THE ROBE (53 page)

It seemed they would never reach his end of the corridor. He hoped the
water would hold out until they came to his cell. That was all he
wanted--water! As for food, it didn't matter; but he had to have water--
now!

At length they shuffled up to his door, unbolted it, and swung it wide
open. Two burly, brutish, ear-slit Syrian slaves appeared in the doorway. The
short, stocky one, with the spade beard, deep pockmarks, and greasy hands,
plunged his gourd-dipper into an almost empty bucket of malodorous pottage and
pointed angrily to the food-basin on the shelf. Demetrius, with nothing on his
mind but his consuming thirst, had been waiting with his water-bowl in hand. He
reached up for the food-basin, and the surly Syrian dumped the gourdful of
reeking hot garbage into it. Then he rummaged in the bottom of a filthy bag and
came up with a small loaf of black bread which he tossed on to the bare bench.
It bounced and clattered like a stone.

Retreating to make room for his companion, the stocky one edged out into
the corridor and the tall one entered with a large water-jar on his shoulder.
Half-crazed with thirst, Demetrius held his water-bowl high. The Syrian, with a
crooked grin, as if it amused him to see a Greek in such a predicament, tipped
the jar, and from its considerable height poured a stream that overflowed the
bowl, drenching the prisoner's clothing. There was hardly more than a spoonful
left. The Syrian was backing toward the door.

'Give me water!' demanded Demetrius, huskily.

The fellow sneered, tipped the jar again, and poured the remainder of
the water over Demetrius's feet. Chuckling, but vigilant, he moved back into
the doorway.

Though the bowl was not large, it was heavy and sturdy pottery, and in
the hand of a man as recklessly thirsty and angry as Demetrius it was capable
of doing no small amount of damage. But for the thick mop of kinky hair that
covered his forehead, the blow might have cracked the Syrian's skull, for it
was delivered with all the earnestness that Demetrius could put into it.

Dropping the water-jar, which broke into jagged fragments, the dizzied
Syrian, spluttering with rage, whipped out a long dagger from his dirty sash,
and lunged forward. Hot pottage would not have been Demetrius's choice of
weapons, but it was all he had to fight with; so he threw it into his assailant's
face. Momentarily detained by this unexpected onslaught, the Syrian received
another more serious blow. Raising the heavy food-basin in both hands,
Demetrius brought it down savagely on the fellow's forearm, knocking the dagger
from his hand. Unarmed, the Syrian reeled back into the corridor, where the
stocky one, unable to force his way into the cell, was waiting the outcome of
the battle. Demetrius took advantage of this moment to pick up the dagger. With
the way cleared, the stocky one, dagger in hand, was about to plunge in; but
when he saw that the prisoner had armed himself, he backed out and began
swinging the door shut.

Unwilling to be trapped and probably killed with a lance thrust through
the window, Demetrius threw his weight against the closing door and forced his
way out into the corridor. Excited by the confusion, the prisoners set up a
clamour of encouraging shouts that brought the elderly Captain of the guard and
three others scurrying down the stone stairway. They paused, a few feet from
the engagement. One of the younger guards was for rushing in to separate them,
but the Captain put out an arm and barred the way. It wasn't every day that you
could see a determined fight waged with daggers. When angry men met at close
range with daggers, it was rough sport.

Cautious in their cramped quarters, the contestants were dodging about,
taking each other's measure. The Syrian, four inches shorter but considerably
outweighing the Greek, crouched for a spring. One of the younger guards emptied
his flat wallet into his hand.

'Two shekels and nine denarii on the Syrian pig,' he wagered. The others
shook their heads. The Greek was at a disadvantage. The dagger was the
favourite weapon with the Syrians--a dagger with a long, curving blade. The
Syrian considered it good strategy to slip up behind an enemy in the dark and
let him have it between the ribs a little below and to the right of the left
shoulder. On such occasions one needed a long knife. Demetrius was not
unfamiliar with daggers, but had never practised with one that had been
especially contrived for stabbing a man in the back.

He was finding his borrowed weapon unwieldly in this narrow corridor. It
was close-in fighting and a decidedly dangerous business. The tall Syrian
lurked back in the darkness behind his companion. The stocky one, facing an
appreciative audience of guards, seemed eager to bring the event to an early
conclusion. They were sparring actively now, their clashing blades striking
sparks in the gloom. Demetrius was gradually retreating, very much on the
defensive. The guards backed away to give him a chance. The pace of the
fighting increased, the Syrian forcing the action.

