THE ROBE (12 page)

'One would think Jehovah might have been delighted over their
curiosity,' put in Marcellus, 'seeing that every good thing we have was
discovered through someone's inquisitiveness.'

'Yes, but this made Jehovah angry,' explained Paulus, 'so he pitched
them out into the desert, and let them get tricked into slavery. Then he told
them how to escape, and turned them loose in a wilderness. Then he promised
them a land of their own--'

'And this is it!' laughed Marcellus. 'What a promised land!'

'There isn't a more worthless strip of country in the world!' declared
Paulus. 'And now the Jews have lost control of it. You'd think that after about
fifteen hundred years of hard knocks, poverty, and slavery, these specially
favoured children of Jehovah would begin to wonder whether they might not be
better off without so much divine attention.'

'Perhaps that accounts for this Messiah business that you spoke about
the other day. Maybe they've given up hope that Jehovah will take care of them,
and think the Messiah might improve their fortunes when he comes. Do you
suppose that's what they have in mind? It's not unreasonable. I daresay that's
the way we and the Greeks accumulated so many gods, Paulus. When one god gets
weary and impotent, another fresher god takes over. Didn't old Zeus retire once
in favour of his son Apollo?'

'Not for long,' remembered Paulus. 'Apparently the weather hadn't been
very good, so young Apollo decided he would manage the sun; and ran amuck with
it. Old Zeus had to straighten out the tangle for the boy. Now, there's sense
in a religion like that, Tribune. Our gods behave the way we do, naturally,
because we made them the way we are. Everybody gets tired of the dictatorial
old man, and eventually he gets tired too; decides to let his son run the
business--whether it's growing gourds or managing the planets; but he never
thinks the young fellow is competent, so he keeps on interfering until
presently there is a row. That's why our religion is such a comfort to us,'
Paulus continued, elaborately ironical.

'I'm afraid you're not very pious,' commented Marcellus. 'If the gods
hear what you are saying, they may not like it. They might think you doubted
their reality.'

'Not at all, sir! It's men like me who really believe in their reality.
They're authentic--the gods! Some of them want war, some want peace, some of
them don't know what they want--except an annual feast-day and a big parade.
Some give you rest and sleep, some drive you insane. Some you are expected to
admire, and some you are expected to hate, and all of them are never quite
happy unless they are frightening you and assured that you are afraid. This is
sensible. This is the way life is! . . . But these Jews! There they are, with
only one god; and he is perpetually right, perpetually good, wise, loving. Of
course he is stubborn, because they are stubborn; doesn't approve of pleasure,
because they never learned how to play; never makes any mistakes, because the
Jew never makes any mistakes. Tribune, Jehovah can't help being a pessimist.
The Jews are a pessimistic people.'

'Maybe Jehovah thinks it is a good thing for his children to endure
hardship,' speculated Marcellus; 'toughens their fibre, knocks off their
surplus fat, keeps them in fighting trim. I believe he has a good idea there,
Paulus. Sometimes I've thought that Rome would be better off if we patricians
had to scratch for a living, and stole less from the neighbours.'

There was a considerable pause at this point in the sacrilegious
discussion and Demetrius had wondered whether they hadn't about exhausted
themselves and their subject. But not quite.

'Rome will have that problem solved for her, one of these days,' Paulus
was muttering, ominously. 'The sceptre is passed around, Commander. Egypt has
her day in the sunshine. Darius tramps about, scaring everybody for an hour or
two. Alexander sobs because there's no one left to be subdued. The Cæsars drive
their chariots over Alexander's world; so drunk with power that they can't even
bear to let these poor Hebrews own a few acres of weeds and snakes. . . .
Ho-hum!'

Demetrius had yawned, too, and wished they would go to bed.

'But it will be somebody else's turn, soon,' said Paulus.

'When?' asked Marcellus, exactly as Demetrius thought he might.

'Well, if justice were served to crazy old Tiberius and his addled
stepchild,' deliberated Paulus, 'I should think it might be someone else's turn
tomorrow--or by the end of next week, at the least. . . . How about a little
more wine, Tribune?'

Demetrius had sat up, ready for the summons. It came instantly, and he
presented himself.

