Читать книгу The Robe - Lloyd C. Douglas - Страница 8

Table of Contents

One of the Insula’s ten companies was absent from inspection. Marcellus noticed the diminished strength of the Procurator’s Legion, but thought little of it. Whatever might be the nature of the business that had called out these troops so early in the day, it was of no concern to Minoa.

But when Julian, the Capernaum Commander who was taking his turn as officer of the day, glumly announced that the customary parade was canceled and that all the legionaries would return to their barracks to await further orders, Marcellus’ curiosity was stirred. Returning to his quarters, he sent for Paulus, confident that this ever-active fountain of gossip could explain the mystery.

After a considerable delay, the Centurion drifted in unsteadily with flushed cheeks and bloodshot eyes. His Commander regarded him with unconcealed distaste and pointed to a chair into which the dazed and untidy Paulus eased himself gently.

‘Do you know what’s up?’ inquired Marcellus.

‘The Procurator,’ mumbled Paulus, ‘has had a bad night.’

‘So have you, from all appearances,’ observed Marcellus, frostily. ‘What has been going on—if it isn’t a secret?’

‘Pilate is in trouble.’ Paulus’ tongue was clumsy, and he chewed out his words slowly. ‘He is in trouble with everybody. He is even in trouble with good old Julian, who says that if the man is a Galilean, Capernaum should have been detailed to police the trial at Herod’s court.’

‘Would you be good enough to tell me what you are talking about?’ rasped Marcellus. ‘What man? What trial? Begin at the beginning, and pretend I don’t know anything about it.’

Paulus yawned prodigiously, scrubbed his watery eyes with shaky fingers, and began to spin a long, involved yarn about last night’s experiences. An imprudent carpenter from somewhere up in Galilee had been tried for disturbing the peace and exciting the people to revolt. A few days ago, he had become violent in the Temple, chasing the sacrificial animals out into the street, upsetting the money-tills, and loudly condemning the holy place as a den of robbers. ‘A true statement, no doubt,’ commented Paulus, ‘but not very polite.’

‘The fellow must be crazy,’ remarked Marcellus.

Paulus pursed his swollen lips judicially and shook his head.

‘Something peculiar about this man,’ he muttered. ‘They arrested him last night. They’ve had him up before old Annas, who used to be the High Priest; and Caiaphas, the present High Priest; and Pilate—and Herod—and—’

‘You seem to know a lot about it,’ broke in Marcellus.

Paulus grinned sheepishly.

‘A few of us were seeing the holy city by moonlight,’ he confessed. ‘Shortly after midnight we ran into this mob and tagged along. It was the only entertainment to be had. We were a bit tight, sir, if you’ll believe it.’

‘I believe it,’ said Marcellus. ‘Go on, please, with whatever you can remember.’

‘Well—we went to the trials. As I have said, we were not in prime condition to understand what was going on, and most of the testimony was shrieked in Aramaic. But it was clear enough that the Temple crowd and the merchants were trying to have the man put to death.’

‘For what happened at the Temple?’

‘Yes—for that, and for going about through the country gathering up big crowds to hear him talk.’

‘About what?’

‘A new religion. I was talking with one of Pilate’s legionaries who understands the language. He said this Jesus was urging the country people to adopt a religion that doesn’t have much to do with the Temple. Some of the testimony was rubbish. One fellow swore the Galilean had said that if the Temple were torn down he could put it up again in three days. Stuff like that! Of course, all they want is a conviction. Any sort of testimony is good enough.’

‘Where does the matter stand now?’ asked Marcellus.

‘I got a plenty of it at Herod’s court, and came back before daybreak; dead on my feet. They had just decided to have another trial before Pilate, directly after breakfast. They are probably at the Insula now. Pilate will have to give them what they want—and’—Paulus hesitated, and then continued grimly—‘what they want is a crucifixion. I heard them talking about it.’

‘Shall we go over?’ queried Marcellus.

‘I’ve had enough, sir, if you’ll excuse me.’ Paulus rose with an effort and ambled uncertainly across the room. In the doorway he confronted a sentinel, garbed in the Insula uniform, who saluted stiffly.

‘The Procurator’s compliments,’ he barked, in a metallic tone. ‘The ranking officers and a detachment of twenty men from the Minoa Legion will attend immediately in the Procurator’s court.’ With another ceremonious salute, he backed out and strutted down the corridor, without waiting for a reply.

‘I wonder what Pilate wants of us,’ reflected Marcellus, uneasily, searching the Centurion’s apprehensive eyes.

‘I think I can guess,’ growled Paulus. ‘Pilate doesn’t confer honors on Minoa. He’s going to detail us to do something too dirty and dangerous for the local troops; doesn’t want his precious legion mixed up in it. The Minoa contingent will be leaving tomorrow. If any trouble results, we will be out of reach.’ He hitched up his belt and left the room. Marcellus stood irresolute for a moment and followed, intending to ask Paulus to order out the detachment. Through the half-open door to the Centurion’s quarters, he saw him greedily gulping from an enormous cup. He strode angrily into the room.

‘If I were you, Paulus,’ he said, sternly, ‘I shouldn’t drink any more at present. You’ve already had much too much!’

‘If I were you,’ retorted Paulus, recklessly, ‘I would take as much of this as I could hold!’ He took a couple of uncertain steps toward Marcellus, and faced him with brazen audacity. ‘You’re going to crucify a man today!’ he muttered. ‘Ever see that done?’

‘No.’ Marcellus shook his head. ‘I don’t even know how it is done. You’ll have to tell me.’

