Authors: Unknown
THE ROBE (11 page)
'You are very indiscreet, Paulus,' said Marcellus, seriously. 'For
remarks of that sort, you could have your pelt pulled off. I hope you do not
often let yourself go like that.'
Paulus rose and hitched up his broad belt.
'I had no fear of speaking my mind to you, sir,' he said.
'Why are you so sure that I wouldn't give you away?' asked Marcellus.
'Because,' replied Paulus, confidently, 'you believe in real valour--the
kind that demands courage!'
Marcellus answered with an appreciative smile.
'It is a wonder, Paulus,' he said, thoughtfully, 'that the ordinary rank
and file do not take things into their own hands.'
'Pouf! What can they do?' scoffed Paulus, with a shrug. 'They're nothing
but sheep, with no shepherd! Take these Jews, for example: now and then, some
fiery fellow goes howling mad over the raw injustice, and gets up on a cart,
and lets out a few shrieks--but they dispose of him in a hurry!'
'Who shuts him up? The rich men?'
'Well, not directly. It is we who are always called in to do the dirty
work. It's obvious that Rome can't permit such uprisings, but it is the rich
and greedy provincials who nip revolutions in the bud.'
'Damned scoundrels!' exclaimed Marcellus.
'Yes, sir,' assented Paulus, his gusty storm having blown out, 'but you
will find that these damned scoundrels in Jerusalem know good wine when they
see it, and aren't mean about sharing it with the Roman legions. That,' he
added, with cool mockery, 'is to encourage us to be on the look-out for any
foolhardy patriot who squeaks about the lost kingdom!'
The first day's journey, from Gaza to Ascalon, was intolerably tedious,
for the deep-rutted highway was crowded with creeping caravans and filthy with
dust.
'It will be better tomorrow promised Melas, amused by the grotesque
appearance of Demetrius who had rewound his turban about his face until only
his eyes were visible.
'Let us hope so!' grumbled the Corinthian, tugging at the lead-donkey
that was setting off toward a clump of thistles. 'But how will it be better?
These snails are all crawling to Jerusalem, are they not?'
'Yes, but we leave the highway at Ascalon,' explained Melas, 'and lake a
shorter road through the hills. The caravans do not travel it. They're afraid
of the Bedouins.'
'And we aren't?'
'We're too many for them. They wouldn't risk it.'
Centurion Paulus's stocky, bow-legged, red-headed Thracian was enjoying
himself. Not often was Melas in a position to inform his betters; and,
observing that the status of Demetrius was enviable compared to his own, it had
made him quite expansive to be on such friendly terms with the new Legate's
well-spoken slave.
'It isn't the camels that stir up the dust,' advised Melas, out of his
long experience. 'Your camel lifts his big padded paws and lays them down on
top of the soft dirt. It's the asses that drag their feet. But I hate camels!'
'I am not very well acquainted with camels,' admitted Demetrius, willing
to show some interest in his education.
'Nobody is,' declared Melas. 'You can live with a camel for years and
treat him as your brother, but you can never trust him. See that? He tapped a
badly disfigured nose. 'I got that up in Gaul, a dozen years ago. The fleas and
flies were driving my master's old Menepthah crazy. I spent the better part of
two days rubbing olive oil into his mangy hide. And he stood like a rock, and
purred like a cat; because he liked it. When I was tired out, he turned around
and kicked me in the face.'
Demetrius laughed, as was expected, and inquired what sort of revenge
Melas had considered appropriate, a query that delighted him, for there was
more of the story.
'I was so blind mad,' continued Melas, 'that I did the same thing to
him--only Menepthah saw it coming and grabbed my foot. Ever have a camel bite
you? Now, an ass,' he expounded, 'or a dog, will snap and nip and nibble at
you; but if he is going to bite, he tells you. Your camel never lets you into
the secret. When he bites, nobody knows what is in his mind--but himself. I was
laid up for two weeks, the time Menepthah bit my foot. I don't like camels,' he
added, reasonably enough, his new friend thought.
'They can't be blamed much for wanting to get even,' observed Demetrius.
'It's a pretty rough life, I suppose.'
