THE ROBE (27 page)

No--he could not and would not do that! There was no magic in this robe!
It was a mere tool of his imagination. For many weeks it had symbolized his
crime and punishment. Now it symbolized his release. His remorse had run its
full measure through the hourglass and the time had come for him to put his
crime behind him. The touch of the robe in his hands had simply marked the
moment for the expiration of his mental punishment. He was not going to admit
that the robe was invested with power.

To-day he would find that weaver and have the robe repaired. He would at
least show it so much honour and respect. It was nothing more than a garment,
but it deserved to be handled with gratitude and reverence. Yes, he would go
that far! He could honestly say that he reverenced this robe!

Demetrius had joined him now, apologetic for tardiness.

'I am glad you could sleep,' smiled Marcellus. 'You have had much worry
on my account. In my unhappiness, I have been rough with you. You have been
truly understanding, Demetrius, and immensely patient. I am sorry for the way I
have treated you, especially yesterday. That was too bad!'

'Please, sir!' pleaded Demetrius. 'I am so glad you are well again!'

'I think we will try to find your weaver, to-day, and see if he can mend
the robe.'

'Yes, sir. Shall I order your breakfast now?'

'In a moment. Demetrius, in your honest opinion, is that robe haunted?'

'It is very mysterious, sir.' Demetrius was choosing his words
deliberately. 'I had hoped that you might be able to throw a little light on
it. May I ask what conclusion
you
have come to?'

Marcellus sighed and shook his head.

'The more I think about it,' he said, slowly, 'the more bewildering it
is!' He rose, and moved toward the house.

'Well, sir,' volunteered Demetrius, at his elbow, 'it isn't as if we
were
required
to comprehend it. There are plenty of things that we are
not expected to understand. This may be one of them.'

Across the street from the main entrance to the sprawling open-air
Theatre of Dionysus, there was a huddle of small bazaars dealing in such
trifles as the playgoers might pick up on their way in: sweetmeats, fans, and
cushions. At the end of the row stood Benjamin's little shop, somewhat aloof
from its frivolous neighbours. There was nothing on the door to indicate the
nature of Benjamin's business; nothing but his name, burned into a cypress
plank, and that not plainly legible; dryly implying that if you didn't know
Benjamin was a weaver, and the oldest and most skilful weaver in Athens, you
weren't likely to be a desirable client.

Within, the shop was unbearably stuffy. Not a spacious room to begin
with, it contained (besides the two looms, one of them the largest Marcellus
had ever seen) an ungainly spinning-wheel, a huge carding device, and bulky
stores of raw materials; reed baskets heaped high with silk cocoons, big bales
of cotton, bulging bags of wool.

Most of the remaining floor space was occupied by the commodious
worktable, on which Benjamin sat, cross-legged, deeply absorbed in the fine hem
he was stitching around the flowing sleeve of an exquisitely wrought chiton. He
was shockingly lean and stooped, and his bald head seemed much too large for
his frail body. A long white beard covered his breast. His shabby robe was
obviously not worn as a specimen of his handicraft. Behind him, against the
wall and below the window-ledge, there was a long shelf well filled with
scrolls whose glossy spools showed much handling.

Benjamin did not look up until he had reached the end of his thread;
then, straightening with a painful grimace, he peered at his new clients with a
challenge that wrinkled his long nose and curled his lip, after the manner of
an overloaded, protesting camel. Except for the beady brightness of his deeply
caverned eyes, Benjamin was as old as Jehovah--and as cross, too, if his scowl
told the truth about his disposition.

Marcellus advanced confidently with Demetrius at his elbow. 'This
garment,' he began, holding it up, 'needs mending.'

Benjamin puckered his leathery old mouth unpleasantly, sniffed, licked
his thumb, and twisted a fresh thread to a sharp point.

'I have better things to do,' he declaimed, gutturally, 'than darn holes
in old coats.' He raised his needle to the light, and squintingly probed for
its eye. 'Go to a sailmaker,' he added, somewhat less gruffly.

'Perhaps I should not have bothered you with so small a matter,'
admitted Marcellus, unruffled. 'I am aware that this garment is of little
practical value, but it is a keepsake, and I had hoped to have it put in order
by someone who knows his job.'

