THE ROBE (60 page)

Demetrius was at his elbow now, murmuring half-articulate entreaties.
Gently taking the robe from him, he tugged him back to his chair. They all sat
down, and there was a long moment when no one spoke.

'Forgive me, sir,' said Stephanos, contritely. He clumsily rubbed the
back of a nervous hand across his brow. 'I have been talking too freely.'

'You need not reproach yourself, Stephanos,' replied Marcellus, huskily.
'You have not offended me.'

There was a long, constrained silence which no one seemed disposed to
break. Stephanos rose.

'It is late,' he said. 'We should go.'

Marcellus held out his hand.

'I am glad you came, Stephanos,' he said, soberly. 'You are welcome to
come again. . . . Demetrius, I shall see you here in the morning.'

Badly shaken and perplexed, Marcellus sat for an hour staring at the wall.
At length, he was overcome by the day's fatigue. Stretching out on his bed, he
fell asleep. Shortly before dawn he was roused by hoarse cries and shrill
screams accompanied by savage commands and thudding blows. It was not unusual,
at an inn, to be annoyed at almost any hour of the day by loud lamentations
signifying that some hapless kitchen-slave was being flogged; but this
pandemonium, which seemed to emanate from the courtyard below, sounded as if
the whole establishment was in trouble.

Marcellus pushed his long legs over the edge of his bed, walked to the
window, and looked down. Instantly he knew what was happening. Julian's
threatened day of wrath had arrived. A dozen legionaries, in full battle
equipment, were clubbing the household slaves into a corner of the courtyard.
Evidently other troops were inside, chasing their quarry out. The entire lower
floor was in confusion. There were blows and protestations, scuffling of feet,
splintering of door-panels. Presently there was a scurry of sandals on the
stairs. Marcellus's door was thrown open.

'Who are you?' bawled a brutish voice.

'I am a Roman citizen,' replied Marcellus, coolly. 'And you would do
well, fellow, to show better manners when you enter the room of a Tribune.'

'We have no manners to-day, sir,' retorted the legionary, with a brief
grin. 'We are searching for Christians.'

'Indeed!' growled Marcellus. 'And does Legate Julian think these poor,
harmless people are important enough to warrant all this racket at daybreak?'

'The Legate does not tell me what he thinks, sir,' the legionary
retorted, 'and it is not customary for ordinary troops to ask him. I am obeying
orders, sir. We are rounding up all the Christians in the city. You are not a
Christian, and I am sorry I have disturbed you.' He was retreating into the
hall.

'Stay!' shouted Marcellus. 'How do you know I am not a Christian? Can't
a Roman Tribune be a Christian?'

The legionary chuckled, shrugged, tugged off his heavy metal helmet, and
wiped his dripping forehead with a swipe of his rough sleeve.

'I've no time for jesting, sir, if the Tribune will excuse me.' He
resumed his helmet, saluted with his spear, and stamped down the hall.

The cries outside were subsiding now. Apparently the evacuation had been
completed. A terrified group of slaves had huddled against the area wall,
nursing their bruises. Apart from them a little way stood a few shabbily clad,
frightened guests. The ageing wife of Levi, the innkeeper, hovered close to
them. She was pale, and her head kept jerking up involuntarily with some
nervous quirk. Marcellus wondered whether she did that all the time or only
when she was badly scared.

The tall, handsome Centurion marched forward, faced the victims, shouted
for silence, drew out an impressive scroll to its full length, and in a dry
crackle read an edict. It was pompously phrased. There was to be no further
assembling of the blasphemers who called themselves Christians. There was to be
no further mention, in public or private, of the name of Jesus the Galilean,
who had been found guilty of treason, blasphemy, and offences against the peace
of Jerusalem. This edict was to be considered the first and last official
warning. Disobedience would be punishable by death.

