Читать книгу The Robe - Lloyd C. Douglas - Страница 7

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After the camp had been set up near the suburban village of Bethany, Marcellus and his staff continued down the long hill into the city. There was very little traffic on the streets, for the people were keeping the Sabbath.

Though Paulus had not exaggerated Jerusalem’s provision for the representatives of her Italian Emperor, the young Legate of Minoa was not prepared for his first sight of the majestic Insula of the Procurator.

As they halted their weary camels at twilight before the imposing façade of Rome’s provincial seat, Marcellus sat in speechless admiration. No one needed to inform a stranger that this massive structure was of foreign origin, for it fairly shouted that it had no relation whatever to its mean environment.

Apparently the architects, sculptors, and landscape artists had been advised that expense was the least of their problems. Seeing the Jews had it to pay for, explained Paulus, the Emperor had not been parsimonious, and when Herod—the first Procurator—had professed a grandiose ambition ‘to rebuild this brick city in marble,’ Augustus had told him to go as far as he liked.

‘And you can see that he did,’ added Paulus, with an inclusive gesture made as proudly as if he had done it himself.

True, Jerusalem wasn’t all marble. The greater part of it was decidedly shabby, dirty, and in need of repair. But Herod the Great had rebuilt the Temple on a magnificent scale and then had erected this Insula on a commanding elevation far enough away from the holy precincts to avoid an unhappy competition.

It was a huge quadrangle stronghold, dominating the very heart of Jerusalem. Three spacious levels of finely wrought mosaic pavement, united by marble steps and balustrades with pedestals bearing the exquisitely sculptured busts of eminent Romans, terraced up from the avenue to the colonnaded portal of the Praetorium. On either side of the paved area sloped an exotic garden of flowers and ornamental shrubbery watered from marble basins in which lavish fountains played.

‘These fountains,’ said Paulus, in a discreet undertone, ‘were an afterthought. They were installed only seven years ago, when Pilate came. And they caused an uprising that brought all the available troops to the new Procurator’s rescue.’

‘Were you in it, too, Paulus?’ asked Marcellus.

‘Indeed—yes! We were all here, and a merry time it was. The Jew has his little imperfections, but he is no coward. He whines when he trades, but he is no whimperer in battle. He hates war and will go to any length to preserve the peace; but—and this was something Pontius Pilate didn’t know—there is a point where you’d better stop imposing on a Jew.’

‘Well, go on then about the fountains,’ urged Marcellus, for the sight of the water had made him impatient for a bath.

‘Pilate’s wife was responsible for it. They had been down in Crete for many years where Pontius had been the Prefect. You can grow anything in Crete, and the lady was dismayed to find herself in such an arid country as Judea. She begged for gardens. Gardens must have water. To have that much water there must be an aqueduct. Aqueducts are expensive. There was no appropriation to cover this item. So—the new Procurator helped himself to some funds from the Temple treasury, and—’

‘And the battle was on,’ surmised Marcellus.

‘You have said it, sir,’ declared Paulus, fervently. ‘And it stayed on for seven exciting months. Pilate nearly lost his post. Two thousand Jews were killed, and nearly half that many Romans. It would have been better, I suppose, if Tiberius had transferred Pilate to another position. The Jews will never respect him; not if he stays here for a thousand years. He makes every effort to humor them, remembering what they can do to him if they wish. He is here to keep the peace. And he knows that the next time there is a riot, his term of office will expire.’

‘It’s a wonder the Jews do not raise a general clamor for his removal,’ speculated Marcellus.

‘Ah—but they don’t want him removed,’ laughed Paulus. ‘These rich and wily old merchants and money-lenders, who pay the bulk of the taxes and exercise a great deal of influence, know that Pilate is not in a position to dictate harsh terms to them. They hate him, of course, but they wouldn’t like to see him go. I’ll wager that if the Emperor appointed another man to the office of Procurator, the Sanhedrin would protest.’

‘What’s the Sanhedrin?’ inquired Marcellus.

‘The Jewish legislative body. It isn’t supposed to deal with any matters except religious observances; but—well—when the Sanhedrin growls, Pontius Pilate listens!’ Paulus shouted to the squatting camel-boys, and the apathetic beasts plodded on. ‘But I do not wish to convey the idea, sir,’ continued the Centurion, ‘that Pilate is a nobody. He is in a very unfortunate predicament here. You will like him, I think. He is a genial fellow, and deserves a more comfortable Prefecture.’

They had moved on then, around the corner, to the section of the vast barracks assigned to the garrison from Minoa. Three sides of the great quadrangle had been equipped for the accommodation of troops, the local constabulary occupying less than a third of it. Now the entire structure was filled almost to capacity. The whole institution was alive. The immense parade-ground, bounded by the two-story stone buildings, was gay with the uniforms of the legions arriving from the subordinate Palestinian forts. The banners of Caesarea, Joppa, and Capernaum, topped by the imperial ensign, added bright color to the teeming courtyard.

