Benjamin withdrew, returning almost immediately. Marcellus examined the Robe in the waning light.
‘It is well done,’ he said. ‘No one would know it had ever been tom.’ ‘But you,’ said Benjamin, gravely. Marcellus shifted his position, uneasily, avoiding the old man’s eyes. ‘These stains’—added Benjamin—‘I tried to remove them. They will not come out. You have not told me about this poor Jew. He was brave, you said; and died at the hands of his enemies. Was he a Galilean, perhaps?’
‘I believe so,’ replied Marcellus, restlessly. He folded the Robe over his arm, and extended his hand in farewell.
‘Was his name Jesus?’ Benjamin’s insistent voice had dropped to a mere guttural whisper.
‘Yes—that was his name,’ admitted Marcellus, grudgingly. ‘How did you know?’
‘I learned of the incident from a long-time friend, one Popygos, a dealer in spices. He was in Jerusalem during this last Passover Week. Tell me’—Benjamin’s tone was entreating—‘how did you come by this Robe?’
‘Does it matter?’ countered Marcellus, suddenly haughty.
Benjamin bowed obsequiously, rubbing his thin hands.
‘You must forgive me for being inquisitive,’ he murmured. ‘I am an old man, without family, and far from my native land. My scrolls—the history of my race, the words of our great prophets—they are my meat and drink, my young friend! They are a lamp unto my feet and a light upon my path. They are my heritage. My daily work—it is nothing! It busies my fingers and brings me my food; but my soul, my life—it is hidden and nourished in words so fitly spoken they are as apples of gold in pictures of silver!’ Benjamin’s voice had risen resonantly and his deep-lined face was enraptured.
‘You are fortunate, sir,’ said Marcellus. ‘I, too, am fond of the classics bequeathed to us by men of great wisdom—Plato, Pythagoras, Parmenides—’
Benjamin smiled indulgently and wagged his head.
‘Yes, yes—it was through their works that you were taught how to read—but not how to live! They who spoke the Hebrew tongue understood the words of life! Now—you see—my young friend—throughout these prophecies there runs a promise. One day, a Messiah shall arise and reign! His name shall be called Wonderful! And of his kingdom there shall be no end! No certain time is set for his coming—but he will come! Think you then that it is a mere idle curiosity in me to inquire diligently about this Jesus, whom so many have believed to be the Messiah?’
‘I would hear more about these predictions,’ said Marcellus, after a meditative pause.
‘Why not?’ Benjamin’s deep set eyes lighted. ‘I love to think of them. I shall gladly tell you; thought it would be better if you could read them for yourself.’
‘Is Hebrew difficult?’ asked Marcellus.
Benjamin smiled and shrugged.
‘Well—it is no more difficult than Greek, which you speak fluently. Naturally—it is more difficult than Latin.’
‘Why—"naturally”?’ snapped Marcellus, frowning.
‘Forgive me,’ retreated Benjamin. ‘Perhaps the Greek asks more of the mind because the Greek writers—’ The old man politely floundered to a stop.
‘The Greek writers thought more deeply,’ assisted Marcellus. ‘Is that what you’re trying to say? If so—I agree with you.’
‘I meant no offense,’ reiterated Benjamin. ‘Rome has her poets, satirists, eulogists. There are many interesting little essays by your Cicero; rather childish. They pick flowers, but they do not sweep the sky!’ Benjamin caught up a worn scroll from the table and deftly unrolled it with familiar hands. ‘Listen, friend!—“When I consider thy heavens, the work of thy fingers, the moon and the stars which thou hast ordained, what is man that thou art mindful of him?"’
‘Rather pessimistic, I’d say,’ broke in Marcellus, ‘albeit it sounds sensible enough.’
‘But wait!’ cried Benjamin. ‘Let me go on, please!—“Thou hast made him a little lower than the angels, and hast crowned him with glory and honor.” Ah—there is richness in the Hebrew wisdom! You should acquaint yourself with it!’
‘For the present, I shall have to content myself with such choice bits of it as you may be good enough to offer me, from time to time,’ said Marcellus. ‘I am doing some sculpturing now, and it will claim my full attention.’ He laid a small silk bag of silver on the table. ‘Please accept this—for mending the Robe.’
