiah business that you spoke about, the other day. Maybe they’ve given up hope that Jehovah will take care of them, and think the Messiah might improve their fortunes when he comes. Do you suppose that’s what they have in mind? It’s not unreasonable. I daresay that’s the way we and the Greeks accumulated so many gods, Paulus. When one god gets weary and impotent, another fresher god takes over. Didn’t old Zeus retire once in favor of his son Apollo?’

‘Not for long,’ remembered Paulus. ‘Apparently the weather hadn’t been very good, so young Apollo decided he would manage the sun; and ran amuck with it. Old Zeus had to straighten out the tangle for the boy. Now—there’s sense in a religion like that, Tribune. Our gods behave the way we do, naturally, because we made them the way we are. Everybody gets tired of the dictatorial old man, and eventually he gets tired too; decides to let his son run the business—whether it’s growing gourds or managing the planets; but he never thinks the young fellow is competent, so he keeps on interfering until presently there is a row. That’s why our religion is such a comfort to us,’ Paulus continued, elaborately ironical.

‘I’m afraid you’re not very pious,’ commented Marcellus. ‘If the gods hear what you are saying, they may not like it. They might think you doubted their reality.’

‘Not at all, sir! It’s men like me who really believe in their reality. They’re authentic—the gods! Some of them want war, some want peace, some of them don’t know what they want—except an annual feast-day and a big parade. Some give you rest and sleep, some drive you insane. Some you are expected to admire, and some you are expected to hate, and all of them are never quite happy unless they are frightening you and assured that you are afraid. This is sensible. This is the way life is! ... But these Jews! There they are, with only one god; and he is perpetually right, perpetually good, wise, loving. Of course he is stubborn, because they are stubborn; doesn’t approve of pleasure, because they never learned how to play; never makes any mistakes, because the Jew never makes any mistakes. Tribune, Jehovah can’t help being a pessimist. The Jews are a pessimistic people.’

‘Maybe Jehovah thinks it is a good thing for his children to endure hardship,’ speculated Marcellus; ‘toughens their fiber, knocks off their surplus fat, keeps them in fighting trim. I believe he has a good idea there, Paulus. Sometimes I’ve thought that Rome would be better off if we patricians had to scratch for a living, and stole less from the neighbors.’

There was a considerable pause at this point in the sacrilegious discussion, and Demetrius had wondered whether they hadn’t about exhausted themselves and their subject. But not quite.

‘Rome will have that problem solved for her, one of these days,’ Paulus was muttering, ominously. ‘The scepter is passed around, Commander. Egypt has her day in the sunshine. Darius tramps about, scaring everybody for an hour or two. Alexander sobs because there’s no one left to be subdued. The Caesars drive their chariots over Alexander’s world; so drunk with power that they can’t even bear to let these poor Hebrews own a few acres of weeds and snakes.... Ho-hum!’

Demetrius had yawned, too, and wished they would go to bed.

‘But it will be somebody else’s turn—soon,’ said Paulus.

‘When?’ asked Marcellus, exactly as Demetrius thought he might.

‘Well—if justice were served to crazy old Tiberius and his addled stepchild,’ deliberated Paulus, ‘I should think it might be someone else’s turn tomorrow—or by the end of next week, at the latest.... How about a little more wine, Tribune?’

Demetrius had sat up, ready for the summons. It came instantly, and he presented himself.

‘Fill Centurion Paulus’ cup,’ ordered Marcellus. ‘No—none for me.’

And then Demetrius had gone back into the shadow of the tent to resume his waiting. The conversation had taken a queer turn now.

‘Paulus,’ his master was saying, ‘you believe that the gods are manufactured by men. If it isn’t an impertinent question—did you ever try to make one?’

Demetrius, sauntering today along through a narrow ravine, almost oblivious of the long procession single-filing on ahead, laughed as he recalled that extraordinary question and its absurd answer.

‘No,’ Paulus had replied, ‘but it isn’t too late. Shall I make one for you now?’

