Authors: Unknown
There was not so large a crowd as he had expected to see. There was no
disorder, probably because the legionaries were scattered about among the
people. It was apparent, from the negligence of the soldiers' posture, as they
stood leaning on their lances, that no rioting had occurred or was anticipated.
Demetrius moved closer in and joined the outer rim of spectators. Not
many of the well-to-do, who had been conspicuous at the Insula, were present.
Most of the civilians were poorly dressed. Many of them were weeping. There
were several women, heavily veiled and huddled in little groups, in attitudes
of silent, hopeless grief. A large circle had been left unoccupied below the
crosses.
Edging his way slowly forward, occasionally rising on tiptoe to search
for his master, Demetrius paused beside one of the legionaries who, recognizing
him with a brief nod, replied to his low-voiced inquiry. The Commander and
several other officers were on the other side of the knoll, at the rear of the crosses,
he said.
'I brought him some water,' explained Demetrius, holding up the jug. The
soldier showed how many of his teeth were missing.
'That's good,' he said. 'He can wash his hands. They're not drinking
water to-day. The Procurator sent out a wineskin.'
'Is the man dead?' asked Demetrius.
'No--he said something a while ago.'
'What did he say? Could you hear?'
'Said he was thirsty.'
'Did they give him water?'
'No, they filled a sponge with vinegar that had some sort of balm in it,
and raised it to his mouth; but he wouldn't have it. I don't rightly understand
what he is up there for, but he's no coward.' The legionary shifted his
position, pointed to the darkening sky, remarked that there was going to be a
storm, and moved on through the crowd.
Demetrius did not look at the lonely man again. He edged out into the
open and made a wide detour around to the other side of the knoll. Marcellus,
Paulus, and four or five others were lounging in a small circle on the ground.
A leather dice-cup was being shaken negligently, and passed from hand to hand.
At first sight of it, Demetrius was hotly indignant. It wasn't like Marcellus
to be so brutally unfeeling. A decent man would have to be very drunk indeed to
exhibit such callous unconcern in these circumstances.
Now that he was here, Demetrius thought he should inquire whether there
was anything he could do for his master. He slowly approached the group of
preoccupied officers. After a while, Marcellus glanced up dully and beckoned to
him. The others gave him a brief glance and resumed their play.
'Anything you want to tell me?' asked Marcellus, thickly.
'I brought you some water, sir.'
'Very good. Put it down there. I'll have a drink presently.' It was his
turn to play. He shook the cup languidly and tossed out the dice.
'Your lucky day!' growled Paulus. That finishes me.' He stretched his
long arms and laced his fingers behind his head. 'Demetrius,' he said, nodding
toward a rumpled brown garment that lay near the foot of the central cross,
'hand me that mantle. I want to look at it.'
Demetrius picked up the garment and gave it to him. Paulus examined it
with idle interest.
'Not a bad robe,' he remarked, holding it up at arm's length. 'Woven in
the country; dyed with walnut juice. He'll not be needing it any more. I think
I'll say it's mine. How about it, Tribune?'
'Why should it be yours?' asked Marcellus, indifferently. 'If it's worth
anything, let's toss for it.' He handed Paulus the dice-cup. 'High number wins.
It's your turn.'
There was a low mutter of thunder in the north and a savage tongue of
flame leaped through the black cloud. Paulus tossed a pair of threes, and
stared apprehensively at the sky.
'Not hard to beat,' said Vinitius, who sat next him. He took the cup and
poured out a five and a four. The cup made the circle without bettering this
cast until it arrived at Marcellus.
'Double six!' he called. 'Demetrius, you take care of the robe.' Paulus
handed up the garment.
'Shall I wait here for you, sir?' asked Demetrius.
'No--nothing you can do. Go back to the Insula. Begin packing up. We
want to be off early in the morning.' Marcellus looked up at the sky. 'Paulus,
go around and see how they are doing. There's going to be a storm.' He rose
heavily to his feet, and stood swaying. Demetrius wanted to take his arm and
steady him, but felt that any solicitude would be resented. His indignation had
cooled now. It was evident that Marcellus had been drinking because he couldn't
bear to do this shameful work in his right mind.
There was a deafening, stunning thunderclap that fairly shook the ground
on which they stood. Marcellus put out a hand and steadied himself against the
central cross. There was blood on his hand when he regained his balance. He
wiped it off on his toga.
