Authors: Unknown
THE ROBE (17 page)
Then he rose and found a drink of water. It occurred to him that
Marcellus too might want a drink before this dreadful business was over. He
filled a small jug, and started; walking slowly, for he didn't want to go.
Ever since he had looked into this Jesus' eyes, Demetrius had thought of
him as the lonely man whom nobody understood; not even his close friends.
To-day he would be a lonely man indeed.
One of the Insula's ten companies was absent from inspection. Marcellus
noticed the diminished strength of the Procurator's Legion, but thought little
of it. Whatever might be the nature of the business that had called out these
troops so early in the day, it was of no concern to Minoa.
But when Julian, the Capernaum Commander who was taking his turn as
officer of the day, glumly announced that the customary parade was cancelled
and that all the legionaries would return to their barracks to await further orders,
Marcellus's curiosity was stirred. Returning to his quarters, he sent for
Paulus, confident that this ever-active fountain of gossip could explain the
mystery.
After a considerable delay, the Centurion drifted in unsteadily with
flushed cheeks and bloodshot eyes. His Commander regarded him with unconcealed
distaste and pointed to a chair into which the dazed and untidy Paulus lowered
himself gently.
'Do you know what's going on?' inquired Marcellus.
'The Procurator,' mumbled Paulus, 'has had a bad night.'
'So have you, from all appearances,' observed Marcellus, frostily. 'What
has been happening--if it isn't a secret?'
'Pilate is in trouble.' Paulus's tongue was clumsy, and he chewed over
his words slowly. 'He is in trouble with everybody. He is even in trouble with
good old Julian, who says that if the man is a Galilean, Capernaum should have
been detailed to police the trial at Herod's court.'
'Would you be good enough to tell me what you are talking about?' rasped
Marcellus. 'What man? What trial? Begin at the beginning, and pretend I don't
know anything about it.'
Paulus yawned prodigiously, scrubbed his watery eyes with shaky fingers,
and began to spin a long, involved yarn about last night's experiences. An
imprudent carpenter from somewhere up in Galilee had been tried for disturbing
the peace and exciting the people to revolt. A few days ago, he had become
violent in the Temple, chasing the sacrificial animals out into the street,
upsetting the money-tills, and loudly condemning the holy place as a den of
robbers. 'A true statement, no doubt,' commented Paulus, 'but not very polite.'
'The fellow must be crazy,' remarked Marcellus.
Paulus pursed his swollen lips judicially and shook his head.
'Something peculiar about this man,' he muttered. 'They arrested him
last night. They've had him up before old Annas, who used to be the High
Priest; and Caiaphas, the present High Priest; and Pilate, and Herod, and--'
'You seem to know a lot about it,' broke in Marcellus.
Paulus grinned sheepishly.
'A few of us were seeing the holy city by moonlight,' he confessed.
'Shortly after midnight we ran into this mob and went along with them. It was
the only entertainment to be had. We were a bit tight, sir, if you'll believe
it.'
'I believe it,' said Marcellus. 'Go on, please, with whatever you can
remember.'
'Well, we went to the trials. As I have said, we were not in prime
condition to understand what was going on, and most of the testimony was
shouted in Aramaic. But it was clear enough that the Temple crowd and the merchants
were trying to have the man put to death.'
'For what had happened at the Temple?'
'Yes, for that, and for going about the country gathering up big crowds
to hear him talk.'
'About what?'
'A new religion. I was talking with one of Pilate's legionaries who
understands the language. He said this Jesus was urging the country people to
adopt a religion that doesn't have much to do with the Temple. Some of the
testimony was rubbish. One fellow swore the Galilean had said that if the
Temple were torn down he could put it up again in three days. Stuff like that!
Of course, all they want is a conviction. Any sort of testimony is good
enough.'
'Where does the matter stand now?' asked Marcellus.
'I got more than enough of it at Herod's court, and came back before
daybreak; dead on my feet. They had just decided to have another trial before
Pilate, directly after breakfast. They are probably at the Insula now. Pilate
will have to give them what they want, and'--Paulus hesitated, and then
continued grimly--'what they want is a crucifixion. I heard them talking about
it.'
'Shall we go over there?' queried Marcellus.
'I've had enough, sir, if you'll excuse me.' Paulus rose with an effort
and ambled uncertainly across the room. In the doorway he confronted a sentinel,
garbed in the Insula uniform, who saluted stiffly.
