THE ROBE (24 page)

Amidship in the vicinity of the
Clytia's
solitary mast a
constricted area of deck space, bounded by a square of inhospitable wooden
benches, served as promenade and recreation centre. Beside the mast a narrow
hatchway descended steeply into the common cabin, which was lighted and
ventilated by six diminutive port-holes. Upon the slightest hint of a fresh
breeze these prudent little ports were closed. The
Clytia
made no attempt
to pamper her passengers. Indeed, it was doubtful whether any other craft
plying between Ostia and Piraeus was equipped to offer so comprehensive an
assortment of discomforts.

The grimy old ship's only grace was her love of leisure. She called
everywhere and tarried long; three days and nights, for example, in unimportant
Corfu, where she had only to unload a bin of silica and take on a bale of
camel's-hair shawls; four whole days in Argostoli, where she replenished her
water-casks, discharged a grateful passenger, and bought a crate of lemons. She
even ambled all the way down to Crete, for no better cause than to leave three
blocks of Carrara marble and acquire a case of reeking bull-hides for
conversion into shields. While in port, one of her frowsy old hawsers parted,
permitting the
Clytia
to stave a galley that lay alongside; and another
week had passed before everybody was satisfied about that and clearance was
ordered for the next lap of the interminable cruise.

Had Marcellus been mentally well, he would surely have found these
delays and discomforts insupportable. In his present mood of apathetic
detachment, he endured his experiences with such effortless fortitude that
Demetrius's anxiety about him mounted to alarm. Marcellus had no natural talent
for bearing calmly with annoyances, however trivial; and it worried the
Corinthian to see his high-spirited master growing daily more and more
insensitive to his wretched environment. As for himself, Demetrius was so
exasperated by all this boredom and drudgery that he was ready to jump out of
his skin.

Vainly he tried to kindle a spark of interest in the wool-gathering mind
of Marcellus. The Senator had provided his son with a small but carefully
selected library, classics mostly, and Demetrius had tactfully endeavoured to
make him read; but without success.

For the better part of every fair day, Marcellus would sit silently
staring at the water. Immediately after breakfast he would pick his way forward
through the clutter that littered the deck; and, seating himself on a coil of
anchor-cable near the prow, would remain immobile, with his elbows on his knees
and his chin in his hands, gazing dully out to sea. Demetrius would give him
time to get himself settled, and then he too would saunter forward with a few
scrolls under his arm and sprawl at full length on a battened hatch close by.
Sometimes he would read a paragraph or two aloud and ask a question. On these
occasions, Marcellus would sluggishly return from a remote distance to make a
laconic reply, but it was obvious that he preferred not to be molested.

Although Demetrius's chief concern was to beguile his master's roving
mind, he himself was finding food for reflection. Never before had he found
opportunity for so much uninterrupted reading. He was particularly absorbed by
the writings of Lucretius. Here, he thought, was a wise man.

'Ever read Lucretius, sir?' he asked, one afternoon, after an hour's
silence between them.

Marcellus slowly turned his head and deliberated the question.

'Indifferently,' he replied, at length.

'Lucretius thinks it is the fear of death that makes men miserable,'
went on Demetrius. 'He's for abolishing that fear.'

'A good idea,' agreed Marcellus, languidly. After a long wait, he asked,
'How does he propose to do it?'

'By assuming that there is no future life,' explained Demetrius.

'That would do it,' drawled Marcellus, 'provided the assumption would
stay where you had put it.'

'You mean, sir, that the assumption might drag its anchor in a gale?'

Marcellus smiled wanly at the seagoing metaphor, and nodded. After a
meditative interval, he said:

'For some men, Demetrius, the fear of death might be palliated by the
belief that nothing more dreadful could possibly happen to them than had
already happened--in their present existence. Perhaps Lucretius has no warrant
for saying that all men fear death. Some have even sought death. As for me, I
am not conscious of that fear; let death bring what it will. . . . But does
Lucretius have aught to say to the man who fears life?'