A fat man, expensively dressed in a black robe, waddled out of the crowd
and confronted Marcellus with surly arrogance.
'Rebuke these people!' he shouted, angrily. 'They are saying that the
storm is a judgment on us!'
There was another gigantic crash of thunder.
'Maybe it is!' yelled Marcellus, recklessly.
The fat man waved a menacing fist.
'It is your duty to keep order here!' he shrieked.
'Do you want me to stop the storm?' demanded Marcellus.
'Stop the blasphemy! These people are crying out that this Galilean is
the Son of God!'
'Maybe he
is!'
shouted Marcellus.
'You
wouldn't know!' He
was fumbling with the hilt of his sword. The fat man backed away, howling that
the Procurator should hear of this.
Circling the knoll, Demetrius paused for a final look at the lonely man
on the central cross. He had raised his face and was gazing up into the black
sky. Suddenly he burst forth with a resonant call, as if crying to a distant
friend for aid.
A poorly dressed, bearded man of middle age, apparently one of the
Galilean's friends from the country, rushed out of the crowd and ran down the
slope weeping aloud in an abandon of grief. Demetrius grasped him by the sleeve
as he stumbled past.
'What did he say?'
The man made no reply, tore himself loose, and ran on shouting his
unintelligible lamentations.
Now the dying Galilean was looking down upon the crowd below him. His
lips moved. His eyes surveyed the people with the same sorrow they had
expressed on the road when the multitude had hailed him as their king. There
was another savage burst of thunder. The darkness deepened.
Demetrius rolled up the robe and thrust it inside his tunic, pressing it
tightly under his arm. The intimate touch of the garment relieved his feeling
of desolation. He wondered if Marcellus might not let him keep the robe. It
would be a comfort to own something that this courageous man had worn. He would
cherish it as a priceless inheritance. It would have been a great experience,
he felt, to have known this man; to have learned the nature of his mind. Now
that there would be no opportunity to share his friendship, it would be an
enduring consolation to possess his robe.
Turning about, with swimming eyes, he started down the hill. It was
growing so dark now that the narrow path was indistinct. He flung a backward
look over his shoulder, but the descending gloom had swallowed up the knoll.
By the time he reached the city streets, night had fallen on Jerusalem,
though it was only mid-afternoon. Lights flickered in the windows. Pedestrians
moved slowly, carrying torches. Frightened voices called to one another.
Demetrius could not understand what they were saying, but their tone was
apprehensive, as if they were wondering about the cause of this strange
darkness. He wondered, too, but felt no sense of depression or alarm. The
sensation of being alone and unwanted in an unfriendly world had left him. He
was not lonely now. He hugged the robe close to his side as if it contained
some inexplicable remedy for heartache.
Melas was standing in the corridor, in front of Paulus's door, when he
arrived at the barracks. Demetrius was in no mood to talk, and proceeded to his
master's quarters, Melas following with his torch.
'So you went out there, eh?' said the Thracian, grimly. 'How did you
like it?' They entered the room and Melas applied his torch to the big stone
lamps. Receiving no answer to his rough query, he asked, 'What do you think
this darkness is; an eclipse?'
'I don't know,' replied Demetrius. 'Never heard of an eclipse lasting so
long.'
'Maybe it's the end of the world,' said Melas, forcing an uncouth laugh.
'That will suit me all right,' said Demetrius.
'Think this Jesus has had anything to do with it?' asked Melas, half in
earnest.
'No,' said Demetrius, 'I shouldn't think so.'
Melas moved closer and took Demetrius by the arm.
'Thought any more about Damascus?' he whispered.
Demetrius shook his head indifferently.
'Have you?' he asked.
'I'm going tonight,' said Melas. 'The Procurator always gives a dinner
to the officers on the last night. When it is over, and I have put the
Centurion to bed--he'll be tight as a tambourine--I'm leaving. Better come with
me. You'll wait a long time for another chance as good as this one.'
'No, I'm not going,' said Demetrius firmly.
'You'll not tell on me, will you?'
'Certainly not.'
'If you change your mind, give me a wink at the banquet.' Melas
sauntered toward the door. Demetrius, thinking he had gone, drew out the robe
and unfolded it under the light.
'What have you got there?' Melas asked from the doorway.
'His robe,' said Demetrius, without turning.
Melas came back and regarded the blood-stained garment with silent
interest.
'How do you happen to have it?' he asked, in an awed tone.
'It belongs to the Legate. The officers tossed for it. He won it.'