Melas seemed to be weighing this bland comment on his not very sensitive
scales as they trudged along, and presently gave Demetrius a long, appraising
look out of the tail of his eye. His lip curled in a sour grin. At length he
ventured to give his thoughts an airing; having a care, however, to keep them
on a leash.
'It doesn't do much good--trying to get even. Take your slave, now; he
can't get anywhere that way. Camels and asses and slaves are better off minding
their masters.' And when Demetrius did not comment, Melas added, encouragingly,
'Or--don't you think so?'
Demetrius nodded, without interest. He had no desire to discuss this
matter.
'If you're going to serve another man, at all,' he remarked casually,
'it's only good sense to serve him well.'
'That's what I always say,' approved Melas, with such exaggerated
innocence that Demetrius wondered whether the fellow was making a smug pretence
of lily-white loyalty--or recklessly toying with a piece of crude irony. He
thought it might be interesting to find out.
'Of course, slavery is a bit different from the employment of freedmen,'
experimented Demetrius. 'If a freedman finds his work distasteful he can leave
it, which is ever so much better than keeping on at it, and shirking it. The
slave does not have this choice.'
Melas chuckled a little.
'Some slaves,' he remarked, 'are like asses. They snap at their masters,
and get slapped for it. They sit down and balk, and get themselves whipped and
kicked. There's no sense in that. And then there are some slaves that behave
like camels; just keep going on, and taking it, no matter how they're
used'--Melas's tone was getting noticeably metallic, to match his heavy
scowl--'and one day--when the master is drunk, maybe--the poor beast pays him
out.'
'And then what?' demanded Demetrius.
Melas shrugged, sullenly.
'Then he'd better run away,' he concluded. Presently he muttered an
afterthought. 'Not much chance for a camel. Once in a while a slave gets away.
Three years ago--' Melas lowered his voice, though there was no need of this
precaution as they were far at the rear of the procession, and the furtive
quality of the Thracian's tone hinted at a conspiratorial confidence. 'It was
on this same trip--three years ago. Commander Vitelius's slave, as cheerful and
obedient as anybody you ever met--Sevenus, by name--managed to lose himself the
next to the last day in Jerusalem. Nobody knows what became of him.' Melas
stepped nearer and muttered out of the corner of his mouth. 'Nobody but me.
Sevenus left for Damascus. Wanted me to go with him. Sometimes I've wished I
had taken the chance. It's easy enough. We're more or less on our own in
Jerusalem. The officers give themselves a good time. Don't want the slaves
hanging about. Bad for discipline.' Melas winked significantly. 'The Centurions
like to play a little.'
Demetrius listened without comment to this lengthy speech; and Melas, a
bit anxious, searched his eyes for advice as to the safety of proceeding
farther.
'Of course, it's no secret,' he proclaimed, doffing his air of mystery.
'Everybody at Minoa knows about it--all but what I just told you.'
Demetrius knew he was making a mistake when he asked the question that
implied a personal interest in this matter, but the story had stirred his
curiosity.
'What made this fellow Sevenus think he had a chance of freedom in
Damascus?'
Melas's eyes relighted.
'Why, Damascus is Syrian. Those people up there hate Rome like poison!
The old city's full of Roman slaves, they say; living right out in the open,
too; making no attempt to hide. Once you get there, you're safe as a bug in a
donkey's ear.'
Early next morning, their caravan broke camp and moved off through the
bare hills over a winding road which narrowed frequently, in long ravines and
deep waddies, to a mere bridle-path that ravelled out yesterday's compact
pilgrimage into a single thread.
It was a desolate country, practically uninhabited. Small herds of wild
goats, almost indistinguishable from the jagged brown rocks on the treeless
hillsides, grouped to stare an absurd defiance of any attempted trespass upon
their domain. In the valleys, the spring rains had fraudulently invited an
occasional tuft of vegetation to believe it had a chance of survival. Beside a
blistered water-hole a brave little clump of violets drooped with thirst.