‘By all means!’ chuckled Marcellus. ‘I assume that when you have him completed he will closely resemble yourself.’

‘Well—not too closely; for this god I’m going to invent is good. He doesn’t just pretend to be good. He really is good! He takes a few bright men into his confidence—not necessarily Romans or Greeks or Gauls; just so they’re honest and intelligent—and entrusts them with some important tasks. He tells one man how to cure leprosy, and others how to restore sight to the blind and hearing to the deaf. He confides the secrets of light and fire; how to store up summer heat for use in winter; how to capture the light of day and save it to illumine the night; how to pour idle lakes onto arid land.’ Paulus had paused, probably to take another drink.

‘Very good, Centurion,’ Marcellus had commented, thoughtfully. ‘If you’ll set up your god somewhere, and get him to producing these effects, he can have all my trade.’

‘Perhaps you might like to assist in his creation, sir,’ suggested Paulus, companionably.

Demetrius had not expected the quite serious speech that followed. As it proceeded, he raised up on one elbow and listened intently.

‘It occurs to me, Paulus,’ Marcellus was saying, soberly, ‘that this god of yours, who seems a very fine fellow indeed, might well consider a revision of the present plan for removing men from this world. What happens to us is something like this: a man spends his active life striving to accomplish a few useful deeds, and eventually arrives at the top of his powers; honored—we will say—and a good example to his community. Then he begins to go into a decline; loses his teeth and his hair; his step slows, his eyes grow dim, his hearing is dulled. This disintegration frets him, and he becomes gusty and irascible, like an old dog. Now he retires to a sunny corner of the garden with a woolen cap and a rug around his legs, and sits there in everybody’s way until it is time for him to take to his bed with grievous aches and pains which twist him into revolting postures. When no dignity is left to him, nor any longer deserved, he opens his sunken mouth and snores for a few days, unaware of his inglorious end. Now—I think your new god should do something about this, Paulus.’

‘We will take it up with him, sir,’ promised Paulus, agreeably. ‘How would you like to have the matter handled?’

Apparently this required a bit of concentration, for the reply was delayed a little while. When it came, Marcellus’ tone had abandoned all trace of persiflage and was deeply sincere.

‘When a Roman of our sort comes of age, Paulus, there is an impressive ceremony by which we are inducted into manhood. Doubtless you felt, as I did, that this was one of the high moments of life. Well do I remember—the thrill of it abides with me still—how all of our relatives and friends assembled, that day, in the stately Forum Julium. My father made an address, welcoming me into Roman citizenship. It was as if I had never lived until that hour. I was so deeply stirred, Paulus, that my eyes swam with tears. And then good old Cornelius Capito made a speech, a very serious one, about Rome’s right to my loyalty, my courage, and my strength. I knew that tough old Capito had a right to talk of such matters, and I was proud that he was there! They beckoned to me, and I stepped forward. Capito and my father put the white toga on me—and life had begun!’

There was an interval of silence here. Demetrius, much moved by this recital, had strained to hear above his own accented heart-beats, for the reminiscence had been spoken in a tone so low that it was almost as if Marcellus were talking to himself.

‘Now—I think your god should ordain that at the crowning moment of a mature man’s career; at the apex; when his strength has reached its zenith; when his best contribution has been made; let your god ordain that another assembly be held, with all present who know and revere this worthy man. And who among us would not strive to be worthy, with such a consummation in prospect? Let there be a great assembly of the people. Let there be an accounting of this man’s deeds; and, if he has earned a lofty eulogy, let it be spoken with eloquence.’

‘And then?’ demanded Paulus. ‘A valedictory, perhaps?’

‘No,’ Marcellus had decided, after a pause. ‘Let the man keep silent. He will have no need to explain his deeds, if they were worth emulation. He will arise, and his peers will remove his toga; and it will be treasured; perhaps conferred upon another, some day, for courageous action. It would be a great responsibility to wear such a garment, Paulus.’ There was another long pause.