Paulus carefully picked his way back to the table where the grotesquely shaped wineskin sat. Refilling the big cup, he handed it, dripping, to his Commander.

‘I’ll show you—when we get there,’ he said, huskily. ‘Drink that! All of it! If you don’t, you’ll wish you had. What we’re going to do is not a job for a sober man.’

Marcellus, unprotesting, took the cup and drank.

‘It isn’t just that the thing is sickeningly cruel,’ continued Paulus. ‘There’s something strange about this man. I’d rather not have anything to do with it!’

‘Afraid he’ll haunt you?’ Marcellus paused at the middle of the cup, and drew an unconvincing grin.

‘Well—you wait—and see what you think!’ murmured Paulus, wagging his head mysteriously. ‘The witnesses said he acted, at the Temple, as if it were his own personal property. And that didn’t sound as silly as you might think, sir. At old man Annas’ house, I’m bound if he didn’t act as if he owned the place. At Caiaphas’ palace, everybody was on trial—but this Jesus! He was the only cool man in the crowd at the Insula. He owns that, too. Pilate felt it, I think. One of the witnesses testified that Jesus had professed to be a king. Pilate leaned forward, looked him squarely in the face, and said, “Are you?” Mind, sir, Pilate didn’t ask him, “Did you say you were a king?” He said, “Are you?” And he wasn’t trying to be sarcastic, either.’

‘But that’s nonsense, Paulus! Your wine-soaked imagination was playing tricks on you!’ Marcellus walked across to the table and poured himself another cupful. ‘You get out the troops,’ he ordered, resolutely. ‘I hope you’ll be able to stand straight, over at the Insula. You’re definitely drunk, you know.’ He took another long drink, and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘So—what did the Galilean say to that—when Pilate asked him if he was a king?’

‘Said he had a kingdom—but not in the world,’ muttered Paulus, with a vague, upward-spiraling gesture.

‘You’re worse than drunk,’ accused Marcellus, disgustedly. ‘You’re losing your mind. I think you’d better go to bed. I’ll report you sick.’

‘No—I’m not going to leave you in the lurch, Marcellus.’ It was the first time Paulus had ever addressed the Commander by his given name.

‘You’re a good-fellow, Paulus,’ declared Marcellus, giving him his hand. He retraced his way to the wineskin. Paulus followed and took the cup from his hand.

‘You have had just the right amount, sir,’ he advised. ‘I suggest that you go now. Pilate will not like it if we are tardy. He has endured about all the annoyance he can take, for one morning’s dose. I shall order out the detachment, and meet you over there.’

With a purposely belated start, and after experiencing much difficulty in learning the way to the place of execution—an outlying field where the city’s refuse was burned—Demetrius did not expect to arrive in time to witness the initial phase of the crucifixion.

Tardy as he was, he proceeded with reluctant steps; very low in spirit, weighted with a dejection he had not known since the day of his enslavement. The years had healed the chain-scars on his wrists: fair treatment at the hands of the Gallio family had done much to mend his heart: but today it seemed that the world was totally unfit for a civilized man to live in. Every human institution was loaded with lies. The courts were corrupt. Justice was not to be had. All rulers, big and little, were purchasable. Even the temples were full of deceit. You could call the roll of all the supposed reliances that laid claim to the people’s respect and reverence, and there wasn’t one of them that hadn’t earned the bitter contempt of decent men!

Though accustomed to walk with long strides and clipped steps, Demetrius slogged along through the dirty streets with the shambling gait of a hopeless, faithless, worthless vagabond. At times his scornful thoughts almost became articulate as he passionately reviled every tribunal and judiciary, every crown and consistory in the whole, wide, wicked world. Patriotism! How the poets and minstrels loved to babble about the high honor of shedding one’s blood. Maybe they, too, had been bought up. Old Horace: maybe Augustus had just sent him a new coat and a cask of wine when he was inspired to write, ‘How sweet and glorious to die for one’s country!’ Nonsense! Why should any sane man think it pleasant or noble to give up his life to save the world. It wasn’t fit to live in; much less die for! And it was never going to be any better. Here was this foolhardy Galilean, so thoroughly enraged over the pollution of a holy place that he had impulsively made an ineffective little gesture of protest. Doubtless nineteen out of every twenty men in this barren, beaten, beggared land would inwardly applaud this poor man’s reckless courage; but, when it came to the test, these downtrodden, poverty-cursed nobodies would let this Jesus stand alone—without one friend—before the official representatives of a crooked Temple and a crooked Empire.

Loyalty? Why should any man bother himself to be loyal? Let him go out on his own, and protect himself the best he can. Why should you spend your life following at the heels of a Roman master, who alternately confided in you and humiliated you? What had you to lose, in self-respect, by abandoning this aristocrat? It wasn’t hard to make one’s way to Damascus.

It was a dark day for Demetrius. Even the sky was overcast with leaden, sullen clouds. The sun had shone brightly at dawn. For the past half-hour, an almost sinister gloom had been thickening.

As he neared the disreputable field, identifiable for some distance by the noisome smoke that drifted from its smouldering corruptions, he met many men walking rapidly back to the city. Most of them were well-fed, well-dressed, pompous, preoccupied; men of middle age or older, strutting along in single file, as if each had come alone. These people, surmised Demetrius, were responsible for the day’s crime. It relieved him to feel that the worst of it was over. They had seen the public assassination to a successful conclusion, and were now free to return to their banks and bazaars. Some, doubtless, would go to the Temple and say their prayers.

