Authors: Unknown
'There was a Jew from the Province of Galilee,' he continued, 'about my
own age, I should think, though he was such an unusual person that he appeared
almost independent of age, or time--'
'You saw him, then?'
'A great crowd of country people tried to persuade him that he was the
Messiah; that he was their king. I saw that, sir. It happened the day we
arrived.'
'"Tried to persuade him," you say.'
'He had no interest in it, at all, sir. It appears that he had been
preaching, mostly in his own province, to vast throngs of people; a simple,
harmless appeal for common honesty and kindness. He was not interested in the
Government.'
'Probably advised them that the Government was bad,' surmised Gallio.
'I do not know, sir; but I think he could have done so without violating
the truth.'
The crow's-feet about Gallio's eyes deepened a little.
'I gather that you thought the Government was bad, Demetrius.'
'Yes, sir.'
'Perhaps you think all governments are bad.'
'I am not acquainted with all of them, sir,' parried Demetrius.
'Well,' observed Gallio, 'they're all alike.'
'That is regrettable,' said Demetrius, soberly.
'So, then, the young Galilean repudiated kingship--and got into trouble,
I suppose, with his admirers?'
'And the Government, too. The rich Jews, fearing his influence in the
country, insisted on having him tried for treason. Pilate, knowing he had done
no wrong, made an effort to acquit him. But they would have him condemned.
Against his will, Pilate sentenced him to death.' Demetrius hesitated.
'Sentenced him to be crucified,' he went on, in a low tone. 'The Commander of
the fort at Minoa was ordered to conduct the execution.'
'Marcellus? Horrible!'
'Yes, sir. Fortunately he was blind drunk when he did it. A seasoned
Centurion, of the Minoa staff, had seen to that. But he was clear enough to realize
that he was crucifying an innocent man and--well, as you see, sir, he didn't
get over it. He dismisses it from his mind for a while--and then it all sweeps
over him again, like a bad dream. He sees the whole thing, so vividly that it
amounts to acute pain! It is so real to him, sir, that he thinks everybody else
must have known something about it; and he asks them if they do--and then he is
ashamed that he asked.'
Gallio's eyes widened with sudden understanding.
'Ah!' he exclaimed. '"Were you out there?" So that's it!'
'That is it, sir; but not quite all.' Demetrius's eyes travelled to the
window and for a moment he sat tapping his finger-tips together as if uncertain
how to proceed. Then he faced the Senator squarely and went on. 'Before I tell
you the rest of it, sir, I should like to say that I am not a superstitious
person. I have not believed in miracles. I am aware that you have no faith in
such things, and you may find it very hard to accept what I must now tell you.'
'Say on, Demetrius!' said Gallio, thumping his desk impatiently.
'This Jesus of Galilee wore a simple, brown, homespun robe to the cross.
They stripped it off and flung it on the ground. While he hung there, dying, my
master and a few other officers sat near-by playing with dice. One took up this
robe and they cast lots for it. My master won it. Later in the evening, there
was a banquet at the Insula. Everyone had been drinking to excess. A Centurion
urged my master to put on the robe.'
'Shocking idea!' grumbled Gallio. 'Did he do it?'
'He did it--quite unwillingly. He had been very far gone in wine, in the
afternoon, but was now steadied. I think he might have recovered from the
crucifixion horror if it had not been for the robe. He put it on--
and he has
never been the same since!'
'You think the robe is haunted, I suppose.' Gallio's tone was almost
contemptuous.
'I think something happened to my master when he put it on. He tore it
off quickly, and ordered me to destroy it.'
'Very sensible! A poor keepsake!'
'I still have it, sir.'
'You disobeyed him?'
Demetrius nodded.
'My master was not himself when he gave that order. I have occasionally
disobeyed him when I felt that the command was not to his best interest. And
now I am glad I kept the robe. If it was the cause of his derangement, it might
become the instrument of his recovery.'
'Absurd!' expostulated Gallio. 'I forbid you to let him see it again!'
Demetrius sat silent while Gallio, rising angrily, paced the floor.
Presently he stopped short, rubbed his jaw reflectively, and inquired:
'Just
how
do you think this robe might be used to restore my
son's mind?'