Rolling up the scroll, the Centurion barked an order, the detachment
stiffened, he stalked toward the street, they fell in behind him. After a
moment, one old retainer, with blood oozing through the sparse white hair on
his temple and trickling down over his bare shoulder, quietly crumpled into a
shapeless heap. A slave-girl of twenty stooped over him and cried aloud. A
bearded Greek bent down and listened with his ear against the old man's chest.
He rose and shook his head. Four of them picked up the limp body and moved off
slowly toward the servants' quarters, most of the others trudging dejectedly
after them. The innkeeper's wife turned slowly about. Her head was bobbing
violently. She pointed to a fallen broom. A limping slave with a crooked back
took up the broom and began ineffectively sweeping the tiled pavement. Except
for him, the courtyard was empty now. Marcellus turned away from the window,
scowling.

'Brave old Julian!' he muttered. 'Brave old Roman Empire!'

He finished his dressing and went below. Levi met him at the foot of the
stairs with much bowing and fumbling of hands. He hoped the Tribune had not
been disturbed by all the commotion. And would he have his breakfast served at
once? Marcellus nodded.

'We will have less trouble with these Christians now,' declared Levi, to
assure his Roman guest that his sympathies were with the Insula.

'Had they been causing you trouble?' asked Marcellus, negligently.

Levi hunched his shoulders, spread out his upturned fingers, and
smirked.

'It is enough that their sect is in disfavour with the Government,' he
parried, discreetly.

'That wasn't what I asked you,' growled Marcellus. 'Have these
Christians, who were being knocked about here this morning, given you any cause
for complaint? Do they steal, lie, fight? Do they get drunk? Are they brawlers?
Tell me--what sort of people are they?'

'In truth, sir,' admitted Levi, 'I cannot complain of them. They are
quiet, honest, and faithful. But, sir, as the Insula has decreed, we cannot
tolerate blasphemy!'

'Blasphemy? Rubbish!' snarled Marcellus. 'What does the Insula know or
care about blasphemy? What is it that these people blaspheme, Levi?'

'They have no respect for the Temple, sir.'

'How could they, when the Temple has no respect for itself?'

Levi shrugged a polite disapproval, though he still smiled weakly.

'The religion of our people must be protected, sir,' he murmured,
piously.

Marcellus made a little grimace and sauntered out into the sunny arcade
where he found, laying his breakfast table, the slave-girl who had been so
deeply grieved over the old man's death in the courtyard. Her eyes were red
with weeping, but she was going about her duties competently. She did not look
up when Marcellus took his seat.

'Was that old man related to you?' he asked, kindly.

She did not reply. Sudden tears overflowed her eyes and ran down her cheeks.
In a moment she moved away, obviously to return to the kitchen for his
breakfast. Levi strolled toward his table.

'How was this girl related to the old man they killed?' asked Marcellus.

'He was her father,' said Levi, reluctantly.

'And you are making her still serve the table?'

Levi's shoulders, elbows, eyebrows, and palms came up in a defensive
gesture.

'Well--it is her regular task, sir. It is not my fault that her father
was killed.'

Marcellus rose, and regarded his host with cool contempt.

'And you prate about your religion! What a mean fellow you are, Levi!'
He strode toward the door.

'But, please, sir!' begged Levi. 'I myself shall serve you! I am sorry
to have given offence!' He toddled off toward the kitchen. Marcellus, angrily
returning to his table, wondered if the loathsome creature would slap the girl
for unwittingly creating an awkward incident.

Demetrius had risen at daybreak so that he might have time to do an
errand at the Ecclesia before going on to attend his master at the inn. He had
tried to dress without waking his friend who, he knew, had spent a restless
night; but Stephanos roused and sat up, rubbing his eyes.

'I'll see you this evening,' whispered Demetrius, as if his companion
were still asleep and shouldn't be wakened. 'Shall I meet you here?'

'At the Ecclesia,' mumbled Stephanos.

'Thought you weren't going there any more.'

'I can't let good old Simon down, Demetrius. He is alone, now that the
other disciples are away on missions.'

Tiptoeing out of the house, Demetrius walked rapidly toward the
Ecclesia, where he hoped to have a private word with Simon. It had seemed
almost disloyal not to take counsel with Stephanos about this, but Marcellus
had insisted upon secrecy. He wanted an interview with Simon. Demetrius was to
arrange for it, if he could. There had been no opportunity to ask Simon, last
night. Perhaps he would have a better chance to see him alone this morning
before the day's activities began.

