THE ROBE (8 page)

Manius laughed, down deep in his whiskers.

'You'll find, sir, that there is no such place as Minoa.' And when
Marcellus's stare invited an explanation, the swarthy navigator gave his
passenger a lesson in history, some little of which he already knew.

Fifty years ago, the legions of Augustus had laid siege to the ancient
city of Gaza, and had subdued it after a long and bitter campaign that had cost
more than the conquest was worth.

'It would have been cheaper,' observed Manius, 'to have paid the high
toll they demanded for travel on the salt trail.'

'But how about the Bedouins?' Marcellus wondered.

'Yes--and the Emperor could have bought off the Bedouins, too, for less
than that war cost. We lost twenty-three thousand men, taking Gaza.'

Manius went on with the story. Old Augustus had been beside himself with
rage over the stubborn resistance of the defence--composed of a conglomeration
of Egyptians, Syrians, and Jews, none of whom were a bit squeamish at the sight
of blood, who never took prisoners and were notoriously ingenious in the arts
of torture. Their attitude, he felt, in wilfully defying the might of the
Empire demanded that the old pest-hole Gaza should be cleaned up. Henceforth,
declared Augustus, it was to be known as the Roman city of Minoa; and it was to
be hoped that the inhabitants thereof, rejoicing in the benefits conferred upon
them by a civilized state, would forget that there had ever been a municipality
so dirty, unhealthy, quarrelsome, and altogether nasty as Gaza.

'But Gaza,' continued Manius, 'had been Gaza for seventeen centuries,
and it would have taken more than an edict by Augustus to change its name.'

'Or its manners, either, I daresay,' commented Marcellus.

'Or its smell,' added Manius, dryly. 'You know, sir,' he went on, 'the
crusty white shore of that old Dead Sea is like a salt lick beside a water-hole
in the jungle where animals of all breeds and sizes gather and fight. This has
been going on longer than any nation's history can remember. Occasionally some animal
bigger than the others has appeared, driving all the rest of them away.
Sometimes they have turned on the big fellow and chased him off, after which
the little ones have gone to fighting again among themselves. Well--that's Gaza
for you!'

'But the salt lick,' put in Marcellus, 'is not at Gaza, but at the Dead
Sea.'

'Quite true,' agreed Manius, 'but you don't get to the Dead Sea for a
lick at the salt unless Gaza lets you. For a long time the lion of Judah kept
all the other animals away, after he had scared off the Philistine hyenas. Then
the big elephant Egypt frightened away the lion. Then Alexander the tiger
jumped on to the elephant. Always after a battle the little fellows would come
sneaking back, and claw the hides off one another while the big ones were
licking their wounds.'

'And what animal came after the tiger?' prodded Marcellus, though he
knew the answer.

'The Roman eagle,' replied Manius. 'Flocks and swarms of Roman eagles,
thinking to pick the bones; but there were plenty of survivors not ready to
have their bones picked. That,' he interrupted himself to remark, 'was how we
lost three-and-twenty thousand Romans--to get possession of the old salt lick.'

'A most interesting story,' mused Marcellus, who had never heard it told
just that way.

'Yes,' nodded Manius, 'an interesting story; but the most curious part
of it is the effect that these long battles had upon the old city of Gaza.
After every invasion, a remnant of these foreign armies would remain; deserters
and men too badly crippled to travel home. They stayed in Gaza--a score of
different breeds--to continue their feuds.' The Captain shook his head and made
a wry face. 'Many will tell you of the constant quarrelling and fighting in
port cities such as Rhodes and Alexandria where there is a mixed population
composed of every known tint and tongue. Some say the worst inferno on any
coast of our sea is Joppa. But I'll vote for Gaza as the last place in the
world where a sane man would want to live.'

'Perhaps Rome should clean up Gaza again,' remarked Marcellus.

'Quite impossible! And what is true of old Gaza is equally true of all
that country, up as far as Damascus. The Emperor could send in all the legions
that Rome has under arms, and put on such a campaign of slaughter as the world
has never seen; but it wouldn't be a permanent victory. You can't defeat a
Syrian. And as for the Jews!--you can kill a Jew, and bury him, but he'll climb
out alive!' Noting Marcellus's amusement, Manius grinningly elaborated, 'Yes,
sir--he will climb right up the spade-handle and sell you the rug he'd died
in!'