After the last straggling group of mud hovels had been passed, the loathsome, garbage-littered field lay before him. He was amazed to see how much pollution had been conveyed to this place, for the city’s streets had not shown so huge a loss of filth. A fairly clean, narrow path led toward a little knoll that seemed to have been protected. Demetrius stopped—and looked. On the green knoll, three tall crosses stood in a row. Perhaps it had been decided, as an afterthought, to execute a couple of the Galilean’s friends. Could it be possible that two among them, crazed by their leader’s impending torture, had attempted to defend him? Hardly: they didn’t have it in them: not the ones he had seen that day on the road: not the ones he had seen, this morning.

Forcing his unwilling feet, he advanced slowly to within less than a stadium of the gruesome scene. There he came to a stop. The two unidentified men were writhing on their crosses. The lonely man on the central cross was still as a statue. His head hung forward. Perhaps he was dead, or at least unconscious. Demetrius hoped so.

For a long time he stood there, contemplating this tragic sight. The hot anger that had almost suffocated him was measurably cooled now. The lonely man had thrown his life away. There was nothing to show for his audacious courage. The Temple would continue to cheat the country people who came in to offer a lamb. Herod would continue to bully and whip the poor if they inconvenienced the rich. Caiaphas would continue to condemn the blasphemies of men who didn’t want the gods fetched to market. Pilate would deal out injustice—and wash his dirty hands in a silver bowl. This lonely man had paid a high price for his brief and fruitless war on wickedness. But—he had spoken: he had acted. By tomorrow, nobody would remember that he had risked everything—and lost his life—in the cause of honesty. But—perhaps a man was better off dead than in a world where such an event as this could happen. Demetrius felt very lonely too.

There was not as large a crowd as he had expected to see. There was no disorder, probably because the legionaries were scattered about among the people. It was apparent, from the negligence of the soldiers’ posture, as they stood leaning on their lances, that no rioting had occurred or was anticipated.

Demetrius moved closer in and joined the outer rim of spectators. Not many of the well-to-do, who had been conspicuous at the Insula, were present. Most of the civilians were poorly dressed. Many of them were weeping. There were several women, heavily veiled and huddled in little groups, in attitudes of silent, hopeless grief. A large circle had been left unoccupied below the crosses.

Edging his way slowly forward, occasionally rising on tiptoe to search for his master, Demetrius paused beside one of the legionaries who, recognizing him with a brief nod, replied to his low-voiced inquiry. The Commander and several other officers were on the other side of the knoll, at the rear of the crosses, he said.

‘I brought him some water,’ explained Demetrius, holding up the jug. The soldier showed how many of his teeth were missing.

‘That’s good,’ he said. ‘He can wash his hands. They’re not drinking water today. The Procurator sent out a wineskin.’

‘Is the man dead?’ asked Demetrius.

‘No—he said something awhile ago.’

‘What did he say? Could you hear?’

‘Said he was thirsty.’

‘Did they give him water?’

‘No—they filled a sponge with vinegar that had some sort of balm in it, and raised it to his mouth; but he wouldn’t have it. I don’t rightly understand what he is up there for—but he’s no coward.’ The legionary shifted his position, pointed to the darkening sky, remarked that there was going to be a storm, and moved on through the crowd.

Demetrius did not look at the lonely man again. He edged out into the open and made a wide détour around to the other side of the knoll. Marcellus, Paulus, and four or five others were lounging in a small circle on the ground. A leather dice-cup was being shaken negligently, and passed from hand to hand. At first sight of it, Demetrius was hotly indignant. It wasn’t like Marcellus to be so brutally unfeeling. A decent man would have to be very drunk indeed to exhibit such callous unconcern in this circumstance.

Now that he was here, Demetrius thought he should inquire whether there was anything he could do for his master. He slowly approached the group of preoccupied officers. After a while, Marcellus glanced up dully and beckoned to him. The others gave him a brief glance and resumed their play.

‘Anything you want to tell me?’ asked Marcellus, thickly.

‘I brought you some water, sir.’

‘Very good. Put it down there. I’ll have a drink presently.’ It was his turn to play. He shook the cup languidly and tossed out the dice.

‘Your lucky day!’ growled Paulus. ‘That finishes me.’ He stretched his long arms and laced his fingers behind his head. ‘Demetrius,’ he said, nodding toward a rumpled brown mantle that lay near the foot of the central cross, ‘hand me that coat. I want to look at it.’

Demetrius picked up the garment and gave it to him. Paulus examined it with idle interest.

‘Not a bad robe,’ he remarked, holding it up at arm’s length. ‘Woven in the country; dyed with walnut juice. He’ll not be needing it any more. I think I’ll say it’s mine. How about it, Tribune?’

‘Why should it be yours?’ asked Marcellus, indifferently. ‘If it’s worth anything, let us toss for it.’ He handed Paulus the dice-cup. ‘High number wins. It’s your turn.’

There was a low mutter of thunder in the north and a savage tongue of flame leaped through the black cloud. Paulus tossed a pair of threes, and stared apprehensively at the sky.

‘Not hard to beat,’ said Vinitius, who sat next him. He took the cup and poured out a five and a four. The cup made the circle without bettering this cast until it arrived at Marcellus.

‘Double six!’ he called. ‘Demetrius, you take care of the robe.’ Paulus handed up the garment.

‘Shall I wait here for you, sir?’ asked Demetrius.

