Authors: Unknown
'You must have been a good master, Marcellus,' said Miriam, gently.
'Not always. At times--especially during the past year--I have made
Demetrius very unhappy. I was moody, restless, wretched, sick.'
'And why was that?' she asked. 'Would you like to tell me?'
'Not on this fair day,' rejoined Marcellus, soberly. 'Besides--I am well
now. I need not burden you with it.'
'As you please,' she consented. 'But--how did Demetrius happen to be
working in Benyosef's shop?'
'That is a long story, Miriam.'
'You and your long stories,' she put in, dryly.
Marcellus feigned a wince, and smiled.
'Briefly, then, we were in Athens. Through no fault of his, and in
defence of some helpless people, Demetrius engaged in combat with a man who
held a position of authority, but had not been advised that a blow delivered by
this Greek slave would stun an ox. It was a well-justified battle, albeit
one-sided and of short duration. But we thought it prudent for Demetrius to
lose no time increasing the distance between himself and the Athenian jail. So
he drifted to Jerusalem, and because he had some knowledge of carding and
spinning--'
'And how had he picked that up?' asked Miriam, busy again with her
precise stitches.
'At a weaver's shop in Athens. He was studying Aramaic under the
weaver's instructions, and made himself useful.'
'Was that where you got your Aramaic, Marcellus?'
'Yes.'
'Did you learn carding and spinning, too?'
'No,' laughed Marcellus. 'Just Aramaic--such as it is.'
'That was in preparation for this tour of Galilee, I think,' ventured
Miriam. 'And when you have learned all you wish to know about Jesus--what
then?'
'My plans are uncertain.' Marcellus frowned his perplexity. 'I must go
back to Rome, though my return is not urgent. Naturally I want to rejoin my
family and friends, but--'
Miriam took several little stitches before she looked up to ask, almost
inaudibly, 'But what?'
'Something tells me I am going to feel quite out of place in Rome,' he
confessed. 'I have been much impressed by what I have heard of your brave
Galilean's teachings about human relations. They seem so reasonable, so
sensible. If they become popular, we could have a new world. And, Miriam, we
must have a new world! Things can't go on this way! Not very much longer!'
Miriam put down her work and gave him her full attention. She had not
seen him in such a serious mood before.
'During these past few days,' he went on, 'I have had a chance to look
at the world from a different angle. It wasn't that I had never stopped to
think about its injustice, its waste, its tragic unhappiness. But--out here in
this quiet country--I lie at night, looking up at the stars, and suddenly I
recall Rome!--its greed and gluttony at the top; its poverty and degradation,
growing more and more desperate all the way down to the bottom of damp dungeons
and galleys and quarries. And Rome rules the world! The Emperor is a lunatic.
The Prince Regent is a scoundrel. They rule the world! Their armies control the
wretched lives of millions of people!' He paused, patted a damp brow, and
muttered, 'Forgive me, my friend, for haranguing you.'
'Would it not be wonderful,' exclaimed Miriam, 'if Jesus were on the
throne?'
'Impossible!' expostulated Marcellus.
'Maybe not,' said Miriam, quietly.
He studied her eyes, wondering if she were really serious, and was
amazed at her sober sincerity.
'You can't be in earnest!' he said. 'Besides, Jesus is dead.'
'Are you sure of that?' she asked, without looking up.
'I agree that his teachings are not dead, and something should be done
to carry them to as many people as can be reached!'
'Do you intend to tell your friends about him--when you go home?'
Marcellus sighed.
'They would think me crazy.'
'Would your father think you were crazy?'
'He would, indeed! My father is a just man of generous heart, but he has
contempt for people who interest themselves in religion. He would be
embarrassed--and annoyed, too--if I were to discuss these things with our
friends.'
'Might he not think it brave of you?'
'Brave? Not at all! He would think it was in very bad taste!'
Justus and Reuben were sauntering in from the vineyard, much occupied
with their low-voiced conversation.
'How long will you be here, Marcellus?' asked Miriam, with undisguised
concern. 'Shall I see you again; tomorrow, maybe?'