Marcellus was delighted with the appointments of the suite into which he was shown. They compared favorably with the comforts to be had at the Tribunes’ Club in Rome. It was the first time he had been entirely at ease since the night he had left home.

After a while Paulus came in to see if his young Commander had everything he wanted.

‘I am writing some letters,’ he said. ‘The Vestris should arrive at Joppa by tomorrow or next day, and will probably sail for home before the end of the week. You remember, sir, she was just coming into the harbor at Gaza as we passed through.’

‘Thanks, Paulus, for reminding me,’ said Marcellus. ‘It is a good suggestion.’

He had not written to Diana since the night of his departure on the galley to Ostia. That had been a difficult letter to compose. He was very deeply depressed. After several unsatisfactory attempts to tell her how sorry he was to leave her and with what impatience he would await their next meeting—in the face of his serious doubt that he should ever see her again—his letter had turned out to be a fond little note of farewell, containing neither fatuous promises nor grim forebodings. The lovely Diana would be cherished in his thoughts, he wrote, and she was not to worry about him.

Many times, on the long voyage to Gaza, he had begun letters that were never finished. There was so little to say. He would wait until there was something of interest to report. On the last day before making port, he had written a letter to his family, dry as the little ship’s log, promising to do better next time.

The early days at Minoa had been eventful enough to furnish material for a letter, but his new duties had kept him occupied. Tonight he would write to Diana. He could tell her honestly that things were ever so much better than he had expected. He would explain how he happened to be in Jerusalem. He would tell her that he was handsomely quartered, and describe the appointments of the Insula. It would need no gilding. Marcellus’ dignity, sadly battered by the punitive assignment to discredited Minoa, had been immeasurably restored. He was almost proud of his Roman citizenship. He could write Diana now with some self-confidence.

For two hours, under the light of the three large stone lamps bracketed on the wall beside his desk, he reviewed the important events of his life at Minoa. He didn’t say how arid, how desolate, how altogether unlovely was the old fort and its environs; nor did he exhaust the details of his first day’s experience there.

‘The acting Commander,’ he wrote, ‘was a bit inclined to be surly, and did not overdo his hospitality when I arrived; but a little later he decided to co-operate, and we are now the best of friends. I quite like this Centurion Paulus. Indeed I hardly know what I should do without him, for he knows all the traditions of the fort; what things must be done, and the right time and way to do them.’

Marcellus was enjoying his work on the letter. It gave him a glow of pleasure to inform Diana of these things which now made up his life. It was almost as if they belonged to each other; almost as an absent husband might write to his wife.

The scroll, when he should paste the sheets of papyrus end to end, would be a bulky one. Before it quite outgrew its spindle-rims, he must bring it to a close with something from his heart. This was not quite so easy to do.

For a long time he sat deliberating what should be his proper attitude. Should he obey his feelings and tell Diana, without reserve, how much she had been in his thoughts, how dear she was to him, and how ardently he wished their separation was over? Would that be fair? Diana was young, so full of life. Was it right to encourage her in the hope that he might be coming home some day to claim her? Was it right to let Diana believe that he entertained that hope himself? Might it not be more honest to tell her frankly that there was no likelihood of his return for a long time; years, perhaps? Of course Diana already knew the circumstances. And he had casually mentioned of Paulus that he had been sent to Minoa eleven years ago; and had not been home since his appointment. She could draw her own dismaying conclusions. At length, Marcellus finished his letter almost to his satisfaction.

‘You know, Diana, what things I would be saying to you if we were together. At the far distance which separates us—in miles, and who can tell how much of time?—it is enough to say that your happiness will always be mine. Whatever things make you sad, dear girl, sadden me also. A ship—The Vestris—is reported to be arriving at Joppa. She called at Gaza. I am impatient to return to the fort, for I may find a letter from you there. I fondly hope so. Demetrius will come in tomorrow morning and deliver this scroll to the Insula’s courier who meets The Vestris. She sails soon. Would I were a passenger!’

Demetrius had never been so restless. Of course, whenever he had paused to contemplate his hopeless position in the scheme of things, his life held out no promise. But gradually he had become inured to his fate. He was a slave, and nothing could be done about it. Comparing himself to a free man, his lot was wretched indeed; but when he contrasted the terms of his slavery with the cruel conditions imposed upon most of the people in bondage, he was fortunate.

In the house of Gallio, he had been treated with every consideration due a servant. And his life had become so inextricably related to the life of Marcellus that his freedom—even if it were offered him—might cost him more in companionship than it was worth in liberty of action. As for his deep affection for Lucia, it was, he knew, wholly unrequited. He couldn’t have had Lucia, if he had been as free as a sea-gull. Such common-sense reflections as these had saved his mind and reconciled him to his destiny.