‘No—nothing you can do. Go back to the Insula. Begin packing up. We want to be off to an early start in the morning.’ Marcellus looked up at the sky. ‘Paulus, go around and see how they are doing. There’s going to be a hard storm.’ He rose heavily to his feet, and stood swaying. Demetrius wanted to take his arm and steady him, but felt that any solicitude would be resented. His indignation had cooled now. It was evident that Marcellus had been drinking because he couldn’t bear to do this shameful work in his right mind. There was a deafening, stunning thunderclap that fairly shook the ground on which they stood. Marcellus put out a hand and steadied himself against the central cross. There was blood on his hand when he regained his balance. He wiped it off on his toga.

A fat man, expensively dressed in a black robe, waddled out of the crowd and confronted Marcellus with surly arrogance.

‘Rebuke these people!’ he shouted, angrily. ‘They are saying that the storm is a judgment on us!’

There was another gigantic crash of thunder.

‘Maybe it is!’ yelled Marcellus, recklessly.

The fat man waved a menacing fist.

‘It is your duty to keep order here!’ he shrieked.

‘Do you want me to stop the storm?’ demanded Marcellus.

‘Stop the blasphemy! These people are crying out that this Galilean is the Son of God!’

‘Maybe he is!’ shouted Marcellus. ‘You wouldn’t know!’ He was fumbling with the hilt of his sword. The fat man backed away, howling that the Procurator should hear of this.

Circling the knoll, Demetrius paused for a final look at the lonely man on the central cross. He had raised his face and was gazing up into the black sky. Suddenly he burst forth with a resonant call, as if crying to a distant friend for aid.

A poorly dressed, bearded man of middle age, apparently one of the Galilean’s friends from the country, rushed out of the crowd and ran down the slope weeping aloud in an abandon of grief. Demetrius grasped him by the sleeve as he stumbled past.

‘What did he say?’

The man made no reply, tore himself loose, and ran on shouting his unintelligible lamentations.

Now the dying Galilean was looking down upon the crowd below him. His lips moved. His eyes surveyed the people with the same sorrow they had expressed on the road when the multitude had hailed him as their king. There was another savage burst of thunder. The darkness deepened.

Demetrius rolled up the robe and thrust it inside his tunic, pressing it tightly under his arm. The intimate touch of the garment relieved his feeling of desolation. He wondered if Marcellus might not let him keep the robe. It would be a comfort to own something that this courageous man had worn. He would cherish it as a priceless inheritance. It would have been a great experience, he felt, to have known this man; to have learned the nature of his mind. Now that there would be no opportunity to share his friendship, it would be an enduring consolation to possess his robe.

Turning about, with swimming eyes, he started down the hill. It was growing so dark now that the narrow path was indistinct. He flung a backward look over his shoulder, but the descending gloom had swallowed up the knoll.

By the time he reached the city streets, night had fallen on Jerusalem, though it was only mid-afternoon. Lights flickered in the windows. Pedestrians moved slowly, carrying torches. Frightened voices called to one another. Demetrius could not understand what they were saying, but their tone was apprehensive, as if they were wondering about the cause of this strange darkness. He wondered, too, but felt no sense of depression or alarm. The sensation of being alone and unwanted in an unfriendly world had left him. He was not lonely now. He hugged the Robe close to his side as if it contained some inexplicable remedy for heartache.

Melas was standing in the corridor, in front of Paulus’ door, when he arrived at the barracks. Demetrius was in no mood to talk, and proceeded to his master’s quarters, Melas following with his torch.

‘So—you went out there; eh?’ said the Thracian, grimly. ‘How did you like it?’ They entered the room and Melas applied his torch to the big stone lamps. Receiving no answer to his rough query, he asked, ‘What do you think this is; an eclipse?’

‘I don’t know,’ replied Demetrius. ‘Never heard of an eclipse lasting so long.’

‘Maybe it’s the end of the world,’ said Melas, forcing an uncouth laugh.

‘That will be all right with me,’ said Demetrius.

‘Think this Jesus has had anything to do with it?’ asked Melas, half in earnest.

‘No,’ said Demetrius, ‘I shouldn’t think so.’

Melas moved closer and took Demetrius by the arm.

‘Thought any more about Damascus?’ he whispered.

Demetrius shook his head indifferently.

‘Have you?’ he asked.

‘I’m going—tonight,’ said Melas. ‘The Procurator always gives a dinner to the officers on the last night. When it is over, and I have put the Centurion to bed—he’ll be tight as a tambourine—I’m leaving. Better come with me. You’ll wait a long time for another chance as good as this one.’

‘No—I’m not going,’ said Demetrius firmly.

‘You’ll not tell on me, will you?’

‘Certainly not.’

‘If you change your mind, give me a wink at the banquet.’ Melas sauntered toward the door. Demetrius, thinking he had gone, drew out the Robe and unfolded it under the light.

‘What have you there?’ queried Melas, from the doorway.

‘His Robe,’ said Demetrius, without turning.

Melas came back and regarded the blood-stained garment with silent interest.

‘How do you happen to have it?’ he asked, in an awed tone.

‘It belongs to the Legate. The officers tossed for it. He won it.’

‘I shouldn’t think he’d want it,’ remarked Melas. ‘I’m sure I wouldn’t. It will probably bring him bad luck.’

‘Why bad luck?’ demanded Demetrius. ‘It belonged to a brave man.’

Marcellus came in, dazed, drunk, and thoroughly exhausted. Unbuckling his sword-belt, he handed it to Demetrius, and sank wearily into a chair.

‘Get me some wine,’ he ordered, huskily.

Demetrius obeyed; and, on one knee, unlaced his master’s dusty sandals while he drank.

‘You will feel better after a cold bath, sir,’ he said, encouragingly.

