THE ROBE

THE ROBE

by

Lloyd C. Douglas

1942

Dedicated with appreciation

to

Hazel McCann

who wondered what became of

The Robe

Chapter I

Because she was only fifteen and busy with her growing up, Lucia's
periods of reflection were brief and infrequent; but this morning she felt
weighted with responsibility.

Last night her mother, who rarely talked to her about anything more
perplexing than the advantages of clean hands and a pure heart, had privately
discussed the possible outcome of Father's reckless remarks yesterday in the
Senate; and Lucia, flattered by this confidence, had declared maturely that
Prince Gaius wasn't in a position to do anything about it.

But after she had gone to bed, Lucia began to fret. Gaius might indeed
overlook her father's heated comments about the extravagances and mismanagement
of his government, if he had had no previous occasion for grievance against the
Gallio family. There was, however, another grievance that no one knew about
except herself--and Diana. They would all have to be careful now or they might
get into serious trouble.

The birds had awakened her early. She was not yet used to their
flutterings and twitterings, for they had returned much sooner than usual,
Spring having arrived and unpacked before February's lease was up. Lucia roused
to a consciousness of the fret that she had taken to bed with her. It was still
there, like a toothache.

Dressing quietly so as not to disturb Tertia, who was soundly sleeping
in the alcove--and would be alarmed when she roused to find her mistress's
couch vacant--Lucia slipped her sandals softly over the exquisitely wrought
mosaics that led from her bedchamber and through her parlor into the long
corridor and down the wide stairway to the spacious hall and out into the vast
peristyle where she paused, shielding her eyes against the sun.

For the past year or more, Lucia had been acutely conscious of her
increasing height and rapid development into womanhood; but here on this
expanse of tessellated tiling she always felt very insignificant. Everything in
this immense peristyle dwarfed her; the tall marble columns that supported the
vaulted roofs, the stately statues standing in their silent dignity on the
close-clipped lawn, the high silver spray of the fountain. No matter how old
she became, she would be ever a child here.

Nor did it make her feel any more mature when, proceeding along the
patterned pavement, she passed Servius whose face had been as bronzed and
deep-lined when Lucia was a mere toddler. Acknowledging with twinkling fingers
and a smile the old slave's grave salute, as he brought the shaft of his spear
to his wrinkled forehead, she moved on to the vine-covered pergola at the far
end of the rectangle.

There, with her folded arms resting on the marble balustrade that
overlooked the terraced gardens, the arbors, the tiled pool, and commanded a
breath-taking view of the city and the river, Lucia tried to decide whether to
tell Marcellus. He would be terrifically angry, of course, and if he did
anything about it at all he might make matters worse; but--somebody in the
family must be informed where we stood in the opinion of Gaius before any more
risks were taken. It was unlikely, thought Lucia, that she would have an
opportunity to talk alone with her brother until later in the day; for
Marcellus had been out--probably all night--at the Military Tribunes' Banquet,
and wouldn't be up before noon; but she must resolve at once upon a course of
action. She wished now that she had told Marcellus last summer, when it had
happened.

The soft whisper of sandal-straps made her turn about. Decimus the
butler was approaching, followed by the Macedonian twins bearing silver trays
aloft on their outspread palms. Would his mistress, inquired Decimus with a
deep bow, desire her breakfast served here?

'Why not?' said Lucia, absently.

Decimus barked at the twins and they made haste to prepare the table
while Lucia watched their graceful movements with amused curiosity, as if
observing the antics of a pair of playful terriers. Pretty things, they were; a
little older than she, though not so tall; agile and shapely, and as nearly
alike as two peas. It was the first time that Lucia had seen them in action,
for they had been purchased only a week ago. Apparently Decimus, who had been
training them, thought they were ready now for active duty. It would be interesting
to see how they performed, for Father said they had been brought up in a home
of refinement and were probably having their first experience of serving a
table. Without risking an inquiring glance at the young woman who stood
watching them, they proceeded swiftly but quietly with their task. They were
both very white, observed Lucia, doubtless from confinement in some prisonship.

One of Father's hobbies, and his chief extravagance, was the possession
of valuable slaves. The Gallio family did not own very many, for Father
considered it a vulgar, dangerous, and ruinously expensive vanity to have
swarms of them about with little to do but eat, sulk, and conspire. He selected
his slaves with the same discriminating care that he exercised when purchasing
beautiful statuary and other art objects. He had no interest in public sales.
Upon the return of a military expedition from some civilized country, the
commanding officers would notify a few of their well-to-do acquaintances that a
limited number of high-grade captives were available; and Father would go down,
the day before the sale, and look them over, learn their history, sound them
out, and if he found anything he wanted to add to his household staff he would
bid. He never told anyone in the family how much he had paid for their slaves,
but it was generally felt that he had never practiced economy in acquiring such
merchandise.

Most of the people they knew were in a constant dither about their
slaves; buying and selling and exchanging. It wasn't often that Father disposed
of one; and when, rarely, he had done so, it was because the slave had
mistreated another over whom he had some small authority. They had lost an
excellent cook that way, about a year ago. Minna had grown crusty and cruel
toward the kitchen crew, scolding them loudly and knocking them about. She had
been warned a few times. Then, one day, Minna had slapped Tertia. Lucia
wondered, briefly, where Minna was now. She certainly did know how to bake
honey cakes.