Demetrius was sorry he had introduced the conversation, but felt he
should not abandon it abruptly; assuredly not at this dismaying juncture.

'Lucretius concedes that all life is difficult, but becoming less so as
men grow out of savagery to civilization.' Demetrius tried to make this
observation sound optimistic. Marcellus chuckled bitterly.

'"As men grow out of savagery," eh? What makes him think men
are growing out of savagery?' He made an impatient gesture, throwing the idea
away with a toss of his hand. 'Lucretius knew very little about what was going
on in the world. Lived like a mole in a burrow. Lived on his own fat like a
bear in winter. Went wrong in his head at forty, and died. "Growing out of
savagery"? Nonsense! Nothing that ever went on in the jungle can compare
with the bestiality of our life to-day!' Marcellus's voice had mounted from a
monologic mutter to a high-tensioned harangue. '"Growing out of
savagery"!' he shouted. 'You know better than that!
You were out
there!'

Demetrius nodded soberly.

'It was very sad,' he said, 'but I think you have reproached yourself
too much, sir. You had no alternative.'

Marcellus had retreated into his accustomed lethargy, but he suddenly
roused, clenching his fists.

'That's a lie, Demetrius, and you know it! There
was
an alternative!
I could have set the Galilean free! I had enough of those tough fellows from
Minoa with me to have dispersed that mob!'

'Pilate would have court-martialled you, sir. It might have cost you
your life!'

'My life!' shouted Marcellus. 'It
did
cost me my life! Far better
to have lost it honourably!'

'Well,' soothed Demetrius, gently, 'we should try to forget about it
now. In Athens you can divert your mind, sir. Are you not looking forward with
some pleasure to your studies there?'

There was no reply. Marcellus had turned his back and was again staring
at the sea.

On another day, Demetrius--imprudently, he felt afterwards--ventured to
engage his moody master again in serious talk.

'Lucretius says here that our belief that the gods are concerned with our
human affairs has been the source of nothing but unhappiness to mankind.'

'Of course,' muttered Marcellus, 'and he was a fool for believing that
the gods exist at all.' After the
Clytia
had swayed to and fro sleepily
for a couple of stadia, he mumbled, 'Lucretius was crazy. He knew too much
about the unknowable. He sat alone--and thought--and thought--until he lost his
mind. . . . That's what I'm doing, Demetrius.'

In a less perturbed state of mind, Marcellus, thoroughly fatigued by the
long journey, would have been gaily excited over the welcome he received at the
hands of his Athenian host, though this warm reception was not altogether
unexpected.

When Marcus Lucan Gallio was in his early twenties, he had spent a
summer in Athens, studying at the famous old Academy of Hipparchus, and lodging
in the exclusive House of Eupolis which had been conducted by one family for
five generations. Old Georgias Eupolis, his host, treated the patrons of his
establishment as personal guests. You had to be properly vouched for if you
sought accommodation there; but having been reliably introduced, nothing was
too good for you.

The cool hauteur of the House of Eupolis in its attitude toward
applicants was not mere snobbery. Athens was always filled with strangers. The
city had more than a hundred inns, and all but a half-dozen of them were
notorious. The typical tavern-keeper was a pander, a thief, and an all-around
rascal; and, for the most part, his clients were of the same feather. The
Athenian inn that hoped to maintain a reputation for decency had to be critical
of its patrons.

Apparently young Gallio had made a favourable impression, for when he
left the House of Eupolis old Georgias had broken a silver drachma in two, and,
handing one half to Marcus, had attached a little tablet of memoranda to the
other which he had put away for safe-keeping.

'Whoever presents your piece of that drachma, my son,' Georgias had
said, 'will be welcome here. You will not lose it, please.'