'Fill Centurion Paulus's cup,' ordered Marcellus. 'No, none for me.'

And then Demetrius had gone back into the shadow of the tent to resume
his waiting. The conversation had taken a queer turn now.

'Paulus,' his master was saying, 'you believe that the gods are
manufactured by men. If it isn't an impertinent question, did you ever try to
make one?'

Demetrius, sauntering to-day along through a narrow ravine, almost
oblivious of the long procession single-filing on ahead, laughed as he recalled
that extraordinary question and its absurd answer.

'No,' Paulus had replied, 'but it isn't too late. Shall I make one for
you now?'

'By all means!' chuckled Marcellus. 'I assume that when you have him
completed he will closely resemble yourself.'

'Well--not too closely; for this god I'm going to invent is good. He
doesn't just pretend to be good. He really is good! He takes a few bright men
into his confidence--not necessarily Romans or Greeks or Gauls; so long as they're
honest and intelligent--and entrusts them with some important tasks. He tells
one man how to cure leprosy, and others how to restore sight to the blind and
hearing to the deaf. He confides the secrets of light and fire; how to store up
summer heat for use in winter; how to capture the light of day and save it to
illumine the night; how to pour idle lakes on to arid land.' Paulus had paused,
probably to take another drink.

'Very good, Centurion,' Marcellus had commented, thoughtfully. 'If
you'll set up your god somewhere, and get him to producing these effects, he
can have all my trade.'

'Perhaps you might like to assist in his creation, sir,' suggested
Paulus, companionably.

Demetrius had not expected the quite serious speech that followed. As it
proceeded, he raised himself on one elbow and listened intently.

'It occurs to me, Paulus,' Marcellus was saying, soberly, 'that this god
of yours, who seems a very fine fellow indeed, might well consider a revision
of the present plan for removing men from this world. What happens to us is
something like this: a man spends his active life striving to accomplish a few
useful deeds, and eventually arrives at the top of his powers; honoured--we
will say--and a good example to his community. Then he begins to go into a
decline; loses his teeth and his hair; his step slows, his eyes grow dim, his
hearing is dulled. This disintegration frets him, and he becomes gusty and
irascible, like an old dog. Now he retires to a sunny corner of the garden with
a woollen cap and a rug around his legs, and sits there in everybody's way
until it is time for him to take to his bed, with grievous aches and pains
which twist him into revolting postures. When no dignity is left to him, nor
any longer deserved, he opens his sunken mouth and snores for a few days,
unaware of his inglorious end. Now, I think your new god should do something
about this, Paulus.'

'We will discuss it with him, sir,' promised Paulus, agreeably. 'How
would you like to have the matter handled?'

Apparently this required some concentration, for the reply was delayed a
little while. When it came, Marcellus's tone had abandoned all trace of
persiflage and was deeply sincere.

'When a Roman of our sort comes of age, Paulus, there is an impressive
ceremony by which we are inducted into manhood. Doubtless you felt, as I did,
that this was one of the high moments of life. Well do I remember--the thrill
of it abides with me still--how all our relatives and friends assembled, that
day, in the stately Forum Julium. My father made an address, welcoming me into
Roman citizenship. It was as if I had never lived until that hour. I was so
deeply stirred, Paulus, that my eyes swam with tears. And then good old
Cornelius Capito made a speech, a very serious one, about Rome's right to my
loyalty, my courage, and my strength. I knew that tough old Capito had a right
to talk of such matters, and I was proud that he was there! They beckoned to
me, and I stepped forward. Capito and my father put the white toga on me--and
life had begun!'

There was an interval of silence here. Demetrius, much moved by this
recital, had strained to hear above his own accented heart-beats, for the
reminiscence had been spoken in a tone so low that it was almost as if
Marcellus were talking to himself.

'Now, I think your god should ordain that at the crowning moment of a
mature man's career; at the apex; when his strength has reached its zenith;
when his best contribution has been made; let your god ordain that another
assembly be held, with all present who know and revere this worthy man. And who
among us would not strive to be worthy, with such a consummation in prospect?
Let there be a great assembly of the people. Let there be an accounting of this
man's deeds; and, if he has earned a lofty eulogy, let it be spoken with
eloquence.'