Marcellus widened his heavy eyes with an effort and surveyed his slave with curiosity.

‘Were you out there?’ he asked, thickly. ‘Oh, yes; I remember now. You were there. You brought j-jug water.’

‘And brought back his Robe,’ prompted Demetrius.

Marcellus passed his hand awkwardly across his brow and tried to dismiss the recollection with a shuddering shrug.

‘You will be going to the dinner, sir?’ asked Demetrius.

‘Have to!’ grumbled Marcellus. ‘Can’t have officers laughing at us. We’re tough—at Minoa. Can’t have ossifers—orfficers—chortling that sight of blood makes Minoa Legate sick.’

‘Quite true, sir,’ approved Demetrius. ‘A shower and a rub-down will put you in order. I have laid out fresh clothing for you.’

‘Very good,’ labored Marcellus. ‘Commanner Minoa never this dirty before. Wha’s that?’ He raked his fingers across a dark wet smudge on the skirt of his toga. ‘Blood!’ he muttered. ‘Great Roman Empire does big brave deed! Wins bloody battle!’ The drunken monologue trailed off into foggy incoherences. Marcellus’ head sank lower and lower on his chest. Demetrius unfastened the toga, soaked a towel in cold water, and vigorously applied it to his master’s puffed face and beating throat.

‘Up you come, sir!’ he ordered, tugging Marcellus to his feet. ‘One more hard battle to fight, sir. Then you can sleep it off.’

Marcellus slowly pulled himself together and rested both hands heavily on his slave’s shoulders while being stripped of his soiled clothing.

‘I’m dirty,’ he mumbled to himself. ‘I’m dirty—outside and inside. I’m dirty—and ashamed. Unnerstand—Demetrius? I’m dirty and ashamed.’

‘You were only obeying orders, sir,’ consoled Demetrius.

‘Were you out there?’ Marcellus tried to focus his eyes.

‘Yes, sir. A very sorry affair.’

‘What did you think of him?’

‘Very courageous. It was too bad you had it to do, sir.’

‘I wouldn’t do it again,’ declared Marcellus, truculently—‘no matter who ordered it! Were you there when he called on his god to forgive us?’

‘No—but I couldn’t have understood his language.’

‘Nor I—but they told me. He looked directly at me after he had said it. I’m afraid I’m going to have a hard time forgetting that look.’

Demetrius put his arm around Marcellus to steady him. It was the first time he had ever seen tears in his master’s eyes.

The Insula’s beautiful banquet-hall had been gaily decorated for the occasion with many ensigns, banners, and huge vases of flowers. An orchestra, sequestered in an alcove, played stirring military marches. Great stone lamps on marble pillars brightly lighted the spacious room. At the head table, a little higher than the others, sat the Procurator with Marcellus and Julian on either side and the Commanders from Caesarea and Joppa flanking them. Everyone knew why Marcellus and Julian were given seats of honor. Minoa had been assigned a difficult task and Capernaum had a grievance. Pilate was glum, moody, and distraught.

The household slaves served the elaborate dinner. The officers’ orderlies stood ranged against the walls, in readiness to be of aid to their masters, for the Procurator’s guests—according to a long-established custom—had come here to get drunk, and not many of them had very far to go.

The representatives of Minoa were more noisy and reckless than any of the others, but it was generally conceded that much latitude should be extended in their case, for they had had a hard day. Paulus had arrived late. Melas had done what he could to straighten him up, but the Centurion was dull and dizzy—and surly. The gaiety of his table companions annoyed him. For some time he sat glumly regarding them with distaste, occasionally jerked out of his lethargy by a painful hiccough. After a while his fellow officers took him in hand, plying him with a particularly heady wine which had the effect of whipping his jaded spirits into fresh activity. He tried to be merry; sang and shouted; but no one could understand anything he said. Presently he upset his tall wine-cup, and laughed uproariously. Paulus was drunk.

It pleased Demetrius to observe that Marcellus was holding his own with dignity. He was having little to say, but Pilate’s taciturnity easily accounted for that. Old Julian, quite sober, was eating his dinner with relish, making no effort to engage the Procurator in conversation. The other tables were growing louder and more disorderly as the evening advanced. There was much boisterous laughter; many rude practical jokes; an occasional unexplained quarrel.

The huge silver salvers, piled high with roasted meats and exotic fruits, came and went; exquisitely carved silver flagons poured rare wines into enormous silver goblets. Now and then a flushed Centurion rose from the couch on which he lounged beside his table, his servant skipping swiftly across the marble floor to assist him. After a while they would return. The officer, apparently much improved in health, would strut back to his couch and resume where he had left off. Many of the guests slept, to the chagrin of their slaves. So long as your master was able to stagger out of the room and unburden his stomach, you had no cause for humiliation; but if he went to sleep, your fellow slaves winked at you and grinned.

Demetrius stood at attention, against the wall, immediately behind his master’s couch. He noted with satisfaction that Marcellus was merely toying with his food, which showed that he still had some sense left. He wished, however, that the Commander would exhibit a little more interest in the party. It would be unfortunate if anyone surmised that he was brooding over the day’s events.

Presently the Procurator sat up and leaned toward Marcellus, who turned his face inquiringly. Demetrius moved a step forward and listened.

‘You are not eating your dinner, Legate,’ observed Pilate. ‘Perhaps there is something else you would prefer.’

‘Thank you; no, sir,’ replied Marcellus. ‘I am not hungry.’

‘Perhaps your task, this afternoon, dulled your appetite,’ suggested Pilate, idly.

Marcellus scowled.