Arriving now at dusk in the shaded courtyard of the fine old hostelry,
Marcellus had silently handed the broken coin to the churlish porter who had
stepped out of the shadow to question them. Immediately the slave's behaviour
had changed from surly challenge to alert deference. Bowing and scraping he had
made haste to carry the little talisman to his master. In a few moments the
genial proprietor, a well-groomed man of forty, had come down the stone steps
of the vine-clad portico, offering a smile and outstretched hands. Marcellus
had stepped out of the antiquated chariot, announcing that he was the son of
Gallio.

'And how are you addressed, sir?' asked the innkeeper.

'I am a Tribune. My name is Marcellus.'

'Your father is well remembered here, Tribune Marcellus. I hope he is
alive and well.'

'He is, thank you. Senator Gallio sends his greetings to your house.
Though it was a very long time ago, my father hopes his message of affection
for Georgias may still be delivered.'

'Alas! My venerable father has been gone these ten years. But in his
name, I give you welcome. My name is Dion. The House of Eupolis is yours. Come
in! I can see you are weary.'

He turned to Demetrius.

'The porter will help you with your burdens, and show you where you are
to sleep.'

'I wish my slave to share my own quarters,' put in Marcellus.

'It is not customary with us,' said Dion, a bit coolly.

'It is with me,' said Marcellus. 'I have been subjected lately to
considerable hardship,' he explained, 'and I am not well. I do not wish to be
alone. Demetrius will lodge with me.'

Dion, after a momentary debate with himself, gave a shrug of reluctant
consent, and signed to Marcellus to precede him into the house.

'You will be responsible for his conduct,' he said, crisply, as they
mounted the steps.

'Dion,' said Marcellus, pausing at the doorway, 'had this Corinthian his
freedom, he would appear to advantage in any well-bred company. He has been
gently brought up; is a person of culture, and brave withal. The House of
Eupolis will come to no dishonour on his account.'

The well-worn appointments of the spacious andronitis, into which
entrance was had directly from the front door, offered a substantial, homelike
comfort.

'If you will be seated, Marcellus,' advised Dion, recovering his
geniality, 'I shall find the other members of my family. Then--because you are
tired--I shall show you to your rooms. Will you be with us long?'

Marcellus lifted an indecisive hand.

'For some time, I think,' he said. 'Three months; four; six: I do not
know. I want quiet. Two bedchambers, a small parlour, and a studio. I might
want to amuse myself with some modelling.' Dion said he understood, and would
be able to provide a suitable suite.

'And you will face the garden,' he said, as he moved toward the stairs.
'We have some exceptionally fine roses this year.'

Demetrius entered as Dion disappeared and came to the chair where
Marcellus sat.

'Have you learned, sir, where we are to go?' he asked.

'He will tell us. Remain here until he comes,' said Marcellus, wearily.

Presently they appeared, and he rose to meet them; Dion's comely wife,
Phoebe, who, having learned the identity of their guest, was genuinely cordial;
and Ino, Dion's widowed elder sister, who thought she saw in Marcellus a strong
resemblance to the young man she had admired so much.

'Once we thought,' said Dion, with a teasing smile for his sister, 'that
something might come of it.'

'But we Greeks are never comfortable anywhere else,' explained Ino,
which made Marcellus wonder if their friendship hadn't been serious.

No one had paid any attention to Demetrius, which was entirely natural,
for Dion had probably advised the family that Marcellus was accompanied by his
slave.

At the first pause in the conversation, Ino turned to him inquiring if
he wasn't a Greek. Demetrius bowed a respectful affirmative.

'Where from?' inquired Ino.

'Corinth.'

'You have been in Athens before?'

'Once.'

'Do you read?'

'Sometimes.'

Ino laughed a little. Glancing toward her brother, she was aware that he
disapproved of this talk. So did Marcellus, she noticed. Demetrius retreated a
step and straightened to a sentry's posture. There was a momentary constraint
before general conversation was resumed.

While they talked, a tall, strikingly beautiful girl sauntered in
through the front door, apparently having just arrived from without the
grounds, for she wore an elaborately fringed and tasselled pink himation, drawn
about her so tightly that it accented her graceful figure. Her mother reached
out an affectionate hand as she came into the circle.