'Keepsake, eh?' Old Benjamin reached for the robe with a pathetically
thin hand and pawed over it with well-informed fingers. 'A keepsake,' he
mumbled. 'And how did this come to be a keepsake?' He frowned darkly at
Marcellus. 'You are a Roman, are you not? This robe is as Jewish as the Ten
Commandments.'

'True!' conceded Marcellus, patiently. 'I am a Roman, and the robe
belonged to a Jew.'

'Friend of yours, I suppose.' Benjamin's tone was bitterly ironical.

'Not exactly a friend, no. But he was a brave Jew and well esteemed by
all who knew him. His robe came into my hands, and I wish to have it treated
with respect.' Marcellus leaned closer to watch as the old man scratched
lightly at a dark stain with his yellow finger-nail.

'Died fighting, maybe,' muttered Benjamin.

'It was a violent death,' said Marcellus, 'but he was not fighting. He
was a man of peace--set upon by enemies.'

'You seem to know all about it,' growled Benjamin. 'However, it is
naught to me how you came by this garment. It is clear enough that you had no
hand in harming the Jew, or you would not think so highly of his old robe.'
Thawing slightly, he added, 'I shall mend it for you. It will cost you
nothing.'

'Thanks,' said Marcellus, coolly. 'I prefer to pay for it. When shall I
call?'

Benjamin wasn't listening. With his deep-lined old face upturned toward
the window he was inspecting the robe against the light. Over his thin shoulder
he beckoned Marcellus to draw closer.

'Observe, please. It is woven without a seam; all in one portion. There
is only one locality where they do it. It is up in the neighbourhood of the
Lake Gennesaret, in Galilee.' Benjamin waggled his beard thoughtfully. 'I have
not seen a piece of Galilean homespun for years. This is from up around
Capernaum somewhere, I'd say.'

'You are acquainted with that country?' inquired Marcellus.

'Yes, yes; my people are Samaritans, a little way to the south; almost
on the border.' Benjamin chuckled grimly. 'The Samaritans and the Galileans
never had much use for one another. The Galileans were great Temple people,
spending much time in their synagogues, and forever leaving their flocks and
crops to look after themselves while they journeyed to Jerusalem for the
ceremonies. They kept themselves poor with their pilgrimages and sacrifices. We
Samaritans didn't hold with the Temple.'

'Why was that?' wondered Marcellus.

Benjamin swung his thin legs over the edge of the table and sat up
prepared to launch upon an extended lecture.

'Of course,' he began, 'you have heard the story of Elijah.'

Marcellus shook his head, and Benjamin regarded him with withering pity;
then, apparently deciding not to waste any more time, he drew up his legs
again, folded them comfortably, and resumed his re-threading of the needle.

'Was this Elijah one of the gods of Samaria?' Marcellus had the
misfortune to inquire.

The old man slowly put down his work and seared his young customer with
a contemptuous stare.

'I find it difficult to believe,' he declared, 'that even a Roman could
have accumulated so much ignorance. To the Jew--be he Samaritan, Galilean,
Judean, or of the dispersed--there is but one God! Elijah was a great prophet.
Elisha, who inherited his mantle, was also a great prophet. They lived in the
mountains of Samaria, long before the big temples and all the holy fuss of the
lazy priests. We Samaritans have always worshipped on the hilltops, in the
groves.'

'That sounds quite sensible to me,' approved Marcellus, brightly.

'Well,' grunted the old man, 'that's no compliment to our belief; though
I suppose you intended your remark to be polite.'

Marcellus spontaneously laughed outright, and Benjamin, rubbing his long
nose, grinned dryly.

'You are of a mild temper, young man,' he observed.

'That depends, sir, upon the nature of the provocation,' said Marcellus,
not wishing to be thought weak. 'You are my senior--by many, many years.'

'Ah, so, and you think an old man has a right to be rude?'

'Apparently we share the same opinion on that matter,' asserted
Marcellus, complacently.

Benjamin bent low over his work, chuckling deep in his whiskers.

'What is your name, young man?' he asked, after a while, without looking
up; and when Marcellus had told him, he inquired, 'How long are you to be in
Athens?'

The query was of immense interest to Demetrius. Now that conditions had
changed, Marcellus might be contemplating an early return to Rome. He had not
yet indicated what his intentions were, or whether he had given the matter any
thought at all.

