THE ROBE (5 page)

They had ridden in silence for a little time, after the Senator had
aired his favorite grievances.

'Once in a while,' continued Gallio, meditatively, 'crusty Capito--like
blind Samson of the Hebrew myth--rouses to have his way. I am hopeful that he
may intervene in your behalf, my son. If it is an honorable post, we will not
lament even though it involves peril. I am prepared to hand you over to
danger--but not to disgrace. I cannot believe that my trusted friend will fail
to do his utmost for you, today. I bid you to approach him with that
expectation!'

His father had seemed so confident of this outcome that the remainder of
their ride had been almost enjoyable. Assured that the gruff but loyal old
warrior, who had helped him into his first white toga, would see to it that no
indignities were practiced on him by a petulant and vengeful Prince, Marcellus
set off light-heartedly to the impressive headquarters of the Chief Legate.

Accompanied by Demetrius, who was himself a striking figure in the
saddle, he rode through the increasingly crowded streets on the way to the huge
circular plaza, around half of which were grouped the impressive marble
buildings serving the Praetorian Guard and ranking officials of the army. To
the left stretched a vast parade-ground, now literally filled with loaded camel
caravans and hundreds of pack-asses.

An expedition was mobilizing, ready for departure on the long trip to
Gaul. The plaza was a stirring scene! Banners fluttered. The young officers
were smart in their field uniforms. The legionaries were alert, spirited,
apparently eager to be on their way. Maybe an experience of this sort would be
stimulating, thought Marcellus.

Unable to ride into the plaza, because of the congestion, they
dismounted in the street, Marcellus handing his reins to Demetrius, and
proceeding through the narrow lane toward the Praetorium. The broad corridors
were filled with Centurions awaiting orders. Many of them he knew. They smiled
recognition and saluted. Perhaps they surmised that he was here on some such
business as their own, and it gave him a little thrill of pride. You could
think what you liked about the brutishness and griminess of war, it was no
small honor to be a Roman soldier--whatever your rank! He shouldered his way to
the open door leading into Capito's offices.

'The Commander is not in,' rasped the busy deputy. 'He ordered me to
deliver this commission to you.'

Marcellus took the heavily sealed scroll from the fellow's hand,
hesitated a moment, half-inclined to inquire whether Capito expected to return presently,
decided against it; turned, and went out, down the broad steps and across the
densely packed plaza. Demetrius, seeing him coming, led the horses forward and
handed his master the bay mare's bridle-reins. Their eyes met. After all,
thought Marcellus, Demetrius had a right to know where we stood in this
business.

'I have not opened it yet,' he said, tapping the scroll. 'Let us go
home.'

The Senator was waiting for him in the library.

'Well--what did our friend Capito have for you?' he asked, making no
attempt to disguise his uneasiness.

'He was not there. A deputy served me.' Marcellus laid the scroll on the
desk and sat down to wait while his father impatiently thrust his knife through
the heavy seals. For what seemed a very long time the narrowed eyes raced the
length of the pompous manifesto. Then Gallio cleared his throat, and faced his
son with troubled eyes.

'You are ordered to take command of the garrison at Minoa,' he muttered.

'Where's Minoa?'

'Minoa is a villainously dirty little port city in southern Palestine.'

'I never heard of it,' said Marcellus. 'I know about our forts at
Caesarea and Joppa; but--what have we at this Minoa?'

'It is the point of departure for the old trail that leads to the Dead
Sea. Most of our salt comes from there, as you probably know. The duty of our
garrison at Minoa is to make that road safe for our caravans.'

'Doesn't sound like a very interesting job,' commented Marcellus. 'I was
anticipating something dangerous.'

'Well--you will not be disappointed. It is dangerous enough. The
Bedouins who menace that salt trail are notoriously brutal savages. But because
they are independent gangs of bandits, with hideouts in that rocky desert
region, we have never undertaken a campaign to crush them. It would have required
five legions.' The Senator was speaking as if he were very well informed about
Minoa, and Marcellus was listening with full attention.

'You mean these desert brigands steal the salt from our caravans?'