'Ha!' he shouted; and a dark, wet streak showed up on the Greek's right
sleeve, above the elbow. An instant later, a long gash appeared across the back
of the Syrian's hand. He gave a quick fling of his arm to shake off the blood,
but not quick enough. A cut had opened over his collar-bone, dangerously close
to his throat. He retreated a step. Demetrius pursued his advantage, and added
another gash to his antagonist's hand.

'On guard,
Greek!' shouted the Captain. The tall Syrian in the
rear had drawn back his arm to hurl a chunk of the broken water-jar. Demetrius
dodged, at the warning, and the murderous missile grazed the side of his head.

'Enough!' yelled the Captain. Grasping Demetrius's shoulder, he pushed
him aside, the younger guards followed with lances poised to strike.

'Come out of there, vermin!' the Captain ordered. The Syrians sullenly
obeyed, the stocky one yielding his bloody dagger as he squeezed by the guards.
The procession started down the corridor and up the stairs. Arriving on the
main floor, the Captain led the way along the spacious hall, and out into the
courtyard. Water was brought, wounds were laved and crudely bandaged. Demetrius
grabbed a water-jar, and drank greedily. The cut on his arm was deep and
painful, and the wide abrasion on his temple burned, but now that he had had a
drink, nothing else mattered much.

The Captain gave a command to proceed and they re-entered the
praetorium, turned to the left at a broad marble staircase, and ascended to the
second floor. A sentry informed the guard at an imposing door that Captain
Namius wished to see the Legate. The guard disappeared, returning presently
with a curt nod. They advanced through the open door and filed into the
sumptuous courtroom, brightly lighted with great lamps suspended from
beautifully wrought chains.

Demetrius's wounds were throbbing but he was not too badly hurt to be
amused. Paulus, rattling a leather dice-cup, was facing Sextus across the
ornately carved table that dominated the dais at the far end of the room. So
Paulus, transferred to the command of the fort at Capernaum, had brought his
old gaming companion along. The guards and their quarry, preceded by two
sentries, in gay uniforms, marched forward. Legate Paulus glanced
disinterestedly in their direction and returned his attention to the more
important business in hand. Shaking the cup, he poured out the dice on the polished
table, and shrugged. Sextus grinned, took the cup, shook it languidly, poured
it out--and scowled. Paulus laughed, and sat down in the huge chair behind the
table. Centurion Sextus came to attention.

'What is it, Namius?' yawned Paulus.

'The Syrians were fighting this Greek prisoner, sir.'

'What about?' asked Paulus, impatiently.

Captain Namius didn't know. The Syrian slaves were feeding the
prisoners, and 'somehow got mixed up with this Greek.'

'Step nearer, Greek.' Paulus's eyes had narrowed. He was searching his
memory. Demetrius stepped forward, scowling to keep from smiling. Sextus leaned
over and mumbled something. Paulus's eyes lighted. He nodded and grinned dryly.

'Take the Syrians away for the present, Captain,' he said. 'I would talk
with this Greek.' He waited until the guards and the Syrians had left the room.

'Are you badly hurt, Demetrius?' asked Paulus, kindly.

'No, sir.' Demetrius was becoming aware that the room was slowly
revolving and growing dark. The Legate's ruddy face was blurred. He heard
Paulus bark an order and felt the edge of a chair pushed up behind him. He sank
down in it weakly. A sentry handed him a glass of wine. He gulped it. Presently
the vertigo cleared. 'I am sorry, sir,' he said.

'How do you happen to be here, Demetrius?' inquired Paulus. 'But no,
that can wait. Where is your master?'

Demetrius told him.

'Here? in Capernaum!' exclaimed Paulus. 'And whatever brings the
excellent Tribune Marcellus to this sadly pious city?'

'My master has taken a fancy to Galilean homespun, sir. He has been
touring about, looking for--such things.'

Paulus frowned darkly and stared into Demetrius's face.

'Is he well--in his head, I mean?'

'Oh, yes, sir,' said Demetrius, 'quite well, sir.'

'There was a rumour--' Paulus did not finish the sentence, but it was
evident that he expected a rejoinder. Demetrius, unaccustomed to sitting in the
presence of his betters, rose unsteadily to his feet.