'But,' queried Marcellus, anxious to know more about his own job,
'doesn't our fort at Minoa--or Gaza, rather--keep order in the city?'

'Not at all! Hasn't anything to do with the city. Isn't located in the
city, but away to the east in a most desolate strip of desert sand, rocks, and
scratchy vegetation. You will find only about five hundred officers and
men--though the garrison is called a legion. They are there to make the
marauding Bedouins a bit cautious. Armed detachments from the fort go along
with the caravans, so that the brigands will not molest them. Oh,
occasionally'--Manius yawned widely--'not very often, a caravan starts across
and never comes back.'

'How often?' asked Marcellus, hoping the question would sound as if he
were just making conversation.

'Well, let's see,' mumbled Manius, squinting one eye shut and counting
on his battered fingers. 'I've heard of only four, this past year.'

'Only four,' repeated Marcellus, thoughtfully. 'I suppose that on these
occasions the detachment from the fort is captured too.'

'Of course.'

'And put into slavery, maybe?'

'No, not likely. The Bedouins don't need slaves; wouldn't be bothered
with them. Your Bedouin, sir, is a wild man; wild as a fox and sneaking as a
jackal. When he strikes, he slips up on you from the rear and lets you have it
between your shoulder blades.'

'But--doesn't the garrison avenge these murders?' exclaimed Marcellus.

Manius shook his head and smiled crookedly.

'That garrison, sir, does not amount to much, if you'll excuse my saying
so. None of them care. They're poorly disciplined, poorly commanded, and
haven't the slightest interest in the fort. Every now and then they have a
mutiny and somebody gets killed. You can't expect much of a fort that sheds
most of its blood on the drill-ground.'

That night Marcellus felt he should confide his recent information to
Demetrius. In a quiet voice, as they lay in their adjacent bunks, he gave his
Corinthian a sketch of the conditions in which they were presently to find
themselves, speaking his thoughts as freely as if his slave were jointly
responsible for whatever policy might be pursued.

Demetrius had listened in silence throughout the dismaying recital, and
when Marcellus had concluded he ventured to remark laconically, 'My master must
command the fort.'

'Obviously!' responded Marcellus. 'That's what I am commissioned to do!
What else, indeed?' And as there was no immediate reply from the other bunk, he
added, testily, 'What do you mean?'

'I mean, sir, if the garrison is unruly and disorderly, my master will
exact obedience. It is not for his slave to suggest how this may be
accomplished; but it will be safer for my master if he takes full command of
the fort instantly--and firmly!'

Marcellus raised himself on one elbow and searched the Greek's eyes in
the gloom of the stuffy cabin.

'I see what you have in mind, Demetrius. Now that we know the temper of
this place, you think the new Legate should not bother about making himself
agreeable, but should swagger in and crack a few heads without waiting for
formal introductions.'

'Something like that,' approved Demetrius.

'Give them some strong medicine, eh? Is that your idea?'

'When one picks up a nettle, sir, one should not grasp it gently. Perhaps
these idle men would be pleased to obey a commander as well-favoured and
fearless as my master.'

'Your words are gracious, Demetrius.'

'Almost any man, sir, values justice and courage. My master is just--and
my master is also bold.'

'That's how your master got into this predicament, Demetrius,' chuckled
Marcellus ironically, 'by being bold.'

Apparently unwilling to discuss that unhappy circumstance, but wanting
to support his end of the conversation, Demetrius said, 'Yes, sir,' so soberly
that Marcellus laughed. Afterwards there was such a long hiatus that it was
probable the Corinthian had dropped off to sleep, for the lazy roll of the
little ship was an urgent sedative. Marcellus lay awake for an hour,
consolidating the plan suggested by his shrewd and loyal Greek. Demetrius, he
reflected, is right. If I am to command this fort at all, I must command it
from the moment of my arrival. If they strike me down my exit will be at least
honourable.

It was well past mid-afternoon on the eighth day of March when Captain
Manius manoeuvred his unwieldly little tub through the busy roadstead of Gaza,
and warped her flank against a vacant wharf. His duties at the moment were
pressing, but he found time to say good-bye to the young Tribune with something
of the sombre solicitude of the next of kin bidding farewell to the dying.

