Authors: Unknown
Demetrius began slowly edging his way along the wall in the direction of
the front door. He caught fragments of the Centurion's announcement. This
building was to be vacated immediately. Anyone found on the premises hereafter
would be taken into custody. The name of Jesus, the blasphemer and traitor, was
never again to be spoken.
'Away with you now!' yelled the Centurion. 'Back to your homes! and do
not inquire for your Fisherman! You will not see him any more!' As he neared
the door, realizing that the speech had ended and the troops would be promptly
moving out, Demetrius speeded his going, ran to the street and crossed it,
dodged into a narrow alley, pursued it to the next street, slowed to a brisk
walk, and proceeded to Levi's inn. Everything was quiet there. He entered and
moved toward the stairway leading to Marcellus's quarters. Levi, observant,
called him back.
'Your master is out,' he said.
'Do you know where he went, sir?' inquired Demetrius, anxiously.
'How should I?' retorted Levi.
Thinking that Marcellus might have left instructions in his room,
Demetrius asked and was granted permission to go upstairs. A Greek slave-girl
was putting the room to rights. She recognized him and smiled shyly. Informed
of his errand, she joined in the search for a message.
'Did you see my master this morning?' asked Demetrius.
She shook her head.
'We had much trouble here, a little while ago,' she said.
Demetrius pressed her for particulars, and she told him what had
occurred. He went to the window and stood for a long moment, looking out,
trying to imagine what might be Marcellus's reaction to this cruel business. He
would be very angry, no doubt. He would want to do something about it, perhaps.
It was not inconceivable that Marcellus might go to Julian and remonstrate. The
more Demetrius deliberated on this possibility, the more reasonable it seemed.
It would be an audacious thing to do, but Marcellus was impetuous enough to
attempt it. After all, the word of a Tribune should have some weight.
He turned about and met the Greek girl's eyes. They were friendly but
serious. Glancing cautiously toward the open door, she moved closer to him and
whispered, 'Are you one of us?'
Demetrius nodded soberly, and she gave him an approving smile. With a
sudden burst of interest in her duties, she began folding and patting the
blankets on the bed, as if suspicious that she might be found idling.
'Better stay off the streets to-day,' she said, softly, out of the
corner of a pretty mouth. 'Go down to the kitchen. You'll be safe there.'
'Thanks,' said Demetrius. 'That's not a bad idea. Besides, I'm hungry.'
He was crossing the room. The girl laid her hand on his sleeve as he passed
her.
'Does your master know you are one of us?' she whispered.
Demetrius was not sure how this question should be answered, so he gave
her an enigmatic smile which she was free to interpret as she chose, and left
the room. The ever-present Levi met him at the foot of the stairs and
unexpectedly informed him that it was a fine morning.
'Beautiful!' agreed Demetrius, aware that the Jew was sparring for news.
'Had your master left instructions for you?' asked Levi, amiably.
'I am to have my breakfast, sir, and await his return.'
'Very good,' said Levi. 'Go to the kitchen. They will serve you. He
followed as far as the door. 'I suppose everything was quiet on the streets
this morning.'
'It was still quite early, sir, when I left my lodgings,' replied
Demetrius, unhelpfully.
After his breakfast of bread, milk and sun-cured figs, he paced
restlessly up and down the small area bounded by the servants' quarters. Nobody
seemed inclined to talk. The girl who had served him was crying. He resolved to
stroll over to the Insula and wait outside. Something told him that Marcellus
was there. Where else could he be?
Having finished his breakfast, which Levi himself had served with a
disgusting show of servility, Marcellus began to be apprehensive about the
safety of Demetrius, who, he felt, should have arrived by this time unless he
had encountered some trouble.
He did not know where Stephanos lived, but they could tell him at
Benyosef's shop. Then it occurred to him that Benyosef's might have been
visited by the legionaries. Doubtless they knew it was a meeting-place of the
disciples of Jesus, and might be expected to deal severely with anyone found
there. Prudence suggested that he keep out of that storm-centre. If Demetrius
had been arrested, it would be sensible to wait until order had been restored.
Then he could learn where his slave was, and make an effort to have him
released.