'I do not know,' replied Marcellus. 'Several weeks, perhaps. There are
many things I wish to see.'

'How long have you been here?' asked Benjamin.

Marcellus turned an inquiring glance towards Demetrius, who supplied the
information.

'Been on Mars' Hill?' queried the old man.

'No,' replied Marcellus, reluctantly.

'Acropolis?'

'Not yet.'

'You have not been in the Parthenon?'

'No--not yet.'

'Humph! What have you been doing with yourself?'

'Resting,' said Marcellus. 'I've recently been on two long voyages.'

'A healthy young fellow like you doesn't need any rest,' scoffed
Benjamin. 'Two voyages, eh? You're quite a traveller. Where were you?'

Marcellus frowned. There seemed no limit to the old man's
inquisitiveness.

'We came here from Rome,' he said, hoping that might be sufficient.

'That's one voyage,' encouraged Benjamin.

'And, before that, we sailed to Rome from Joppa.'

'Ah, from Joppa!' Benjamin continued his precise stitching, his eyes
intent upon it, but his voice was vibrant with sudden interest. 'Then you were
in Jerusalem. And how long ago was that?'

Marcellus made a mental calculation, and told him.

'Indeed!' commented Benjamin. 'Then you were there during the week of
the Passover. I am told there were some strange happenings.'

Demetrius started, restlessly shifted his weight, and regarded his
master with anxiety. Benjamin's darting glance, from under shaggy eyebrows,
noted it.

'Doubtless,' replied Marcellus, evasively. 'The city was packed with all
sorts. Anything could have happened.' He hitched at his belt, and retreated a
step. 'I shall not interfere with your work any longer.'

'Come tomorrow--a little before sunset,' said Benjamin. 'The robe will
be ready for you. We will have a glass of wine together--if you will accept the
hospitality of my humble house.'

Marcellus hesitated for a moment before replying, and exchanged glances
with Demetrius, who almost imperceptibly shook his head as if saying we had
better not risk a review of the tragedy.

'You are most kind,' said Marcellus. 'I am not sure--what I may be doing
tomorrow. But, if I do not come, I shall send for the robe. May I pay you
now?' He reached into the breast of his tunic.

Benjamin continued stitching, as if he had not heard. After a long
minute, he searched Marcellus's eyes.

'I think,' he said slowly, patting the robe with gentle fingers, 'I
think you do not want to talk--about this Jew.'

Marcellus was plainly uncomfortable, and anxious to be off.

'It is a painful story,' he said, shortly.

'All stories about Jews are painful,' said Benjamin. 'May I expect you
tomorrow?'

'Y-yes,' agreed Marcellus, indecisively.

'That is good,' mumbled Benjamin. He held up his bony hand. 'Peace be
upon you!'

'Er--thank you,' stammered Marcellus, uncertain whether he, in turn, was
expected to confer peace upon the old Jew. Maybe that would be a social error.
'Farewell,' he said at last, feeling he would be safe to leave it at that.

Outside the shop, Marcellus and Demetrius exchanged looks of mutual
inquiry as they sauntered across the road to the empty theatre.

'Odd old creature,' remarked Marcellus. 'I'm not sure that I want to see
any more of him. Do you think he is crazy?'

'No,' said Demetrius, 'far from it. He is a very wise old man.'

'I think you feel that I should be making a mistake to come back here
tomorrow.'

'Yes, sir. Better forget all about that now.'

'But I need not talk about that wretched affair in Jerusalem,' protested
Marcellus. 'I can simply say that I do not want to discuss it.' His tone
sounded as if he were rehearsing the speech he intended to make. 'And that,' he
finished, 'ought to settle it, I think.'

'Yes, sir; that ought to settle it,' agreed Demetrius, 'but it won't.
Benjamin will not easily be put off.'

They strolled down the long grass-grown aisle toward the deserted stage.

'Do you know anything about the customs and manners of the Jews,
Demetrius?' queried Marcellus, idly.

'Very little, sir, about their customs.'

'When old Benjamin said, "Peace be upon you," what should I
have replied? Is there a formulated answer to that?'

'"Farewell" is correct usage, sir, I think,' said Demetrius.

'But I did say that!' retorted Marcellus, returning with a bound from
some far-away mental excursion.

'Yes, sir,' agreed Demetrius. He hoped they were not already slipping
back into that pool of painful reflection.