'No--not the salt. They plunder the caravans on the way in, for they
have to carry supplies and money to hire laborers at the salt deposits. Many of
the caravans that set out over that trail are never heard from again. But that
isn't quite all,' the Senator continued. 'We have not been wasting very good
men in the fort at Minoa. The garrison is composed of a tough lot of rascals.
More than half of them were once commissioned officers who, for rank
insubordination or other irregularities, are in disfavor with the Government.
The lesser half is made up of an assortment of brawlers whose politics bred
discontent.'

'I thought the Empire had a more prompt and less expensive method of
dealing with objectionable people.'

'There are some cases,' explained the Senator, 'in which a public trial
or a private assassination might stir up a protest. In these instances, it is
as effective--and more practical--to send the offender to Minoa.'

'Why, sir--this is equivalent to exile!' Marcellus rose, bent forward
over his father's desk, and leaned his weight on his white-knuckled fists. 'Do
you know anything more about this dreadful place?'

Gallio slowly nodded his head.

'I know all about it, my son. For many years, one of my special duties
in the Senate--together with four of my colleagues--has been the supervision of
that fort.' He paused, and began slowly rising to his feet, his deep-lined face
livid with anger. 'I believe that was why Gaius Drusus Agrippa--' The Senator
savagely ground the hated name to bits with his teeth. 'He planned this for my
son--because he knew--that I would know--what you were going into.' Raising his
arms high, and shaking his fists in rage, Gallio shouted, 'Now I would that I
were religious! I would beseech some god to damn his soul!'

Cornelia Vipsania Gallio, who always slightly accented her middle
name--though she was only a stepdaughter to the divorced spouse of Emperor
Tiberius--might have been socially important had she made the necessary effort.

If mere wishing on Cornelia's part could have induced her husband to
ingratiate himself with the Crown, Marcus Lucan Gallio could have belonged to
the inner circle, and any favor he desired for himself or his family might have
been granted; or if Cornelia herself had gone to the bother of fawning upon the
insufferable old Julia, the Gallio household might have reached that happy
elevation by this shorter route. But Cornelia lacked the necessary energy.

She was an exquisite creature, even in her middle forties; a person of
considerable culture, a gracious hostess, an affectionate wife, an indulgent
mother, and probably the laziest woman in the whole Roman Empire. It was said
that sometimes slaves would serve the Gallio establishment for months before
discovering that their mistress was not an invalid.

Cornelia had her breakfast in bed at noon, lounged in her rooms or in
the sunny garden all afternoon, drowsed over the classics, apathetically swept
her slim fingers across the strings of her pandura; and was waited on, hand and
foot, by everybody in the house. And everybody loved her, too, for she was kind
and easy to please. Moreover, she never gave orders--except for her personal
comfort. The slaves--under the competent and loyal supervision of Marcipor; and
the diligent, if somewhat surly, dictatorship of Decimus in the culinary
department--managed the institution unaided by her counsel and untroubled by
her criticism. She was by nature an optimist, possibly because fretting was
laborious. On rare occasions, she was briefly baffled by unhappy events, and at
such times she wept quietly--and recovered.

Yesterday, however, something had seriously disturbed her habitual
tranquillity. The Senator had made a speech. Paula Gallus, calling in the late
afternoon, had told her. Paula had been considerably upset.

Cornelia was not surprised by the report that her famous husband was
pessimistic in regard to the current administration of Roman government, for he
was accustomed to walking the floor of her bedchamber while delivering opinions
of this nature; but she was shocked to learn that Marcus had given the Senate
the full benefit of his accumulated dissatisfactions. Cornelia had no need to
ask Paula why she was so concerned. Paula didn't want Senator Gallio to get
himself into trouble with the Crown. In the first place, it would be awkward
for Diana to continue her close friendship with Lucia if the latter's eminent
parent persisted in baiting Prince Gaius. And, too, was there not a
long-standing conspiracy between Paula and Cornelia to encourage an alliance of
their houses whenever Diana and Marcellus should become romantically aware of
each other?

