THE ROBE (54 page)

There was Lydia, healed of a long-time disease by touching Jesus' robe.
Well--you couldn't say that was impossible in the face of your own experience.
You had impulsively told Justus that you believed it, and Justus felt that you
were ready to hear about the storm. If you believed that Jesus' supernormal
power could heal the physical and mental sickness of those who merely touched
his robe, by what reasoning do you disbelieve that he could still a storm? Once
you impute to him supernormal power, what kind of impertinence consents to your
drawing up a detailed list of the peculiar things he can and cannot do? Yet
this storm story was too, too much! Here you have no human multitude yielding
to the entreating voice. This is an inanimate, insensible tempest! No human
being--however persuasive--could still a storm! Concede Jesus
that
power, and you admit that he was
divine.

'I have taken the liberty of asking Shalum to bake us a fish,' announced
Justus, as Marcellus slowly sauntered toward the tent. We will have supper at
the inn. It will be a relief from my poor cooking.

'Very well,' agreed Marcellus, absently. 'Haven't you seen anything of
Demetrius?'

'No, and I inquired at the inn.'

'I had almost forgotten about the poor fellow,' confessed Marcellus.
'There has been much to think about, this afternoon.'

'If Demetrius has been arrested, he will give an account of himself,'
said Justus, reassuringly. 'You will learn his whereabouts promptly, I think.
They will surrender him--for a price--no matter what the indictment is.
Valuable slaves don't stay long in jail. Shall we go to supper now, sir?'

The dining-hall had accommodation for only a score of guests, but it was
tastefully appointed. Because the lighting facilities in small town hostelries
were not good, travellers dined early. The three dignified Pharisees, whose
commodious tent had been pitched in the sycamore grove during the afternoon,
occupied a table in the centre of the room. Two centurions from the fort were
enjoying their wine at a table by a western window while they waited to be
served. Shalum--grizzled, bow-legged, obsequious--led the way to a corner
table, bowing deeply when Justus introduced his friend.

'Is he a Christian?' asked Marcellus, as Shalum waddled away.

Justus blinked with surprise, and Marcellus grinned.

'Yes,' said Justus, in a barely audible tone that strongly counselled
caution.

'You didn't think I knew that word, did you?' murmured Marcellus.

Justus did not reply, but sat with arms folded, staring out into the
garden.

'Demetrius picked it up in Joppa,' explained Marcellus, quietly.

'We must be careful,' admonished Justus. 'Pharisees have small hearts,
but big ears.'

'Is that a saying?' Marcellus chuckled.

'Yes, but not a loud saying,' warned Justus, breaking one of the small
brown loaves. He raised his voice a little and said, casually, 'Shalum bakes a
good bread. Have some.'

'You come here frequently?'

'This is the first time for a year and a half,' confided Justus. 'Last
time I was in this room, it was full. Shalum gave a dinner for Jesus. All the
disciples and a few others were here; and there must have been a hundred
outside. Shalum fed them too.'

'Nothing secret about it, then.'

'No, not at that time. The priests were already plotting how they might
destroy his influence with the people, but they were not yet openly hostile.'

'That's strange,' said Marcellus. 'When Jesus was alive and an active
menace to the priests' business, no effort was made to keep his doings a
secret. Now that he is dead and gone--you must talk about him in whispers.'

Justus looked Marcellus squarely in the eyes, and smiled. He seemed
about to make some rejoinder, but refrained. An old servitor came with their
supper; the baked fish on a large platter, lentils in cream, stewed figs, and a
pitcher of wine. It was an attractive meal and they were hungry.

'Did you sit close to Jesus at that dinner?' asked Marcellus, after some
moments devoted to their food.

'No, I sat with Matthias, over yonder by the door.'

'Where did Jesus sit?' inquired Marcellus.

'There,' nodded Justus, 'where you're sitting.'

Marcellus started.

'No one should ever sit here!' he declared.

Justus's eyes mellowed, and he approved Marcellus's sentiment with a
comradely smile.

'You talk like a Christian yourself, my friend,' he murmured; adding,
after a moment, 'Did you enjoy Bartholomew's story?'

'It wasn't meant to be enjoyed!' retorted Marcellus. 'I confess I'm
thoroughly bewildered by it. Bartholomew is a fine old man. I'm convinced that
he believes his story to be true.'

'But you don't believe it,' said Justus.

'Bartholomew made one statement, Justus, that may throw a little light
on the matter. Do you remember his saying that he felt at peace, that he felt
calmed, when Jesus spoke to the storm? Maybe that's where the storm was
stilled, the storm in these men's minds! Jesus spoke to their fears, and they
were reassured.'

'Does that explanation content you?' asked Justus, soberly.

'Of course not!' admitted Marcellus. 'But see here, Justus! You can't
have Jesus stopping a storm!'

'Why not?' asked Justus, gently.

'Why not! Don't you realize that he has to be superhuman to do that?
Can't you see that such an act makes him
a god
?'

'Well, and if it does--'

'Then you're left with a lot more explaining to do. Suppose you say that
Jesus is divine; a god! Would he permit himself to be placed under arrest, and
dragged about in the night from one court to another, whipped and reviled?
Would he--this god!--consent to be put to death on a cross? A god, indeed!
Crucified--dead--and buried!'

Justus sat for a moment, saying nothing, staring steadily into
Marcellus's troubled eyes. Then he leaned far forward, grasped his sleeve, and
drew him close. He whispered something into Marcellus's ear.

'No,
Justus!' declared Marcellus, gruffly. 'I'm not a fool! I
don't believe that--and neither do you!'

'But--
I saw him!'
persisted Justus, unruffled.

Marcellus swallowed convulsively, and shook his head.

'Why do you want to say a thing like that to me?' he demanded, testily.
'I happen to know it isn't true! You might make some people believe it--but not
me! I hadn't intended to tell you this painful thing, Justus, but--
I saw him
die!
I saw a lance thrust deep into his heart! I saw them take his limp
body down--dead as ever a dead man was!'

'Everybody knows that,' agreed Justus, calmly. 'He was put to death and
laid away in a tomb. And on the morning of the third day, he came to life
again, and was seen walking about in a garden.'

'You're mad, Justus! Such things don't happen!'

'Careful!' warned Justus. 'We mustn't be overheard.'

Pushing his plate away, Marcellus folded his arms on the table. His
hands were trembling.

'If you think Jesus is alive,' he muttered, 'where is he?'

Justus shook his head, made a hopeless little gesture with both hands,
and gave a long sigh.

'I don't know,' he said, dreamily, 'but I do know he is alive.' After a
quiet moment, Justus brightened a little. 'I am always looking for him,' he
went on. 'Every time a door opens. At every turn of the road. At every
street-corner. At every hill-crest.'

Marcellus's eyes had widened, and he nodded understandingly.

'I knew you were always expecting to meet someone,' he said. 'If you
persist in that habit, you'll lose your wits.' Neither man spoke for some
moments. Marcellus looked toward the door. 'Do you mean to say,' he asked,
cautiously, 'that you wouldn't be surprised if Jesus came in here now--and
asked Shalum to serve him his supper?'

Justus repressed a smile at the sight of Marcellus's almost boyish
expression of complete bafflement.

'No,' he replied, confidently. 'I shouldn't be surprised, at all. I
confess I was badly shaken the first time I saw him. As you say, such things
don't happen. They're quite impossible. Had I been alone, I should have doubted
my senses--and my sanity, too.'

'Where was this?' demanded Marcellus, as seriously as if he expected to
believe the story.

'At Benyosef's house; quite a little company of us; ten days after Jesus
had been put to death. We had had a simple supper together. The sun had set,
but the lamps had not yet been lighted. There had been much talk about Jesus'
reappearance. Several of the disciples claimed to have seen him. I, for one,
didn't believe it; though I kept still. There had been a lot of confusing
reports. On the morning of the third day, some women had gone to the sepulchre
and found it empty. One of them said she had seen Jesus, walking in the garden;
said he had spoken to her.'

'Hysterical, I dare say,' put in Marcellus.

'That's what I made of it,' admitted Justus. 'And then there was a story
that two men had seen him on the highway and asked him to have supper with them
at an inn.'

'Reliable people?'

'I didn't know them. One was a man named Cleopas, a cousin of Alphaeus.
I never heard the other man's name.'

'Sounds to me like poor testimony.'