Now his bland little philosophy had ceased to comfort him. Not only was his small world in disarray, but the whole institution of human existence had become utterly futile, meaningless, empty, a mere mockery of something that had had sublime possibilities, perhaps, but had been thrown away; lost beyond recovery!

He had tried to analyze his topsy-turvy mind and find reasons for his heavy depression. For one thing, he was lonely. Marcellus had not willfully ignored him, since their arrival in Jerusalem, but it was apparent that slaves were not welcome in the officers’ quarters except when actually on duty. When their service was performed, they were to clear out. Demetrius had not been accustomed to such treatment. He had been his master’s shadow for so long that this new attitude of indifference was as painful as a physical wound.

Again and again, he said to himself that Marcellus probably felt unhappy too, and maybe deplored the necessity to exclude him from his friendship. Demetrius had been made to feel his slavery as he had never felt it before, not since the day that he had been sold to Senator Gallio.

But there was another cause of Demetrius’ mental distress. It was the haunting memory of the beseeching eyes into which he had gazed momentarily on the road into the city. Afterward, he had sat for hours, in a brown study, trying to define those eyes, and had arrived at the conclusion that they were chiefly distinguished by their loneliness. It was so apparent that the little group of men, who had tried to keep the crowd from pressing too hard, were disappointed. Whatever it was that the noisy fanatics wanted him to do, it was the wrong thing. You could see that, at a glance. It was a wonder they couldn’t see it themselves. Everybody there had urged him to lead a cause in which—it was so obvious!—he had no interest. He was a lonely man. The eyes hungered for an understanding friend. And the loneliness of this mysterious man had somehow communicated with the loneliness of Demetrius. It was a loneliness that plainly said, ‘You could all do something about this unhappy world, if you would; but you won’t.’

Three days had passed now, singularly alike in program. Melas had been almost too attentive in his capacity of uninvited guide to the sights of the city. It was inevitable that they should be thrown into each other’s company. Their duties were light and briefly accomplished. As Melas had foreseen, you looked after your master at mealtime, polished his equipment, helped him into his complicated military harness in the morning and out of it at night. The rest of the time was yours.

Breakfast was served at dawn, after which the troops turned out on the parade-ground for routine inspection. Then a small detachment of each contingent returned to their respective barracks to be on call while the main bodies—commanded by junior officers and led by the larger, but no more splendidly accoutered, Legion of the Procurator—marched smartly into the street.

It was a stirring sight and Demetrius—his tasks completed for the morning—liked to watch the impressive parade as, four abreast, the gaily uniformed soldiers strutted around the corner, stood like statues while the colors were dipped before the proud portals of the Praetorium, and proceeded down the avenue to the Temple, passing in their march the quite pretentious marble residence of Caiaphas, the High Priest. Caiaphas did not rate a salute; neither did the Temple.

On two occasions, Demetrius, attended by Melas as voluntary commentator, trailed along at the rear of the procession. On an equivalent occasion in Rome, hundreds would have followed such a parade; but not here. Perhaps the people were too sullen, perhaps they hated Rome too much. Perhaps, again, they lacked the vitality to pick up their heels and keep pace with the long steps of the soldiers. Demetrius had seen plenty of rags and tatters and blind beggars and hopeless cripples, but never in such numbers or in such dire distress. His own native Corinth had its share of misery, but its wretchedness was on display mostly in the port area. Athens—he had been there once with his father and brothers when he was twelve—had plenty of poverty, but it also had beautiful parks and exquisite works of art. This Jerusalem—that called itself a holy city—was horrible; its streets crowded with disease and deformities and verminous mendicants. Other cities had their faults; hateful ones, too. But Jerusalem? Not much wonder the strange man on the white donkey had been lonely!

The return of the troops to the Insula was made by a circuitous route which bisected the center of the market district where hucksters and customers scrambled to give the legionaires plenty of room as they went striding arrogantly down the narrow street, their manner saying that Emperor Tiberius mustn’t be detained even at the cost of a few trampled toes. If a recumbent camel, indifferent to the dignity of the Empire, remained seated in the middle of the road, Rome did not debate the right of way, but opened the formation and pretended that the sullen beast was an island. Occasionally a balky pack-ass was similarly deferred to by the armed forces of Tiberius. Everybody else sought the protection of doorways and alleys.

This rambling route included the Roman Consulates, a not very imposing group of official residences, where brief pauses were made to salute the imperial arms rather than the imperial representatives of Samaria, Decapolis, and Galilee.

‘You watch them,’ advised Melas, ‘when they stop to salute Herod’s house. It’s funny.’

And it was funny. Herod, who handled Rome’s diplomatic dealings with Galilee, which were reputed to be trivial and infrequent, had made himself very well-to-do, but the homage paid to his establishment was perfunctory enough to constitute a forthright insult.

