Authors: Unknown
They retraced their steps to the theatre entrance.
'I wonder how much the old man knows about Galilee,' mused Marcellus.
'He will tell you tomorrow.'
'But I'm not going back tomorrow! I don't want to have this matter
reopened. I intend to put the whole thing out of my mind!'
'That is a wise decision, sir,' approved Demetrius, soberly.
It was immediately apparent that this firm resolution was to be
enforced. Leaving the Theatre of Dionysus, they strolled through the agora,
where Marcellus paused before the market booths to exchange a bit of banter
with rosy-cheeked country girls and slip copper denarii into the grimy
incredulous hands of their little brothers and sisters. Then they went up on
Mars' Hill and spent an hour in the sacred grove where the great of the Greeks
had been turned into stone.
Turning aside from the main path, Marcellus sat down on a marble bench,
Demetrius standing a little way distant. Both were silently reflective. After
an interval, Marcellus waved an arm toward the stately row of mutilated busts.
'Demetrius, it has just occurred to me that there isn't a warrior in the
lot! You Greeks are hard fighters, when you're put to it; but the heroes who
live forever in your public gardens are men of peace. Remember the Forum?
Sulla, Antony, Scipio, Camillus, Julius, Augustus--all tricked out in swords
and helmets! But look at this procession of Greeks, marching up the hill!
Socrates, Epicurus, Herodotus, Solon, Aristotle, Polybius! Not a fighter among
them!'
'But, they all look as if they'd been to war, sir,' jested Demetrius.
'Ah, yes,
we
did that!' said Marcellus, scornfully. 'Our gallant
Roman legions; our brave illiterates!' He sat scowling for a moment; then went
on, with unaccustomed heat: 'Demetrius, I say damn all men who make war on
monuments! The present may belong to the Roman Empire by force of conquest;
but, by all the gods, the past does not! A nation is surely of contemptible and
cowardly mind that goes to battle against another nation's history! It didn't
take much courage to come up here and hack the ears off old Pericles! I daresay
the unwashed, drunken vandal who nicked his broadsword on the nose of
Hippocrates could neither read nor write! There's not much dignity left in a
nation that has no respect for the words and works of geniuses who gave the
world whatever wisdom and beauty it owns!'
Deeply stirred to indignation, he rose and strode across the path, and
faced the bust of Plato.
'That man, for example,
he
has no nationality!
He
has no
fatherland!
He
has no race! No kingdom--in this world--can claim him, or
destroy him!' Abruptly, Marcellus stopped in the midst of what promised to be
an oration. He stood silent, for a moment; then walked slowly toward Demetrius,
and stared into his eyes.
'Do you know, Demetrius, that is what the Galilean said of himself!'
'I remember,' nodded Demetrius. 'He said his kingdom was not of the
world--and nobody knew what he meant.'
'I wonder--' Marcellus's voice was dreamy. 'Perhaps, some day, he'll
have a monument, like Plato's. . . . Come--let us go! We had decided to be
merry, to-day; and here we've been owling it like old philosophers.'
It was late in the afternoon before they reached the inn. When they were
drawing within sight of it, Marcellus remarked that he must call on the Eupolis
family.
'I should have done so earlier,' he added, casually. 'Upon my word, I
don't believe I've seen any of them since the night we arrived!'
'They will be glad to see you, sir,' said Demetrius. 'They have inquired
about you frequently.'
'I shall stop and see them now,' decided Marcellus, impulsively. 'You
may return to our suite. I'll be back presently.'
After they had separated, Demetrius reflected with some amusement that
this renewal of acquaintance, after so strange a lapse, would be of much
interest to the Eupolis household. Perhaps Theodosia would want to tell him
about it.
Then he fell to wondering what she would think about himself in this
connection. Had he not been so alarmed over his master's condition that he had
confided his distress to her? And here was Marcellus--supposedly mired in an
incurable despair--drifting in to call, as jauntily as if he had never fretted
about anything in his life! Would Theodosia think he had fabricated the whole
story? But she couldn't think that! Nobody could invent such a tale!
After a while one of the kitchen slaves came to announce that the
Tribune would be dining with the family. Demetrius grinned broadly as he
sauntered out alone to the peristyle. He wondered what they would talk about at
dinner. The occasion would call for a bit of tact, he felt.