'It seemed that way to me also,' said Justus. 'Several of the disciples
declared he had come into the room where they were sitting, that same night.
But they were terribly wrought up, and I thought they might have imagined
seeing him, what with so many strange reports flying about--'

'Naturally!' agreed Marcellus. 'Once the stories started, the
hallucinations multiplied. Well, go on. You were at Benyosef's house--'

'John had been telling how he looked and what he said--'

'He's that dreamy young fellow, eh?'

'Yes, that's the one,' Justus went on, undisturbed by the implications
of Marcellus's query. 'And when John had finished his story, Thomas stood up
and spoke his mind--and my mind, too. "I don't believe a word of it!"
he shouted. "And I don't intend to believe it until I have seen him with
my own eyes--and touched his wounds with my hands!"'

'He was a bold fellow,' remarked Marcellus. 'Was John offended?'

'I don't know,' said Justus, absently. 'He didn't have much time to be
offended. Jesus was standing there, at Thomas's elbow.'

'No, Justus!'

'Yes--with the same compassionate smile we all knew so well.'

'A spectre?'

'Not at all! He was a little thinner. You could see the effects of the
bad treatment he had suffered. There were long scratches on his forehead. He
held his hands out to Thomas---'

'Did you all gather about him?' asked Marcellus, with a dry throat.

'No, I think we were stunned. I'm sure I was. I couldn't have moved if I
had tried. There was complete silence. Jesus stood there, holding out his hands
and smiling into Thomas's eyes. You could see the deep wounds in his palms.
"Touch them," he said, gently. This was too much for Thomas. He
covered his face with his hands and cried like a child.'

The dining-room had cleared. Twilight was settling. Shalum came over to
inquire if there was anything else he could do for them. Marcellus glanced up
bewilderedly at this summons back to reality.

'I have been telling my friend some things about Jesus,' said Justus.

'Yes, yes,' nodded Shalum. 'Once, when he honoured my poor house, he was
seated there, sir, where you are sitting.'

'Did he rise and speak--at the dinner?' asked Marcellus.

'He did not rise to speak,' remembered Justus.

'He told a story,' said Shalum. 'It seems someone had asked him to
explain what was meant by "my neighbour" as it is written in our law.
And Jesus told a fable about a man who was travelling from Jerusalem to
Jericho--a dangerous road--and was beset by Bedouins who stripped, robbed, and
wounded him, leaving him half-dead. A priest came along and saw him, but passed
on. A Levite, too, paused--but went his way. Then a Samaritan came--we do not
care much for Samaritans up here, sir--and tied up the man's wounds, and took
him to an inn. "Which of these men," he asked, "was a neighbour
to him who fell among thieves?"'

'That was easily answered, I think,' observed Marcellus. 'Had I been
there, I should have asked another question. I am told that Jesus did not believe
in fighting--regardless of the circumstances. Now, if the brave Samaritan had
arrived while the Bedouins were beating the life out of this unfortunate
fellow, what was he supposed to do--join in the defence, or wait until the
robbers had completed their work, and fled?'

Shalum and Justus exchanged looks of inquiry, each inviting the other to
reply.

'Jesus was interested in binding up wounds,' said Justus, solemnly, 'not
in inflicting them.'

'Does that answer your question, sir?' inquired Shalum.

'No,' said Marcellus. 'Perhaps we should go, Justus. It is growing
dark.' They rose. 'The fish was good, Shalum. Let us have another for
breakfast.'

Taking up the little lantern that Shalum had provided, Justus led the
way across the well-kept grounds to the tent, where he lighted their larger one
and hung it to the centre pole. Marcellus unlaced his sandal-thongs, took off
his belt, and lounged on his cot, his eyes following Justus as he made his bed.
He resumed the conversation, asking:

'And then what happened after Thomas looked at the wounds?'

'Benyosef filled a supper-plate, and offered it to Jesus,' said Justus,
sitting down on the edge of his cot. 'There was a piece of broiled fish, a
small loaf, and some honey in the comb. And Jesus took it, and ate.'

'Not just a spirit then,' commented Marcellus.

'I don't know,' mumbled Justus, uncertainly. 'He ate it, or some of it.
The day was fading fast. Philip suggested that the lamps be lighted. Andrew,
who was near the door to an adjoining room, went out and returned with a taper.
Old Benyosef held up a lamp and Andrew lighted it. Jesus was not there.'