‘That would be a good enough reason, sir, for one’s not being hungry,’ he retorted.

‘A painful business, I’m sure,’ commented Pilate. ‘I did not enjoy my necessity to order it.’

‘Necessity?’ Marcellus sat up and faced his host with cool impudence. ‘This man was not guilty of a crime, as the Procurator himself admitted.’

Pilate frowned darkly at this impertinence.

‘Am I to understand that the Legate of Minoa disputes the justice of the court’s decision?’

‘Of course!’ snapped Marcellus. ‘Justice? No one knows better than the Procurator that this Galilean was unjustly treated!’

‘You are forgetting yourself, Legate!’ said Pilate, sternly.

‘I did not initiate this conversation, sir,’ rejoined Marcellus, ‘but if my candor annoys you, we can talk about something else.’

Pilate’s face cleared a little.

‘You have a right to your opinions, Legate Marcellus Gallio,’ he conceded, ‘though you certainly know it is unusual for a man to criticize his superior quite so freely as you have done.’

‘I know that, sir,’ nodded Marcellus, respectfully. ‘It is unusual to criticize one’s superior. But this is an unusual case.’ He paused, and looked Pilate squarely in the eyes. ‘It was an unusual trial, an unusual decision, an unusual punishment—and the convict was an unusual man!’

‘A strange person, indeed,’ agreed Pilate. ‘What did you make of him?’ he asked, lowering his voice confidentially.

Marcellus shook his head.

‘I don’t know, sir,’ he replied, after an interval.

‘He was a fanatic!’ said Pilate.

‘Doubtless. So was Socrates. So was Plato.’

Pilate shrugged.

‘You’re not implying that this Galilean was of the same timber as Socrates and Plato!’

The conversation was interrupted before Marcellus had an opportunity to reply. Paulus had risen and was shouting at him drunkenly, incoherently. Pilate scowled, as if this were a bit too much, even for a party that had lost all respect for the dignity of the Insula. Marcellus shook his head and signed to Paulus with his hand that he was quite out of order. Undeterred, Paulus staggered to the head table, leaned far across it on one unstable elbow, and muttered something that Demetrius could not hear. Marcellus tried to dissuade him, but he was obdurate and growing quarrelsome. Obviously much perplexed, the Commander turned and beckoned to Demetrius.

‘Centurion Paulus wants to see that Robe,’ he muttered. ‘Bring it here.’

Demetrius hesitated so long that Pilate regarded him with sour amazement.

‘Go—instantly—and get it!’ barked Marcellus, angrily.

Regretting that he had put his master to shame, in the presence of the Procurator, Demetrius tried to atone for his reluctant obedience by moving swiftly. His heart pounded hard as he ran down the corridor to the Legate’s suite. There was no accounting for the caprice of a man as drunk as Paulus. Almost anything could happen, but Paulus would have to be humored.

Folding the blood-stained, thorn-rent Robe over his arm, Demetrius returned to the banquet-hall. He felt like a traitor, assisting in the mockery of a cherished friend. Surely this Jesus deserved a better fate than to be abandoned—even in death—to the whims of a drunken soldier. Once, on the way, Demetrius came to a full stop and debated seriously whether to obey—or take the advice of Melas—and run.

Marcellus glanced at the Robe, but did not touch it.

‘Take it to Centurion Paulus,’ he said.

Paulus, who had returned to his seat, rose unsteadily; and, holding up the Robe by its shoulders, picked his way carefully to the head table. The room grew suddenly quiet, as he stood directly before Pilate.

‘Trophy!’ shouted Paulus.

Pilate drew a reproachful smile and glanced toward Marcellus as if to hint that the Legate of Minoa might well advise his Centurion to mend his manners.

‘Trophy!’ repeated Paulus. ‘Minoa presents trophy to the Insula.’ He waved an expansive arm toward the banners that hung above the Procurator’s table.

Pilate shook his head crossly and disclaimed all interest in the drunken farce with a gesture of annoyance. Undaunted by his rebuff, Paulus edged over a few steps and addressed Marcellus.

‘Insula doesn’t want trophy!’ he prattled idiotically. ‘Very well! Minoa keep trophy! Legate Marcellus wear trophy back to Minoa! Put it on, Legate!’

‘Please, Paulus!’ begged Marcellus. ‘That’s enough.’ ‘Put it on!’ shouted Paulus. ‘Here, Demetrius; hold the Robe for the Legate!’ He thrust it into Demetrius’ hands. Someone yelled, ‘Put it on!’ And the rest of them took up the shout, pounding the tables with their goblets. ‘Put it on!’

Feeling that the short way out of the dilemma was to humor the drunken crowd, Marcellus rose and reached for the Robe. Demetrius stood clutching it in his arms, seemingly unable to release it. Marcellus was pale with anger.

‘Give it to me!’ he commanded, severely. All eyes were attentive, and the place grew quiet. Demetrius drew himself erect, with the Robe held tightly in his folded arms. Marcellus waited a long moment, breathing heavily. Then suddenly drawing back his arm he slapped Demetrius in the face with his open hand. It was the first time he had ever ventured to punish him.

Demetrius slowly bowed his head and handed Marcellus the Robe; then stood with slumped shoulders while his master tugged it on over the sleeves of his toga. A gale of appreciative laughter went up, and there was tumultuous applause. Marcellus did not smile. His face was drawn and haggard. The room grew still again. As a man in a dream, he fumbled woodenly with the neck of the garment, trying to pull it off his shoulder. His hands were shaking.

‘Shall I help you, sir?’ asked Demetrius, anxiously.