‘I think the god should prescribe that this event occur in the waning of a golden afternoon in springtime. There should be a great chorus, singing an elegiac ode. And while the triumphant music fills the air—with the vast assembly standing reverently—let the honored man march erectly and with firm step from the rostrum—and out—to face the sunset! Then—let him vanish! And be seen no more!’

After he had gone to bed, last night, and the camp was quiet, except for the footfalls and jangling side-arms of the sentries, Demetrius had pondered long and deeply over this strange conceit—the making of a better god!

This morning, as he marched through the barren hills, towing a file of stupid donkeys who had as much control over their destiny as had he over his own, Demetrius wondered what he might have said if they had invited him to add a desirable attribute to their imaginary deity. Doubtless the world would be a more comfortable place to live in if, as Paulus had suggested, some plan were arrived at for a better distribution of light and heat. And perhaps it would bring a man’s days to a more dramatic conclusion if, as his master had so beautifully visioned, the human career might close with music and pageantry instead of a tedious glissade into helpless senility; though, as things stood, a man’s lack of honor at the end of his life seemed quite compatible with his absurd plight at life’s beginning. If Marcellus proposed to add dignity to a man’s departure from the world, he should also pray for a more dignified arrival.

No—such idle speculations were a mere waste of opportunity if one had a chance to mend the world. There were other needs of far greater import. Surely, this amazingly honest deity whom Marcellus and Paulus had invoked would want to do something about the cruel injustice of men in their dealings, one with another. With hot indignation, Demetrius reconstructed the painful scene of that day when Roman ruffians forced the doors, and threw his beautiful mother aside as they stalked into his honored father’s library to bind him and carry him away to his death.

This nobler god—if he had any interest in justice, at all—would appear, at such a tragic moment, and sternly declare, ‘You can’t do that!’

Demetrius repeated the words aloud—over and over—louder and louder—until the high-walled ravine believed in them, and said so.

‘You can’t do that!’ he shouted, so loudly that Melas—far on ahead—turned to look back inquiringly.

They had all but reached the end of their journey now. For the past hour their caravan had been plodding up a long hill. At its crest, a very impressive spectacle had confronted them. They were gazing down upon Jerusalem, whose turrets and domes were aglow with the smouldering fire of sunset.

‘Gorgeous!’ Marcellus had murmured.

All day, Demetrius had marched beside his master’s tall camel, happy to be relieved of his unpleasant duties at the rear. Early in the forenoon, they had come to the junction of the lonesome valley road and a highway running up from Hebron. All along the thoroughfare were encampments of caravans, making no sign of preparation for travel.

‘Is this not strange, Paulus?’ Marcellus had inquired. ‘Why aren’t they on the road?’

‘It’s the Sabbath day, sir,’ answered Paulus. ‘Jews can’t travel on the last day of the week. It’s against their law.’

‘Can’t move at all, eh?’

‘Oh—practically not. They may proceed a little way—what they call a Sabbath day’s journey—two thousand cubits. Look, sir.’ Paulus pointed down the road. ‘Two thousand of their cubits would take them to that group of olive trees. That’s as far as a Jew can go from his residence on the Sabbath.’

‘Quite inconvenient,’ observed Marcellus, idly.

‘For the poor people—yes.’ Paulus laughed. ‘The rich, as usual, have their own way of circumventing the law.’

‘How’s that?’

‘Well, sir; in their interpretation of this statute, any place where a man has a possession is considered his residence. If a rich man wants to visit somebody ten miles away, on the Sabbath, he sends his servants on ahead, a day earlier, and they deposit along the road—at two-thousand-cubit intervals—such trifling articles as an old sandal, a cracked pot, a worn-out rug, a scroll-spool; and thus prepare the way for their law-abiding lord.’

‘Do you mean that—seriously?’ inquired Marcellus.