Early the next morning Marcellus donned a coarse tunic and set to work
at his modelling-table with the air of a professional sculptor. Demetrius
hovered about, waiting to be of service, until it became evident that nothing
was desired of him to-day but his silence, perhaps his absence. He asked if he
might take a walk.
Theodosia had set up a gaily coloured target near the front wall that
bounded the grounds and was shooting at it from a stadium's distance. She made
a pretty picture in the short-sleeved white chiton, a fringe of black curls
escaping her scarlet fillet. As Demetrius neared, he was surprised to see that
she was using a man's bow, and although she was not drawing it quite to top
torsion, her arrows struck with a clipped, metallic
ping
that
represented an unusual strength, for a girl. And the shots were well placed,
too. Demetrius reflected that if Theodosia wanted to, she could do a lot of
damage with one of those long, bone-tipped arrows.
She smiled and inquired whether he had any suggestions for her. He
interpreted this as an invitation to join her; but, reluctant, as before, to
compromise them both by appearing in conversation together, he did not turn
aside from the gravelled driveway.
'I think your marksmanship is very good,' he halted to say. 'You surely
need no instruction.'
She flushed a little, and drew another arrow from the quiver that leaned
against the stone lectus. Demetrius could see that she felt rebuffed as she
turned away. Regardless of consequences, he sauntered toward her.
'Are you too busy for a quiet talk?' she asked, without looking at him.
'I was hoping you might suggest it,' said Demetrius. 'But we can't talk
here, you know.'
'Ssss--
ping!'
went the arrow.
'Very well,' said Theodosia. 'I'll meet you--over there.'
Walking quickly away, Demetrius made the circuitous trip to the Temple
garden. Apparently the priests were occupied with their holy employments,
whatever they were, for no one was in sight. His heart speeded a little when he
saw Theodosia coming. It was a new experience to be treated on terms of
equality, and he was not quite sure how this amenity should be viewed. He
needed and wanted Theodosia's friendship--but how was he to interpret the
freedom with which she offered it? Should she not have some compunction about
private interviews with a slave? It was a debatable question whether this
friendship was honouring him, or merely lowering her.
Theodosia sat down by him, without a greeting, and regarded him soberly,
at such short range that he noted the little flecks of gold in her dark eyes.
'Tell me about the dinner-party,' said Demetrius, wanting to get it
over.
'Very strange, is it not?' There was nothing ironical in her tone. 'He
is entirely recovered.'
Demetrius nodded.
'I was afraid you might think I had misrepresented the facts,' he said.
'I could not have blamed you.'
'No, I believed what you told me, Demetrius, and I believe it still.
Something happened. Something very important happened.'
'That is true. He found the robe, while I was absent, and adopted an
entirely different attitude toward it. Once he had touched it, his horror of it
suddenly left him. Last night he slept. To-day he has been his usual self. I
think his obsession has been cured. I don't pretend to understand it.'
'Naturally, I have thought of nothing else all day,' confessed
Theodosia. 'If it was the robe that had tormented Marcellus, then it must have
been a new view of the robe that restored him. Maybe it's something like this:
I keep a diary, Demetrius. Every night, I write a few things I wish to
remember. If someone who does not know me should read a page where I am happy
and life is good, he might have quite a different impression of me than if he
read the other side of the papyrus where I am a cynic, a stoic, cold and
bitter. Now, you and Marcellus recorded many different thoughts on that
Galilean robe. Yours were sad, mostly, but they did not chide you. Marcellus
recorded memories on it--and they afflicted him.'
She paused, her eyes asking whether this analogy had any merit at all.
Demetrius signed to her to go on.
'You told me that this Jesus forgave them all, and that Marcellus had
been much moved by it. Maybe, when he touched the robe again, this impression
came back to him so strongly that it relieved his remorse. Does that sound
reasonable?'
'Yes, but wouldn't you think, Theodosia, that after having had such an
experience--a sort of illumination, setting him free of his
hauntings--Marcellus would be in a great state of exaltation? True, he was
ecstatic, for a while; but his high moment was brief. And for the most of the
day, yesterday, he acted almost as if nothing had happened to him.'
'My guess is that he is concealing his emotions,' ventured Theodosia.
'Maybe he feels this more deeply than you think.'
