THE ROBE (10 page)

After a few minutes, the men came and transferred their various gear to
the Commander's quarters. When they were alone, Marcellus sat down behind the
big desk. Demetrius stood at attention before him.

'Well, Demetrius?' Marcellus raised his brows inquiringly. 'What is on
your mind?'

Demetrius brought the shaft of his spear to his forehead in salute.

'I wish to say, sir, that I am much honoured to be the slave of the
Commander of Minoa.'

'Thanks, Demetrius,' smiled Marcellus, wearily. 'We will have to
wait--and see--who commands Minoa. This is a tough undertaking. The preliminary
skirmish was satisfactory, but--making peace is always more difficult than
making war.'

For the next few days the nerves of the legion were tense. The new
Legate had demonstrated his determination to be in full authority, but it was
by no means clear whether that authority would be maintained on any other terms
than a relentless coercion.

Paulus had suffered a severe loss of prestige, but his influence was
still to be reckoned with. He was obeying orders respectfully, but with such
grim taciturnity that no one was able to guess what was going on in his mind.
Whether he was not yet fully convalescent from the wounds dealt to his pride,
or was sullenly deliberating some overt act of revenge, remained to be seen.
Marcellus had formed no clear opinion about this. Demetrius planted his bunk
directly inside the door, every night, and slept with his dagger in his hand.

After a week, the tension began to relax a little as the garrison became
accustomed to the new discipline. Marcellus issued crisp orders and insisted
upon absolute obedience; not the sluggish compliance that had been good enough
for Gaza, but a prompt and vigorous response that marched with clipped steps
and made no tarrying to ask foolish questions or offer lame excuses.

It had seemed wise to the new Commander to let his more personal
relations with the staff develop naturally without too much cultivation. He
showed no favouritism, preserved his official dignity, and in his dealings with
his fellow officers wasted no words. He was just, considerate, and
approachable, but very firm. Presently the whole organization was feeling the
effect of the tighter regulations, but without apparent resentment. The men
marched with a fresh vigour and seemed to take pride in keeping their equipment
in order. The appearance and morale of the officers had vastly improved.

Every morning, Paulus, now second in command, came to the office of
Marcellus for instructions. Not a word had passed between them relative to
their dramatic introduction. Their conversations were conducted with icy formality
and the stiffest kind of official courtesy. Paulus, faultlessly dressed, would
appear at the door and ask to see the Commander. The sentry would convey the
request. The Commander would instruct the sentry to admit the Centurion. Paulus
would enter and stand straight as an arrow before the official desk. Salutes
would be exchanged.

'It is necessary to replace six camels, sir.'

'Why?' Marcellus would snap.

'One is lame. Two are sick. Three are too old for service.'

'Replace them!'

'Yes, sir.'

Then Paulus would salute and stalk out. Sometimes Marcellus wondered
whether this frosty relationship was to continue for ever. He hoped not. He was
feeling lonely in the remote altitude to which he had climbed in order to
maintain discipline. Paulus was, he felt, an excellent fellow; embittered by
this exile, and morally disintegrated by the boredom and futility of his desert
life. Marcellus had resolved that if Paulus showed the slightest inclination to
be friendly, he would meet the overture halfway; but not a step farther. Nor
would he take the initiative.

As for Sextus, Marcellus had very little direct contact with him, for
Sextus received his orders through Paulus. The big, gruff fellow had been
punctilious in his obedience, but very glum. At the mess-table he had nothing
to say; ate his rations with a scowl, and asked to be excused.

One evening, after ten days had passed, Marcellus noticed that Sextus's
chair was vacant.

'Where is he?' demanded the Commander, nodding toward the unoccupied
place.

'Broke his leg, sir,' answered Paulus.

'When?'

'This afternoon, sir.'

'How?'

'Stockade gate fell on him, sir.'

Marcellus immediately rose and left the table. After a moment, Paulus
followed and overtook him on the way to Sextus's quarters. They fell into step,
and marched side by side with long strides.

'Bad break?'

'Clean break. Upper leg. Not much mangled.'

Sextus was stretched out on his back, beads of sweat on his forehead. He
glanced up and made an awkward gesture of greeting.

