THE ROBE (16 page)

'No, they're not crazy,' objected Zenos. 'The people who run the Temple
have got to dispose of him somehow or he'll ruin their business. Haven't you
heard what he did over there--same day we saw him?'

'Not a word. What happened?'

'What happened! Plenty! You see, the Temple is where the people make
sacrifices; buy animals and burn them; nasty mess, bad smell; but their god
likes the idea. So the loggia--or whatever they may call it--is crowded full of
animals for sale. The people bring their money, and the money-changers--just
inside the door--convert it into Temple money.' Zenos laughed heartily. 'And
everybody says that these bankers make a fat thing of it, too.'

'Do you mean to say that they sell animals inside that beautiful
Temple?' asked Demetrius, incredulously.

'In an arcaded court done in marble!' declared Zenos, solemnly nodding
his head. 'In a court with gorgeous tiled paving; walls and ceiling in the
finest mosaic you ever saw; nothing nicer in Athens. And they have it full of
calves and sheep and pigeons. You can imagine how it looks--but you can't
imagine how it stinks! You've got to go there and smell it! Well, this Jesus
came in from the country--away up in Galilee somewhere--and went into the
Temple, and didn't like what he saw; said it was not the place to sell animals.
And he must have caught on to the thievery, too, for he made short work of the
money-changers.'

'What!' doubted Demetrius.

Zenos laughed delightedly over his friend's bewilderment.

'Yes, sir! If you'll believe it--he didn't look like a man who would
risk it--this Jesus picked up a whip and began slashing about--'

Zenos elaborately cracked an imaginary whip a dozen times in swift
succession. 'Just as if he owned the whole establishment! Crack! Zip! Lash!
Crash! Slash!--and out they came. It was wonderful! Out galloped the calves and
the priests and the sheep and the bankers and the air was full of pigeons and
feathers. Then Jesus upset the money-tables. It poured out over the floor--shekels
and drachmas and denarii--big money, little money, good money, bad money;
swarms of pilgrims down on their hands and knees fighting for it. Thrilling
sight! I wouldn't have missed it!' Zenos glanced over his shoulder and
muttered, 'Here comes the old man. He's sore to-day. His best customers are all
busy attending to this Jesus.'

The door of the largest tent had been drawn aside and a paunchy old
fellow with greying hair and beard had stepped out and was waddling toward
them. It was a long time since Demetrius had seen anyone so barbarously
festooned with jewellery; heavy silver chains around his neck and depending to
his middle, rings on his fingers, rings in his ears, bracelets, anklets. He
paused to regard Demetrius with an appraising scowl.

'He's from Corinth.' Zenos pointed with his thumb. 'We got acquainted on
the road.'

'I see you wear a Roman tunic,' observed Popygos, crossly.

'My master,' explained Demetrius, respectfully, 'commands the fort at
Minoa.'

'It would have been well,' said Popygos, 'if the Roman guard had let the
Jews settle their own quarrels to-day. Everybody in Jerusalem who has so much
as two shekels to rub together is mixed up with the case of this man from
Nazareth. Now that the Government is in it, the affair will go on all day. And
tomorrow is the Jews' Sabbath.'

'And they can't do business on the Sabbath,' remarked Demetrius, for
something to say.

Old Popygos stroked his whiskers reflectively.

'I have been making this trip for three-and-twenty years,' he said, 'and
we have sold fewer goods this time than ever before. It gets worse and worse.
Always some big squabble, Passover Week, to keep my best customers from coming
for their cloves and cinnamon.' Popygos upended a reed basket and sat down,
jingling. 'I can remember a time,' he went on, deliberately, 'when they didn't
have so many rackets. Now you take this thing that happened down here at the
Temple, last Sunday. A few years ago they were quite peaceful. The country
people came in to do the Passover business and a little trading. Always brought
a dove in a cage, if they were very poor, or a lamb or a calf, if they could
afford it. That was for the Temple. The priests burned the offering--or said
they did. They must have, from the way it reeked all around here. Then these
Temple people got a little smarter. A man from the country would bring a lamb
and the priests would examine it and find a wart on its belly, or some small
blemish. So that lamb wouldn't do. But they could take his damaged lamb and
give him a good one for it, if he would pay a cash difference. Then the
blemished lamb was ready to sell to the next customer.'