'The Procurator's compliments,' he barked, in a metallic tone. 'The
ranking officers and a detachment of twenty men from the Minoa Legion will
attend immediately in the Procurator's court.' With another ceremonious salute,
he backed out and strutted down the corridor, without waiting for a reply.
'I wonder what Pilate wants of us,' reflected Marcellus, uneasily,
searching the Centurion's apprehensive eyes.
'I think I can guess,' growled Paulus. 'Pilate doesn't confer honours on
Minoa. He's going to detail us to do something too dirty and dangerous for the
local troops; doesn't want his precious legion mixed up in it. The Minoa
contingent will be leaving tomorrow. If any trouble results, we will be out of
reach.' He hitched up his belt and left the room. Marcellus stood irresolute
for a moment and followed, intending to ask Paulus to order out the detachment.
Through the half-open door to the Centurion's quarters, he saw him greedily
gulping from an enormous cup. He strode angrily into the room.
'If I were you, Paulus,' he said, sternly, 'I shouldn't drink any more
at present. You've already had much too much.'
'If I were you,' retorted Paulus, recklessly, 'I would take as much of
this as I could hold!' He took a couple of uncertain steps toward Marcellus,
and faced him with brazen audacity. 'You're going to crucify a man to-day!' he
muttered. 'Ever see that done?'
'No.' Marcellus shook his head. 'I don't even know how it is done.
You'll have to tell me.'
Paulus carefully picked his way back to the table where the
grotesquely-shaped wineskin sat. Refilling the big cup, he handed it, dripping,
to his Commander.
'I'll show you--when we get there,' he said huskily. 'Drink that! All of
it! If you don't, you'll wish you had. What we're going to do is not a job for
a sober man.'
Marcellus, unprotesting, took the cup and drank.
'It isn't only that the thing is sickeningly cruel,' continued Paulus.
'There's something strange about this man. I'd rather not have anything to do
with him.'
'Afraid he'll haunt you?' Marcellus paused at the middle of the cup and
grinned half-heartedly.
'Well, you wait, and see what you think!' murmured Paulus, wagging his
head mysteriously. 'The witnesses said he acted at the Temple as if it were his
own personal property. And that didn't sound as silly as you might think, sir.
At old man Annas's house, I'll be bound if he didn't act as if he owned the
place. At Caiaphas's palace, everybody was on trial--but this Jesus! He was the
only cool man in the crowd at the Insula. He owns that, too. Pilate felt it, I
think. One of the witnesses testified that Jesus had professed to be a king.
Pilate leaned forward, looked him squarely in the face, and said, "Are
you?" Mind, sir, Pilate didn't ask him, "Did you say you were a
king?" He said, "Are you?" And he wasn't trying to be sarcastic,
either.'
'But that's nonsense, Paulus! Your wine-soaked imagination was playing
tricks on you!' Marcellus walked across to the table and poured himself another
cupful. 'You get out the troops,' he ordered, resolutely. 'I hope you'll be
able to stand straight, over at the Insula. You're very drunk, you know.' He
took another long drink, and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. 'So, what
did the Galilean say to that--when Pilate asked him if he was a king?'
'Said he had a kingdom--but not in this world,' muttered Paulus, with a
vague, upward spiralling gesture.
'You're worse than drunk,' accused Marcellus, disgustedly. 'You're
losing your mind. I think you'd better go to bed. I'll report you sick.'
'No, I'm not going to leave you in the lurch, Marcellus.' It was the
first time Paulus had ever addressed the Commander by his given name.
'You're goo' fellow, Paulus,' declared Marcellus, giving him his hand.
He retraced his steps to the wineskin. Paulus followed and took the cup from
his hand.
'You have had just the right amount, sir,' he advised. 'I suggest that
you go now. Pilate will not like it if we are tardy. He has endured about all
he can take, for one morning's dose. I shall order out the detachment, and meet
you over there.'
With a purposely belated start, and after experiencing much difficulty
in learning the way to the place of execution--an outlying field where the
city's refuse was burned--Demetrius did not expect to arrive in time to witness
the initial phase of the crucifixion.
Tardy as he was, he proceeded with reluctant steps; very low in spirit,
weighted with a dejection he had not known since the day of his enslavement.