‘But I do not wish to be paid,’ said Benjamin, firmly.
‘Then give it to the poor,’ said Marcellus, impatiently.
‘Thank you.’ Benjamin bowed. ‘It has just occurred to me that if you would know something of this ancient Jewish lore—and are quite too busy to study it for yourself—you might permit your Greek slave to learn the language. I should be glad to instruct him. He is intelligent.’
‘It is true that Demetrius is bright. May I ask how you discovered it?’ ‘He spent an hour here today.’
‘Indeed! What was his errand?’
Benjamin shrugged the query away as of no consequence.
‘He was sauntering about, and paid me a friendly call; brought me some figs; asked me some questions.’
‘What manner of questions?’
‘He may tell you if you ask him,’ said Benjamin, dryly. ‘He is your property; is he not?’
‘I do not own his thoughts,’ retorted Marcellus. Perhaps you have imputed to me a more brilliant talent for brutality than I possess.’
Old Benjamin smiled, almost benevolently, shook his head slowly, and laid a thin hand on Marcellus’ broad shoulder.
‘No—I do not think you are cruel, my son,’ he declared, gently. ‘But you are an unfortunate representative of a cruel system. Perhaps you cannot help yourself.’
‘Perchance—when your Messiah comes,’ rejoined Marcellus, crisply, still smarting under the old man’s condescension, ‘he may make some valuable suggestions.’ He turned to go.
‘By the way,’ said Benjamin, following to the door, “how long, after the crucifixion of Jesus, did you remain in Jerusalem?’
‘I left the city before sunrise, the next morning,’ replied Marcellus.
‘Ah!’ reflected Benjamin, stroking his white beard. Then you heard nothing further—about him?’
‘What more was there to hear? He was dead.’
‘Do you’—the old man hesitated—‘do you know that—for a certainty?’
‘Yes,’ declared Marcellus. ‘I am sure of it.’
‘Were you there?’ Benjamin’s cavernous eyes insisted upon a direct answer. It was slow in coming.
‘I saw him die,’ admitted Marcellus. ‘They pierced his heart, to make sure, before they took him down.’
To his amazement, Benjamin’s seamed face lighted with a rapturous smile.
‘Thank you, my friend!’ he said, brightly. ‘Thank you—for telling me!’
‘I had not supposed my painful words would make you glad,’ said Marcellus, in a tone of bewilderment. ‘This Jesus was a brave man! He deserved to live! Yet you seem pleased to be assured that he was put to death!’
‘There have been many rumors,’ said Benjamin, ‘many idle tales, reporting that the drunken legionaries left the scene before he died, and that the friends of the Galilean rescued and revived him.’
‘Well—I happen to know that such tales are untrue!’ said Marcellus, firmly. ‘The executioners were drunk enough, but they killed the Galilean, and when they left—he was dead! This is not hearsay with me. I know!’
‘You are speaking important words, my son!’ Benjamin’s voice was husky with emotion. ‘I am glad you came today! I shall hope to see more of you, sir.’ He raised his bony hand over Marcellus’ head. His arm was trembling. The Lord bless you and keep you,’ he intoned, reverently. The Lord make his face to shine upon you, and be gracious unto you. The Lord lift up his countenance upon you, and give you peace.’
There was a long moment of silence before Marcellus stirred. Much perplexed, and uncertain what was expected of him, he
bowed respectfully to Benjamin; and, without further words, walked slowly through the shop and out into the twilight.
Chapter X
Now that Diana was expected back from Capri almost any day, the Gallio family felt that some explanation must be contrived to account for the sudden departure of Marcellus.
Unquestionably word had already reached Tiberius that The Vestris had arrived with Marcellus as her most important passenger. Diana would be eager to see him, and she had every reason to believe that he would be waiting impatiently for her return.
Lucia was for telling her that Marcellus had come home in such frail health that an immediate change of climate seemed imperative, though Diana would inquire about the nature of his malady, and wonder in what respect the climate of Athens was so highly esteemed.
Cornelia had weakly suggested that perhaps there were better physicians in Athens. Diana might be satisfied with that, she thought, or said she did; but this was nonsense, for everybody knew that most of the really good Athenian physicians had been imported to Rome.
