THE ROBE (19 page)

It pleased Demetrius to observe that Marcellus was maintaining his own
with dignity. He was having little to say, but Pilate's taciturnity easily
accounted for that. Old Julian, quite sober, was eating his dinner with relish,
making no effort to engage the Procurator in conversation. The other tables
were growing louder and more disorderly as the evening advanced. There was much
boisterous laughter; many rude practical jokes; an occasional unexplained
quarrel.

The huge silver salvers, piled high with roasted meats and exotic
fruits, came and went; exquisitely carved silver flagons poured rare wines into
enormous silver goblets. Now and then a flushed Centurion rose from the couch
on which he lounged beside his table, his servant skipping swiftly across the
marble floor to assist him. After a while they would return. The officer,
apparently much improved in health, would strut back to his couch and resume
where he had left off. Many of the guests slept, to the chagrin of their
slaves. So long as your master was able to stagger out of the room and unburden
his stomach, you had no cause for humiliation; but if he went to sleep, your
fellow slaves winked at you and grinned.

Demetrius stood at attention, against the wall, immediately behind his
master's couch. He noted with satisfaction that Marcellus was merely toying
with his food, which showed that he still had some sense left. He wished,
however, that the Commander would exhibit a little more interest in the party.
It would be unfortunate if anyone surmised that he was brooding over the day's
events.

Presently the Procurator sat up and leaned toward Marcellus, who turned
his face inquiringly. Demetrius moved a step forward and listened.

'You are not eating your dinner, Legate,' observed Pilate. 'Perhaps
there is something else you would prefer.'

'Thank you; no, sir,' replied Marcellus. 'I am not hungry.'

'Perhaps your task, this afternoon, dulled your appetite,' suggested
Pilate, idly.

Marcellus scowled.

'That would be a good enough reason, sir, for one's not being hungry,'
he retorted.

'A painful business, I'm sure,' commented Pilate. 'I did not enjoy my
necessity to order it.'

'Necessity?' Marcellus sat up and faced his host with cool impudence.
'This man was not guilty of a crime, as the Procurator himself admitted.'

Pilate frowned darkly at this impertinence.

'Am I to understand that the Legate of Minoa disputes the justice of the
court's decision?'

'Of course!' snapped Marcellus. 'Justice? No one knows better than the
Procurator that this Galilean was unjustly treated!'

'You are forgetting yourself, Legate!' said Pilate, sternly.

'I did not initiate this conversation, sir,' rejoined Marcellus, 'but if
my candour annoys you, we can talk about something else.

Pilate's face cleared a little.

'You have a right to your opinions, Legate Marcellus Gallio, he
conceded, 'though you certainly know it is unusual for a man to criticize his
superior quite so freely as you have done.'

'I know that, sir,' nodded Marcellus, respectfully. 'It is unusual to
criticize one's superior. But this is an unusual case.' He paused, and looked
Pilate squarely in the eyes. 'It was an unusual trial, an unusual decision, an
unusual punishment--and the convict was an unusual man!'

'A strange person, indeed,' agreed Pilate. 'What did you make of him?'
he asked, lowering his voice confidentially.

Marcellus shook his head.

'I don't know, sir,' he replied, after an interval.

'He was a fanatic!' said Pilate.

'Doubtless. So was Socrates. So was Plato.'

Pilate shrugged.

'You're not implying that this Galilean was of the same order as
Socrates and Plato!'

The conversation was interrupted before Marcellus had an opportunity to
reply. Paulus had risen and was shouting at him drunkenly, incoherently. Pilate
scowled, as if this were a bit too much, even for a party that had lost all
respect for the dignity of the Insula. Marcellus shook his head and signed to
Paulus with his hand that he was quite out of order. Undeterred, Paulus
staggered to the head table, leaned far across it on one unstable elbow, and
muttered something that Demetrius could not hear. Marcellus tried to dissuade
him, but he was obdurate and growing quarrelsome. Obviously much perplexed, the
Commander turned and beckoned to Demetrius.

'Centurion Paulus wants to see that robe,' he muttered. 'Bring it here.'

Demetrius hesitated so long that Pilate regarded him with sour
amazement.

'Go--instantly--and get it!' barked Marcellus, angrily.