'Rather dirty trading,' commented Demetrius. 'Not much wonder this
Nazarene objected.'

'Well, it won't do any good,' drawled Popygos. 'At least, it hasn't done
him any good.'

'What will they do to him?' wondered Demetrius. 'Put him in prison?'

'Hardly! I understand they took him last night to the High Priest's
house and tried him for making a disturbance in the Temple. Defiling the
Temple--that was what they charged him with.' Popygos broke into bitter
laughter. 'As if anybody could defile a Temple that had been turned into a
stable. Of course they had enough witnesses on their side to convict him, so
they all rushed over to the Insula and got Pilate out of bed to hear the case.
He told them that they had better settle it among themselves, if it was just
another Temple brawl. But the rich old fellows wouldn't let the Procurator off
so easily as that. They said this Jesus was trying to make himself a king.
Pilate didn't take any stock in that, of course. So he suggested that they whip
him and let him go.'

'And did they whip him?' asked Demetrius, anxiously.

'That they did! And quite heavily, too. Then somebody in the crowd
yelled, "Kill the Galilean!" Pilate pricked up his ears, at that.
"If this man is a Galilean," he said, "try him before Herod. He
handles all Galilean matters."'

'Did they take him there?' asked Demetrius.

'Took him there,' nodded Popygos, 'and Herod had a good time tormenting
him, thinking that would please the Temple crowd and the fat money-lenders. He
ordered the soldiers to whip Jesus again; then dressed him in some old scarlet
regalia, and pretended to do homage to him. Some drunken lout rolled up a
thornbush and put it on his head for a crown. But the money-bags were not
satisfied with the show. They wanted this Jesus put to death--'

'To death!' shouted Demetrius.

'Yes. And they knew that nobody could give that order but Pilate. So
they all went back to the Insula.'

'And then what happened?' demanded Demetrius.

Popygos shook his head and twitched a shoulder.

'That's all I know,' he said. 'Diophanos the goldsmith, who was there
and told me this, had to come back to his bazaar.'

'Perhaps the trial is still going on at the Insula,' said Demetrius, restlessly.

'You'd better keep away from there,' warned Popygos. 'No good comes from
mixing in business like that.'

'But my master may need me,' said Demetrius. 'I must go. I hope you have
a safe journey home, sir. Good-bye, Zenos.'

While still some distance away, Demetrius, who had quickened his pace
until he was almost running, saw a compact crowd gathered about the main
entrance to the Praetorium. He hurried up the steps and stood at the edge of
the tensely occupied audience, receiving dark glances from his well-dressed
Jewish neighbours as he appeared beside them. There were no poor people
present.

The Procurator was standing within the colonnade, surrounded by a
detachment of palace guards. On the highest level of the terraced flagging, a
company of troops, four ranks deep, stood stiffly at attention. In front of
them, standing alone, was the captive. Questions were being asked and answered
in a language Demetrius could not understand. He concluded it was Aramaic, for
that was the tongue spoken by the tempestuous crowd on the road. He left his
place and edged around until he was at the extreme right. Now he could see the
profile of the lonely man. Yes, he was wearing the crown of thorns that Popygos
had reported. The blood had run down from his forehead until his face was
streaked with it. His hands were tied. His coat had been pulled back off his
bare shoulders, showing livid whip-welts. Some of them were bleeding. But he
seemed not to be conscious of his injuries. The Procurator's interrogations,
whatever they were, proceeded quietly, the prisoner, with uplifted face, as
quietly answering them in a respectful but self-confident tone. Occasionally a
low dissenting mutter ran through the sullen crowd that stood with eyes
squinted and mouths open to hear the testimony.

So intently had Demetrius been watching the victim's face that he had
barely glanced about. It now occurred to him to look for Marcellus. The front
rank was composed of officers representing the various forts. Paulus was among
them, resolutely erect, but swaying rhythmically. Immediately behind him stood
a single line of troops from Minoa. Marcellus was not to be seen.