‘No,’ Senator Gallio had observed judiciously, ‘you are both in error. When there is some serious explaining to be done, no contraption is as serviceable as the truth. Let her have it. If Diana and my son are in love, as you two seem to think, she has a right to know the story and it is our duty to tell her. It should-not be difficult.’ With everything thus sensibly settled, the Senator rose and was leaving his wife’s boudoir when their daughter halted him.
‘Assuming that I have it to do,’ said Lucia, maturely, “how much of the story is to be told?’
Her father made the query of no great importance with a negligent flick of his fingers.
‘You can say that your brother was required to conduct the crucifixion of a Jewish revolutionist; that the experience was a shock; that it plunged him into a deep melancholy from which he has not yet fully recovered; that we thought it best for him to seek diversion.’
‘Nothing, then,’ mused Lucia, ‘about those dreadful seizures of remorse—and the haunted look—and that odd question he insisted on asking, against his will?’
‘Mmm—no,’ decided the Senator. That will not be necessary. It should be sufficient to say that Marcellus is moody and depressed.’
‘Diana will not be contented with that explanation,’ declared Lucia. ‘She is going to be disappointed, embarrassed, and indignant. Quite aside from their fondness for each other, it was no small thing she did for Marcellus in having him recalled from exile. And she will think it very strange indeed that a Roman Tribune should be so seriously disturbed by the execution of a convict.’
‘We are all agreed on that,’ glumly conceded the Senator. ‘I do not pretend to understand it. My son has never been lacking in courage. It is not like him to fall ill at the sight of blood.’
Perhaps it would be better,’ put in Cornelia, suddenly inspired, ‘if we omit all reference to that dreadful crucifixion, and simply say that Marcellus wanted to do some sculpturing, and attend some lectures, and—’
‘So urgently,’ scoffed Lucia, ‘that he couldn’t wait a few days to see the girl who was responsible for bringing him home.’
Her mother sighed, took another stitch in her embroidery, and murmured that her suggestion did sound rather silly, an afterthought that her relatives accepted without controversy.
‘He promised me he would write to her,’ remembered Lucia.
‘Well—we cannot wait for that,’ said her father. ‘It might be weeks. Diana will want to know—now! Better tell her everything, Lucia. She will get it out of you, in any case. A young woman bright enough to extort valuable favors from our crusty old Emperor will make her own deductions about this—no matter what you tell her.’
‘If she really loves him,’ cooed Cornelia, ‘she will forgive him—anything!’
‘Doubtless,’ agreed her husband, dryly, moving toward the door.
‘I’m afraid you do not know Diana very well,’ cautioned Lucia. ‘She has had no training that would fit her to understand. She idolizes her father, who would as lief kill a man as a mouse. I do not think she is experienced in forgiving people for being weak.’
That doesn’t sound like you, Lucia,’ reproved her mother, gently, when the Senator was out of hearing. 'One would almost think you were not sympathetic with your brother. Surely—you do not think Marcellus weak; do you?’
‘Oh—I don’t know what to think,’ muttered Lucia, dismally. ‘What is there to think?’ She put both her hands over her eyes and shook her head. ‘We’ve lost Marcellus, Mother,’ she cried. ‘He was so manlyl I loved him so much! It is breaking my heart.’
***
But if the problem of dealing out the bad news to Diana was perplexing, it was simple as compared with the dilemma that arose on the following afternoon when an impressively uniformed Centurion was shown in, bearing an ornate, official scroll addressed to Marcellus. It was from the Emperor. The Centurion said he was expected to wait for instructions, adding that the royal carriage would call early in the morning.
‘But my son is not here,’ said Gallio. ‘He has sailed for Athens.’
‘Indeed! That is most unfortunate!’
‘I gather that you are acquainted with the nature of this message.’
‘Yes, sir; it is no secret. The Emperor has appointed Tribune Marcellus to be the Commander of the Palace Guard. We are all much pleased, sir.’
‘I sincerely regret my son’s absence, Centurion. Perhaps I should send a message with you to the Emperor.' Gallio reflected for a moment. ‘No—I shall go and explain to him in person.’
‘Very good, sir. Will it be agreeable to start at dawn?’