Regretting that he had put his master to shame, in the presence of the
Procurator, Demetrius tried to atone for his reluctant obedience by moving
swiftly. His heart pounded hard as he ran down the corridor to the Legate's
suite. There was no accounting for the caprice of a man as drunk as Paulus.
Almost anything could happen, but Paulus would have to be humoured.

Folding the blood-stained, thorn-rent garment over his arm, Demetrius
returned to the banquet-hall. He felt like a traitor, assisting in the mockery
of a cherished friend. Surely this Jesus deserved a better fate than to be
abandoned--even in death--to the whims of a drunken soldier. Once, on the way,
Demetrius came to a full stop and debated seriously whether to obey--or take
the advice of Melas, and run.

Marcellus glanced at the robe, but did not touch it.

'Take it to Centurion Paulus,' he said.

Paulus, who had returned to his seat, rose unsteadily; and, holding up
the robe by its shoulders, picked his way carefully to the head table. The room
grew suddenly quiet, as he stood directly before Pilate.

'Trophy!' shouted Paulus.

Pilate, with a reproachful smile, glanced toward Marcellus, as if to
hint that the Legate of Minoa might well advise his Centurion to mend his
manners.

'Trophy!' repeated Paulus. 'Minoa presents trophy to the Insula.' He
waved an expansive arm towards the banners that hung above the Procurator's
table.

Pilate shook his head crossly and disclaimed all interest in the drunken
farce with a gesture of annoyance. Undaunted by his rebuff, Paulus edged over a
few steps and addressed Marcellus.

'Insula doesn't want trophy!' he prattled idiotically. 'Very well! Minoa
keep trophy! Legate Marcellus wear trophy back to Minoa! Put it on, Legate!'

'Please, Paulus!' begged Marcellus. 'That's enough.'

'Put it on!' shouted Paulus. 'Here, Demetrius; hold the robe for the
Legate!'

He thrust it into Demetrius's hands. Someone yelled, 'Put it on!' And
the rest of them took up the shout, pounding the tables with their goblets.
'Put it on!'

Feeling that the short way out of the dilemma was to humour the drunken
crowd, Marcellus rose and reached for the robe. Demetrius stood clutching it in
his arms, seemingly unable to release it. Marcellus was pale with anger.

'Give it to me!' he commanded, severely. All eyes were attentive, and
the place grew quiet. Demetrius drew himself erect, with the robe held tightly
in his folded arms. Marcellus waited a long moment, breathing heavily. Then
suddenly drawing back his arm he slapped Demetrius in the face with his open
hand. It was the first time he had ever ventured to punish him.

Demetrius slowly bowed his head and handed Marcellus the robe; then
stood with stooping shoulders while his master tugged it on over the sleeves of
his toga. A gale of appreciative laughter went up, and there was tumultuous
applause. Marcellus did not smile. His face was drawn and haggard. The room
grew still again. As a man in a dream, he fumbled woodenly with the neck of the
garment, trying to pull it off his shoulders. His hands were shaking.

'Shall I help you, sir?' asked Demetrius, anxiously.

Marcellus nodded; and when Demetrius had relieved him of the robe, he
sank into his seat as if his knees had suddenly buckled under him.

'Take that out into the courtyard,' he muttered, hoarsely, 'and burn
it!'

Demetrius saluted and walked rapidly across the hall. Melas was standing
near the doorway. He moved in closer as Demetrius passed.

'Meet me, at midnight, at the Sheep Gate,' he whispered.

'I'll be there,' flung back Demetrius, as he hurried on.

'You seem much shaken.' Pilate's tone was coolly derisive. 'Perhaps you
are superstitious.'

Marcellus made no reply. It was as if he had not heard the sardonic
comment. He took up his wine-cup in a trembling hand and drank. The other
tables, now that the unexpected little drama had been played out, resumed their
banter and laughter.

'I suspect that you have had about enough for one day,' added the
Procurator, more considerately. 'If you wish to go, you may be excused.'

'Thank you, sir,' replied Marcellus, remotely. He half-rose from his
couch, but finding that his knees were still weak, sank down again. Too much
attention had already been focused on him: he would not take the risk of an
unfortunate exit. Doubtless his sudden enfeeblement would soon pass. He tried
to analyse this curious enervation. He had been drinking far too much to-day.
He had been under a terrific emotional strain. But even in his present state of
mental confusion, he could still think straight enough to know that it wasn't
the wine or the day's tragic task. This seizure of unaccountable inertia had
come upon him when he thrust his arms into the sleeves of that robe! Pilate had
taunted him about his superstition. Nothing could be farther from the truth: he
was not superstitious. Nobody had less interest in or respect for a belief in
supernatural persons or powers. That being true, he had not himself invested
this robe with some imagined magic.

