‘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’ 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’ 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’ 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 tany 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 picked for it.’ 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.’
Chapter VIII
AT SUNSET on the last day of the month which Julius Caesar—revising the calendar—had named for himself, Marcellus and his slave sighted the Parthenon from a decrepit vehicle that rated 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 respcet 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 were no private accommodations 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 had 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.
Amidship in the vicinity of The Clytia’s solitary mast a constricted area of deck space, bounded by a square of inhospitable wooden benches, served as promenade and recreation center. Beside the mast a narrow hatchway descended steeply into the common cabin which was lighted and ventilated by six diminutive ports. Upon the slightest hint of a fresh breeze these prudent little ports were closed. The Clytia made no attempt to pamper her passengers. Indeed, it was doubtful whether any other craft plying between Ostia and Piraeus was equipped to offer so comprehensive an assortment of discomforts.
The grimy old ship’s only grace was her love of leisure. She called everywhere and tarried long; three days and nights, for example, in unimportant Corfu where she had only to unload a bin of silica and take on a bale of camel’s-hair shawls; four whole days in Argostoli where she replenished her water-casks, discharged a grateful passenger, and bought a crate of lemons. She even ambled all the way down to Crete, for no better cause than to leave three blocks of Carrara marble and acquire a case of reeking bull-hides for conversion into shields. While in port, one of her frowsy old hawsers parted, permitting The Clytia to stave a galley that lay alongside; and another week had passed before everybody was satisfied about that and clearance was ordered for the next lap of the interminable cruise.
Had Marcellus been mentally well, he would surely have found these delays and discomforts insupportable. In his present mood of apathetic detachment, he endured his experiences with such effortle?? fortitude that Demetrius’ anxiety about him mounted to alarm. Marcellus had no natural talent for bearing calmly with annoyances, however trivial; and it worried the Corinthian to see his high-spirited master growing daily more and more insensitive to his wretched environment. As for himself, Demetrius was so exasperated by all this boredom and drudgery that he was ready to jump out of his skin.
Vainly he tried to kindle a spar
k of interest in the wool-gathering mind of Marcellus. The Senator had provided his son with a small but carefully selected library; classics, mostly, and Demetrius had tactfully endeavored to make him read; but without success.
For the better part of every fair day, Marcellus would sit silently staring at the water. Immediately after breakfast he would pick his way forward through the clutter that littered the deck; and, seating himself on a coil of anchor-cable near the prow, would remain immobile with his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands, gazing dully out to sea. Demetrius would give him time to get himself located, and then he too would saunter forward with a few scrolls under his arm and sprawl at full length on a battened hatch close by. Sometimes he would read a paragraph or two aloud and ask a question. On these occasions, Marcellus would sluggishly return from a remote distance to make a laconic reply, but it was obvious that he preferred not to be molested.
Although Demetrius’ chief concern was to beguile his master’s roving mind, he himself was finding food for reflection. Never before had he found opportunity for so much uninterrupted reading. He was particularly absorbed by the writings of Lucretius. Here, he thought, was a wise man.
‘Ever read Lucretius, sir?’ he asked, one afternoon, after an hour’s silence between them.
Marcellus slowly turned his head and deliberated the question.
‘Indifferently,’ he replied, at length.
‘Lucretius thinks it is the fear of death that makes men miserable,’ went on Demetrius. ‘He’s for abolishing that fear.’
‘A good idea,’ agreed Marcellus, languidly. After a long wait, he queried, ‘How does he propose to do it?’
‘By assuming that there is no future life,’ explained Demetrius.
‘That would do it,’ drawled Marcellus—‘provided the assumption would stay where you had put it.’
‘You mean, sir, that the assumption might drag its anchor in a gale?’
Marcellus smiled wanly at the seagoing metaphor, and nodded. After a meditative interval, he said:
‘For some men, Demetrius, the fear of death might be palliated by the belief that nothing more dreadful could possibly happen to them than had already happened—in their present existence. Perhaps Lucretius has no warrant for saying that all men fear death. Some have even sought death. As for me—I am not conscious of that fear; let death bring what it will.... But does Lucretius have aught to say to the man who fears life?’
Demetrius was sorry he had introduced the conversation, but he felt he should not abandon it abruptly; assuredly not at this dismaying juncture.
‘Lucretius concedes that all life is difficult, but becoming less so as men evolve from savagery to civilization.’ Demetrius tried to make this observation sound optimistic. Marcellus chuckled bitterly.
‘“As men evolve from savagery,” eh! What makes him think men are evolving from savagery?’ He had an impatient gesture, throwing the idea away with a toss of his hand. ‘Lucretius knew very little about what was going on in the world. Lived like a mole in a burrow. Lived on his own fat like a bear in winter. Went wrong in his head at forty, and died. ‘‘Evolving from savagery”? Nonsense! Nothing that ever went on in the jungle can compare with the bestiality of our life today!’ Marcellus’ voice had mounted from a monologic mutter to a high-tensioned harangue. ‘ “Evolving from savagery”!’ he shouted. ‘You know better than that. You were out there!’
Demetrius nodded soberly.
‘It was very sad,’ he said, ‘but I think you have reproached yourself too much, sir. You had no alternative.’
Marcellus had retreated into his accustomed lethargy, but he suddenly roused, clenching his fists.
‘That’s a lie, Demetrius, and you know itl There was an alternative! I could have set the Galilean free! I had enough of those tough fellows from Minoa with me to have dispersed that mob!’