So—they started at dawn, though it was not particularly agreeable, a swift drive from Rome to Neapolis being rated by the Senator as a doubtful pleasure. Moreover, he had no great relish for his errand. He was not unacquainted with the techniques of persuasive debate, but the impending interview with the Emperor would be unpleasant; for Tiberius had no patience and Gallio had no case. The horses galloped over the deep-rutted cobbles, the big carriage bounced, the painful hours dragged, the Senator’s head ached. All things considered, it was not an enjoyable excursion, and by the time he reached the top of Capri, at midnight, there was nothing left in him but a strong desire to go to bed.
The Chamberlain showed him to a sumptuous apartment and Gallio sank into a chair utterly exhausted. Two well-trained Macedonians began unpacking his effects, laying out fresh linen. Another slave drew water for his bath while a big Nubian, on his knees, unlaced the Senator’s sandals. A deferential Thracian came with a welcome flagon of chilled wine. Then the Chamberlain reappeared.
‘The Emperor wishes to see you, sir,' he reported, in an apologetic tone.
‘Now?’ Gallio wrinkled his nose distastefully.
‘If you please, sir. His Majesty had left orders to have Tribune Marcellus shown into his presence immediately upon his arrival. When told that Senator Gallio had come instead, the Emperor said he would give him an audience at once.’
‘Very well,’ sighed Gallio. Signing to the Nubian to relace his sandals, the weary man rose stiffly and followed along to the Emperor’s lavishly appointed suite.
The old man was sitting up in bed, bolstered about with pillows, his nightcap rakishly askew. A half-dozen attendants were fluttering about, inventing small errands.
‘Out!’ he yelled, as. The Senator neared the imperial couch; and they backed nimbly away—all but the Chamberlain. ‘You, tool’ shrilled Tiberius—and the Chamberlain tiptoed to the door. Peering up into Gallio’s face, the Emperor regarded him with a surly look of challenge.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ he squeaked. ‘We confer a great honor upon your son, who has done nothing to deserve it, only to learn that—without so much as a by-your-leave—he has left the country. You, his father, have come to explain. Well!—be about it, then! High time somebody explained!’
‘Your Majesty,’ began Gallio, with a deep bow, ?
??my son will be very unhappy when he learns that he has unwittingly offended his Emperor, to whom he owes so much.’
‘Never mind about that!’ barked Tiberius. ‘Get on with it! And make it short! I need my rest! They were a pack of fools to wake me up for no better cause—and you were a fool to let them! You, too, should be in bed. You have had a hard trip. You are tired. Sit down! Don’t stand there like a sentry! I command you to sit down! You are an old, old man. Sit down—before you fall down!’
Gallio gratefuly sank into the luxurious chair by the Emperor’s massive golden bed, pleased to observe that the royal storm was subsiding somewhat.
‘As Your Majesty has said, it is too late in the night for a lengthy explanation. My son Marcellus was appointed Legate of the Legion at Minoa—’
‘Yes, yes—I know all about that!’ spluttered Tiberius. ‘We rescinded the order of that addlepated scamp in Rome and brought your son back. And then what?’
‘From Minoa, sire, he was ordered to Jerusalem to help preserve the peace during the Jews’ annual festival. A small but turbulent revolutionary party became active. Its leader was tried for treason and condemned to death by crucifixion.’
‘Crucifixion, eh? Must have been a dangerous character.’
‘I did not understand it so, Your Majesty. He was a young Jew of no great repute, a ??hasnless, mild-mannered, peace-loving fellow from one of the outlying provinces—Galilee, I believe. It seems he had grossly offended the Temple authorities.’
‘Indeed!’ Tiberius leaned forward with sudden interest. ‘What did he do?’
‘It is their custom, sire, to sell sacrificial animals in the court of the Temple. The priests profit by it, demanding high prices from the poor. This Galilean was enraged over the fraud and the sacrilege; took up a drover’s whip, and lashed the priests and the beasts out of the Temple and into the street, and—’
‘Hi! Hi!’ yelled Tiberius, so loudly that the Chamberlain put his head in at the door. ‘Here—you! Worthless eavesdropper! Bring wine for Senator Gallio. We, ourself, shall have wine! Hi! Hi! Mild-mannered, peace-loving Galilean whipped the prating priests out into the street, eh? Not much wonder they crucified him. He was a reckless fellow, indeed! But when does your son appear in this story?’