'Not tomorrow. We go to Capernaum tomorrow, Justus says. He wants me
to meet an old man named Nathanael. Ever heard of him?'
'Of course. You will like him. But you are coming back to Cana, aren't
you, before you return to Jerusalem?'
'I'd like to.'
'Please. Now you let me have a word with Justus, alone, will you?'
'Justus,' said Marcellus, as the men approached, 'I shall go back to the
village, and meet you there at your convenience.'
He offered his hand to Reuben, who clasped it cordially. Evidently
Justus had given Reuben a friendly account of him.
'Good-bye, Miriam,' he said, taking her hand. 'I shall see you next
week.'
'Good-bye, Marcellus,' she said, 'I shall be looking for you.' The
bearded Galileans stood by and watched them exchange a lingering look. Reuben
frowned a little, as if the situation perplexed him. The frown said that Reuben
didn't want his girl hurt. This Roman would go away and forget all about her,
but Miriam would remember.
'You're coming back this way, then,' said Reuben to Justus, as Marcellus
moved away.
'It seems so.' Justus grinned.
'Let me tell Naomi that you will tarry and break bread with us,' said
Reuben.
When they were alone, Miriam motioned Justus to sit down beside her.
'Why don't you tell Marcellus everything?' she asked. 'He is deeply
concerned. It seems he knows so little. He was in Jerusalem and attended the
trial at the Insula, heard Jesus sentenced to death, and knows that he was
crucified. And that is all. So far as he is aware, the story of Jesus ended
that day. Why haven't you told him?'
'I intend to, Miriam, when he is prepared to hear it. He would not
believe it if I were to tell him now.' Justus moved closer and lowered his
voice. 'I thought perhaps you would tell him.'
'I almost did. Then I wondered if you might not have some reason,
unknown to me, for keeping it a secret. I think Marcellus has a right to know
everything now. He thinks it such a pity that no plans have been made to
interest people in Jesus' teachings. Can't you tell him about the work they are
doing in Jerusalem, and Joppa, and Cæsarea? He hasn't the faintest idea of what
is going on!'
'Very well,' nodded Justus. 'I shall tell him--everything.'
'To-day!' urged Miriam.
'Tell me truly, daughter,' said Justus, soberly. 'Are you losing your
heart to this foreigner?'
Miriam took several small, even stitches before she looked up into his
brooding eyes.
'Marcellus doesn't seem a bit foreign to me,' she said, softly.
Aimlessly sauntering back to the tent, Marcellus began sorting over the
homespun he had accumulated, wondering what he should do with it. Now that
there was no longer any reason for pretending an interest in such merchandise,
the articles already purchased were of no value to him. The thought
occurred--and gave him pleasure--that he might take them to Miriam. She would
be glad to see that they were distributed among the poor.
He took up a black robe and held it against the light. It was of good
wool and well woven. He had paid twenty shekels for it. Fifteen would have been
enough, but the woman was poor. Besides, he had been trying to make a
favourable impression on Justus by dealing generously with his fellow
countrymen.
With nothing better to entertain him, Marcellus sat down on the edge of
his cot, with the robe in his hands, and indulged in some leisurely theorizing
on the indeterminate value of this garment. If you computed the amount of skilled
labour invested by the woman who wove it, on a basis of an adequate wage per
hour for such experienced workmanship, the robe was easily worth thirty
shekels. But not in Sepphoris, where she lived; for the local market was not
active. In Sepphoris it was worth twelve shekels. A stranger would have been
asked fifteen. Marcellus had made it worth twenty. Now it wasn't worth
anything!
He would give it to Miriam, who had no use for it, and it still wouldn't
be worth anything until she had presented it to someone who needed it. At that
juncture, the robe would begin to take on some value again, though just how
much would be difficult to estimate. If the man who received this excellent
robe should be inspired by it to wash his hands and face and mend his torn sandals--thereby
increasing public confidence in his character, and enabling him to find
employment at a better wage--the robe might eventually turn out to be worth
more than its original cost. If the man who received it was a lazy scalawag, he
might sell it for whatever it would fetch, which wouldn't be much; for no
person of any substance would want, at any price, a garment that had been in
the possession of this probably verminous tramp. You could amuse yourself all
day with speculations concerning the shifting values of material things.