Marcellus nodded; and when Demetrius had relieved him of the Robe, he sank into his seat as if his knees had suddenly buckled under him.

‘Take that out into the courtyard,’ he muttered, hoarsely, ‘and burn it!’

Demetrius saluted and walked rapidly across the hall. Melas was standing near the doorway. He moved in closer as Demetrius passed.

‘Meet me—at midnight—at the Sheep Gate,’ he whispered.

‘I’ll be there,’ flung back Demetrius, as he hurried on.

‘You seem much shaken.’ Pilate’s tone was coolly derisive. ‘Perhaps you are superstitious.’

Marcellus made no reply. It was as if he had not heard the sardonic comment. He took up his wine-cup in a trembling hand and drank. The other tables, now that the unexpected little drama had been played out, resumed their banter and laughter.

‘I suspect that you have had about enough for one day,’ added the Procurator, more considerately. ‘If you wish to go, you may be excused.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ replied Marcellus, remotely. He half-rose from his couch, but finding that his knees were still weak, sank down again. Too much attention had already been focused on him: he would not take the risk of an unfortunate exit. Doubtless his sudden enfeeblement would soon pass. He tried to analyze this curious enervation. He had been drinking far too much today. He had been under a terrific emotional strain. But even in his present state of mental confusion, he could still think straight enough to know that it wasn’t the wine or the day’s tragic task. This seizure of unaccountable inertia had come upon him when he thrust his arms into the sleeves of that Robe! Pilate had taunted him about his superstition. Nothing could be farther from the truth: he was not superstitious. Nobody had less interest in or respect for a belief in supernatural persons or powers. That being true, he had not himself invested this Robe with some imagined magic.

He realized that Pilate was looking him over with contemptuous curiosity. His situation was becoming quite embarrassing. Sooner or later he would be obliged to stand up. He wondered if he could.

A palace guard was crossing the room, on his way to the head table. He came to a halt as he faced the Procurator, saluted stiffly, and announced that the Captain of The Vestris had arrived and wished to deliver a letter to Legate Marcellus Lucan Gallio.

‘Bring it here,’ said Pilate.

‘Captain Fulvius wishes to deliver it with his own hands, sir,’ said the guard.

‘Nonsense!’ retorted Pilate. ‘Tell him to give you the letter. See that the Captain has his dinner and plenty of wine. I shall have a word with him in the morning.’

‘The letter, sir,’ said the guard, impressively, ‘is from the Emperor!’

Marcellus, who had listened with scant interest, now leaned forward and looked at the Procurator inquisitively.

‘Very well,’ nodded Pilate. ‘Tell him to come in.’

The few moments of waiting seemed long. A letter from the Emperor! What manner of message would be coming from crazy old Tiberius? Presently the bronzed, bearded, bow-legged sailor ambled through the room, in tow of the guard. Pilate greeted him coolly and signed for him to hand the scroll to Marcellus. The Captain waited, and the Procurator watched out of the tail of his eye, while the seals were broken. Marcellus thrust a shaky dagger through the heavy wax, slowly unrolled the papyrus, and ran his eye over the brief message. Then he rolled up the scroll and impassively addressed the Captain.

‘When are you sailing?’ There was nothing in Marcellus’ tone to indicate whether the letter from Emperor Tiberius bore good tidings or bad. Whatever the message was, it had not stirred him out of his strange apathy.

‘Tomorrow night, sir. Soon as we get back to Joppa.’

‘Very good,’ said Marcellus, casually. ‘I shall be ready.’

‘We should leave here an hour before dawn, sir,’ said the Captain. ‘I have made all arrangements for your journey to the port. The ship will call at Gaza to pick up whatever you may wish to take with you to Rome.’

‘How did you happen to deliver this letter to Legate Marcellus Gallio in Jerusalem?’ inquired Pilate, idly.

‘I went to the Minoa fort, sir, and they told me he was here.’ The Captain bobbed an awkward leave-taking and followed the guard from the hall. Pilate, unable to restrain his curiosity any longer, turned to Marcellus with inquiring eyes.

‘If congratulations are in order,’ he said, almost deferentially, ‘may I be the first to offer them?’

‘Thank you,’ said Marcellus, evasively. ‘If it is agreeable with you, sir, I shall go now.’

‘By all means,’ approved Pilate, stiffening. ‘Perhaps you need some assistance,’ he added, as he observed Marcellus’ struggle to rise. ‘Shall I send for your servant?’

Clutching the table for support, Marcellus contrived to get to his feet. For a moment, as he steadied himself, he was unsure whether his legs would bear his weight until he had crossed the banquet-hall. Clenching his hands, he massed his will into a determined effort to walk. With short, infirm steps, he began the long journey to the door, so intent upon it that he had failed to give his distinguished host so much as a farewell glance. He was immeasurably relieved when, having passed through the door and into the broad corridor, he could brace a hand against the wall. After he had proceeded for some distance down the hall, he came to an arched doorway that opened upon the spacious courtyard. Feeling himself quite unable to go farther, he picked his way—with the caution of an old man—down the steps. On the lower step, he sat down heavily, in the darkness that enveloped the deserted parade-ground, wondering whether he would ever regain his strength.

Occasionally, during the next hour, he made tentative efforts to rise; but they were ineffectual. It struck him oddly that he was not more alarmed over his condition. Indeed, this lethargy that had attacked him physically had similarly disqualified his mind.