Demetrius had been among the early ones over the rail. After a while he
returned with five husky Syrians, to whom he pointed out the burdens to be
carried. There were no uniforms on the dirty wharf, but Marcellus was not
disappointed. He had not expected to be met. The garrison had not been advised
of his arrival. He would be obliged to appear at the fort unheralded.

Gaza was in no hurry, probably because of her great age and many
infirmities. It was a full hour before enough pack-asses were found to carry
the baggage. Some more time was consumed in loading them. Another hour was
spent moving at tortoise speed through the narrow, rough-cobbled, filthy
streets, occasionally blocked by shrieking contestants for the right of way.

The Syrians had divined the Tribune's destination when they saw his
uniform, and gave him a surly obedience. At length they were out on a busy,
dusty highway, Marcellus heading the procession on a venerable, half-shed
camel, led by the reeking Syrian with whom Demetrius--by pantomime--had haggled
over the price of the expedition. This bargaining had amused Marcellus; for
Demetrius, habitually quiet and reserved, had shouted and gesticulated with the
best of them. Knowing nothing about the money of Gaza, or the rates for the
service he sought, the Corinthian had fiercely objected to the Syrian's first
three proposals, and had finally come to terms with savage mutters and scowls.
It was difficult to recognize Demetrius in this new rôle.

Far ahead, viewed through the billowing clouds of yellow dust, appeared
an immensely ugly twelve-acre square bounded by a high wall built of sun-baked
brick, its corners dignified by tall towers. As they drew nearer, a limp Roman
banner was identified, pendent from an oblique pole at the corner.

An indolent, untidy sentry detached himself from a villainous group of
unkempt legionaries squatting on the ground, slouched to the big gate, and
swung it open without challenging the party. Perhaps, thought Marcellus, the
lazy lout had mistaken their little parade for a caravan that wanted to be
convoyed. After they had filed through into the barren, sun-blistered
courtyard, another sentry ambled down the steps of the praetorium and stood waiting
until the Tribune's grunting camel had folded up her creaking joints.
Demetrius, who had brought up the rear of the procession, dismounted from his
donkey and marched forward to stand at his master's elbow. The sentry, whose
curiosity had been stirred by the sight of the Tribune's insignia, saluted
clumsily with a tarnished sword in a dirty hand.

'I am Tribune Marcellus Gallio!' The words were clipped and harsh. 'I am
commissioned to take command of this fort. Conduct me to the officer in
charge.'

'Centurion Paulus is not here, sir.'

'Where is he?'

'In the city, sir.'

'And when Centurion Paulus goes to the city, is there no one in
command?'

'Centurion Sextus, sir; but he is resting, and has given orders not to
be disturbed.'

Marcellus advanced a step and stared into the sulky eyes.

'I am not accustomed to waiting for men to finish their naps,' he
growled. 'Obey me--instantly! And wash your dirty face before you let me see it
again! What is this--a Roman fort, or a pigsty?'

Blinking a little, the sentry backed away for a few steps; and, turning,
disappeared through the heavy doors. Marcellus strode heavily to and fro before
the entrance, his impatience mounting. After waiting for a few moments, he
marched up the steps, closely followed by Demetrius, and stalked through the
gloomy hall. Another sentry appeared.

'Conduct me to Centurion Sextus!' shouted Marcellus.

'By whose orders?' demanded the sentry, gruffly.

'By the orders of Tribune Marcellus Gallio, who has taken command of
this fort. Lead on--and be quick about it!'

At that moment a near-by door opened and a burly, bearded figure emerged
wearing an ill-conditioned uniform with a black eagle woven into the right
sleeve of his red tunic. Marcellus brushed the sentry aside and confronted him.

'You are Centurion Sextus?' asked Marcellus; and when Sextus had nodded
dully, he went on, 'I am ordered by Prince Gaius to command this fort. Have
your men bring in my equipment.'

'Well--not so fast, not so fast,' drawled Sextus. 'Let's have a look at
that commission.'

'Certainly.' Marcellus handed him the scroll; and Sextus, lazily
unrolling it, held it close to his face in the waning light.

'I suggest, Centurion Sextus,' rasped Marcellus, 'that we repair to the
Legate's quarters for this examination. In the country of which I am a citizen,
there are certain courtesies--'.