'Our daughter, Theodosia,' she said. 'My child, our guest is Marcellus,
the son of Marcus Gallio, of whom you have often heard your father speak.'

Theodosia gave him a bright smile. Then her dark, appraising eyes
drifted over his shoulder and surveyed Demetrius with interest. He met her look
of inquiry with what was meant to be a frown. This only added to Theodosia's
curiosity. Obviously she was wondering why no one was inclined to introduce
him.

It was an awkward moment. Marcellus did not want to hurt Demetrius. He
felt it would be cruel to remark, casually, 'That man is my slave.' He heartily
wished afterwards that he had done so, instead of merely trying to be humane.

'This is Demetrius,' he said.

Theodosia took a step forward, looked up into Demetrius's face, and gave
him a slow smile that approved of him first with her candid eyes and then with
pouting lips. Demetrius gravely bowed with stiff dignity. Theodosia's eyes were
puzzled. Then, after a little hesitation--for unmarried women were not
accustomed to shaking hands with men, unless they were close relatives--she
offered him her hand. Demetrius stared straight ahead and pretended not to see
it.

'He's a slave,' muttered her father.

'Oh,' said Theodosia. 'I didn't know.' Then she looked up into
Demetrius's eyes again. He met her look, this time, curiously. 'I'm sorry,' she
murmured. After an instant she stammered in a tone that was almost intimate,
'It is too bad that we have to--to act like this--I think. I hope we have
not--I didn't mean--' She floundered to a stop as Demetrius, with an understanding
smile, nodded that it was all right, and she wasn't to fret about it.

'We will show you to your suite now,' said Dion, abruptly.

Marcellus bowed to the women and followed his host, Demetrius marching
stiffly behind him. Theodosia stared after them until they disappeared. Then
she gave a quick little sigh and turned a self-defensive smile on her aunt.

'Never mind, child,' murmured Ino, sensibly. 'How could you know he was
a slave; certainly wasn't dressed like one; certainly didn't look like one. And
we don't have slaves standing about in here.'

'Well--it shouldn't have happened,' said Phoebe, crossly. 'You'll have
to be careful now. If he takes any advantage of this, you must snub
him--properly!'

'Wasn't he snubbed--properly?' wondered Theodosia.

'With words, perhaps,' remarked Aunt Ino with a knowing grin.

After a week, Demetrius, who had counted heavily upon this sojourn in
Athens to relieve his master's deep dejection, began to lose heart.

Upon their arrival at the House of Eupolis, Marcellus had been welcomed
so warmly, and had responded to these amenities so gratefully, that Demetrius
felt they had already gone a long way toward solving the distressing problem.

The new environment was perfect. Their sunny rooms on the ground floor
looked out upon a gay flower-garden. In their stone-flagged little peristyle,
comfortable chairs extended an invitation to quiet reading. Surely no one at
all interested in sculpture could have asked for a better opportunity than the
studio afforded.

But it was of no use. Marcellus's melancholy was too heavy to be lifted.
He was not interested in Demetrius's suggestion that they should visit the
Acropolis or Mars' Hill or some of the celebrated galleries.

'Shall we not stroll down to the agora?' Demetrius suggested, on the
second morning. 'It's always interesting to see the country people marketing
their produce.'

'Why don't you go?' countered Marcellus.

'I do not like to leave you alone, sir.'

'That's true,' nodded Marcellus. 'I dislike being alone.'

He wouldn't even go to see the Temple of Heracles, directly across the
street, within a boy's arrow of where he sat slowly examining his fingers.
Demetrius expected that he would surely want to show some civility to the
Eupolis family. Dion had called twice, frankly perplexed to find his guest so
preoccupied and taciturn. Theodosia had appeared, one morning, at the far end
of the garden; and Marcellus, observing her, had come in from the peristyle,
apparently to avoid speaking to her.