The years had healed the chain-scars on his wrists: fair treatment at the hands
of the Gallio family had done much to mend his heart: but to-day it seemed that
the world was totally unfit for a civilized man to live in. Every human
institution was loaded with lies. The courts were corrupt. Justice was not to
be had. All rulers, big and little, were purchaseable. Even the temples were
full of deceit. You could call the roll of all the supposed allegiances that
laid claim to the people's respect and reverence, and there wasn't one of them
that hadn't earned the bitter contempt of decent men!
Though accustomed to walk with long strides and clipped steps, Demetrius
slogged along through the dirty streets with the shambling gait of a hopeless,
faithless, worthless vagabond. At times his scornful thoughts almost became
articulate as he passionately reviled every tribunal and judiciary, every crown
and consistory in the whole wide, wicked world. Patriotism! How the poets and
minstrels loved to babble about the high honour of shedding one's blood! Maybe
they, too, had been bought up. Old Horace: maybe Augustus had just sent him a
new coat and a cask of wine when he was inspired to write, 'How sweet and
glorious to die for one's country!' Nonsense! Why should any sane man think it
pleasant or noble to give up his life to save the world? It wasn't fit to live
in; much less to die for! And it was never going to be any better. Here was
this foolhardy Galilean, so thoroughly enraged over the pollution of a holy
place that he had impulsively made an ineffective little gesture of protest.
Doubtless nineteen out of every twenty men in this barren, beaten, beggared
land would inwardly applaud this poor man's reckless courage; but, when it came
to the test, these downtrodden, poverty-cursed nobodies would let this Jesus
stand alone, without one friend, before the official representatives of a
crooked Temple and a crooked Empire.
Loyalty? Why should any man bother himself to be loyal? Let him go out
on his own, and protect himself as well as he was able. Why should you spend
your life following at the heels of a Roman master, who alternately confided in
you and humiliated you? What had you to lose, in self-respect, by abandoning
this aristocrat? It wasn't hard to make one's way to Damascus.
It was a dark day for Demetrius. Even the sky was overcast with leaden,
sullen clouds. The sun had shone brightly at dawn. For the past half-hour an
almost sinister gloom had been thickening.
As he neared the disreputable field, identifiable for some distance, by
the noisome smoke that drifted from its smouldering corruptions, he met many
men walking rapidly back to the city. Most of them were well-fed, well-dressed,
pompous, preoccupied; men of middle age or older, strutting along in single
file, as if each had come alone. These people, surmised Demetrius, were
responsible for the day's crime. It relieved him to feel that the worst of it
was over. They had seen the public assassination to a successful conclusion,
and were now free to return to their banks and bazaars. Some, doubtless, would
go to the Temple and say their prayers.
After the last straggling group of mud hovels had been passed, the
loathsome, garbage-littered field lay before him. He was amazed to see how much
pollution had been conveyed to this place, for the city's streets had not shown
any lack of filth. A fairly clean, narrow path led toward a little knoll that
seemed to have been protected. Demetrius stopped, and looked. On the green
knoll three tall crosses stood in a row. Perhaps it had been decided, as an
afterthought, to execute a couple of the Galilean's friends. Could it be
possible that two among them, crazed by their leader's impending torture, had
attempted to defend him? Hardly: they hadn't had it in them: not the ones he
had seen that day on the road: not the ones he had seen, this morning.
Forcing his unwilling feet, he advanced slowly to within less than a
stadium of the gruesome scene. There he came to a stop. The two unidentified
men were writhing on their crosses. The lonely man on the central cross was
still as a statue. His head hung forward. Perhaps he was dead, or at least
unconscious. Demetrius hoped so.
For a long time he stood there, contemplating this tragic sight. The hot
anger that had almost suffocated him was measurably cooled now. The lonely man
had thrown his life away. There was nothing to show for his audacious courage.
The Temple would continue to cheat the country people who came in to offer a
lamb. Herod would continue to bully and whip the poor if they inconvenienced
the rich. Caiaphas would continue to condemn the blasphemies of men who didn't
want the gods fetched to market. Pilate would deal out injustice--and wash his
dirty hands in a silver bowl. This lonely man had paid a high price for his
brief and fruitless war on wickedness. But--he had spoken: he had acted. By
tomorrow, nobody would remember that he had risked everything--and lost his
life--in the cause of honesty. But perhaps a man was better off dead than in a
world where such an event as this could happen. Demetrius felt very lonely too.