‘I’ve heard them say,’ Melas had explained, ‘that this Herod fellow would like to be the Procurator. That’s why Pilate’s Legion begins the salute with the thumb to the nose. Maybe that’s orders: I don’t know.’

Back at the parade-ground, the companies were dismissed for the day. By twos and threes the men swaggered down into the congested business zone, capitalizing the privileges of their resplendent garb and glittering weapons, rejoicing alike in the shy admiration of the olive-tinted girls and the candid hatred of the merchants whose wares they impudently pawed and pilfered.

In the afternoon, the majority of the troops strolled out to the small arena, south of the city, and watched the games—footraces, discus-hurling, javelin-throwing, wrestling—tame sports, but better than none. No gladiatorial combats were permitted, nor any other amusing bloodshed. Immediately outside of the arena but within its compound, every conceivable type of imposture flourished. Many of the mountebanks were from far distances. There were magicians from India, pygmies from Africa, Syrian fortune-tellers. Patently crooked gambling wheels and other games of chance beguiled many a hard-earned shekel. Innumerable booths dispensed lukewarm, sickeningly sweet beverages of doubtful origin, flyblown figs, and dirty confections.

To the Romans, accustomed at home to more exciting events on their festal days, the arena and its accessories had but little charm. To the country people, it was a stupendous show, especially for the younger ones. Most of their elders, mightily concerned with the sale of pottery, rugs, shawls, assorted homespun, sandals, saddles, bracelets, bangles, and ornamental trifles in leather, wood, and silver, remained downtown in the thick of serious trade.

As for Marcellus and his staff, and the ranking officers of the other garrisons, their chief diversion—aside from lounging in the baths—was gambling. After the first day, spent in making ceremonious calls upon the Procurator and the Consuls, and a bit of sight-seeing, the staff members idled in their sumptuous quarters.

There seemed to be an unlimited supply of wine, and it was apparent that the officers were making abundant use of it. On two occasions, Centurion Paulus had not appeared at the evening dinner, and many another place was vacant at the well-provided tables in the ornate mess-hall. Demetrius had been pleased to note that his master was exercising a little more discretion than some of the others, but it was evident that he too was relieving his boredom by the only available method. It was to be hoped that the week could be brought to an end without a row. The materials for quarrels were all at hand; the wine, the dice, the idleness. It had never taken very much liquor to make Marcellus reckless. Paulus, when drunk, was surly and sensitive. Demetrius had begun to count the hours until it would be time to take to the road. Minoa had its disadvantages, but it was a safer and more attractive place than Jerusalem.

He wished he could find out what had become of the man who didn’t want to be king of this country. One day he had broached the subject to the Thracian; but Melas, who knew everything, knew nothing about this; had quite forgotten the little furor on the hill.

‘The patrol probably scared him back to the country,’ surmised Melas.

‘Perhaps they put him in prison,’ wondered Demetrius.

‘He’d be lucky,’ laughed Melas. ‘Men who gather up big crowds around them are better off in jail, this week, than on the street.’

‘Do you know where the prison is?’ Demetrius had inquired, suddenly inspired with an idea.

Melas gave him a quizzical glance. No, he didn’t know where the prison was and didn’t want to know. Prisons were fine places to stay away from. Any man was a fool to visit a friend in prison. First thing you knew, they’d gobble you up, too. No, sir! Melas had had enough of prisons to last him the rest of his life.

One afternoon—it was their fourth day in Jerusalem—Demetrius went out alone over the road on which they had come into the city, and on up the long hill until he reached the place where he had seen the lonely man with the beseeching eyes. He easily recognized the spot: there were dusty and broken palm branches scattered along the roadside, poor shreds of a brief and doubtful glory.

Retracing his steps slowly to the brow of the hill, he turned aside into a public park where well-worn paths wound through a grove of ancient olive trees, gnarled and twisted as if they had shared with the hapless Jews a long, stubborn withstanding of persecution. He sat there in the shade for an hour looking down over Jerusalem. You’d think a city thirty-five centuries old would have a little more to show for its experience. For that matter, the whole world seemed incapable of learning anything useful. Jerusalem wanted her freedom. What would she do with freedom if she had it? Everybody in the world wanted more freedom; freedom to do and be what?

Suppose—it was inconceivable—but suppose the Jews contrived to drive the Romans out? Then what? Would they then leave off quarreling among themselves, and forget their old party differences, and work together for the good of their country? Would the rich landlords and money-lenders ease up on the poor? If they disposed of the Romans, would they feed the hungry and care for the sick and clean the streets? Why—they could do all that now, if they wished. The Romans wouldn’t stop them. The Romans would be glad enough to see such improvements, for some of them had to live there too.