Demetrius thought he knew what was keeping Marcellus away from the
Eupolis family. He never could tell when one of these mysterious seizures would
arrive to grip him, until the sweat streamed down his face, in the midst of
which he would stun somebody with the incomprehensible query, 'Were you out
there?' Not much wonder he didn't care to have a friendly chat with Theodosia.

True, it was not absolutely necessary for Marcellus to make further
connections with his host's family. Meals were sent over to their suite.
Household slaves kept their rooms in order. Demetrius had practically nothing
to do but wait--and keep a watchful but not too solicitous eye on his master.
It was very trying, and he was bored almost to death.

On the morning of the eighth day, he resolved to do something about it.

'If you are not quite ready to do any modelling, sir,' he began, 'would
you object if I amused myself with some experiments in clay?'

'Not at all,' mumbled Marcellus. 'I know this must be very tiresome for
you. By all means, get the clay.'

So that afternoon, Demetrius dragged the tall, stout modelling-table
into the centre of the studio and began some awkward attempts to mould a little
statuette. After a while, Marcellus came in from his perpetual stupor in the
peristyle and sat down in the corner to watch. Presently he chuckled. It was
not a pleasantly mirthful chuckle, but ever so much better than none. Realizing
that his early adventure in modelling was at least affording some wholesome
entertainment, Demetrius persisted soberly in the production of a bust that
would have made a dog laugh.

'Let me show you.' Marcellus came over to the table and took up the
clay. 'To begin with, it's too dry,' he said, with something like critical
interest. 'Get some water. If you're going to do this at all, you may as well
give yourself a chance.'

Now, thought Demetrius, we have solved our problem! He was so happy he
could hardly keep his joy out of his face, but he knew that Marcellus would
resent any felicitations. All that afternoon they worked together; or rather,
Marcellus worked, and Demetrius watched. That evening Marcellus ate his supper
with relish and went early to bed.

After breakfast the next morning, it delighted Demetrius to see his
master stroll into the studio. He thought he would leave him alone. Perhaps it
would be better for him to work without any distraction.

Half an hour later Marcellus came out to the peristyle and sat down. He
was pale. His forehead was beaded with perspiration. His hands were trembling.
Demetrius turned away with a deep sigh. That night he decided to do the thing
he had resolved to do if all other expedients failed. It would be drastic
treatment. In Marcellus's mental condition, it might indeed be the one tragic
move that would put him definitely over the border line. But he couldn't go on
this way! It was worth a trial.

After Marcellus had retired, Demetrius went over to the kitchen and
asked Glycon, the steward, whether he could tell him the name of a first-class
weaver, as he wanted to have a garment mended for his master. Glycon was prompt
with the information. Of course! A skilful weaver? Who but old Benjamin? That
would be down near the Theatre of Dionysus. Anybody could tell you, once you
got to the theatre.

'Benjamin sounds like a Jew,' remarked Demetrius.

'So he is,' nodded Glycon, 'and a fine old man; a scholar, they say.'
Glycon laughed. 'There's
one
Jew not interested in getting rich. I've
heard it said that if Benjamin doesn't like your looks he won't do business
with you.'

'Perhaps he wouldn't care to talk with a slave,' wondered Demetrius.

'Oh, that wouldn't matter to Benjamin,' Glycon declared. 'Why should it?
Haven't his own people rattled plenty of chains?'

All the next day until mid-afternoon, Marcellus sat hunched in his big
chair outside the doorway, staring dully at the garden. In the adjacent studio
Demetrius disinterestedly toyed with the soft clay, listening for any movement
in the little peristyle. Twice he had gone out, with an assumption of
cheerfulness, to ask questions which he thought might stir his moody master's
curiosity about his absurd attempts at modelling; but there was no response.

The situation had now become so desperate that Demetrius felt it was
high time to make the dangerous experiment on which--if everything else
failed--he had resolved. His heart beat rapidly as he turned away from the
table and went to his own room, and his hands were trembling as he reached into
the depths of the large sailcloth bag in which the cherished Galilean garment
had been stowed.