'I shouldn't think he'd want it,' remarked Melas. 'I'm sure I wouldn't.
It will probably bring him bad luck.'
'Why
bad
luck?' demanded Demetrius. 'It belonged to a brave man.'
Marcellus came in, dazed, drunk, and thoroughly exhausted. Unbuckling
his sword-belt, he handed it to Demetrius, and sank wearily into a chair.
'Get me some wine,' he ordered, huskily.
Demetrius obeyed; and, on one knee, unlaced his master's dusty sandals
while he drank.
'You will feel better after a cold bath, sir,' he said, encouragingly.
Marcellus widened his heavy eyes with an effort and surveyed his slave
with curiosity.
'You out there?' he asked, thickly. 'Oh, yes; I remember now. You
brought j-jug water.'
'And brought back his robe,' prompted Demetrius.
Marcellus passed his hand awkwardly across his brow and tried to dismiss
the recollection with a shuddering shrug.
'You will be going to the dinner, sir?' asked Demetrius.
'Have to!' grumbled Marcellus. 'Can't have off'cers laughing at us.
We're tough--at Minoa. Can't have ossifers--orfficers--chortling because sight
of blood makes Minoa Legate sick.'
'Quite true, sir,' approved Demetrius. 'A shower and a rub-down will put
you in order. I have laid out fresh clothing for you.'
'Very good,' Marcellus laboured on. 'Commander Minoa never dirty like
this. Wha's that?' He raked his fingers across a dark wet smudge on the skirt
of his toga. 'Blood!' he muttered. 'Great Roman Empire does big brave deed!
Wins bloody battle!' The drunken monologue trailed off into foggy incoherences.
Marcellus's head sank lower and lower on his chest. Demetrius unfastened the
toga, soaked a towel in cold water and vigorously applied it to his master's
swollen face and throat.
'Up you come, sir!' he ordered, tugging Marcellus to his feet. 'One more
hard battle to fight, sir. Then you can sleep it off.'
Marcellus slowly pulled himself together and rested both hands heavily
on his slave's shoulders while being stripped of his soiled clothing.
'I'm dirty,' he mumbled to himself. 'I'm dirty--outside and inside. I'm
dirty--and ashamed. Unnerstand--Demetrius? I'm dirty and ashamed.'
'You were only obeying orders, sir,' consoled Demetrius.
'Were you out there?' Marcellus tried to focus his eyes.
'Yes, sir. A very sorry affair.'
'What did you think of him?'
'Very courageous. It was too bad you had to do it, sir.'
'I wouldn't do it again,' declared Marcellus, truculently--'no matter
who ordered it! Were you there when he called on his god to forgive us?'
'No, but I wouldn't have understood his language.'
'Nor I--but they told me. He looked directly at me after he had said it.
I'm going to have a hard time forgetting that look.'
Demetrius put his arm around Marcellus to steady him. It was the first
time he had ever seen tears in his master's eyes.
The Insula's beautiful banquet-hall had been gaily decorated for the
occasion with many ensigns, banners, and huge vases of flowers. An orchestra,
sequestered in an alcove, played stirring military marches. Great stone lamps
on marble pillars brightly lighted the spacious room. At the head table, a
little higher than the others, sat the Procurator with Marcellus and Julian on
either side and the Commanders from Caesarea and Joppa flanking them. Everyone
knew why Marcellus and Julian were given seats of honour. Minoa had been
assigned a difficult task and Capernaum had a grievance. Pilate was glum, moody
and distraught.
The household slaves served the elaborate dinner. The officers'
orderlies stood ranged against the walls, in readiness to be of aid to their
masters, for the Procurator's guests, according to a long-established custom,
had come here to get drunk, and not many of them had very far to go.
The representatives of Minoa were more noisy and reckless than any of
the others, but it was generally conceded that much latitude should be extended
in their case, for they had had a hard day. Paulus had arrived late. Melas had
done what he could to straighten him up, but the Centurion was dull and
dizzy--and surly. The gaiety of his table companions annoyed him. For some time
he sat glumly regarding them with distaste, occasionally jerked out of his
lethargy by a painful hiccough. After a while his fellow officers took him in
hand, plying him with a particularly heady wine which had the effect of
whipping his jaded spirits into fresh activity. He tried to be merry; sang and
shouted; but no one could understand anything he said. Presently he upset his
tall wine-cup, and laughed uproariously. Paulus was drunk.