What was the nature of this bondage that Jerusalem so bitterly resented? That noisy pack of fanatics on the road, the other day, thought their trouble was with the Roman Government. If they could find a leader strong enough to free them from Rome, they would set up a kingdom of their own. That, they seemed to think, would make everything right. But would it? How would a revolution help the mass of the people? Once a new Government was in the saddle, a small group of greedy men would promptly impose upon the public. Maybe this lonely man from the country knew that. This tatterdemalion throng wanted him to be their king; wanted him to live at the Insula, instead of Pilate. Then the few, who had helped him into power, would begin to make themselves great. But Jerusalem would continue to be what she was now. A change of masters wouldn’t help the people.

Demetrius rose and sauntered back to the main thoroughfare, surprised to see that so few travelers were on the road. It still lacked two hours of sunset. Something important must be going on to have drawn the traffic off the highway; yet the city seemed unusually quiet.

He walked slowly down the hill, his thoughtful mood persisting. What kind of government would solve the world’s problems? As matters stood, all governments were rapacious. People everywhere endured their rulers until they had gained strength enough to throw them off and take on another load of tyranny. The real trouble wasn’t located at the capital, but in the immediate neighborhood, in the tribe, in the family, in themselves. Demetrius wished he might talk with the lonely man from the country, and learn what he thought of government; how, in his opinion, a better freedom might be found.

It suddenly occurred to him that the impudent little Athenian might know what had become of the man who didn’t want to be a king. He quickened his steps, resolved to make inquiries for a caravan with spices to sell.

Down in the city, nearly all of the usual activity had ceased. What had become of everybody? Even in the market area, there were very few traders about. Accosting a bearded old Greek, who was laboriously folding a bundle of rugs, Demetrius inquired what was up; where were the people? The tired old man shrugged and grinned, without making a reply. It was evident that he thought the young fellow was trying to be playful.

‘Has anything happened?’ persisted Demetrius, soberly.

The old man tied his bundle and sat on it, puffing from his exertion. Presently he regarded his fellow countryman with fresh interest.

‘You trying to say,’ he exclaimed, ‘that you honestly don’t know what’s happening? My boy, this is the night of the Jewish Passover. All the Jews are in their houses. And those who haven’t houses have crawled in somewhere under shelter.’

‘For how long?’

‘Until morning. Tomorrow they will be out early, for it is the last day of Passover Week, and there will be much business. But—where have you been, that you didn’t know?’

Demetrius was amused at the old man’s comments on his ignorance.

‘I’ve never been here before,’ he said. ‘I know nothing about the Jews’ customs. For the past two hours I’ve been out on the hill. There’s an olive grove.’

‘I know.’ The old man nodded. ‘They call it the Garden of Gethsemane. Not much there to see. Ever on Mars’ Hill—in Athens?’

‘Yes; beautiful!’

‘These people can’t make any statues. It’s against their religion. Can’t carve anything.’

‘There’s a lot of carving on the Temple,’ said Demetrius.

‘Yes—but they didn’t do it.’ The old man rose and shouldered his burden.

‘I wonder if you know where I might find a caravan from Athens that deals in spices,’ asked Demetrius.

‘Oh, yes. You mean Popygos. He’s down by the old tower. You passed his place when you came in from the hill. Popygos. Better keep your hand on your wallet.’

‘Would he rob a fellow Greek?’

‘Popygos would rob his grandmother.’

Demetrius grinned and bade the grizzled old merchant good-bye. He started toward the Insula. It was too late to go back looking for the spice caravan. He would find it tomorrow. People were very much alike, wherever you found them. The Jews hated their government. So did the Greeks. But a change of government wouldn’t help. That wasn’t the trouble. The trouble was that the people couldn’t change each other or themselves. The rug merchant discredited the spice merchant. Popygos would rob his grandmother. But that wasn’t Tiberius Caesar’s fault. Tiberius was a bad Emperor, no doubt; but under any other government the grandmother of Popygos would be no more safe than she was now. The lonely man from the country probably knew that. He didn’t want to be a king. No matter who was king, you’d better keep your hand on your wallet. The world was in serious need of something—but it wasn’t something that a new king could furnish.

Demetrius did not wait to watch the early morning inspection. As soon as he had finished serving his master’s breakfast, he made off alone. Already the streets were crowded. You had to pick your way carefully through the market district or you might tramp on some reckless huckster sitting cross-legged on the narrow sidewalk surrounded by his pitiful little stock of merchandise; a few crude earthenware jugs, perhaps. Here sat a shapeless bundle of rags that turned out to be an old woman with three eggs and a melon for sale. The roadway was choked with pack-animals unloading into the little bazaars. Everywhere emaciated arms stretched out for a penny. Loathsome sores were unwrapped and put on display accompanied progressively by a wheedle, a whine, a hiss, and a curse. A hollow-chested old man with empty, fly-infested eye-sockets apathetically blew a plaintive squawk from a decrepit flageolet. Now the street narrowed into a dark, pestilential cavern that declined over a series of broad stone steps, slippery with refuse, swarming with beggars and mangy, half-starved dogs. According to Centurion Paulus, the Jews believed that they were created in the image of their god. Demetrius held his nose and hurried through this assortment of divine reproductions, having a care not to brush against them.