Marcellus had been doing an unusual amount of new thinking, these past
few days, on the subject of property. According to Justus, Jesus had had much
to say about a man's responsibility as a possessor of material things. Hoarded
things might easily become a menace; a mere fire-and-theft risk; a
breeding-ground for destructive insects; a source of worry. Men would have
plenty of anxieties, but there was no sense in accumulating worries over
things!
That kind of worry destroyed your character. Even an unused coat, hanging in
your closet--it wasn't merely a useless thing that did nobody any good; it was
an active agent of destruction to your life. And your
life
must be
saved, at all costs. What would it advantage a man--Jesus had demanded--if he
were to gain the whole world, and lose his own life?
A bit bewildered by this statement, Marcellus had inquired:
'What did he mean, Justus, about the importance of saving your own life?
He didn't seem to be much worried about losing his! He could have saved it if
he had promised Pilate and the priests that he would go home and say nothing
more to the people about his beliefs.'
'Well, sir,' Justus had tried to explain, 'Jesus didn't mean quite the
same thing that you have in mind when he talked about a man's life. You see,
Jesus wasn't losing his life when they crucified him, but he would have lost it
if he had recanted and gone home. Do you understand what I mean, Marcellus?'
'No, I can't say that I do. To speak that way about life is simply
trifling with the accepted definition of the word. I believe that when a man is
dead, he has lost his life; perhaps lost it in a good cause; perhaps still
living, for a little while, in the memory of those who believed in him and
cherished his friendship. But if our human speech is of any use at all, a man
who is dead has lost his life.'
'Not necessarily,' protested Justus. 'Not if his soul is still alive.
Jesus said we need have no fear of the things that kill the body. We should
fear only the things that kill the soul.' And when Marcellus had shrugged
impatiently, Justus had continued, 'The body isn't very important; just, a
vehicle; just a kit of tools--to serve the soul.' He had chuckled over
Marcellus's expression of disgust. 'You think that sounds crazy; don't you?' he
added, gently.
'Of course!' Marcellus had shrugged. 'And so do you!'
'I admit it's not easy to believe,' conceded Justus.
And then Marcellus had stopped in the road--they were on their way from
Sepphoris to Cana--and had delivered what for him was a long speech.
'Justus,' he began, 'I must tell you candidly that while I am much
interested in the sensible philosophy of your dead friend Jesus, I hope you
will not want to report any more statements of that nature. I have a sincere
respect for this man's mind, and I don't wish to lose it.'
He had half-expected Justus to be glum over this rebuke, but the big
fellow had only grinned and nodded indulgently.
'I didn't mean to be offensive,' said Marcellus.
'I am not troubled,' said Justus, cordially. 'It was my fault. I was
going too fast for you; offering you meat when you should have milk.'
He tossed the black robe aside and examined a white shawl with a fringe.
He couldn't imagine his mother wearing it, but the woman who had made it had
been proud of her handiwork. He remembered how reluctant she was to see it go
out of her little house, down on the Samaritan border somewhere. She should
have been permitted to keep the shawl. It meant more to her than it could
possibly mean to anyone else. Such things should never be sold, or bought,
either. Marcellus recalled the feeling of self-reproach he had often
experienced at lavish banquets in Rome, where the wines were cooled with ice
that had been brought from the northern mountains by relays of runners who
sometimes died of exhaustion. No honest man could afford such wine. It had cost
too much.
Well, he would give all these garments to Miriam. She would put them to
good use. But wouldn't it be rather ungracious to let Miriam know that these
things, fabricated with great care by her own fellow countrymen, weren't worth
carrying away?
'But they are gifts,' he would say to Miriam. 'The people who receive
them will be advantaged.'
And then Miriam would have a right to say, though she probably wouldn't,
'How can they be gifts, Marcellus, when they are only useless things that you
don't want to be bothered with?'
And then, assuming that Miriam had said that, he could reply: