THE ROBE (44 page)

'But it isn't my letter,' explained Justus. 'It is sent by this Roman,
Marcellus Gallio, who is up here buying homespun. He's there in the tent,
asleep.'

'Oh, that one! My mother told me about him. It is strange that he should
want our simple weaving. No one ever thought it was valuable. Well, if it is
his letter, and not yours, he should pay me eight shekels.'

'He will give you ten.' The coins were poured chinking into Jesse's
hand.

'Eight is enough,' said Jesse. 'You keep the other two.'

'But I have done nothing to earn them,' protested Justus. 'They are
yours. I think the Roman would prefer to give you ten.'

Jesse chuckled, not very pleasantly.

'Since when have the Romans turned soft-hearted?' he growled. 'I hope
there is nothing queer about this scroll. They tell me the jail in Jerusalem is
alive with vermin. What say you, Justus? You ought to know.' Jesse laughed at
his own grim jest. 'You lodged there for a couple of weeks, last spring.'

Marcellus could not hear Justus's rejoinder. Perhaps he had merely
grinned or scowled at Jesse's bucolic raillery.

'You can trust Marcellus,' said Justus, confidently. 'He is a man of
good will. Not all Romans are crooked, Jesse. You know that.'

'Yes, yes,' consented Jesse. 'As the saying goes, "Every Jew has
his Roman." Mine happens to be Hortensius.'

'You mean the Centurion, over in Capernaum, whose orderly Jesus cured of
a palsy? Did you have dealings with him, Jesse?'

'I sold him four camels--shortly before that affair of his servant. Three,
for a hundred each. I told him he could have the other one for sixty because
she was spavined. And he said, "She doesn't limp. What did you pay for
her?" And I said, "Eighty, but I didn't know the spavin was bad until
we were on the road two days." And he said, "She seems to be all
right now." And I said, "She's rested. But she'll go lame on a long
journey with anything of a load." And he said, "You needn't have told
me." Then he said, "Do you know Jesus?" And I said,
"Yes." And he said, "I thought so." And then he said,
"Let's split the cost of the spavin. I'll give you seventy." And I
said, "That's fair enough." And then I said, "Do you know Jesus,
sir?" And he said, "No, but I heard him talk, one day." And then
I asked him, just as if we were equals, "Are you one of us?" And he
was busy counting out the money, and didn't answer that; but when he handed it
to me he said--that was four years ago, and I looked younger than now--he said,
"You keep on listening to Jesus, boy! You'll never be rich, but you'll
never be poor!"'

'I'm glad you told me that, Jesse,' said Justus. 'You see what happened
there? Hortensius heard Jesus talk about how people ought to treat one another.
And maybe he wondered whether anybody was trying to practise it. And then you
told him the truth about the spavined camel. And he began to believe that Jesus
had great power.'

Jesse laughed.

'So you think the camel deal had something to do with his believing that
Jesus could cure his sick orderly.'

'Why not?' It was Justus's turn to chuckle. 'I suppose the Centurion
decided that any man who could influence a Jewish camel-drover to tell the
truth about a spavin should be able to heal the sick. But'--Justus's tone was
serious now--'however Hortensius came by his faith, he had plenty of it. I was
there that day, Jesse. The Centurion came forward--a fine figure, too, in full
uniform--and said, very deferentially, that his servant was sick unto death.
Would Jesus heal him? "You need not trouble to come to my house,
sir," he said. "If you will say that my servant is healed, that will
be sufficient." Jesus was much pleased. Nothing like that had happened
before. None of us had ever been so sure as that. He said to Hortensius,
"You have great faith. Your wish is granted."'

'And then,' Jesse recollected, 'they say that almost everyone in the
crowd set off at top speed for Hortensius's house.'

'Yes,' said Justus, 'and they never did agree on a story. One report had
it that the restored orderly met Hortensius at the gate. Some said the follow
was recovered and sitting up in bed. Others told that when the Centurion
returned, the orderly was saddling a horse to ride to Capernaum. You know how
these rumours get about. I suppose the fact is that none of these curious
people was admitted to the Centurion's grounds.'

'But the man did recover, that day, from his sickness, didn't he?' Jesse
insisted.

'He did, indeed!' declared Justus. 'I heard him say so. By the way,
think you that Hortensius will be made Commander of the fort at Capernaum, now
that old Julian has been promoted to succeed Pilate?'

'No such luck for Galilee!' grumbled Jesse. 'Everyone likes Hortensius.
He is a just man, and he would be friendly to our cause. That old fox Herod
will see to it that someone tougher than Hortensius gets the job. The thing
that surprises me is the appointment of lazy old Julian to the Insula at
Jerusalem.'

'Perhaps it's because Julian is lazy that the Temple crowd wanted him as
their Procurator,' suggested Justus. 'The more indolent and indifferent he is,
the more power will be exercised by the High Priest. He will let Caiaphas do
anything he pleases. There are times, Jesse,' went on Justus, thoughtfully,
'when a weak, lazy, vacillating man--of good intent--is more to be feared than
a crafty and cruel man. He shuts his eyes--and lets the injustices and
persecutions proceed. In truth, our cause would have been better served if
Pilate had remained.'

'Does anyone know what has become of Pilate?' asked Jesse.

'Sent back to Crete, I understand. Better climate. The rumour is that
Pontius Pilate is a sick man. He hasn't made a public appearance for quite a
year.'

'Why, that goes back to the crucifixion!' said Jesse. 'Do you mean that
Pilate hasn't been seen in public since that day?'

'That's what they say. Benyosef thinks Pilate's sickness is mental.'

'Well, if that's the case, a change of climate will do him no good,'
remarked Jesse. 'Hariph says he heard that there's talk of transferring the
Commander of the fort at Minoa to Capernaum.'

'Impossible!' muttered Justus. 'They wouldn't dare! It was the legion
from Minoa that put Jesus to death!'

'Yes, I know that,' said Jesse. 'I think, too, that it's just idle talk.
Hariph didn't say where he'd picked it up. Someone told him that this Paulus
from Minoa would probably be our next Commander. If so, we will have to be more
careful than ever.'

Justus sighed deeply and rose to his feet.

'I must not keep you longer, Jesse. You have a long day ahead of you.
Salute Benyosef for me, and any of the others who may have returned, now that
the Passover is at an end. And'--he laid a hand on Jesse's shoulder--'keep
watchful eyes on the roads, for no one knows the day, or the hour--' His deep
voice subsided to a whisper. They shook hands and Jesse drifted away.

With his face turned toward the tent-wall, Marcellus feigned sleep when
Justus entered quietly. For a long time he lay wide awake, pondering the things
he had overheard. So, it hadn't been so easy for Pilate. Pilate had washed his
hands in the silver basin, but apparently the Galilean's blood was still there.
So, Julian was in command at Jerusalem: Caiaphas could have his own way now.
Julian wouldn't know; wouldn't care if he did know what persecutions were
practised on the little handful that wanted to keep the memory of Jesus alive.
It wouldn't be long until old Benyosef and his secretive callers would have to
give it all up. And perhaps Paulus was to be sent up here to keep Galilee in
order. Well, maybe Paulus wouldn't be as hard on them as they feared. Paulus
wasn't a bad fellow. Paulus had been forced to take part in the crucifixion of
Jesus. That didn't mean he had approved of it. It was conceivable that Paulus
might even take an interest in the Galilean friends of Jesus. But they would
never accept his friendship. The very sight of him would be abhorrent. Justus's
comments had made that clear. A man who had had anything to do with nailing
their adored Jesus to the cross could never hope to win their good will, no
matter how generously he treated them.

Marcellus realized now that he had been altogether too sanguine in
believing that his sincere interest in the story of Jesus might make it safe
for him to confide in Miriam. He had been telling himself that
Miriam--uncannily gifted with sympathetic understanding--would balance his
present concern about Jesus against the stark facts of his part in the tragedy.
Miriam, he felt, would be forgiving. That was her nature; and, besides, she
liked him, and would give him the benefit of whatever doubts intruded. Perhaps
he would not need to go the whole way with his confession. It might be enough
to say that he had attended the trial of Jesus, and had seen him die. Whether
he could bring himself to be more specific about his own participation in this
shameful business would depend upon her response as he proceeded.

But he knew now that such a conversation with Miriam was unthinkable!
Justus, too, was a fair-minded person to whom one might safely confide almost
anything; but Justus had revolted against the shocking suggestion that an
officer from
Minoa
might be sent to preserve the peace of Galilee. 'They
wouldn't dare!' Justus had muttered through locked teeth.