The caravan was not hard to find. Near the old tower, overlooking the little Kedron River, there was an open plaza where the road to the west began. A pungent aroma—distinctly refreshing after a trip through the market—guided Demetrius to his destination. A welcoming voice hailed him.

‘Ho, adelphos!’ shouted the garrulous little Athenian. Demetrius was honestly glad to see him, though at any other time or place he wouldn’t have liked to be hailed as brother by this intrusive fellow. They shook hands. ‘I was hoping to see you again. My name is Zenos. I don’t think I told you.’

‘I am Demetrius. You have a pleasant location here.’

‘Right! Plenty of room, and we see everything. You should have been here last night. Much excitement! They arrested this Nazarene, you know. Found him up there in the old park.’

‘Nazarene? I hadn’t heard. What had he done?’ asked Demetrius, without interest.

‘Why—you know! The man we saw on the white donkey, the other day.’

Demetrius came alive and pressed a flock of inquiries. Zenos was delighted to have so much information to dispense. Troops from the Insula had been on the lookout for this Jesus ever since Sunday noon. Last night they had captured him; brought him, and his little band of friends, back into the city.

‘But what had he done?’ demanded Demetrius, impatiently.

‘Well—they arrested him for stirring up the people, and for wanting to be a king. Popygos says if they convict him of treason, it will go hard with him.’

‘Treason! But that’s nonsense!’ exclaimed Demetrius, hotly. ‘That man doesn’t want to upset the Government; doesn’t want to have anything to do with the Government; neither this Government nor any other. Treason? They’re all crazy!’

‘No—they’re not crazy,’ objected Zenos. ‘The people who run the Temple have got to dispose of him somehow, or he’ll ruin their business. Haven’t you heard what he did over there—same day we saw him?’

‘Not a word. What happened?’

‘What happened! Plenty! You see—the Temple is where the people make sacrifices; buy animals and burn them; nasty mess, bad smell; but their god likes the idea. So—the loggia—or whatever they may call it—is crowded full of animals for sale. The people bring their money, and the money-changers—just inside the door—convert it into Temple money’—Zenos laughed heartily. ‘And everybody says that these bankers make a fat thing of it, too.’

‘Do you mean to say that they sell animals inside of that beautiful Temple?’ asked Demetrius, incredulously.

‘In an arcaded court done in marble!’ declared Zenos, solemnly nodding his head. ‘In a court with gorgeous tiled paving; walls and ceiling in the finest mosaic you ever saw; nothing nicer in Athens. And they have it full of calves and sheep and pigeons. You can imagine how it looks—but you can’t imagine how it stinks! You’ve got to go there and smell it! Well—this Jesus came in from the country—away up in Galilee some place—and went into the Temple—and didn’t like it; said it was not the place to sell animals. And he must have caught on to the thievery, too, for he made short work of the money-changers.’

‘What?’ doubted Demetrius.

Zenos laughed delightedly over his friend’s bewilderment.

‘Yes, sir! If you’ll believe it—he didn’t look like a man who would risk it—this Jesus picked up a whip and began slashing about’—Zenos elaborately cracked an imaginary whip a dozen times in swift succession. ‘Just as if he owned the whole establishment! Crack! Zip! Lash! Crash! Slash!—and out they came. It was wonderful! Out galloped the calves and the priests and the sheep and the bankers and the air was full of pigeons and feathers. And Jesus upset the money-tables. It poured out over the floor—shekels and drachmas and denarii—big money, little money, good money, bad money; swarms of pilgrims down on their hands and knees fighting for it. Thrilling sight! I wouldn’t have missed it!’ Zenos glanced over his shoulder and muttered, ‘Here comes the old man. He’s sore today. His best customers are all busy attending to this Jesus.’

The door of the largest tent had been drawn aside and a paunchy old fellow with graying hair and beard had stepped out and was waddling toward them. It had been a long time since Demetrius had seen anyone so barbarously festooned with jewelry; heavy silver chains around his neck and depending to his middle, rings on his fingers, rings in his ears, bracelets, anklets. He paused to regard Demetrius with an appraising scowl.

‘He’s from Corinth.’ Zenos pointed with his thumb. ‘We got acquainted on the road.’

‘I see you wear a Roman tunic,’ observed Popygos, crossly.

‘My master,’ explained Demetrius, respectfully, ‘commands the fort at Minoa.’

‘It would have been well,’ said Popygos, ‘if the Roman guard had let the Jews settle their own quarrels today. Everybody in Jerusalem who has so much as two shekels to rub together is mixed up with the case of this man from Nazareth. Now that the Government is in it, the affair will go on all day. And tomorrow is the Jews’ Sabbath.’