He realized that Pilate was looking him over with contemptuous
curiosity. His situation was becoming embarrassing. Sooner or later he would be
obliged to stand up. He wondered if he could.

A palace guard was crossing the room, on his way to the head table. He
came to a halt as he faced the Procurator, saluted stiffly, and announced that
the Captain of the
Vestris
had arrived and wished to deliver a letter to
Legate Marcellus Lucan Gallio.

'Bring it here,' said Pilate.

'Captain Fulvius wishes to deliver it with his own hands, sir,' said the
guard.

'Nonsense!' retorted Pilate. 'Tell him to give you the letter. See that
the Captain has his dinner and plenty of wine. I shall have a word with him in
the morning.'

'The letter, sir,' said the guard, impressively, 'is from the Emperor!'

Marcellus, who had listened with scant interest, now leaned forward and
looked at the Procurator inquisitively.

'Very well,' nodded Pilate. 'Tell him to come in.'

The few moments of waiting seemed very long. A letter from the Emperor!
What manner of message would be coming from crazy old Tiberius? Presently the
bronzed, bearded, bow-legged sailor ambled through the room, in tow of the
guard. Pilate greeted him coolly and signed for him to hand the scroll to
Marcellus. The Captain waited, and the Procurator watched out of the tail of
his eye, while the seals were broken. Marcellus thrust a shaky dagger through
the heavy wax, slowly unrolled the papyrus, and ran his eye over the brief
message. Then he rolled up the scroll and impassively addressed the Captain.

'When are you sailing?' There was nothing in Marcellus's tone to
indicate whether the letter from Emperor Tiberius bore good tidings or bad.
Whatever the message was, it had not stirred him out of his strange apathy.

'Tomorrow night, sir. Soon as we get back to Joppa.'

'Very good,' said Marcellus, casually. 'I shall be ready.'

'We should leave here an hour before dawn, sir,' said the Captain. 'I
have made all arrangements for your journey to the port. The ship will call at
Gaza to pick up whatever you may wish to take with you to Rome.'

'How did you come to deliver this letter to Legate Marcellus Gallio here
in Jerusalem?' inquired Pilate, idly.

'I went to the Minoa fort, sir, and they told me he was here.' The
Captain bobbed an awkward leave-taking and followed the guard from the hall.
Pilate, unable to restrain his curiosity any longer, turned to Marcellus with
inquiring eyes.

'If congratulations are in order,' he said, almost deferentially, 'may I
be the first to offer them?'

'Thank you,' said Marcellus, evasively. 'If it is agreeable to you, sir,
I shall go now.'

'By all means,' approved Pilate, stiffening. 'Perhaps you need some
assistance,' he added, as he observed Marcellus's struggle to rise. 'Shall I
send for your servant?'

Clutching the table for support, Marcellus contrived to get to his feet.
For a moment, as he steadied himself, he was unsure whether his legs would bear
his weight until he had crossed the banquet-hall. Clenching his hands, he made
a determined effort to walk. With short infirm steps, he began the long journey
to the door, so intent upon it that he had failed to give his distinguished
host as much as a farewell glance.

He was immeasurably relieved when, having passed through the door and
into the broad corridor, he could brace a hand against the wall. After he had
proceeded for some distance down the hall, he came to an arched doorway that
opened upon the spacious courtyard. Feeling himself quite unable to go farther,
he picked his way, with the caution of an old man, down the steps. On the lower
step, he sat down heavily, in the darkness that enveloped the deserted
parade-ground, wondering whether he would ever regain his strength.

Occasionally, during the next hour, he made tentative efforts to rise;
but they were ineffectual. It struck him oddly that he was not more alarmed
about his condition. Indeed, this lethargy that had attacked him physically had
similarly disqualified his mind.

The fact that his exile, which had threatened to ruin his life, was now
ended, did not exult his spirit. He said, over and over to himself, 'Marcellus,
wake up! You are free! You are going home! You are going back to your family!
You are going back to Diana! The ship is waiting! You are to sail tomorrow!
What ails you, Marcellus?'