THE ROBE (56 page)

Now that you were here, you had much more peace than you had bargained for.
Had the gods ever ordained such quiet nights? Paulus had not fully appreciated
this oppressive silence for the first day or two. There was the novelty of
settling into his immeasurably better quarters. He proudly inspected the trim
pleasure-craft that Herod had placed at the disposal of the Legate. He
luxuriated in the well-equipped baths, thinking kindly of old Julian whom he
had never had any use for.

The fort buzzed with activity. A fairly large contingent from Minoa had
accompanied Paulus. There had been the usual festivities at the Insula in
Jerusalem during Passover Week--though Paulus had been moody and taciturn,
anxious to have done with it, and move on. His retinue had come along to
Capernaum, for his defence on the journey as well as to dignify his
inauguration. A generous dinner had been served after the ceremonies, to which
Herod (represented by a deputy) had contributed lavish supplies of potent wine.
It was a noisy night. Heads had been cracked, noses flattened, more urgent
arguments had been settled with knives. Paulus had filled the courtroom with
battered celebrants; had crowded the guardhouse; had stormed and shouted oaths
new to the local legionaries; and, well pleased with his first day's duties,
had gone to bed tight as a drum.

Next day, the Minoa contingent had left for home--all but Sextus. At the
last minute, Paulus (with a premonition of loneliness) had told Sextus to
remain, at least for a time. And when the last of them had disappeared, a
strange quietness settled over the fort. That night, after Sextus had ambled
off early to bed, Paulus sat by his window watching the moonlight on the lake.
Except for Sextus's snoring, the silence was profound. Perhaps it had been a
mistake to retain Sextus. He wasn't very good company, after all.

What did one do for diversion in Capernaum? The little town was sound
asleep. The Herod family was away. Tiberias was dead as a doornail. If this was
a sample of life at Capernaum, you had been better off at Minoa.

The days trudged along, scraping their sandal-heels; sitting down, now
and then, for a couple of hours, while Time remained standing. Paulus,
strolling in the courtyard, paused before the sundial, read its laconic
warning, 'Tempus fugit,' and sourly remarked to Sextus, 'It's apparent that old
Virgil never visited Capernaum.'

After a week, Paulus was so restless that he even thought of contriving
some errand to Jerusalem, though his recent visit there had been lacking in
interest. Perhaps that was because the insufferable young Quintus, who had been
sent by the Crown to reshuffle the Palestinian commands, was too, too much in
evidence. Paulus, who was a good hater, had never despised anybody so quickly,
so earnestly. Quintus was a vain, overbearing, patronizing, strutting peacock;
he was an insolent, ill-mannered puppy; he was a pompous ass! In short, Paulus
didn't like him at all. But Quintus would have sailed for home by now. Maybe
Quintus was what had ailed Jerusalem, this time.

It was late afternoon. The sun was setting. Paulus and Sextus had been
apathetically shaking the old leather dice-cup on the long table in the
courtroom. Sextus yawned cavernously and wiped his eyes.

'If it's bedtime,' yawned Paulus, 'perhaps we'd better light the lamps.'
He clapped his hands. A guard scurried up. Paulus pointed to the lamps. The
guard saluted and made haste to obey. 'Nine,' mumbled the Legate, handing the
dice-cup to his drowsy friend.

At this juncture, old Namius had come in with three dishevelled slaves.
Somewhere, Paulus felt, he had seen that tall Greek. Sextus jogged his memory.
Ah--Demetrius! He had always liked Demetrius, in spite of his cool superiority.
Demetrius was a haughty fellow, but you had respect for him. Paulus suddenly
recalled having seen an announcement, posted at the Insula in Jerusalem,
offering a reward for the capture of a Greek slave belonging to Tribune
Marcellus Gallio. The bulletin said that the Greek had assaulted a Roman
citizen in Athens, and was thought to be in hiding in Jerusalem. So--here he
was. Somebody had gathered him in. But no--a brief examination revealed that
Demetrius had been arrested on suspicion. He had been loitering; he was shabby;
he had money. In prison he had fought the rascally Syrians who denied him
water. So much for that. Then Paulus had wanted to know about Marcellus, who
had been reported crazy--or the next thing to it--and was delighted to learn
that his friend was in the neighbourhood.

But before he could release Demetrius, he must learn something about
this charge against him. If it were true that he had struck a Roman, and run
away, you couldn't dismiss him so easily. Paulus put them all out, including
Sextus, who didn't like it.