‘Yes—and so do they. I tell you, sir, these rich Jews will go to more bother about the external appearance of their religion than any people on earth. And they do it with straight faces, too. It is a great mistake to be playful with them about it. They’ve deceived themselves so long that they really think they’re honest. Of course,’ he added, dryly, ‘the opulent Jew has no monopoly on self-deception. All our rich and influential men, whatever their race or country, are subject to this unhappy malady. It must be a tragic condition to possess great wealth and a sensitive conscience. I never thought much about this before,’ he rambled on, ‘but I doubt not the sophists could prove self-deception to rate high among the cardinal virtues. None but the noble would heap upon himself so much sham and shame in the cause of righteousness.’

‘Paulus, you’re a cynic—and an uncommonly bitter one,’ drawled Marcellus. ‘By the way—what must these people, along the roadside, think of our disregard of their holy Sabbath?’

‘Pouf! They expect nothing better of us. And I’m not sure they’d like it if we laid up for the day in honor of their beliefs. In their opinion, we could defile their religion worse by recognizing it than by ignoring it. They don’t want anything from us—not even our respect. They can’t be blamed, of course,’ Paulus added. ‘No man should be asked to think highly of a master who has robbed him of his liberty.’

Demetrius had turned his face away, at that speech, pretending an interest in a tented caravan resting on a neighboring slope. He wondered whether his master thought this remark of the Centurion’s was injudicious; wondered whether he wished his slave had not overheard it.

Early the next morning, the militia from Minoa broke camp and prepared to complete the journey into the city. Demetrius had been glad to see the sunrise. It was the first night, since he had been the slave of Marcellus, that he had slept beyond the sound of his master’s call. After the encampment had been made, late yesterday afternoon, the Legate and four of the senior staff officers had decided to ride on into Jerusalem. None of the slaves, except the Syrian camel-boys, had been taken along. Demetrius, left to guard Marcellus’ effects, had slept in the ornate tent alone.

Rousing at dawn, he had drawn the curtains aside, and was amazed at the tide of traffic already on the highway; processions of heavily laden camels, rhythmically lifting their haughty noses at every step; long trains of pack-asses, weighted with clumsy burdens; men, women, children, slaves—all carrying bundles and baskets and boxes of every shape and size. The pestilential dust rolled high.

With the speed and skill of long experience, the contingent from Minoa leveled their camp, rolled up the tents, packed the stores, and took to the road. Proudly the uniformed company marched down the highway, the pilgrims scurrying to the stone fences at the trumpet’s strident command. But the pack-train did not fare so well. The laden asses from Minoa, not carrying banners or blowing trumpets or wearing the Roman uniform, were considered by the travelers as of no more importance than a similar number of pack-asses from anywhere else.

Melas, ever anxious to display large knowledge to the newcomer, seemed highly amused by Demetrius’ efforts to keep his string of donkeys in hand. It was quite apparent that the unkempt Thracian was enjoying the Corinthian’s dilemma. At a disadvantage in Demetrius’ company, the odds were all in his favor now. He wasn’t as cultured as the Legate’s slave, but when it came to managing pack-asses in a dense crowd of uncivil travelers, Melas was in a position to offer counsel. He looked back and grinned patronizingly.

It was a peculiar crowd! In Rome, on a feast-day, there was plenty of rough jostling and all manner of rudeness. Arrogant charioteers thought nothing of driving their broad iron wheels over the bare feet of little children. People on foot treated one another with almost incredible discourtesy. One favorite method of making one’s way through a crowd was to dive in with both hands full of mud and filth scooped up from the street. Few cared to debate the right of way with persons thus armed. No—Rome had won no prizes for the politeness of her gala-day multitudes. But, in spite of her forthright brutality, Rome—on such occasions—was hilarious. Her crowds sang, cheered, laughed! They were mischievous, merciless, vulgar—but they were merry!

There was no laughter in this pilgrim throng that crowded the widening avenue today. This was a tense, impassioned, fanatical multitude; its voice a guttural murmur as if each man canted his own distresses, indifferent to the mumbled yearnings of his neighbors. On these strained faces was an expression of an almost terrifying earnestness and a quality of pietistic zeal that seemed ready to burst forth into wild hysteria; faces that fascinated Demetrius by the very ugliness of their unabashed contortions. Not for all the wealth of the world would he have so bared his private griefs and longings to the cool stare of the public. But apparently the Jews didn’t care who read their minds. All this, thought the Corinthian, was what the sight of their holy city had done to their emotions.

Suddenly, for no reason at all that Demetrius could observe, there was a wave of excitement. It swept down over the sluggish swollen stream of zealots like a sharp breeze. Men all about him were breaking loose from their families, tossing their packs into the arms of their overburdened children, and racing forward toward some urgent attraction. Far up ahead the shouts were increasing in volume, spontaneously organizing into a concerted reiterated cry; a single, magic word that drove the multitude into a frenzy.

Unable to keep his footing in this onrushing tide, Demetrius dragged and pushed his stubborn charges to the roadside where Melas stood savagely battering his tangled donkeys over their heads with his heavy cudgel.

‘Crack them on the nose!’ yelled Melas.

‘I have no club,’ shouted Demetrius. ‘You take them!’

Melas, pleased to have his competency appealed to, grasped the lead-strap to the other string of donkeys and began laying on the discipline with a practiced hand. While he was thus engaged, Demetrius set off after the hurrying crowd, forcing his way with the others until the congestion was too dense for further progress. Wedged tight against his arm, and grinning up into his face, was another Greek, older but smaller than himself; a slave, easily recognizable as such by the slit in his ear-lobe. Impudently the ill-scented little fellow bent about for a glimpse of Demetrius’ ear; and, having assured himself of their social equality, laughed fraternally.

‘Athens,’ he announced, by way of introduction.

‘Corinth,’ returned Demetrius, crisply. ‘Do you know what is going on?’

‘They’re yelling something about a king. That’s all I can make of it.’

‘Understand their language?’

‘A little. Just what I’ve picked up on these trips. We come up every year with a load of spices.’

‘You think they’ve got somebody up front who wants to be their king? Is that it?’

‘Looks like it. They keep howling another word that I don’t know—Messiah. The man’s name, maybe.’

Demetrius impulsively turned about, thrust a shoulder into the steaming mass, and began pushing through to the side of the road, followed closely—to his distaste—by his diminutive countryman. All along the way, men were recklessly tearing branches from the palms that bordered the residential thoroughfare, indifferent to the violent protests of property-owners. Running swiftly among the half-crazed vandals, the Greeks arrived at the front of the procession and jammed their way into it.

Standing on tiptoe for an instant in the swaying crowd, Demetrius caught a fleeting glimpse of the obvious center of interest, a brown-haired, bareheaded, well-favored Jew. A tight little circle had been left open for the slow advance of the shaggy white donkey on which he rode. It instantly occurred to Demetrius that this coronation project was an impromptu affair for which no preparation had been made. Certainly there had been no effort to bedeck the pretender with any royal regalia. He was clad in a simple brown mantle with no decorations of any kind, and the handful of men—his intimate friends, no doubt—who tried to shield him from the pressure of the throng, wore the commonest sort of country garb.

The huzzas of the crowd were deafening. It was evident that these passionate zealots had all gone stark, raving mad! Paulus had drawn a very clear picture of the Jew’s mood on these occasions of the holy festival commemorative of an ancient flight from bondage.

Again Demetrius, regaining his lost balance, stretched to full height for another look at the man who had somehow evoked all this wild adulation. It was difficult to believe that this was the sort of person who could be expected to inflame a mob into some audacious action. Instead of receiving the applause with an air of triumph—or even of satisfaction—the unresponsive man on the white donkey seemed sad about the whole affair. He looked as if he would gladly have had none of it.

‘Can you see him?’ called the little Athenian, who had stuck fast in the sticky-hot pack an arm’s length away.

Demetrius nodded without turning his head.

‘Old man?’

‘No—not very,’ answered Demetrius, candidly remote.

‘What does he look like?’ shouted the Athenian, impatiently.

Demetrius shook his head—and his hand, too—signaling that he couldn’t be bothered now, especially with questions as hard to answer as this one.

‘Look like a king?’ yelled the little Greek, guffawing boisterously.

Demetrius did not reply. Tugging at his impounded garments, he crushed his way forward. The surging mass, pushing hard from the rear, now carried him on until he was borne almost into the very hub of the procession that edged along, step by step, keeping pace with the plodding donkey.

Conspicuous in the inner circle, as if they constituted the mysterious man’s retinue, were the dozen or more who seemed stunned by the event that obviously had taken them by surprise. They too were shouting, erratically, but they wore puzzled faces, and appeared anxious that their honored friend would measure up a little more heroically to the demands of this great occasion.

It was quite clear now to Demetrius that the incident was accidental. It was quite understandable, in the light of Paulus’ irreverent comments on the Passover celebration. All these proud, poverty-cursed, subjugated pilgrims, pressing toward their ancient shrine, would be on the alert for any movement that savored of revolt against their rapacious foe. It needed only the shout—‘Messiah!’—and they would spring into action without pausing to ask questions. That explained it, believed Demetrius. In any case, whoever had started this wild pandemonium, it was apparent that it lacked the hero’s approbation.

The face of the enigmatic Jew seemed weighted with an almost insupportable burden of anxiety. The eyes, narrowed as if in resigned acceptance of some inevitable catastrophe, stared straight ahead toward Jerusalem. Perhaps the man, intent upon larger responsibilities far removed from this pitiable little coronation farce, wasn’t really hearing the racket at all.

So deeply absorbed had Demetrius become, in his wide-eyed study of the young Jew’s face, that he too was beginning to be unmindful of the general clamor and confusion. He moved along with inching steps, slanting his body against the weight of the pressing crowd, so close now to the preoccupied rider that with one stride he could have touched him.

Now there was a temporary blocking of the way, and the noisy procession came to a complete stop. The man on the white donkey straightened, as if roused from a reverie, drew a deep sigh, and slowly turned his head. Demetrius watched, with parted lips and a pounding heart.

The meditative eyes, drifting about over the excited multitude, seemed to carry a sort of wistful compassion for these helpless victims of an aggression for which they thought he had a remedy. Everyone was shouting, shouting—all but the Corinthian slave, whose throat was so dry he couldn’t have shouted, who had no inclination to shout, who wished they would all be quiet, quiet! It wasn’t the time or place for shouting. Quiet! This man wasn’t the sort of person one shouted at, or shouted for. Quiet! That was what this moment called for—Quiet!

Gradually the brooding eyes moved over the crowd until they came to rest on the strained, bewildered face of Demetrius. Perhaps, he wondered, the man’s gaze halted there because he alone—in all this welter of hysteria—refrained from shouting. His silence singled him out. The eyes calmly appraised Demetrius. They neither widened nor smiled; but, in some indefinable manner, they held Demetrius in a grip so firm it was almost a physical compulsion. The message they communicated was something other than sympathy, something more vital than friendly concern; a sort of stabilizing power that swept away all such negations as slavery, poverty, or any other afflicting circumstance. Demetrius was suffused with the glow of this curious kinship. Blind with sudden tears, he elbowed through the throng and reached the roadside. The uncouth Athenian, bursting with curiosity, inopportunely accosted him.

‘See him—close up?’ he asked.

Demetrius nodded; and, turning away, began to retrace his steps toward his abandoned duty.

‘Crazy?’ persisted the Athenian, trudging alongside.

‘No.’

‘King?’

‘No,’ muttered Demetrius, soberly—‘not a king.’

‘What is he, then?’ demanded the Athenian, piqued by the Corinthian’s aloofness.

‘I don’t know,’ mumbled Demetrius, in a puzzled voice, ‘but—he is something more important than a king.’