It had been many weeks since he had seen it himself. He had had no
privacy on the
Clytia,
and the enchanted robe that had so profoundly
affected Marcellus's mind had not been unpacked since they had left Rome.

Sitting down on the edge of his couch, Demetrius reverently unfolded it
across his knees. Again he had the strange sensation of tranquillity that had
come to him when he had handled the robe in Jerusalem. It was a peculiar sort
of calmness; not the calmness of inertia or indifference, but the calmness of
self-containment. He was stilled--but strengthened.

There had never been any room in his mind for superstition. He had
always disdained the thought that any sort of power could be resident in an
inanimate object. People who believed in the magical qualities of insensate
things were either out-and-out fools, or had got themselves into an emotional
state where they were the easy victims of their own inflamed imagination. He
had no patience with otherwise sensible men who carried lucky stones in their
pockets. It had comforted him to feel that although he was a slave his mind was
not in bondage.

Well, be all that as it might, the solid fact remained that when he laid
his hands upon the Galilean's robe, his agitation ceased. His nervous anxiety
vanished. After the previous occasion when he had sensed this, he had told
himself that the extraordinary experience could be accounted for in the most
practical, common-sense terms. This robe had been worn by a man of immense
courage; effortless, inherent, built-in, automatic courage! Demetrius had seen
this Jesus on trial, serene and self-assured, with the whole world arrayed
against him, with death staring him in the face, and not one protesting friend
in sight. Was it not natural that his robe should become a symbol of fortitude?

Having far too much time on his hands during these recent weeks,
Demetrius had deliberated upon this phenomenon, until he had arrived at the
reasonable explanation of his own attitude toward the thorn-torn garment: it
was a symbol of moral strength, just as his mother's ring was a symbol of her
tender affection.

But now!--with the robe in his suddenly steadied hands--he wasn't so
sure about the soundness of his theory. There was a power clinging to this
homespun Galilean robe which no cool rational argument was fit to cope with.
Indeed, it seemed rather impudent to attempt an analysis of its claims upon his
emotions.

Folding the robe across his arm, Demetrius walked confidently to the
open door. Marcellus slowly turned his head with a listless expression of
inquiry. Then his eyes gradually widened with terror, his face a contorted mask
of amazement and alarm. He swallowed convulsively and slowly bent backward over
the broad arm of his chair, recoiling from the thing that had destroyed his
peace.

'I have heard of a good weaver, sir,' said Demetrius, calmly. 'If you
have no objections, I shall have him mend this robe.'

'I told you'--Marcellus's dry throat drained the life out of his husky
tone--'I ordered you to destroy--that thing!' His voice rose, thin and shrill.
'Take it away! Burn it! Bury the ashes!' Pulling himself to his feet, he
staggered to the corner of the peristyle, with the feeble steps of an invalid;
and, hooking an arm around the pillar, he cried, 'I had not thought this of
you, Demetrius! You have known the nature of my distress! And now, you come
coolly confronting me with this torturing reminder; this haunted thing! I tell
you, you have gone too far with your callous disobedience! I had always treated
you as a friend--you who were my slave! I am finished with you! I shall sell
you--in the marketplace!' Thoroughly spent with rage, Marcellus threw himself
upon the stone bench. 'Leave me,' he muttered, hoarsely. 'I can bear no more!
Please go away!'

Demetrius slowly and silently withdrew into the house, shaking his head.
His experiment had failed. It had been exactly the wrong thing to do. The
patient, wearisome game of restoring Marcellus was now lost. Indeed, he seemed
quite out of reach.

Returning to his own small bedchamber, Demetrius sat down, with the robe
still clutched tightly in his arms, and wondered what should be the next step
to take. Curiously enough, Marcellus's complete breakdown had not upset him: he
was unspeakably sorry, but self-controlled. The hysterical threat of being sold
in the agora did not disturb him. Marcellus would not do that. Nor was he going
to permit himself to be offended by the savagery of his master's rebuke. If
ever Marcellus needed him, it was now.