The fact that his exile, which had threatened to ruin his life, was now ended, did not exult his spirit. He said, over and over to himself, ‘Marcellus, wake up! You are free! You are going home! You are going back to your family! You are going back to Diana! The ship is waiting! You are to sail tomorrow! What ails you, Marcellus?’

Once he roused to brief attention as the figure of a man with a pack on his shoulder neared his darkened doorway. The fellow was keeping close to the wall, proceeding with stealthy steps. It was Paulus’ slave. He had the furtive air of a fugitive. As he passed Marcellus, he gave a sudden start at the sight of him sitting there; and, taking to his heels, vanished like a frightened antelope. Marcellus thought this faintly amusing, but did not smile. So—Melas was running away. Well—what of it? The question arrived and departed with no more significance than the fitful flicker in the masses of exotic shrubbery where the fireflies played.

After what seemed like a very long time, there came the sound of sandals scraping along the marble corridor, and thick, tired voices. The banquet was over. Marcellus wondered dully whether he should make his presence known to them as they passed, but felt powerless to come to a decision. Presently the footsteps and voices grew fainter and fainter, down the corridor. After that, the night seemed more dark. But Marcellus did not have a sense of desolation. His mind was inert. He laboriously edged his way over to the marble pillar at the right of the arch; and, leaning against it, dreamlessly slept.

Demetrius had spent a busy hour in the Legate’s suite, packing his master’s clothing and other equipment for the journey he would be making, in the morning, back to Minoa. He had very few misgivings about escaping from his slavery, but the habit of waiting on Marcellus was not easy to throw off. He would perform this final service, and be on his way to liberty. He might be captured, or he might experience much hardship; but he would be free! Marcellus, when he sobered, would probably regret the incident in the banquet-hall; might even feel that his slave had a just cause for running away.

He hadn’t accomplished his freedom yet, but he was beginning to experience the sense of it. After he had strapped the bulky baggage, Demetrius quietly left the room and returned to his own small cubicle at the far end of the barracks occupied by the contingent from Minoa, where he gathered up his few belongings and stowed them into his bag. Carefully folding the Galilean’s Robe, he tucked it in last after packing everything else.

It was, he admitted, a very irrational idea, but the softness of the finely woven, homespun Robe had a curious quality. The touch of it had for him a strangely calming effect, as if it were a new reliance. He remembered a legend from his childhood, about a ring that bore the insignia of a prince. And the prince had given the ring to some poor legionary who had pushed him out of an arrow’s path. And, years afterward, when in great need, the soldier had turned the ring to good account in seeking an audience with the prince. Demetrius could not remember all the details of the story, but this Robe seemed to have much the same properties as the prince’s ring. It was in the nature of a surety, a defense.

It was a long way to the Sheep Gate, but he had visited it before on one of his solitary excursions, lured there by Melas’ information that it was now rarely used except by persons coming into the city from the villages to the north. If a man were heading for the Damascus road, and wished to avoid a challenge, the Sheep Gate offered the best promise. Demetrius had been full of curiosity to see it. He had no intention of running away; but thought it might be interesting to have a glimpse of a road to freedom. Melas had said it was easy.

The gate was unguarded; deserted, indeed. Melas had not yet arrived, but his tardiness gave Demetrius no concern. Perhaps he himself was early. He lounged on the parched grass by the roadside, in the shadow of the crumbling limestone bastion, and waited.

At length he heard the rhythmic lisps of sandal-straps, and stepped out into the road.

‘Anyone see you go?’ asked Melas, puffing a little as he put down his pack for a momentary rest.

‘No. Everything was quiet. How about you?’

‘The Legate saw me leave.’ Melas chuckled. ‘He gave me a fright. I was sneaking along the barracks wall, in the courtyard, and came upon him.’

‘What was he doing there?’ demanded Demetrius, sharply.

‘Just sitting there—by himself—in a doorway.’

‘He recognized you?’

‘Yes—I feel sure he did; but he didn’t speak. Come! Let’s not stand here any longer. We must see how far we can travel before sunrise.’ Melas led the way through the dilapidated gate.

‘Did the Legate appear to be drunk?’ asked Demetrius.

‘N-no—not very drunk,’ said Melas, uncertainly. ‘He left the hall before any of the others; seemed dizzy and half out of his head. I was going to wait and put my mean old drunkard to bed, but they kept on at it so long that I decided to leave. He probably won’t miss me. I never saw the Centurion that drunk before.’

They plodded on through the dark, keeping to the road with difficulty. Melas stumbled over a rock and cursed eloquently.

‘You say he seemed out of his head?’ said Demetrius, anxiously.

‘Yes—dazed—as if something had hit him. And out there in that archway, he had a sort of empty look in his face. Maybe he didn’t even know where he was.’

Demetrius’ steps slowed to a stop.

‘Melas,’ he said, hoarsely, ‘I’m sorry—but I’ve got to go back to him.’

‘Why—you—’ The Thracian was at a loss for a strong enough epithet. ‘I always thought you were soft! Afraid to run away from a fellow who strikes you in the face before a crowd of officers; just to show them how brave he is! Very well! You go back to him and be his slave forever! It will be tough! He has lost his mind!’

Demetrius had turned and was walking away.

‘Good luck to you, Melas,’ he called, soberly.

‘Better get rid of that Robe!’ shouted Melas, his voice shrill with anger. ‘That’s what drove your smart young Marcellus out of his mind! He began to go crazy the minute he put it on! Let him be. He is accursed! The Galilean has had his revenge!’

Demetrius stumbled on through the darkness, Melas’ raging imprecations following him as far as the old gate.

‘Accursed!’ he yelled. ‘Accursed!’