Now the Procurator was speaking in a louder voice. It brought an
instant, concerted, angry roar from the civilian audience. Demetrius manoeuvred
to a position where he could get a better view of the judge. Now he saw
Marcellus, standing with the other Legates at the immediate left of the
Procurator. He wondered whether his master really knew what was going on.
Unless someone was at hand to act as interpreter, Marcellus probably had no
notion what all this was about. Demetrius knew the exact meaning of the
slightest expression on his master's face. At the moment, it conveyed a good
deal of bewilderment, and about the same amount of boredom. It was evident that
Marcellus wished he were somewhere else.

Procurator Pilate seemed confused. The hostile attitude of his
influential audience had rattled him. He turned aside and gave an order to one
of the guards, who retired within the wide doorway. Presently he was back with
a huge silver basin. Pilate dipped his hands in it, and flicked water from his
fingers. The crowd roared again, but this time it was a cry of vengeful
triumph. It was clear that a decision had been made: equally apparent that the
decision had satisfied the prosecution. Now Demetrius understood what was meant
by the pantomime with the basin. Pilate was washing his hands of the case. The
people were to have their way, but they were to consider themselves responsible
for the judgment. As for the Procurator, he didn't care to have the prisoner's
blood on his hands. Demetrius felt that his master would undoubtedly
understand. Even if he knew nothing about the case, he would know that Pilate
had made a decision against his own inclinations.

Now Pilate had turned to Marcellus, who had stepped forward saluting.
There was a brief, inaudible colloquy. Marcellus bowed in acknowledgment of an
order, saluted again; and, descending the steps, approached Paulus and gave him
some instructions. Paulus barked a command, and the Minoa contingent advanced,
formed a line by twos, and executed a smart right-about. Led by Marcellus, with
Paulus to the immediate rear of him, the troops marched through the crowd that
opened a passage for them. One soldier of the final pair paused to grasp the
dangling rope that bound the condemned man's hands. It was a rough and
apparently unanticipated jerk, for it nearly lifted the prisoner off his feet.
The legionaries were marching with long strides.

Not many of the crowd fell in behind the procession. Most of them
gathered in muttering little groups, wagging their beards in sour satisfaction.
Demetrius wondered what was to be the fate of this Jesus. He had received the
death penalty; no question about that. Nothing less would have appeased the
people. He would probably be taken to the courtyard of some prison to face a
detachment of archers. On the other side of the street, a small company of
pale-faced, poorly dressed, badly frightened men from the country seemed trying
to decide whether to follow. After a moment, a few of them did; but they were
in no hurry to catch up. These people were undoubtedly Jesus' friends. It was a
pity, Demetrius thought, that they had acted so meanly. The man surely deserved
a more loyal support.

Undecided whether to trail along after the procession or wait at the
barracks for his master's return, Demetrius stood for some time irresolute.
Presently Melas joined him, grinning feebly.

'What are they going to do with him?' inquired Demetrius, unsteadily.

'Crucify him,' said Melas.

'Crucify him!' Demetrius's voice was husky. 'Why--he hasn't done
anything to deserve a death like that!'

'Maybe not,' agreed Melas, 'but that's the order. My guess is that the
Procurator didn't want to have it done, and thinks it may stir up some trouble
for him. That's why he gave Minoa the job; didn't want his own legion mixed up
in it. Minoa is pretty far away, and a tough lot.' Melas chuckled. He was glad
to belong to a tough lot. Minoa didn't mind a little brutality.

'Are you going along with them?' asked Demetrius.

Melas scowled and shook his head.

'No--nothing for me to do there. Had you thought of going? It's not a
very pretty business: I can tell you that! I saw it done--once--over in Gaul.
Soldier stabbed his Centurion. They nailed him up for that. It took all day.
You could hear him cry for half a league. The big black birds came before he
died and--'

Demetrius shook his head, made a gesture of protest, and swallowed
convulsively. Melas grinned and spat awkwardly. Then he turned and started
ambling slowly back toward the barracks, leaving Demetrius standing there
debating with himself what to do.

After a while he moved along woodenly after Melas. Reaching his master's
silent and empty quarters, he sat down and tried to compose himself. His heart
was beating so hard it made his head ache.