'Much pain?' inquired Marcellus.

'No, sir.' Sextus gritted his teeth.

'Gallant liar!' snapped Marcellus. 'Typical Roman lie! You wouldn't
admit you were in pain if you'd been chopped to mincemeat! That bunk is bad;
sags like a hammock. We will find a better one. Have you had your dinner?'

Sextus shook his head; said he didn't want anything to eat.

'Well--we'll see about that!' said Marcellus, gruffly.

By inspection hour next morning, the story had spread through the acres
of brown tents that the new Commander--who had had them all on the jump and had
strutted about through the camp with long legs and a dark frown--had gone to
the kitchen of the officers' mess and had concocted a nourishing broth for old
Sextus; had moved him to airier quarters; had supervised the making of a
special bed for him.

That day Marcellus became the Commander of the fort at Minoa. That night
Demetrius did not take his dagger to bed with him; he didn't even bother to
lock the door.

The next morning, Paulus pushed the sentry aside at the Commander's
quarters and entered without more ceremony than a casual salute. Marcellus
pointed to a vacant chair and Paulus accepted it.

'Hot day, Centurion Paulus,' remarked Marcellus.

'Gaza does not believe in pleasant weather, sir. The climate suits the
temper of the people. It's either hot or cold.' Paulus tipped back his chair
and thrust his thumbs under his belt. 'The Jews have an important festival,
sir. They observe it for a week when the moon is full in the month they call
Nisan. Perhaps you know about it.'

'No, never heard of it,' admitted Marcellus. 'Is it any of our
business?'

'It's their annual Passover Week,' explained Paulus, 'celebrating their
flight from Egypt.'

'What have they been doing down in Egypt?' asked Marcellus
indifferently.

'Nothing--lately,' grinned Paulus. 'This happened fifteen centuries
ago.'

'Oh--that! Do they still remember?'

'The Jews never forget anything, sir. Every year at this season, all the
Jews who can possibly get there go to Jerusalem to "eat the
Passover," as their saying is; but most of them are quite as much
interested in family reunions, games, sports, auctions, and all manner of
shows. Caravans of merchandise come from afar to market their wares. Thousands
crowd the city and camp in the surrounding hills. It is a lively spectacle,
sir.'

'You have been there, it seems.'

'On each of the eleven years since I was sent to this fort, sir,' nodded
Paulus. 'The Procurator in Jerusalem--I think you know that his office outranks
all of the other Palestinian establishments--expects detachments from the forts
at Capernaum, Cæsarea, Joppa, and Minoa to come and help keep order.'

'An unruly crowd, then?' surmised Marcellus.

'Not very, sir. But always, when so many Jews assemble, there is the
usual talk of revolution. They wail sad chants and prattle about their lost
heritage. So far as I know, this unrest has never amounted to anything more
alarming than a few street brawls. But the Procurator thinks it is a good
thing, on these occasions, to have a conspicuous display of Roman uniforms--and
a bit of drill-work in the vicinity of the Temple.' Paulus chuckled,
reminiscently.

'Do we get a formal notice?'

'No, sir. The Procurator does not trouble himself to send a courier. He
takes it for granted that a detachment from Minoa will attend.'

'Very well, Paulus. How many men do we send, and when do they go?'

'A company, sir; a full hundred. It is a three-day journey. We should
start the day after tomorrow.'

'You may arrange for it then, Paulus. Would you like to command the
detachment, or have you had enough of it!'

'Enough of it! By no means, sir! This expedition is the only bright
event of the year! And if I may venture to suggest, Tribune, you yourself might
find this a most refreshing diversion.'

'On your recommendation, I shall go. What is the nature of the equipment?'

'It is not very burdensome, sir. Because it is a gala occasion, we carry
our best uniforms. You will be proud of your command, I think; for it is a
reward of merit here to be chosen for this duty, and the men are diligent in
polishing their weapons. Otherwise we pack nothing but provisions for tenting
and meals on the way. We are housed in commodious barracks in Jerusalem, and
the food is of an uncommonly fine quality, furnished by certain rich men of the
city.'

'What?' Marcellus screwed up his face in surprise. 'Do they not resent
Roman rule in Jerusalem?'