'And then?' demanded Paulus. 'A valedictory, perhaps?'

'No,' Marcellus had decided, after a pause. 'Let the man keep silent. He
will have no need to explain his deeds, if they were worth emulation. He will
arise, and his peers will remove his toga; and it will be treasured, perhaps
conferred upon another, some day, for courageous action. It would be a great
responsibility to wear such a garment, Paulus.' There was another long pause.

'I think the god should prescribe that this event occur in the waning of
a golden afternoon in springtime. There should be a great chorus, singing an
elegiac ode. And while the triumphant music fills the air--with the vast
assembly standing reverently--let the honoured man march erectly and with firm
step from the rostrum, and out, to face the sunset! Then--let him vanish! And
be seen no more!'

After he had gone to bed, last night, and the camp was quiet, except for
the footfalls and jangling sidearms of the sentries, Demetrius had pondered
long and deeply over this strange conceit--the making of a better god!

This morning, as he marched through the barren hills, towing a file of
stupid donkeys who had as much control over their destiny as had he over his
own, Demetrius wondered what he might have said if they had invited him to add
a desirable attribute to their imaginary deity. Doubtless the world would be a
more comfortable place to live in if, as Paulus had suggested, some plan were
arrived at for a better distribution of light and heat. And perhaps it would
bring a man's days to a more dramatic conclusion if, as his master had so
beautifully visioned, the human career might close with music and pageantry
instead of a tedious glissade into helpless senility; though, as things stood,
a man's lack of honour at the end of his life seemed quite compatible with his
absurd plight at life's beginning. If Marcellus proposed to add dignity to a
man's departure from the world, he should also pray for a more dignified
arrival.

No, such idle speculations were a mere waste of opportunity if one had a
chance to mend the world. There were other needs of far greater import. Surely,
this amazingly honest deity whom Marcellus and Paulus had invoked would want to
do something about the cruel injustice of men in their dealings one with
another. With hot indignation, Demetrius reconstructed the painful scene of
that day when Roman ruffians forced the doors, and threw his beautiful mother
aside as they stalked into his honoured father's library to bind him and carry
him away to his death.

This nobler god--if he had any interest in justice, at all--would
appear, at such a tragic moment, and sternly declare, 'You can't
do
that!'

Demetrius repeated the words aloud--over and over--louder and
louder--until the high-walled ravine believed in them, and said so.

'You can't do that!'
he shouted, so loudly that Melas--far on
ahead--turned to look back inquiringly.

They had all but reached the end of their journey now. For the past hour
their caravan had been plodding up a long hill. At its crest, a very impressive
spectacle had confronted them. They were gazing down upon Jerusalem, whose
turrets and domes were aglow with the smouldering fire of sunset.

'Gorgeous!' Marcellus had murmured.

All day, Demetrius had marched beside his master's tall camel, happy to
be relieved of his unpleasant duties at the rear. Early in the forenoon, they
had come to the junction of the lonely valley road and a highway running up
from Hebron. All along the thoroughfare were encampments of caravans, making no
sign of preparation for travel.

'Is this not strange, Paulus?' Marcellus had inquired. 'Why aren't they
on the road?'

'It's the Sabbath day, sir,' answered Paulus. 'Jews must not travel on
the last day of the week. It's against their law.'

'Mustn't move at all, eh?'

'Oh, practically not. They may proceed a little way--what they call a
Sabbath day's journey--two thousand cubits. Look, sir.' Paulus pointed down the
road. 'Two thousand of their cubits would take them to that group of olive
trees. That's as far as a Jew can go from his residence on the Sabbath.'

'Very inconvenient,' observed Marcellus, idly.

'For the poor people--yes.' Paulus laughed. 'The rich, as usual, have
their own way of circumventing the law.'

'How's that?'

'Well, sir; in their interpretation of this statute, any place where a
man has a possession is considered his residence. If a rich man wants to visit
somebody ten miles away, on the Sabbath, he sends his servants on ahead, a day
earlier, and they deposit along the road--at two-thousand-cubit intervals--such
trifling articles as an old sandal, a cracked pot, a worn-out rug, a
scroll-spool; and thus prepare the way for their law-abiding lord.'