'I do not know, sir,' Demetrius confessed. 'I have thought about it a
great deal. No plan has suggested itself.' He rose to his feet and met the
Senator's eyes directly. 'It has occurred to me that we might go away for a
while. If we were alone, an occasion might arise. He is always on the defensive
here. He is confused and ashamed of his mental condition. Besides, there is
something else weighing heavily on his mind. The daughter of Legate Gallus will
return soon. She will expect my master to call on her, and he is worrying about
this meeting. He does not want her to see him in his present state.'
'I can understand that,' said Gallio. 'Perhaps you are right. Where do
you think he should go?'
'Is it not customary for a cultured young man to spend some time in
Athens? Should he decide to go there--either to attend lectures or practise
some of their arts--no questions would be asked. Your son has always been
interested in sculpture. My belief is that it will be difficult to do very much
for him while he remains here. He should not be confined to the house; yet he
knows he is in no condition to see his friends. The word may get about that
something is wrong. This would be an embarrassment for him--and the family. If
it is your wish, sir, I shall try to persuade him to go to Athens. I do not
think it will require much urging. He is very unhappy.'
'Yes, I know,' muttered Gallio, half to himself.
'He is so unhappy'--Demetrius lowered his voice to a tone of intimate
confidence--'that I fear for his safety. If he remains here, Diana may not find
him alive when she returns.'
'You mean, Marcellus might destroy himself rather than face her?'
'Why not? It's a serious matter with him.'
'Have you any reason to believe that he has been contemplating suicide?'
Demetrius was slow about replying. Drawing a silver-handled dagger from
the breast of his tunic, he tapped its keen blade against the palm of his hand.
Gallio recognized the weapon as the property of Marcellus.
'I think he has been toying with the idea, sir,' said Demetrius.
'You took this from him?'
Demetrius nodded.
'He thinks he lost it on the boat.'
Gallio sighed deeply; and, returning to his desk, he sat down, drew out
a sheet of papyrus and a stylus, and began writing rapidly in large letters.
Finishing, he affixed his seal.
'Take my son to Athens, Demetrius, and help him recover his mind. But no
man should ask a slave to accept such a responsibility.' He handed the document
to Demetrius. 'This is your certificate of manumission. You are a free man.'
Demetrius stared at the writing in silence. It was hard for him to
realize its full significance. Free! Free as Gallio! He was his own man! Now he
could speak--even to Lucia--as a freedman! He was conscious of Gallio's eyes
studying him with interest as if attempting to read his thoughts. After a long
moment, he slowly shook his head and returned the document to the Senator.
'I appreciate your generosity, sir,' he said, in an unsteady voice. 'In
any other circumstances, I should be overjoyed to accept it. Liberty means a
great deal to any man. But I think we would be making a mistake to alter the
relationship between my master and his slave.'
'Would you throw away your chance to be free,' demanded Gallio, huskily,
'in order to help my son?'
'My freedom, sir, would be worthless to me--if I accepted it at the
peril of Marcellus's recovery.'
'You are a brave fellow!' Gallio rose and walked across the room to his
huge bronze strong-box. Opening a drawer, he deposited the certificate of
Demetrius's release from bondage. 'Whenever you ask for it,' he declared, 'it
will be here, waiting for you.' He was extending his hand, but Demetrius,
pretending not to have seen the gesture, quickly raised his spear-shaft to his
forehead in a stiff salute.
'May I go now, sir!' he asked, in the customary tone of servitude.
Gallio bowed respectfully, as to a social equal.
No one in the household had been more distressed than Marcipor, who did
not feel at liberty to ask questions of anybody but Demetrius, and Demetrius's
time had been fully occupied. All day he had paced about restlessly, wondering
what manner of tragedy had befallen Marcellus whom he idolized.
When the door of the library opened, after the lengthy interview,
Marcipor, waiting impatiently in the atrium, came forward to meet Demetrius.
They clasped hands silently and moved away together into an alcove.
'What is it all about, Demetrius?' asked Marcipor, in a guarded tone.
'Is it something you can't tell me?'
Demetrius laid a hand on the older Corinthian's shoulder and drew him
closer.
'It is something I
must
tell you,' he murmured. 'Come to my room
at midnight. I cannot tarry now. I must go back to him.'