The obsequious Levi helped him to a decision. Marcellus was stalking up
and down in the courtyard, feverishly debating what to do, when the Jew
appeared in the doorway, obviously much interested in his guest's perturbation.
Levi did not say anything; just stood there slowly blinking his brightly
inquisitive eyes. Then he retreated into the little foyer and emerged a moment
later carrying a chair, as to say that if the Tribune knew what was good for
him to-day, he would stay where he was and avoid getting into trouble.
Marcellus scowled, lengthened his stride, and, without a backward glance,
marched down the steps to the street.
To reach Benyosef's shop, it was necessary to traverse a few blocks on
the rim of the congested market district where the shabby hovels of the very
poor huddled close to the reeking alleys. Here there was much excitement,
frantic chatter, and gesticulations. Marcellus slowed his steps near one
vociferous group of slatternly people and learned that the Christians'
meeting-place had been invaded, emptied, and locked up. The leaders had been
dragged off to prison. Simon the Fisherman was to be beheaded.
Marcellus quickened his pace. A little way down the street, in the
vicinity of Benyosef's shop, a crowd had gathered. At the edge of it,
apparently waiting for orders, ranged a company of legionaries, negligently
leaning on their spears. Someone in the middle of the crowd was making an
impassioned speech. In a moment Marcellus had drawn close enough to recognize
the voice.
It was Stephanos. Bareheaded, and in the brown tunic he wore at his
loom, he had evidently been dragged out for questioning; and from the sullen
silence of the throng, it was to be inferred that these people were willing to
wait patiently until the reckless Greek had incriminated himself.
Taller than most, Marcellus surveyed the spectators with curiosity to
discover what manner of men they were. Instantly he divined the nature of this
audience. They were well dressed, for the most part, representing the more
substantial element from the business district. There was a sprinkling of
younger priests, too. The face of the crowd was surly, but everybody was
listening in a tense silence.
Stephanos was not mincing his words. He stood there boldly, in the open
circle they had formed about him, his long arms stretched out in an appeal to
reason--but by no means an appeal for mercy. He was not defiant, but he was
unafraid.
It was no rabble-rousing speech addressed to the emotions of ignorant
men, but a scathing indictment of Jerusalem's leaders who, Stephanos declared,
had been unwilling to recognize a cure for the city's distresses.
'You have considered yourselves the Chosen People!' he went on,
audaciously. 'Your ancestors struggled out of one bondage into another, century
after century, ever looking for a Deliverer, and never heeding your great
teachers when they appeared with words of wisdom! Again and again, inspired
leaders have risen among your people, only to be thwarted and reviled--not by
the poor and needy, but by such as
you!'
A concerted growl rumbled through the angry crowd.
'Which of the prophets,' demanded Stephanos, 'did your fathers not
persecute? And now you have become the betrayers--and murderers--of the Just
One!'
'Blasphemer!' shouted an imperious voice.
'You!' exclaimed Stephanos, sweeping the throng with an accusing hand,
'you, who claim to have received your law at the hands of angels--how have
you
kept it?'
There was an infuriated roar, but no one moved to attack him. Marcellus
wondered how much longer the suppressed fury of these maddened men would
tolerate this rash excoriation.
From far back on the fringe of the crowd, someone hurled a cobblestone.
It was accurately thrown and struck Stephanos on the cheekbone, staggering him.
Instinctively he reached up a hand to wipe away the blood. Another stone,
savagely hurled by a practised hand, crashed against his elbow. A loud clamour
rose. For an instant, Marcellus hoped it might be a protest against this
lawless violence, but it was quickly evident that the hoarse shouts were in
denunciation of the speech, and not the stoning. A vengeful yell gave sinister
applause to the good aim of another stone as it struck the Greek full in the
face. Two more, not so well thrown, went over Stephanos's head and drove into
the crowd. Trampling upon one another, the dignitaries on the other side of the
open circle scurried for cover against the walls and fences. Stephanos,
shielding his bleeding head with his arms, backed away slowly from the hostile
crowd, but the stones kept coming.