Paulus laughed ironically.

'It is the common people who feel the weight of the Roman yoke, sir. As
for the rich, many of whom collect the tribute for Tiberius--and keep a quarter
of it for themselves--they are quite content. Oh, publicly, of course, the
nabobs have to make a show of lamenting the loss of their kingdom; but these
fat old merchants and money-lenders would be quite upset if a real revolution
got started. You will find that the city fathers and the Procurator are thick
as thieves, though they pretend to be at odds.'

'But this is amazing, Paulus! I had always supposed that the Jews were
passionately patriotic, and uncompromising in their bitter hatred of the
Empire.'

'That is quite true, sir, of the common people. Very zealous, indeed!
They keep hoping for their old independence. Doubtless you have heard of their
ancient myth about a Messiah.'

'No. What's a Messiah?'

'The Messiah is their deliverer, sir. According to their prophets, he
will appear, one day, and organize the people to achieve their freedom.'

'I never heard of it,' admitted Marcellus, indifferently. 'But small
wonder. I haven't had much interest in religious superstitions.'

'Nor I!' protested Paulus. 'But one hears a good deal about this Messiah
business during Passover Week.' He laughed at the recollection. 'Why, sir, you
should see them! Sleek, paunchy old fellows, swathed from their whiskers to
their sandals in voluminous black robes, stalking through the streets, with their
heads thrown back and their eyes closed, beating their breasts and bleating
about their lost kingdom and bellowing for their Messiah! Pouf! They don't want
any other kingdom than the one that stuffs their wallets and their bellies.
They don't want a Messiah--and if they thought there was the slightest
likelihood of a revolution against Roman domination they would be the first to
stamp it out.'

'They must be a precious lot of hypocrites!' growled Marcellus.

'Yes, sir,' agreed Paulus, 'but they set a fine table!'

For a little while, the Tribune sat silently shaking his head in glum
disgust.

'I know the world is full of rascality, Paulus, but this beats anything
I ever heard of!'

'It is rather sickening, sir,' conceded Paulus. 'The sight that always
makes me want to slip a knife under one of those pious arms, upraised in
prayer, is the long procession of the poor and sick and blind and crippled
trailing along after one of these villainous old frauds, under the impression
that their holy cause is in good hands.' He interrupted himself to lean over
the arm of his chair for a better view of the doorway, and caught sight of
Demetrius standing in the hall within sound of their voices. Marcellus's eyes
followed.

'My Greek slave keeps his own counsel, Centurion,' he said, in a
confidential tone. 'You need not fear that he will betray any private
conversation.'

'What I was going to say, sir,' continued Paulus, lowering his voice,
'this political situation in Jerusalem, revolting as it sounds, is not
unusual.' He leaned halfway across the desk, and went on in a guarded whisper,
'Commander, that's what holds the Empire together! If it were not for the rich
men in all our subjugated provinces--men whose avarice is greater than their
local patriotism--the Roman Empire would collapse!'

'Steady, Paulus!' warned Marcellus. 'That's a dangerous theory to
expound! You might get into trouble--saying such things.'

Paulus stiffened with sudden wrath.

'Trouble!' he snarled, bitterly. 'I did get into trouble, sir, that way!
I was fool enough to be honest in the presence of Germanicus! That,' he added,
only half audibly, 'was how I--a Legate--earned my passage to Minoa to become a
Centurion! But, by the gods, what I said was true! The Roman Empire was
consolidated, and is now supported, by the treachery of rich provincials,
willing to betray their own people! This strategy is not original with us, of
course! Rome learned the trick from Alexander. He learned it from the Persians,
who had learned it in Egypt. Buy up the big men of a little country
and--pouf!--you can have the rest of them for nothing!' Paulus's face was
flushed with anger, and after his seditious speech he sat with clenched hands,
flexing the muscles of his jaw. Then he faced Marcellus squarely, and muttered,
'Valour of Rome! Bah! I spit on the valour of Rome! Valour of treachery! Valour
of gold! Valour of hurling the poor at one another on the battlefield, while
the big ones are off in a corner selling them out! The great and proud Roman
Empire!' Paulus brought his fist down with a bang on the desk. 'I spit on the
Roman Empire!'