After the villa was quiet and Demetrius was assured that Marcellus was
asleep, he retired to his adjacent bedchamber. Presently there was a light tap
on the door, and Marcipor entered. They drew their chairs close and talked in
hushed voices until the birds began to stir in the pale blue light of the oncoming
dawn. It was a long, strange story that Demetrius had to tell. Marcipor wanted
to see the robe. Demetrius handed it to him, and he examined it curiously.
'But
you
don't believe there is some peculiar power in this
garment, do you?' asked Marcipor.
'I don't know,' admitted Demetrius. 'If I said, "Yes, I do believe
that," you would think I was going crazy; and if I feared I was crazy, I
wouldn't be a fit person to look after Marcellus, who unquestionably
is
crazy, and needs my care. So--I think I had better say that there's nothing in
this robe that you don't put into it yourself--out of your own imagination. As
for me, I saw this man, and--well--that makes all the difference. He was not an
ordinary person, Marcipor. I could be easily persuaded that he was divine.'
'That seems an odd thing for you to say, Demetrius,' disapproved
Marcipor, studying his face anxiously. 'You're the last man I would have
suspected.' He stood up, and held the robe out at arm's length. 'Do you care if
I put it on?'
'No, he wouldn't care if you put it on,' said Demetrius.
'Who do you mean--wouldn't care?' Marcipor's face was puzzled.
'Marcellus?'
'No, the man who owned it. He didn't object to my having it, and you are
as honest as I am.'
'By the Gods, Demetrius,' muttered Marcipor. 'I believe you
are
a
bit touched by all this grim business. How do you know he didn't object to your
having his robe? That's foolish talk!'
'Well, be it foolish or not, when I touch this robe it--it does
something to me,' stammered Demetrius. 'If I am tired, it rests me. If I am
dejected, it revives my spirits. If I am rebellious over my slavery, it
reconciles me. I suppose that is because, when I handle his robe, I remember
his strength and courage. Put it on, if you want to, Marcipor. Here, let me hold
it for you.'
Marcipor slipped his long arms into the sleeves, and sat down.
'It
is
strangely warm,' he said. 'My imagination, I suppose. You
have told me of his deep concern for the welfare of all other people; and,
quite naturally, his robe--' Marcipor's groping words slowed to a stop, and he
gave Demetrius a perplexed wisp of a smile.
'I'm not as crazy as I look, eh?' grinned Demetrius.
'What
is
it?' asked Marcipor, in a husky whisper.
'Well--whatever it
is,'
said Demetrius, 'it's
there!'
'Peace?' queried Marcipor, half to himself.
'And confidence,' added Demetrius.
'And--one need not worry, for everything will come out all right.'
At sunset on the last day of the month which Julius Cæsar--revising the
calendar--had named for himself, Marcellus and his slave sighted the Parthenon
from a decrepit vehicle that deserved a place in the Athenian Museum of
Antiquities. It was with mingled feelings that Demetrius renewed acquaintance
with his native land.
Had his business in the Grecian capital been more urgent, and had he
been of normal mind, the erstwhile Legate of the Legion at Minoa might have
fretted over the inexcusable tedium of their voyage.
He and Demetrius had embarked on the Greek ship
Clytia
for the
sole reason that they wanted to leave Rome without delay and the
Clytia's
sailing was immediate. In no other respect was this boat to be recommended.
Primarily a cargo vessel built expressly for wheat shipments to the Imperial
City, the battered old hulk usually returned to Greece in ballast, except for
certain trivial consignments of furniture and other household gear for Roman
envoys in the provinces.
There was no private accommodation for passengers. All nine of them
shared the same cabin. There was only one deck. At the stern a primitive
kitchen, open to the sky, was at the disposal of fare-paying voyagers, who were
expected to cook their own meals. The
Clytia
offered the raw materials
for sale at a nice profit.
Almost too handy to the kitchen and adjacent dining-table a half-dozen
not very tidy pens confined a number of unhappy calves and sheep and a large
crate of dilapidated fowls. Upon embarkation there had also been a few pigs,
but a Jewish merchant from Cytherea had bought them, on the second day out, and
had unceremoniously offered them to Neptune--with his unflattering compliments,
for he was not a good sailor.