‘And they can’t do business on the Sabbath,’ remarked Demetrius, for something to say.

Old Popygos stroked his whiskers reflectively.

‘I have been making this trip for three-and-twenty years,’ he said, ‘and we have sold fewer goods this time than ever before. It gets worse and worse. Always some big squabble, Passover Week, to keep my best customers from coming for their cloves and cinnamon.’ Popygos upended a reed basket and sat down, jingling. ‘I can remember a time,’ he went on, deliberately, ‘when they didn’t have so many rackets. Now you take this thing that happened down here at the Temple, last Sunday. A few years ago, they were quite peaceful. The country people came in to do the Passover business and a little trading. Always brought a dove in a cage, if they were very poor, or a lamb or a calf, if they could afford it. That was for the Temple. The priests burned the offering—or said they did. They must have, from the way it reeked down around there. Then these Temple people got a little smarter. A man from the country would bring a lamb and the priests would examine it and find a wart on its belly—or some small blemish. So that lamb wouldn’t do. But they could take his damaged lamb and give him a good one for it, if he would pay a cash difference. Then the blemished lamb was ready to sell to the next customer.’

‘Rather dirty trading,’ commented Demetrius. ‘Not much wonder this Nazarene objected.’

‘Well—it won’t do any good,’ drawled Popygos. ‘At least, it hasn’t done him any good.’

‘What will they do to him?’ wondered Demetrius. ‘Put him in prison?’

‘Hardly! I understand they took him last night to the High Priest’s house and tried him for making a disturbance in the Temple. Defiling the Temple—that was what they charged him with.’ Popygos broke into bitter laughter. ‘As if anybody could defile a Temple that had been turned into a stable. Of course they had enough people on their side to convict him, so they all rushed over to the Insula and got Pilate out of bed to hear the case. He told them that they had better settle it among themselves, if it was just another Temple brawl. But the rich old fellows wouldn’t let the Procurator off so easily as that. They said this Jesus was trying to make himself a king. Pilate didn’t take any stock in that, of course. So he suggested that they whip him and let him go.’

‘And did they whip him?’ asked Demetrius, anxiously.

‘That they did! And quite heavily, too. Then somebody in the crowd yelled, “Kill the Galilean!” Pilate pricked up his ears, at that. “If this man is a Galilean,” he said, “try him before Herod. He handles all Galilean matters.” ’

‘Did they take him there?’ asked Demetrius.

‘Took him there,’ nodded Popygos, ‘and Herod had a good time tormenting him, thinking that would please the Temple crowd and the fat money-lenders. He had the soldiers whip Jesus again; then dressed him in some old scarlet regalia, and pretended to do homage to him. Some drunken lout rolled up a thornbush and put it on his head for a crown. But the money-bags were not satisfied with the show. They wanted this Jesus put to death—’

‘To death!’ shouted Demetrius.

‘Yes. And they knew that nobody could give that order but Pilate. So—they all went back to the Insula.’

‘And then what happened?’ demanded Demetrius.

Popygos shook his head and twitched a shoulder.

‘That’s all I know,’ he said. ‘Diophanos the goldsmith, who was there and told me this, had to come back to his bazaar.’

‘Perhaps the trial is still going on at the Insula,’ said Demetrius, restlessly.

‘You’d better keep away from there,’ warned Popygos. ‘No good comes from mixing into business like that.’

‘But my master may need me,’ said Demetrius. ‘I must go. I hope you have a safe journey home, sir. Good-bye, Zenos.’

While still some distance away, Demetrius, who had quickened his pace until he was almost running, saw a compact crowd gathered about the main entrance to the Praetorium. He hurried up the steps and stood at the edge of the tensely occupied audience, receiving dark glances from his well-dressed Jewish neighbors as he appeared beside them. There were no poor people present.

The Procurator was standing within the colonnade, surrounded by a detachment of palace guards. On the highest level of the terraced flagging, a company of troops, four ranks deep, stood stiffly at attention. In front of them, standing alone, was the captive. Questions were being asked and answered in a language Demetrius could not understand. He concluded it was Aramaic, for that was the tongue spoken by the tempestuous crowd on the road. He left his place and edged around until he was at the extreme right. Now he could see the profile of the lonely man. Yes—he was wearing the crown of thorns that Popygos had reported. The blood had run down from his forehead until his face was streaked with it. His hands were tied. His coat had been pulled back off his bare shoulders, showing livid whip-welts. Some of them were bleeding. But he seemed not to be conscious of his injuries. The Procurator’s interrogations—whatever they were—proceeded quietly, the prisoner, with uplifted face, as quietly answering them in a respectful but self-confident tone. Occasionally a low dissenting mutter ran through the sullen crowd that stood with eyes squinted and mouths open to hear the testimony.