The Centurion barked an order now and the legionaries sprang into
action, ploughing roughly through the pack, tossing men right and left, with
utter disregard of their importance. Marcellus, who had been standing beside a
tall soldier, followed him through, and was surprised to see him jab his elbow
into the face of a stocky priest whose ponderous dignity hadn't permitted him
to move swiftly enough. Now the legionaries were lined up inside the semicircle
of spectators. They had made a fence of their spears. The stones were coming
faster now, and with telling effect. Marcellus began to realize that this was
no impulsive, impromptu incident. The better citizens were not throwing stones,
but without doubt they had planned that the stones should be thrown. The men
who were doing it were expert.
Stephanos was down now, on his elbows and knees, trying to protect his
head with one bleeding hand. The other arm hung limp. The crowd roared.
Marcellus recognized that bestial cry. He had heard it many a time in the
Circus Maximus. He pushed his way on to the side of the tall legionary who,
after a glance in his direction, made room for him.
Several of the younger men in the shouting multitude now decided to take
a hand in the punishment. The Centurion pretended not to notice when they
dodged under the barricade of spears. Their faces were deeply flushed and
contorted with rage. There was nothing more they could do to Stephanos, who had
crumpled on the ground, but perhaps the stones they threw were to be merely
tokens of their willingness to share the responsibility for this crime.
Marcellus's heart ached. There had been nothing he could do. Had Julian
been there, he might have protested, but to have denounced the Centurion would
have done no good. The fellow was obeying his orders. Poor Stephanos lay dead,
or at least unconscious, but the dignitaries continued to stone him.
Immediately in front of Marcellus, on the other side of the barrier,
stood a young, bookish man, wearing a distinctive skull-cap with a tassel,
evidently a student. He was of diminutive stature, but sturdily built. His
hands were clenched and his rugged face was twisted with anger. Every thudding
stone that beat upon the limp body had his approval. Marcellus studied his
livid face, amazed that a man of his seeming intelligence could be so viciously
pleased by such an exhibition of inhuman brutality.
Presently a fat man in an expensive black robe, ducked through the line,
took off his robe, and tossed it to the short one, bidding him hold it. Another
man of lofty dignity followed his friend in; and, handing his robe also to the
bow-legged scholar, began clawing up a stone from the pavement.
Marcellus, towering over the short-legged fellow, leaned forward and
demanded, sternly, 'What harm had he done to
you?'
The little man turned about and glanced up impudently into Marcellus's
eyes. He was a malicious creature, but no fool. It was a face to be remembered.
'He is a blasphemer!' he shouted.
'How does the crime of blasphemy compare with murder?' growled
Marcellus. 'You seem to be a learned man. Perhaps you know.'
'If you will come to the Rabbinical School tomorrow, my friend,'
replied the little man, suddenly cooled by the prospect of airing his theology,
'I shall enlighten you. Ask for Saul, of Tarsus,' he added, proudly. 'I am a
Roman citizen, like yourself, sir.'
There were no stones flying now. The crowd was growing restless. The
young theologian handed back the robes he had held and was shouldering out
through the loosening throng. The legionaries were still maintaining their
barricade, but were shifting their weight uneasily as if impatient to be off.
The Centurion was soberly talking, out of the corner of his mouth, to a
long-bearded Jew in an impressive black robe. The multitude was rapidly
dispersing.
Marcellus, with brooding eyes fixed on the broken body of the gallant
Greek, thought he saw a feeble movement there. Stephanos was slowly raising
himself on one elbow. A hush fell over the people as they watched him rise to
his knees. The blood-smeared face looked up, and the bruised lips were parted
in a rapturous smile. Suddenly Stephanos raised his arm aloft as if to clutch a
friendly hand.
'I see him!' he shouted, triumphantly. 'I see him! My Lord Jesus--take
me!' The eyes closed, the head dropped, and Stephanos crumpled down among the
stones.
The spectators, momentarily stunned, turned to go. Men did not pause to
ask questions. They scurried away as if frightened. Marcellus's heart was pounding
and his mouth was dry. But he found himself possessed of a curious exaltation.
His eyes were swimming, but his face trembled with an involuntary smile.