The Ecclesia was already astir. Cots were being folded up and put away
to make room for tables. Tousled, half-dressed children of all sizes were
racing about, babies were crying, old men were crouching in out-of-the-way
corners, scowling meditatively as they stroked their patriarchal beards. The
women were bustling back and forth between the kitchen at the rear and the
breakfast tables which their men were setting up. Demetrius approached the
nearest group and inquired for Simon. One of them glanced about, and pointed.
Simon was standing by a window, quite apart from the others, brooding over a
tattered scroll. Even in this relaxed posture there was something majestic
about this huge Galilean. If only he had a suitable setting and a courageous
constituency, thought Demetrius, Simon would have great weight. The man was of
immense vitality and arresting personality, a natural leader. Not much wonder
the people wanted him to lay his hands upon their sick.

Approaching, Demetrius waited to be recognized. Simon glanced up, nodded
soberly, and beckoned to him.

'Sir, my master, Marcellus Gallio, earnestly desires a conversation with
you, at your convenience,' said Demetrius.

'He that went into Galilee with Justus?' queried Simon. 'To look for
homespun--or so he said.'

'My master did acquire a large quantity of homespun, sir,' said
Demetrius.

'And what else?' asked Simon, in his deep voice.

'He became much interested in the life of Jesus, sir.'

'I think he had that before he went,' rumbled Simon, studying
Demetrius's eyes. 'I think that was why he went.'

'Yes, sir,' conceded Demetrius. 'That was his real object in going to
Galilee. He is deeply concerned--but full of questions. At present he is at
Levi's inn. May I tell him you will talk with him, in private?'

'I will talk with him, on the morrow, at mid-afternoon,' said Simon.
'And as he desires privacy, let him come to me in the refuse-field, north of
the city, the place they call Golgotha. There is a path through the field which
leads to a knoll in the centre of it.'

'I know where it is, sir.'

'Then show him the way. Bid him come alone.' Simon rolled up the scroll;
and, inattentive to Demetrius's murmured thanks, walked toward the tables.
There was a whispered demand for silence, and the confusion ceased, except for
the crying of a baby. Those who were seated rose. In a powerful, resonant
voice, Simon began to read:

'The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light. They that
dwell in the shadow of death, upon them the light shines. For unto us a child
is born. Unto us a son is given. The government shall be upon his shoulder.'

There was a clamour at the entrance, and all eyes turned apprehensively.
Crisp commands were being shouted. The frightened people did not have long to
wait in anxiety. The doors burst open, and a whole company of legionaries
marched in, deploying fanwise as they advanced. With their spears held
horizontally, breast-high, they moved rapidly forward, pushing the terrified
Christians before them. Some of the older ones fell down in their excitement.
They were ruthlessly prodded to their feet and shoved on in the wake of the
scurrying pack that was massing against the rear wall.

Demetrius, who had remained near the window quite apart from the
residents, found himself in the position of a spectator. The troops swept on
relentlessly. Simon, a towering figure, stood his ground. He was alone, now,
all the others having huddled at the wall. The Centurion shouted an order, and
the company halted. He strode arrogantly toward Simon and faced him with a
sardonic grin. They were of the same height, both magnificent specimens of
manhood.

'Are you, then, the one they call The Fisherman?' demanded the
Centurion.

'I am!' answered Simon, boldly. 'And why are you here to break up a
peaceful assembly? Has any one of us committed a crime? If so, let him be taken
for trial.'

'As you wish,' snapped the Centurion. 'If you want to be tried for
blasphemy and treasonable utterances, the Procurator will accommodate you. . .
. Take him away!'

Simon turned about and faced his desperate people. 'Be of good cheer!'
he shouted. 'Make no resistance! I shall come back to you!'

'That you will not!' broke in the Centurion. In obedience to a sharp
command and a sweep of his sword, two burly legionaries leaped forward, caught
Simon by the arms, whirled him about, and started for the door. The company
pressed forward toward the defenceless crowd. The Centurion called for silence.
Pale-faced women nervously cupped their hands over the mouths of their
screaming children. An edict was read. By order of the Procurator, there was to
be no further assembling of the blasphemers who called themselves Christians.