So intently had Demetrius been watching the victim’s face that he had barely glanced about. It now occurred to him to look for Marcellus. The front rank was composed of officers representing the various forts. Paulus was among them, resolutely erect, but swaying rhythmically. Immediately behind him stood a single line of troops from Minoa. Marcellus was not to be seen.

Now the Procurator was speaking in a louder voice. It brought an instant, concerted, angry roar from the civilian audience. Demetrius maneuvered to a position where he could get a better view of the judge. Now he saw Marcellus, standing with the other Legates at the immediate left of the Procurator. He wondered whether his master really knew what was going on. Unless someone was at hand to act as interpreter, Marcellus probably had no notion what all this was about. Demetrius knew the exact meaning of the slightest expression on his master’s face. At the moment, it conveyed a good deal of bewilderment, and about the same amount of boredom. It was evident that Marcellus wished he were somewhere else.

Procurator Pilate seemed quite confused. The hostile attitude of his influential audience had rattled him. He turned aside and gave an order to one of the guards, who retired within the wide doorway. Presently he was back with a huge silver basin. Pilate dipped his hands in it, and flicked water from his fingers. The crowd roared again, but this time it was a cry of vengeful triumph. It was clear that a decision had been made; equally apparent that the decision had satisfied the prosecution. Now Demetrius understood what was meant by the pantomime with the basin. Pilate was washing his hands of the case. The people were to have their way, but they were to consider themselves responsible for the judgment. As for the Procurator, he didn’t care to have the prisoner’s blood on his hands. Demetrius felt that his master would undoubtedly understand. Even if he knew nothing about the case, he would know that Pilate had made a decision against his own inclinations.

Now Pilate had turned to Marcellus, who had stepped forward saluting. There was a brief, inaudible colloquy. Marcellus bowed in acknowledgment of an order, saluted again; and, descending the steps, approached Paulus and gave him some instructions. Paulus barked a command, and the Minoa contingent advanced, formed a line by twos, and executed a smart right-about. Led by Marcellus, with Paulus to the immediate rear of him, the troops marched through the crowd that opened a passage for them. One soldier of the final pair paused to grasp the dangling rope that bound the condemned man’s hands. It was a rough and apparently unanticipated jerk, for it nearly drew the prisoner off his feet. The legionaires were marching with long strides.

Not many of the crowd fell in behind the procession. Most of them coagulated into muttering little groups, wagging their beards in sour satisfaction. Demetrius wondered what was to be the fate of this Jesus. He had received the death penalty; no question about that. Nothing less would have appeased the people. He would probably be taken to the courtyard of some prison to face a detachment of archers. On the other side of the street, a small company of pale-faced, poorly dressed, badly frightened men from the country seemed trying to decide whether to follow. After a moment, a few of them did; but they were in no hurry to catch up. These people were undoubtedly Jesus’ friends. It was a pity, Demetrius thought, that they had shown up so meanly. The man surely deserved a more loyal support.

Undecided whether to trail along after the procession or wait at the barracks for his master’s return, Demetrius stood for some time irresolute. Presently Melas joined him, grinning feebly.

‘What are they going to do with him?’ inquired Demetrius, unsteadily.

‘Crucify him,’ said Melas.

‘Crucify him!’ Demetrius’ voice was husky. ‘Why—he hasn’t done anything to deserve a death like that!’

‘Maybe not,’ agreed Melas, ‘but that’s the order. My guess is that the Procurator didn’t want to have it done, and thinks it may stir up some trouble for him. That’s why he gave Minoa the job; didn’t want his own legion mixed up in it. Minoa’s pretty far away, and a tough outfit.’ Melas chuckled. He was glad to belong to a tough outfit. Minoa didn’t mind a little brutality.

‘Are you going along?’ asked Demetrius.

Melas scowled and shook his head.

‘No—nothing for me to do there. Had you thought of going? It’s not a very pretty business: I can tell you that! I saw it done—once—over in Gaul. Soldier stabbed his Centurion. They nailed him up for that. It took all day. You could hear him cry for half a league. The big black birds came before he died and—’

Demetrius shook his head, made an overhand protest, and swallowed convulsively. Melas grinned and spat awkwardly. Then he turned and started ambling slowly back toward the barracks, leaving Demetrius standing there debating with himself what to do.

After a while he moved along woodenly after Melas. Reaching his master’s silent and empty quarters, he sat down and tried to compose himself. His heart was beating so hard it made his head ache.

Then he rose and found a drink of water. It occurred to him that Marcellus too might want a drink before this dreadful business was over. He filled a small jug, and started; walking slowly, for he didn’t want to go.

Ever since he had looked into this Jesus’ eyes, Demetrius had thought of him as the lonely man whom nobody understood; not even his close friends. Today he would be a lonely man indeed.