'There is no reason for his being reticent with me. He was so stirred by
his experience, the night before last, that he was half-indignant because I
tried to regard it rationally.'
'Perhaps that is why he doesn't want to discuss it further. He thinks
the problem is too big for either of you, so he's resolved not to talk about
it. You say he had a high moment--and then proceeded as if the experience had
been of no consequence. Well, that's natural, isn't it? We can't live on
mountain-tops.' Theodosia's eyes had a far-away look, and her voice was
wistful.
'My Aunt Ino,' she continued, 'once said to me, when I was desperately
lonely and dispirited, that our life is like a land journey, too even and easy
and dull over long distances across the plains, too hard and painful up the
steep grades. But, on the summit of the mountain, you have a magnificent view, and
feel exalted, and your eyes are full of happy tears, and you want to sing and
you wish you had wings! And then--because you can't stay there, but must
continue your journey--you begin climbing down the other side, so busy with
your footholds that your summit experience is forgotten.'
'You have a pretty mind, Theodosia,' said Demetrius, gently.
'That was my Aunt Ino's mind I was talking about.'
'I am sorry you were lonely and depressed, Theodosia.' Absently he
rubbed his finger-tips over the small white scar on his ear. 'I shouldn't have
thought you were ever sad. Want to talk about it?'
Her eyes had followed his hand with frank interest.
'Not all slaves have had their ears marked,' she said, pensively. 'Your
position is tragic. I know that. There is something very wrong with a world in
which a man like you must go through life as a slave. But, really, is there
much to choose between your social condition and mine? I am the daughter of an
innkeeper. In your case, Demetrius, it makes no difference that you were
brought up in a home of refinement and well endowed with a good mind: wicked
men put you into slavery--and there you are! And where am I? It makes no
difference that my father, Dion, is a man of integrity, well versed in the
classics, acquainted with the arts, and bearing himself honourably before the
men of Athens, as did his father Georgias. He is an innkeeper. Perhaps it would
have been better for me if I had not been taught to love things beyond my
social station.'
'But, Theodosia, your advantages have made your life rich,' said
Demetrius, consolingly. 'You have so much to make you happy; your books, your
music, your boundless vitality, your beautiful clothes--'
'I have no place to wear my nice clothes,' she countered, bitterly, 'and
I have no use for my vitality. If the daughter of an innkeeper wants to be
happy, she should conform to the traditions. She should be noisy, pert, and not
above petty larcenies. Then she could have friends--of her own class.' Her eyes
suddenly flooded. 'Demetrius,' she said, huskily, 'sometimes I think I can't
bear it!'
He slipped his arm about her, and they sat for a long moment in silence.
Then she straightened, and regarded him soberly.
'Why don't you run away?' she demanded, in a whisper. 'I would--if I
were a man.'
'Where would you go?' he asked, with an indulgent grin.
Theodosia indicated with a negligent gesture that the question was of
secondary importance.
'Anywhere,' she murmured vaguely. 'Sicily, maybe. They say it is lovely,
in Sicily.'
'It's a land of thieves and cut-throats,' declared Demetrius. 'It is in
the lovely lands that life is most difficult, Theodosia. The only places where
one may live in peace--so far as I know--are arid desolations where nothing
grows and nothing is covetable.'
'Why not Damascus? You thought of that once, you know.'
'I should die of loneliness up there.'
'You could take me with you.' She laughed lightly, as she spoke, to
assure him the remark was intended playfully, but they quickly fell silent.
Rousing from her reverie, Theodosia sat up, patted her fillet, and said
she must go.
Demetrius rose and watched her as she drifted gracefully away; then
resumed his seat and unleashed his thoughts. He was becoming much too fond of
Theodosia, and she was being too recklessly generous with her friendship.
Perhaps it would be better to avoid any more private talks with her, if he
could do so without hurting her feelings. She was very desirable and her
tenderness was endearing. The freedom with which she confided in him and the
artless candour of her attitude--sometimes but little short of a caress--had
stirred him deeply. Until now, whatever devotion he had to offer a woman was
silently, hopelessly given to Lucia. As he reflected upon his feeling for her
now, Lucia was in the nature of a shrine. Theodosia was real! But he was not
going to take advantage of her loneliness. There was nothing he could ever do
for her. They were both unhappy enough without exchanging unsecured promises.
He was a slave--but not a thief.