‘Pilate would have court-martialed you, sir. It might have cost you your life!’
‘My life!’ shouted Marcellus. ‘It did cost me my life! Far better to have lost it honorably!’
‘Well,’ soothed Demetrius, gently, ‘we should try to forget about it now. In Athens you can divert your mind, sir. Are you not looking forward with some pleasure to your studies there?’
There was no reply. Marcellus had turned his back and was again staring at the sea.
On another day, Demetrius—imprudently, he felt afterward—ventured to engage his moody master again in serious talk.
‘Lucretius says here that our belief that the gods are concerned with our human affairs has been the source of nothing but unhappiness to mankind.’
‘Of course,’ muttered Marcellus—‘and he was a fool for believing that the gods exist, at all.’ After The Clytia had swayed to and fro sleepily for a couple of stadia, he mumbled, ‘Lucretius was crazy. He knew too much about the unknowable. He sat alone—and thought—and thought—until he lost his mind.... That’s what I’m doing, Demetrius.’
***
In a less perturbed state of mind, Marcellus—thoroughly fatigued by the long journey—would have been gaily excited over the welcome he received at the hands of his Athenian host, though this warm reception was not altogether unexpected.
When Marcus Lucan Gallio was in his early twenties, he had spent a summer in Athens, studying at the famous old Academy of Hipparchus, and lodging in the exclusive House of Eupolis which had been conducted by one family for five generations. Old Georgias Eupolis, his host, treated the patrons of his establishment as personal guests. You had to be properly vouched for if you sought accommodations there; but having been reliably introduced, nothing was too good for you.
The cool hauteur of the House of Eupolis in its attitude toward applicants was not mere snobbery. Athens was always filled with strangers. The city had more than a hundred inns, and all but a half-dozen of them were notorious. The typical tavern-keeper was a panderer, a thief, and an all-around rascal; and, for the most part, his clients were of the same feather. The Athenian inn that hoped to maintain a reputation for decency had to be critical of its registrants.
Apparently young Gallio had made a favorable impression, for when he left the House of Eupolis old Georgias had broken a silver drachma in two; and, handing one half to Marcus, had attached a little tablet of memoranda to the other which he had put away for safe keeping.
‘Whoever presents your piece of that drachma, my son,’ Georgias had said, ‘will be welcome here. You will not lose it, please.’
Arriving now at dusk in the shaded courtyard of the fine old hostelry, Marcellus had silently handed the broken coin to the churlish porter who had stepped out of the shadow to question them. Immediately the slave’s behavior had changed from surly challenge to alert deference. Bowing and scraping he had made haste to carry the little talisman to his master. In a few moments the genial proprietor—a well-groomed man of forty—had come down the stone steps of the vine-clad portico, offering a smile and outstretched hands. Marcellus had stepped out of the antiquated chariot, announcing that he was the son of Gallio.
‘And how are you addressed, sir?’ asked the inkeeper.
‘I am a Tribune. My name is Marcellus.’
‘Your father is well remembered here, Tribune Marcellus. I hope he is alive and well.’
‘He is, thank you. Senator Gallio sends his greetings to your house. Though it was a very long time ago, my father hopes his message of affection for Georgias may still be delivered.’
‘Alas! My venerable father has been gone these ten years. But in his name, I give you welcome. My name is Dion. The House of Eupolis is yours. Come ini I can see you are weary.’
He turned to Demetrius.
‘The porter will help you with your burdens, and show you where you are to sleep.’
‘I wish my slave to share my own quarters,’ put in Marcellus.
‘It is not customary with us,’ said Dion, a bit coolly.
‘It is with me,’ said Marcellus. ‘I have been subjected lately t
o considerable hardship,’ he explained, ‘and I am not well. I do not wish to be alone. Demetrius will lodge with me.’
Dion, after a momentary debate with himself, gave a shrug of reluctant consent, and signed to Marcellus to precede him into the house.
‘You will be responsible for his conduct,’ he said, crisply, as they mounted the steps.
‘Dion,’ said Marcellus, pausing at the doorway, ‘had this Corinthian his freedom, he would appear at an advantage in any well-bred company. He has been gently brought up; is a person of culture, and brave withal. The House of Eupolis will come to no dishonor on his account.’
The well-worn appointments of the spacious andronitis, into which entrance was had directly from the front door, offered a substantial, homelike comfort.
‘If you will be seated, Marcellus,’ advised Dion, recovering his geniality, ‘I shall find the other members of my family. Then—because you are tired—I shall show you to your rooms. Will you be with us long?’
Marcellus lifted an indecisive hand.
‘For some time, I think,’ he said. ‘Three months; four; six: I do not know. I want quiet. Two bedchambers, a small parlor, and a studio. I might want to amuse myself with some modeling.’ Dion said he understood, and would be able to provide a suitable suite.
‘And you will face the garden,’ he said, as he moved toward the stairs. ‘We have some exceptionally fine roses, this year.’
Demetrius entered as Dion disappeared and came to the chair where Marcellus sat.
‘Have you learned, sir, where we are to go?’ he asked.
‘He will tell us. Remain here until he comes,’ said Marcellus, wearily.
Presently they appeared, and he rose to meet them; Dion’s comely wife, Phoebe, who, having learned the identity of their guest, was genuinely cordial; and Ino, Dion’s widowed elder sister, who thought she saw in Marcellus a strong resemblance to the young man she had admired so much.