THE ROBE (71 page)
Authors: Unknown
'If you are ready, sir,' he said, 'the chair is waiting to take you down
to the wharf. Your luggage has preceded you, and is on the barge.'
'I am not ready to go,' declared Marcellus, crisply. 'I have another
appointment here before I leave.'
The Chamberlain smiled frostily and shook his head.
'It is His Majesty's command, sir. You are to go--immediately.'
'May I not have a word with my slave?' protested Marcellus. 'Where is
he?'
'Your Greek, sir, is temporarily in confinement. He objected so
violently to seeing your effects packed and carried off that it was necessary
to restrain him.'
'He fought?'
'One of the Nubians, sir, was slow about regaining consciousness. Your
slave is rough--very rough. But the Nubians will teach him better manners.' The
Chamberlain bowed again, with exaggerated deference, and pointed toward the
luxurious chair. Four brawny Thracians stood at attention beside it, waiting
for their passenger. He hesitated. A file of palace guards quietly drew up
behind him.
'Farewell, sir,' said the Chamberlain. 'A pleasant voyage to you.'
Apparently the word had been circulated on the spacious deck that as
soon as this belated passenger arrived the barge would put off, for much
interest was shown at the rail when the chair drew up beside the gangway. There
was some annoyance, too, especially on the patrician faces of a group of
Senators unaccustomed to waiting the convenience of a tardy Tribune.
The beautiful barge moved quietly away from the wharf, and the
passengers--a score or more--disposed themselves in the luxurious chairs
grouped under the gay awning. A light and lazy breeze ruffled the blue bay. The
two banks of long oars swung rhythmically, gracefully, to the metallic beat of
the boatswain's hammers. Click! Clack! A crimson sail slowly climbed the
forward mast; and, after a few indecisive flutters, resolved to aid the slaves
below.
Marcellus found a seat quite apart from the others and moodily surveyed
the distant wharves of Puteoli, on the mainland. After a while, a dozen sleek
and nearly naked Nubians came up from the hold, bearing silver trays high above
their shaved brown heads, and spread fanwise among the passengers. The
Emperor's midday hospitality was generous, but Marcellus was not hungry.
The
Augusta,
at her present speed, should be able to reach Rome
by late afternoon of the day after tomorrow. For the first time in his life,
Marcellus had no desire to go home. There would be endless explanations to
make. His father would be disappointed, hurt, exasperated; his mother would
resort to tears; Lucia would try to be sympathetic, but it would be sheer pity.
He attempted to imagine a conversation with Tullus. They had been very close and
confidential. What had they to talk about, were they to meet now? Tullus would
inquire, rather gingerly, what on earth he had been doing these past two years.
Was there any conceivable answer to that question?
As the afternoon wore on, Marcellus's disinclination to return to Rome
was crystallizing to a definite decision, and he began to consider
alternatives. At sunset, he sauntered to the Captain's quarters and inquired
casually whether the
Augusta
was calling at any of the coast ports
before reaching Ostia, and was advised that she was making no stops; not even
at Ostia.
He was hungry at dinner-time. A smart breeze had risen, as the twilight
came on, and the deck was abandoned. Marcellus went to his cabin, opened his
largest bag, and took out the Galilean robe, folding it as compactly as
possible. Wrapping it around his leather wallet, he secured it with a strap.
The wallet was heavy.
On the evening he had left home, his father had sent Marcipor down to
the galley with a parting gift. Distraught, Marcellus had not opened it until
he and Demetrius were on board the
Cleo.
He was amazed. As if to make
amends for his part in their estrangement, the Senator had provided him with a
very large sum of money. It was all in gold pieces of high denomination.
Marcellus had been touched by his father's lavish generosity; saddened, too,
for it was almost as if the Senator had said that his son would now be free to
go his own way.
Removing his toga, Marcellus rolled it up and stuffed it into the big
bag to replace the robe. Then, having refastened the bag, he stretched out on
his berth and waited for the time to pass. Most of his thoughts were about
Diana, and his loss of her. Occasionally he glanced at the hourglass on his
bedside table. Four times he reversed it. If his computation was correct, the
Augusta
would round the promontory off Capua about midnight.