'The Tribune was ill, sir, for several months. He was deeply depressed.
He went to Athens, and recovered.'

'What was he so depressed about, Demetrius?' asked Paulus; and when the
reply was not immediately forthcoming, he added, 'Do I know?'

'Yes, sir,' said Demetrius.

'Something cracked--when he put on that robe--at the Procurator's
banquet.'

'Yes, sir. It did something to him.'

'I remember. It affected him strangely.' Paulus shook himself loose from
an unpleasant recollection. 'Now for your case. Why are you here?'

Demetrius explained in a few words, and when Paulus inquired about the
fight, he replied that he had wanted water and the Syrian wouldn't give it to
him.

'Bring Captain Namius in!' commanded Paulus. A sentry went out and
returned almost immediately with the guards and the Syrians. The explanation
proceeded swiftly. Namius gave an account of the duel in the corridor.

'We stopped it,' he concluded, 'when this Syrian picked up a shard of
the broken water-jar and threw it at the Greek.'

'Take him out and give him thirty-nine lashes with a bull-whip!' shouted
Paulus. 'Lock the other pig up--and don't try to fatten him. That will be all,
Captain.'

'And the Greek, sir?' asked Namius.

'Put him to bed, and have the physician attend to his injuries.'

Namius gave an order. The guards made off with the Syrians.

'Shall I go now, sir?' asked Demetrius.

'Yes, with the Captain. No--wait. You may go, Namius. I shall summon
you.' Paulus watched the retreating figure of the old guard until he reached
the door; then, glancing about the room, he said quietly, 'You may all go.' He
looked up over his shoulder. 'You, too, Sextus. I want a word alone with
Demetrius.'

They had almost nothing to say to each other on the way back to the inn.
Justus, preoccupied and somehow elevated, as if the afternoon with Bartholomew
had reinvigorated his spirit, strode along with confident steps.

As for Marcellus, the old disciple's story had impressed and disturbed
him. Had he never known of Jesus until to-day, and Bartholomew had said, 'I
heard this man speak to a storm--and the storm ceased,' he could have dismissed
that statement as utterly preposterous. But the testimony about Jesus' peculiar
powers had been cumulative. It had been coming at him from all directions.

Marcellus's footsteps lagged as his thoughts became more involved.
Justus, appreciating his dilemma, gave him an understanding smile, lengthened
his stride, and moved on alone, leaving his bewildered patron to follow at his
leisure.

The trouble was, once you began to concede that there might be an
element of truth in some of these stories, it was unreasonable to draw an
arbitrary line beyond which your credulity would not go. It was childish to
say, 'Yes--I believe Jesus could have done
this
extraordinary thing, but
I don't believe he could have done
that!'

Some of the stories permitted a common-sense explanation. Take Hariph's
naïve account of the wedding-feast, for example. That wasn't hard to see
through. The porous water-jars had previously held wine. Of course you had to
concede the astounding effect of Jesus' personality on the wedding-guests, who
loved, admired, and trusted him. Not everybody could have made that water taste
like wine. You were willing to grant that. Mean and frugal fare could be made
pleasantly palatable when shared with a well-loved friend. If the
water-into-wine episode had been the only example of Jesus' inexplicable power,
it would present no problem at all. But there was Miriam's sudden realization
that she possessed an inspired voice; had made this amazing discovery on the
same day that the other thing had happened in the home of Hariph. If you
consented to Miriam's story (and its truth was self-evident) you might as well
accept Hariph's. And there was the strange feeding of the five thousand. You
could explain that without difficulty. Under Jesus' persuasive words about
human brotherhood, they had shared their food. You had to concede nothing here
but the tremendous strength of Jesus' personality, which you were glad enough
to do because you believed in it yourself. Demosthenes had wrought wonders with
his impassioned appeals to the Greeks. Such infusions of courage and honesty
required no miracle.

But there was little Jonathan. The whole town of Sepphoris knew that
Jonathan had been born a cripple. Of course you could maintain that Jesus could
have manipulated that crooked little foot and reduced its dislocation; and if
that were the only story of Jesus' surprising deeds, your explanation might
suffice. To be sure, that leaves the entire population of Sepphoris believing
something that wasn't true; but even that was possible. There was no limit to
the credulity of unsophisticated people. Indeed, they rather liked to believe
in the uncanny.