Paula had not hinted at these considerations when informing Cornelia
that the Senator was cutting an impressive figure on some pretty thin ice, but
she had gone so far as to remind her long-time friend that Prince Gaius--while
notably unskillful at everything else--was amazingly resourceful and ingenious
when it came to devising reprisals for his critics.

'But what can I do about it?' Cornelia had moaned languidly. 'Surely
you're not hoping that I will rebuke him. My husband would not like to have
people telling him what he may say in the Senate.'

'Not even his wife?' Paula arched her patrician brows.

'Especially his wife,' rejoined Cornelia. 'We have a tacit understanding
that Marcus is to attend to his profession without my assistance. My
responsibility is to manage his home.'

Paula had grinned dryly; and, shortly after, had taken her departure,
leaving behind her a distressing dilemma. Cornelia wished that the Senator
could be a little less candid. He was such an amiable man when he wanted to be.
Of course, Gaius was a waster and a fool; but--after all--he was the Prince
Regent, and you didn't have to call him names in public assemblies. First thing
you knew, they'd all be blacklisted. Paula Gallus was far too prudent to let
Diana become involved in their scrapes. If the situation became serious, they
wouldn't be seeing much more of Diana. That would be a great grief to Lucia.
And it might affect the future of Marcellus, too. It was precious little
attention he had paid to the high-spirited young Diana, but Cornelia was still
hopeful.

Sometimes she worried, for a moment or two, about Marcellus. One of her
most enjoyable dreams posed her son on a beautiful white horse, leading a
victorious army through the streets, dignifiedly acknowledging the plaudits of
a multitude no man could number. To be sure, you didn't head that sort of
parade unless you had risked some perils; but Marcellus had never been a
coward. All he needed was a chance to show what kind of stuff he was made of.
He would probably never get that chance now. Cornelia cried bitterly; and
because there was no one else to talk to about it, she bared her heart to
Lucia. And Lucia, shocked by her mother's unprecedented display of emotion, had
tried to console her.

But today, Cornelia had quite disposed of her anxiety; not because the
reason for it had been in any way relieved, but because she was temperamentally
incapable of concentrating diligently upon anything--not even upon a threatened
catastrophe.

About four o'clock (Cornelia was in her luxurious sitting-room, gently
combing her shaggy terrier) the Senator entered and without speaking dropped
wearily into a chair, frowning darkly.

'Tired?' asked Cornelia, tenderly. 'Of course you are. That long ride.
And you were disappointed with the Hispanian horses, I think. What was the
matter with them?'

'Marcellus has been ordered into service,' growled Gallio, abruptly.

Cornelia pushed the dog off her lap and leaned forward interestedly.

'But that is as it should be, don't you think? We had expected that it
might happen some day. Perhaps we should be glad. Will it take him far away?'

'Yes.' The Senator nodded impressively. 'Far away. He has been ordered
to command the fort at Minoa.'

'Command! How very nice for him! Minoa! Our son is to be the
commander--of the Roman fort--at Minoa! We shall be proud!'

'No!' Gallio shook his white head. 'No!' We shall not be proud! Minoa,
my dear, is where we send men to be well rid of them. They have little to do
there but quarrel. They are a mob of mutinous cut-throats. We frequently have
to appoint a new commander.' He paused for a long, moody moment. 'This time the
Senate Committee on affairs at Minoa was not consulted about the appointment.
Our son had his orders directly from Gaius.'

This was too much even for the well-balanced Cornelia. She broke into a
storm of weeping; noisily hysterical weeping; her fingers digging frantically
into the glossy black hair that had tumbled about her shapely shoulders;
moaning painful and incoherent reproaches that gradually became intelligible.
Racked with sobs, Cornelia amazed them both by crying out, 'Why did you do it,
Marcus? Oh--why did you have to bring this tragedy upon our son? Was it so
important that you should denounce Gaius--at such a cost to Marcellus--and all
of us? Oh--I wish I could have died before this day!'

Gallio bowed his head in his hands and made no effort to share the blame
with Marcellus. His son was in plenty of trouble without the added burden of a
rebuke from his overwrought mother.

'Where is he?' she asked, thickly, trying to compose herself. 'I must
see him.'