You had to say this for Father: he was a good judge of people. Of
course, slaves weren't people, exactly; but some of them were almost people.
There was Demetrius, for example, who was at this moment marching through the
colonnade with long, measured strides. Father had bought Demetrius six years
ago and presented him to Marcellus on his seventeenth birthday. What a
wonderful day that was, with all their good friends assembled in the Forum to
see Marcellus--clean-shaven for the first time in his life--step forward to
receive his white toga. Cornelius Capito and Father had made speeches, and then
they had put the white toga on Marcellus. Lucia had been so proud and happy
that her heart had pounded and her throat had hurt, though she was only nine
then, and couldn't know much about the ceremony except that Marcellus was
expected to act like a man now--though sometimes he forgot to, when Demetrius
wasn't about.

Lucia pursed her full lips and grinned as she thought of their
relationship; Demetrius, two years older than Marcellus, always so seriously respectful,
never relaxing for an instant from his position as a slave; Marcellus, stern
and dignified, but occasionally forgetting to be the master and slipping
absurdly into the role of intimate friend. Very funny, it was sometimes. Lucia
loved to watch them together at such moments. Of course she had about the same
relation to Tertia; but that seemed different.

Demetrius had come from Corinth, where his father--a wealthy
shipowner--had taken a too conspicuous part in defensive politics. Everything
had happened at once in Demetrius' family. His father had been executed, his
two elder brothers had been given to the new Legate of Achaea, his patrician
mother had committed suicide; and Demetrius--tall, handsome, athletic--had been
brought to Rome under heavy guard, for he was not only valuable but violent.

Lucia remembered when, a week before Marcellus' coming of age, she had
heard Father telling Mother about his purchase of the Corinthian slave, only an
hour earlier. She had been much impressed--and a little frightened, too.

'He will require careful handling for a while,' Father was saying. 'He
has seen some rough treatment. His keeper told me I had better sleep with a
dagger under my pillow until the Corinthian cooled down. It seems he had badly
beaten up one of his guards. Ordinarily, of course, they would have dealt with
him briefly and decisively; but they were under orders to deliver him
uninjured. They were quite relieved to get him off their hands.'

'But is this not dangerous?' Mother had inquired anxiously. 'What might
he not do to our son?'

'That,' Father had replied, 'will be up to Marcellus. He will have to
win the fellow's loyalty. And he can do it, I think. All that Demetrius needs
is an assurance of fair play. He will not expect to be petted. He is a slave,
and he knows it--and hates it; but he will respond to decent discipline.' And
then Father had gone on to say that after he had paid the money and signed the
documents, he had himself led Demetrius out of the narrow cell; and, when they
were in the open plaza, had unlocked his chains; very carefully, too, for his
wrists were raw and bleeding. 'Then I walked on ahead of him,' Father had
continued, 'without turning to see whether he was following me. Aulus had
driven me down and was waiting in the chariot at the Appian Gate, a few yards
away. I had planned to bring the Corinthian back with me. But, as we neared the
chariot, I decided to give him instructions about how to reach our villa on
foot.'

'Alone?' Mother had exclaimed. 'Was that not very risky?'

'Yes,' Father had agreed, 'but not quite so risky as to have brought him
here as a shackled prisoner. He was free to run away. I wanted him to be in a
position to decide whether he would rather take a chance with us than gamble on
some other fate. I could see that my gestures of confidence had surprised and
mellowed him a little. He said--in beautiful Greek, for he had been well
educated, "What shall I do, sir, when I arrive at your villa?" I told
him to inquire for Marcipor, who would advise him. He nodded, and stood
fumbling with the rusty chains that I had loosed from his hands. "Throw
them away," I said. Then I mounted the chariot, and drove home.'

'I wonder if you will ever see him again,' Mother had said; and, in
answer to her question, Marcipor appeared in the doorway.

'A young Corinthian has arrived, Master,' said Marcipor, a Corinthian
himself. 'He says he belongs to us.'

'That is true,' Father said, pleased with the news. 'I bought him this
morning. He will attend my son, though Marcellus is to know nothing of this for
the present. Feed him well. And provide him with a bath and clean clothing. He
has been imprisoned for a long time.'

'The Greek has already bathed, Master,' replied Marcipor.

'Quite right,' approved Father. 'That was thoughtful of you.'

'I had not yet thought of it,' admitted Marcipor. 'I was in the sunken
garden, supervising the building of the new rose arbor, when this Greek
appeared. Having told me his name, and that he belonged here, he caught sight
of the pool--'

'You mean'--expostulated Mother--'that he dared to use our pool?'

'I am sorry,' Marcipor replied. 'It happened so quickly I was unable to
thwart it. The Greek ran swiftly, tossing aside his garments, and dived in. I
regret the incident. The pool will be drained immediately, and thoroughly
cleansed.'

'Very good, Marcipor,' said Father. 'And do not rebuke him; though he
should be advised not to do that again.' And Father had laughed, after Marcipor
had left the room. Mother said, 'The fellow should have known better than that.'
'Doubtless he did,' Father had replied. 'But I cannot blame him. He must have
been immensely dirty. The sight of that much water probably drove him
temporarily insane.'

One could be sure, reflected Lucia, that Marcipor hadn't been too hard
on poor Demetrius; for, from that day, he had treated him as if he were his own
son. Indeed, the attachment was so close that slaves more recently acquired
often asked if Marcipor and Demetrius were not somehow related.

Demetrius had reappeared from the house now, and was advancing over the
tiled pavement on his way to the pergola. Lucia wondered what errand was
bringing him. Presently he was standing before her, waiting for a signal to
speak.

'Yes, Demetrius?' she drawled.

'The Tribune,' he announced, with dignity, 'presents his good wishes for
his sister's health and happiness, and requests that he be permitted to join
her at breakfast.'

Lucia brightened momentarily; then sobered, and replied, 'Inform your
master that his sister will be much pleased--and tell him,' she added, in a
tone somewhat less formal, 'that breakfast will be served here in the pergola.'