There was only one sentry patrolling the afterdeck when Marcellus
strolled aimlessly toward the stern with his package buckled to the back of his
heavy tunic-sash. The sentry paid him but little attention as he stood by the
rail. Doubtless the restless passenger had come out to look at the stars.
Perhaps a gratuity might be forthcoming if a little service were offered.
A light blinked in the darkness a mile away.
'That is the lighthouse at Capua, sir,' volunteered the sentry.
'Yes,' said Marcellus, indifferently.
'May I bring you a chair, sir?'
'Yes.'
The water was not uncomfortably cold. Marcellus had let himself into it
feet-first, without a splash. It was a gratifying long time before the sentry
gave the alarm. Evidently he had made quite a business of finding a comfortable
chair for the Tribune. Now there were other shouts. The boatswain had stopped
beating on his anvil. The
Augusta
could not be more than two stadia away,
but she was only a row of dim lights, her black hull already blended into the
darkness.
Marcellus turned his face toward the shore and proceeded with long,
overarm strokes to pull Capua nearer. After a while, flipping over on his back,
he looked for the
Augusta.
Only the lamp at the masthead was visible.
Doubtless the barge had resumed her journey.
It was the longest swim that Marcellus had ever undertaken. His clothing
weighted him. The packet of gold was heavy. Once he thought seriously of
tugging off the heavy silk tunic that dragged at his arms, but the threat of
arriving at Capua clad only in trunks and a sheer subucula induced him to
struggle on. He tried to unfasten his sandal-straps, but found it impossible.
The beacon in the lighthouse seemed to be growing brighter. He hoped he was not
imagining this, for he was getting very tired.
At length the choppy waves began to smooth out into long combers. Lower
lights shone feebly along the shore. The surf grew rougher. Marcellus could
hear it crash against the sea-wall. He shifted his course leftward to avoid the
lighthouse escarpment and the huddle of docks. It was hard going, across the
rip-tide. His lungs were beginning to hurt. A great wave carried him forward;
and, retreating, left him a temporary footing. Bracing against the weight of
its undertow, he held his ground until it had run out. All but spent, he
staggered toward the beach and flung himself down in the lee of a fishing-dory,
his teeth chattering with the cold. It occurred to him that he should feel
immensely gratified over the success of his difficult adventure, but he found
himself indifferent.
Wringing the water out of his clothes, Marcellus vigorously swung his
arms to warm himself, and plodded up wearily through the deepening sand until
he found a dry spot that still retained something of its daytime heat. There he
spent the rest of the night, sleeping lightly, and anxious for the dawn. When
the sun rose, he spread out the robe on the sand. It dried quickly and he put
it on over his damp tunic, comforted by its warmth. He was in better spirits
now, glad to be alive.
At a fisherman's hut he asked for something to eat, but he was eyed with
suspicion by the surly old couple, who told him they had no food. Up farther in
the town, at a sailors' inn, he was crudely served with black bread and a
greasy pottage. Dishevelled loungers gathered about him to ask questions which
he made no effort to answer satisfactorily. When he opened his wallet to pay,
they drew in closer about him, eyes wide with avaricious interest; but as he
overtopped them all and appeared unalarmed by their curiosity, no one made a
move to detain him.
Proceeding through the dirty little town, he turned eastward on a dusty,
deserted highway. His sandals were drying now, and felt more comfortable,
though they had begun to look quite disreputable. Marcellus was bareheaded,
having lost his head-band in the sea. Nobody could have mistaken him for a
Tribune.
The expensive leather wallet was inappropriate, and he concealed it in
the breast of his tunic. At the first village, three miles inland, he spent a
few coppers for a well-worn goatskin bag, of considerable capacity, emptied his
wallet into it; and, later, dropped the wallet into an abandoned cistern.
Before reaching the next village, he took off his tunic, wrapped it
around the package of gold that had nearly drowned him last night, and bought
another off the washline of a vintner's cottage, paying the owner ten
sesterces, for which he was so well satisfied that he and his wife chuckled
behind Marcellus's back as he moved away. The brown tunic was coarsely woven
and had seen hard service, but it was clean.
The sun was high now, and Marcellus carried the Galilean robe folded
over his arm. He frequently paused to rest in the shade beside the descending
stream that grew more and more active as the ascent stiffened toward the
foothills of the distant, snow-capped Apennines. He had no plans, but he was
not depressed; nor was he lonely. Indeed, he had a curious sense of wellbeing.
The country was beautiful. The trees were in full leaf, the nesting birds were
busy and happy, the wild-flowers along the bank of the lively stream were
exquisite in their fragile beauty. Marcellus drew deep sighs of contentment,
gratified but surprised that he could feel so free of any care. He regarded his
own appearance with amusement. He had never looked like this before. He stroked
his stubbly jaw and wondered whether a razor could be found in one of the
villages. If not, no matter. That night, with the robe for a cover, he slept in
the open, remembering, as he drifted off, something Justus had said of Jesus'
homelessness: 'The foxes had holes, the birds had nests; but Jesus had no bed,
no pillow.' Marcellus drew the robe closer about him. It was not heavy, but it
was warm and comforting. He fell asleep thinking of Diana, but not hopelessly.
In the morning he rose refreshed, bathed in the cold stream, and breakfasted on
wild strawberries.
The stone mileposts had been announcing, with increasing optimism, that
travellers on this uphill road were nearing Arpino. Marcellus cudgelled his
memory. What did he know about Arpino? Delicious little melons! Arpino melons!
And exactly the right time for them, too.
The road was wider now and showed better care. The fences were
well-kept. On either side of the highway, vineyards--the plentiful grapes still
green--were being cultivated and irrigated. The traffic on the road was
increasing. Here were the melon-fields; acres and acres of ripening melons; a
procession of high-boxed carts laden with melons; dozens and scores of men,
women, and children, scattered through the fields, all bent to the task of
gathering melons.
Near a busy open gate, Marcellus sat down on the stone fence and viewed
the scene. The little town at the top of the rise seemed to be built on a
comparatively level terrain, sheltered on the east by a sheer wall of rock that
based one of the loftiest peaks of the range. The village itself--or as much as
could be seen of it--was composed of small square cottages crowded closely
together. North of this cramped huddle of houses and on slightly higher ground
the red-tile roofs of a quite imposing villa shone through the trees
surrounding it, doubtless the home of the big man who owned the melon business.
After a while, Marcellus decided to move on up to the village. The
swarthy overseer at the open gate, importantly checking the emerging carts on a
slate held in the crook of his arm, hailed him. Was he looking for work?
'What kind of work?' Marcellus wanted to know.
The overseer jabbed a thumb toward the melon-field.
'Two sesterces,' he said, gruffly, 'and a cot--and food.'
'But the day is nearly half gone, sir,' said Marcellus. 'Perhaps one
sesterce would be sufficient. I have had no experience in picking melons.'
The bewildered overseer rested the heavy slate on his hip, spat
thoughtfully, and stared at the newcomer, apparently lacking a formula for
dealing with this unprecedented situation. While he deliberated, Marcellus
picked up one of the big willow baskets from a heap piled beside the gate and
was moving off toward his new occupation.
'Wait, fellow!' called the overseer. 'Can you read and write?'
Marcellus admitted that he could.
'And compute?'
Yes, Marcellus could compute.
'Kaeso has discharged his scrivener.'
'Who is Kaeso?' inquired Marcellus, so unimpressed that the overseer
drew himself to full height before declaiming--with a sweep of his arm
embracing the fields and the town--that Appius Kaeso owned everything in sight.
He pointed toward the villa.
'Go up there,' he said, 'and ask for Kaeso. Tell him Vobiscus sent you.
If he does not hire you, come back and work on the melons.'
'I'd much rather work on the melons,' said Marcellus.
The overseer blinked a few times, uncertainly.
'A scrivener is better paid and has better food,' he said, slightly
nettled by the traveller's stupidity.
'I suppose so,' nodded Marcellus, adding, with cool obstinacy, 'I should
prefer to pick melons.'
'Doesn't it make any difference to you, fellow,' snapped the overseer,
'whether you make two sesterces or ten?'