No, he couldn't tell Miriam. Perhaps it would be more prudent if he made
no effort to see her alone.

Hariph the potter, upon whom Cana relied for most of its information on
current events, had risen at daybreak with the remembrance that Reuben had
mentioned his need of a few wine-jars. Although it lacked some three months of
the wine-pressing season, this was as good a time as any to learn Reuben's
wishes. Also, he thought Reuben might be glad to learn that Barsabas Justus had
arrived in Cana, last evening, with his small grandson--the one who, crippled
from birth, had been made sound as any boy ever was--and the handsome young
Roman who, for some obscure reason, was buying up homespun at better than
market prices. To this might be added the knowledge that Jesse, the son of
Beoni, had been engaged by this Marcellus to carry an important letter to
Jerusalem. After these items had been dealt out to Reuben, piecemeal, he could
be told that Justus would be taking his grandson to see Miriam.

And so it happened that when the three callers sauntered across Reuben's
well-kept lawn, at mid-forenoon, instead of taking the family by surprise they
discovered that their visit was awaited.

Feeling that little Jonathan might enjoy a playmate, Miriam had sent for
her nine-year-old cousin Andrew, who lived a mile farther out in the country.
And Andrew's widowed mother, Aunt Martha, had been invited too, which had made
her happy, for she had not seen Justus in recent months. There were many
questions she wanted to ask him.

They were all in the arbour, grouped about Miriam, who was busy with the
inevitable embroidery. She was very lovely, this morning, with a translucent
happiness that made her even prettier than Marcellus had remembered. After
greetings and introductions had been attended to--the artless sincerity of
Miriam's welcome speeding Marcellus's pulse--they all found seats. Miriam held
out a slim hand to Jonathan and gave him a brooding smile that brought him
shyly to her side.

'You must be a very strong boy, Jonathan,' she told him, 'keeping up
with these big men on a journey, all the way from Sepphoris.'

'I rode a donkey--most of the time,' he mumbled, self-consciously; then,
with more confidence, 'I had a nicer donkey--of my own. His name was Jasper.'
He pointed a finger vaguely in Marcellus's direction without looking at him.
'He gave Jasper to me. And I gave him to Thomas, because Thomas is lame.'

'Oh, what a lovely thing to do!' exclaimed Miriam. Her shining eyes
drifted past Jonathan and gave Marcellus a heart-warming glance, and then
darted to Justus, whose lips were drawn down in grim warning. 'I suppose Thomas
really needs a donkey,' she went on accepting Justus's hint. 'It must have made
you very happy to do that for him.'

Jonathan smiled wanly, put one brown bare foot on top of the other, and
seemed to be meditating a dolorous reply. Divining his mood, Miriam interrupted
with a promising diversion.

'Andrew,' she called, 'why don't you take Jonathan to see the conies?
There are some little ones, Jonathan, that haven't opened their eyes yet.'

This suggestion was acted upon with alacrity. When the children had
scampered away, Naomi turned to Marcellus.

'What's all this about the donkey?' she inquired, smiling.

Marcellus recrossed his long legs and wished that he had been included
in the expedition to inspect the conies.

'I think Jonathan has told it all,' he replied, negligently. 'I found a
lazy little donkey that nobody wanted and gave him to Jonathan. There was a
lame lad in the neighbourhood and Jonathan generously presented him with the
donkey. We thought that was pretty good--for a seven-year-old.'

'But we don't want his good-heartedness to go to his head,' put in
Justus, firmly. 'He's already much impressed.'

'But Jonathan is only a child, Barsabas Justus,' protested Miriam.

'Of course!' murmured Martha.

'I know,' mumbled Justus, stroking his beard. 'But we can't have him
spoiled, Miriam. If you have an opportunity, speak to him about it. . . . Well,
Reuben, what's the prospect for the vineyard?'

'Better than usual, Justus.' Reuben slowly rose from his chair. 'Want to
walk out and have a look at the vines?'

They ambled away. Presently Naomi remembered something she had to do in
the kitchen. Aunt Martha, with a little nod and a smile, thought she might
help. Miriam bent over her work attentively as they disappeared around the
corner of the house.

'You have been much in my thoughts, Marcellus,' she said, softly, after
a silence which they both had been reluctant to invade with some casual
banality.