Demetrius was finding pleasure in this stage of the journey. The
landscape was uninspiring, but it refreshed his spirit to be out in the open
and at a comfortable distance from the uncouth Melas, whose favourite topic had
become disquieting. There was little doubt but the Thracian was building up
toward a proposal of escape; either that, or was harbouring an even more
sinister design to engage him in a conspiracy and then expose him. Of course,
this suspicion might be quite unfair to the fellow; but it would be dangerous
to take any risks. No matter what he himself might say to Melas, on this touchy
matter, it could easily become a weapon in the garrulous Thracian's hand, if he
happened to be upset about something or made envious of the unusual privileges
accorded to the Commander's more fortunate slave. Demetrius had resolved to be
painstakingly prudent in any conversation with Melas, and as much as possible
avoid being alone with him. Besides, there was much to think about, left over
from a discussion between Marcellus and Paulus, last night; a most
provocative--and highly amusing--survey of the gods, conducted by two men who
had no piety at all. A good deal of it had been shockingly irreverent, but
undeniably entertaining.
Late yesterday afternoon, when the company had halted near a spring (on
city property, a mile north-east of Ascalon) Demetrius had been happy to
receive a summons to attend his master, for he had begun to feel lonely and
degraded. He was amazed at the smart appearance of the camp. Almost by magic
the brown tents had risen in four precise rows, the commissary had unpacked and
set up its field equipment, chairs and tables and bunks had been unfolded and
put in order. Banners were flying. Sentries were posted. The local Roman
representative--a seedy, unprepossessing old fellow, with the bright pink nose
of a seasoned winebibber--accompanied by three obsequious Jewish merchants,
came out to read and present an illuminated scroll which eloquently (and
untruthfully) certified to Ascalon's delight that the famed Legion of Minoa had
deigned to accept the city's poor but cheerful hospitality. They had brought
with them four huge wineskins bulging with the best of the native product, and
were invited to remain for supper, after the Commander had formally replied
(with his staff ranged stiffly to the rear of him) that Minoa was fully as glad
to be in Ascalon as Ascalon was to entertain Minoa, which his slave considered
deliciously droll.
After the evening meal had been disposed of, and his immediate duties performed,
Demetrius had stretched out on the ground in the shadow of the Commander's
tent--a quite imposing tent, larger than the others, trimmed with red
flouncing, red silk curtains at the entrance and a canopy over the doorway
supported by slanting spear-shafts. With his fingers interlaced behind his
head, Demetrius lay gazing up at the stars, marvelling at their uncommon
brightness, and effortlessly listening to the subdued voices of his master and
Paulus, lounging in camp-chairs under the gaudy canopy. Apparently the
visitation of the local dignitaries, who had now left for home, accounted for
the conversation. Paulus was holding forth with the leisurely drawl of an
amateur philosopher--benign, tolerant, and a little bit tight. Demetrius cocked
an ear. Occasionally, in such circumstances, a man imprudently spoke his honest
convictions about something; and, if Paulus had any convictions, it might be
interesting to learn what they were.
'The Jews,' Paulus was saying, 'are a queer people. They admit it themselves;
brag about it, in fact; there are no other people like them in the world. For
one thing, they're under a special divine protection. Their god, Jehovah--they
have only one, you know--isn't interested in anybody else but the Jews. Of
course, there would be nothing positively immoral about that belief, if it
weren't for the fact that their Jehovah created the world and all its
inhabitants, but has no use for any of the other people; says the Jews are his
children. Presumably the rest of the world can look out for itself. If they'd
just admit that Jehovah was a sort of local deity--'
'Oh, but we do the same thing, Paulus, don't we?' rejoined Marcellus.
'Isn't Jupiter a sort of general superintendent of the universe, with unlimited
jurisdiction?'
'Not at all; not at all, sir,' protested Paulus, lazily. 'Jupiter hasn't
any interest in the Egyptians, but he doesn't claim he made them what they are,
and then despise them for being no better. And he never said that the Syrians
are a lousy lot, for not lighting bonfires on his feast-day. And Jupiter never
said he was going to see that the Romans had the best of it--all the time.'
'Did Jehovah say that to the Jews?'
Demetrius laughed silently. He had suspected that Marcellus wasn't very
well informed about the various religions, but his master's almost complete
ignorance on the subject was ludicrous.
'Why, certainly!' Paulus was orating. 'Started them off in a garden
where he had grown a fruit they were forbidden to eat. Of course they ate it,
not to satisfy their hunger but their curiosity.'