'Demetrius'--Paulus frowned judiciously--'what have you to say about
this report that you are a fugitive; that you struck a Roman citizen in Athens?
That is very serious, you know!'

'It is true, sir,' replied Demetrius, without hesitation. 'I found it
necessary to punish Tribune Quintus severely.'

'Quintus!' shouted the Legate. 'You mean to say you struck Quintus?' He
leaned forward over the desk, eyes beaming. 'Tell me all about it!'

'Well, sir, the Tribune came to the Inn of Eupolis with a message for my
master. While waiting for the reply, he made himself grossly offensive to the
daughter of the innkeeper. They are a highly respected family, sir, and the
young woman was not accustomed to being treated like a common trollop. Her
father was present, but feared to intervene lest they all be thrown into
prison.'

'So you came to the damsel's rescue, eh?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Don't you know you can be put to death for so much as touching a Roman
Tribune?' demanded Paulus, sternly; and when Demetrius had slowly and
remorsefully nodded his head, the Legate's frown relaxed, and he asked, in a
confidential tone, 'What did you do to him?'

'I struck him in the face with my fist, sir,' confessed Demetrius. 'And,
once I had struck him, I knew I had committed a crime punishable by death, and
couldn't make my position any worse, so--'

'So--you hit him again, I think,' surmised Paulus, with mounting
interest. 'Did he fight back?'

'No, sir. The Tribune was not expecting that first blow, and was
unprepared for the next one.'

'In the face.' Paulus's eyes were wide and bright.

'Many times, sir,' admitted Demetrius.

'Knock him down?'

'Oh, yes, sir; and held him up by his helmet-strap, and beat his eyes
shut. I was very angry, sir.'

'Yes, I can see that you were.' Paulus put both hands over his suddenly
puffed cheeks and stifled something like a hiccough. 'And then you ran off?'

'Without a moment's delay, sir. There was a ship sailing. The Captain
befriended me. Tribune Quintus was on board, and would have had me apprehended,
but the Captain let me escape in the small boat at Gaza. From there I walked to
Jerusalem.'

'Didn't the Captain know he could be punished for that?' growled Paulus.
'What was his name?'

'I cannot remember, sir,' Demetrius answered regretfully, after some
hesitation.

'That is undoubtedly a lie,' said Paulus, 'but you are to be commended
for your loyalty. So, then, you went to Jerusalem. Why?'

'My master expected to come shortly.'

'What did you do there?'

Demetrius told him of the weaver's shop. Paulus grew interested again.

'I understand there is a weaver's shop where the leaders of the
Jesus-people meet. What was the name of your weaver?'

'Benyosef, sir.'

'That was the name! And how did you happen to be in that company,
Demetrius? Are you, perhaps, one of these--these--what do they call
them--Christians?'

'Yes, sir,' confessed Demetrius, tardily. 'Not a very good one; but I
believe as they do.'

'You can't!' shouted Paulus. 'You have a good mind! You don't mean to
tell me that you believe all this nonsense--about Jesus returning to life, and
being seen on various occasions!'

'Yes, sir,' said Demetrius. 'I am sure that is true.'

'But, see here!' Paulus stood up. 'You were out there, that day, and saw
him die!'

'Yes, sir. I am sure he died; and I am sure he is alive.'

'Have you seen him?' Paulus's voice was unsteady.

Demetrius shook his head and the Legate grinned.

'I hadn't thought,' he said, dryly, 'that you could be taken in by such
a story. Men who die do not return. Only fools think so!' Paulus sat down
again, relaxing in his chair. 'But you are not a fool. What makes you believe
that?'

'I heard the story from a man who did see him; a man of sound mind; a
man who does not lie.' Demetrius broke off, though it was evident he would have
said more.

'Very well; go on!' commanded the Legate.

'It did not surprise me very much,' continued Demetrius. 'There never
was a person like that before. Surely you, sir, must have noticed that. He had
something nobody else ever had! I don't believe he was an ordinary man, sir.'

'How do you mean--not ordinary? Are you trying to say that you think he
was something else than a man? You don't think he was a god!'

'Yes, sir,' said Demetrius, firmly. 'I think he was--and is--a god!'

'Nonsense! Don't you know we are locking up people for saying things
like that about this dead Galilean?' Paulus rose impetuously and paced back and
forth behind the long table. 'I mean to let you go, for your master's sake;
but'--he stopped suddenly and shook a warning finger--'you are to clear out of
Galilee, and there's to be no more talk about this Jesus. And if you ever tell
anyone that you told me about your assault on Quintus--and I learn of it--I'll
have you flogged! Do you understand? I'll have you stripped and lashed with a
bull-whip!'

'Thank you, sir,' said Demetrius, gratefully. 'I am very sorry that I
struck him.'

'Then you don't deserve your freedom,' growled Paulus. 'That's why I am
turning you loose--and now you're sorry you did it. And you believe that dead
men come to life. You're crazy!' He clapped his hands, and a guard stalked in.
'Make this Greek comfortable,' he barked. 'Have the physician attend to his
cuts. Give him a good supper and a bed. He is to be released from prison.'

Demetrius wincingly brought his arm up in a salute, and turned to
follow.

'One more thing!' rasped Paulus, to the guard. 'When you have finished
with the Greek, return here. I want you to carry a message to Shalum's Inn.
Make haste!'

Marcellus was pleased to observe that Paulus's promotion had not altered
his manner. The easy informality of their friendship was effortlessly resumed.

A small table had been laid in the Legate's handsomely furnished suite;
a silver cake-tray, a bowl of fresh fruit, a tall flagon of wine. Paulus,
clean-shaven, wearing an expensive white toga and a red silk head-band that
accented the whiteness of his close-cropped hair, was a distinguished figure. He
met his guest in the doorway and embraced him warmly.

'Welcome, good Marcellus!' he exclaimed. 'And welcome to Galilee;
though, if you have been touring about up here, you may be better acquainted
with this province than I.'

'It is a delight to see you again, Paulus!' rejoined Marcellus. 'All my
good wishes for the success and happiness of your new command! It was most
generous of you to send for me.'

With his arm around Marcellus's shoulders, Paulus guided his friend to a
chair by the table, and sauntered to its mate on the other side.

'Come; sit down.' He filled their goblets. 'Let us drink to this happy
meeting. Now you must tell me what brings you into my quiet little Galilee.'

Marcellus smiled, raised the goblet to the level of his eyes, and bowed
to his host.

'It would take an hour to explain my errand, Paulus,' he replied,
sipping his wine. 'A long story--and a somewhat fantastic one, too. In short,
the Emperor ordered me to learn something more about the Galilean whom we put
to death.'

'A painful business for you, I think,' frowned Paulus. 'I still reproach
myself for placing you in such an unhappy position that night at the
Procurator's banquet. I did not see you again, or I should have tried to make
amends. If it is not too late to say so, I am sorry it happened. I was drunk.'

'We all were,' remembered Marcellus. 'I bore you no ill-will.'

'But it wasn't drunkenness that ailed you, sir, when you groped your way
out of that banquet-hall. When you put on the dead man's robe, something
happened to you. Even I, drunk as I was, could see that. By the gods!--I
thought you must have sighted a ghost!' Raising his goblet, Paulus drank
deeply; then, shrugging his dour mood aside, he brightened. 'But why revive
unpleasant memories? You were a long time ill. I heard of it and was sad. But
now you are quite recovered. That is well. You are the picture of health,
Marcellus. Drink, my friend! You have hardly tasted your wine; and it is good.'

'Native?' Marcellus took another sip.

Paulus grinned; then suddenly stiffened to pantomime an attitude of cool
hauteur.

'My eminent patron,' he declaimed, with elaborate mockery, 'my exalted
lord, the ineffable Herod Antipas--Tetrarch of Galilee and Peraea, robber of
the poor, foot-washer to any titled Roman that comes within reach--he sent the
wine. And though Herod himself may be a low form of life, his wine is noble.'
Slipping easily out of his august role, Paulus added, casually, 'I have had no
native wine yet. By the way, the country people have a story that our Jesus
once supplied a wedding-party with a rare vintage that he made by doing some
incantations over a water-pot. There are innumerable yarns of this order.
Perhaps you have heard them.'

Marcellus nodded, but did not share the Legate's cynical amusement.

'Yes,' he said, soberly. 'I have heard them. They are very hard to
understand.'

'Understand!' echoed Paulus. 'Don't tell me you have tried to understand
them! Have we not plenty of such legends in Rome--tales that no one in his
right senses gives a second thought to?'

'Yes, I know, Paulus,' agreed Marcellus, quietly, 'and I should want to
be among the last to believe them, but--'

At the significant pause, Paulus stood up, busying himself with
refilling their goblets. He offered the silver cake-tray, which Marcellus declined,
and sat down again with a little gesture of impatience.

'I hope you aren't going to say that these Galilean stories are
credible, Marcellus,' he remarked, coolly.

'This Jesus was a strange man, Paulus.'

'Granted! By no means an ordinary man! He had a peculiar kind of
courage, and a sort of majesty, all his own. But I hope you don't believe that
he changed water into wine!'

'I do not know, Paulus,' replied Marcellus, slowly. 'I saw a child who
had been born with a crippled foot; now as active as any other little boy.'

'How do you know he was born with a crippled foot?' demanded Paulus.

'The whole village knew. There was no reason why they should have
invented the story for my benefit. They were suspicious of me. In fact, the
boy's grandfather, my guide, was reluctant to talk about it.'

'Well, you can be sure there is some reasonable explanation,' rasped
Paulus. 'These people are as superstitious as our Thracian slaves. Why, they
even believe that this man came to life--and has been seen!'

Marcellus nodded thoughtfully.

'I heard that story for the first time about an hour ago, Paulus. It is
amazing!'

'It is preposterous!' shouted Paulus. 'These fools should have contented
themselves with tales of water changed to wine and the magical healing of the
sick.' Paulus drank again, noisily. His ruddy face showed annoyance as he
watched Marcellus absently toying with the stem of his goblet, his eyes
averted. 'You know well enough that the Galilean was dead!' he stormed,
angrily. 'No one can tell you or me that he came to life!' Drawing up the
sleeve of his toga, Paulus tapped his muscular forearm with measuring fingers,
and shrilled, 'I thrust my spear into his chest that deep!'

Marcellus glanced up, nodded, and dropped his eyes again, without
comment. Paulus suddenly leaned forward over the table, and brought his fist
down with a thump.

'By the gods! Marcellus,' he shouted,
'you believe it!'

There was a tense silence for a long moment. Marcellus stirred and
slowly raised his eyes, quite unruffled by the Legate's outburst.

'I don't know what to believe, Paulus,' he said, quietly. 'Of course my
natural reaction is the same as yours; but--there is a great mystery here, my
friend. If this story is a trumped-up lie, the men who have been telling it at
the risk of their lives are quite mad; yet they do not talk like madmen. They
have nothing to gain--and everything to lose--by reporting that they saw him.'

'Oh, I'll concede that,' declared Paulus, loftily. 'It's no uncommon
thing for a fanatic to be reckless with his life; but--look you,
Marcellus!--however difficult that is to understand, you can't have a dead man
coming back from his grave! Why, a man who could overcome death, could--'

'Exactly!' broke in Marcellus. 'He could do anything! He could defy any
power on earth! If he cared to, he might have the whole world for his kingdom!'

Paulus drank greedily, spilling some of the wine on the table.

'Odd thing to say,' he muttered, thickly. 'There was some talk at his
trial--about his kingdom: remember? Pilate asked him--absurdly enough, I
thought--if he were a king.' Paulus chuckled mirthlessly. 'He said he was, and
it shook Pilate a little, too. Indeed, it stunned everybody, for a minute; just
the cool audacity of it. I was talking with Vinitius, that night at the
banquet, and he said the Galilean explained that his kingdom was not in the
world; but--that doesn't mean anything. Or does it?'

'Well, it certainly wouldn't mean anything if
I
said it,' replied
Marcellus. 'But if a man who had been out of this life were able to return
from--from wherever he had been--he might conceivably have a kingdom
elsewhere.'

'You're talking rubbish, Marcellus,' scoffed Paulus. 'I'll assist you,'
he went on, drunkenly. 'You are my guest, and I must be polite. If it's
so--that a dead man--with some kind of elsewhere-kingdom--has come back to
life:--mind you, now, I know it isn't so--but if it's so--I'd rather it were
this Jesus than Quintus or Julian or Pilate--or the half-witted Gaius that old
Julia whelped.' He laughed boisterously at his own absurdity. 'Or old Tiberius!
By the gods!--when crazy old Tiberius dies, I'll wager he stays dead! By the
way, do you mean to go back and tell the old fool this story? He'll believe it,
you know, and it will scare the very liver out of him!'

Marcellus grinned tolerantly, reflecting that the Legate---albeit pretty
drunk--had said something worth thinking about.

'Good idea, Paulus,' he remarked. 'If we're going to have a king who
knows how to outlive all the other kings, it might be a great thing for the
world if he were a person of good deeds and not evil ones.'