THE ROBE (22 page)

'The Tribune had a very unhappy experience, the day before we sailed.'
Demetrius was speaking slowly, measuring his words. 'It is too long a story to
tell you now, for my master is at the wharf awaiting me. He has been deeply
depressed and is not yet fully recovered. He did not sleep well on the ship.'

'Stormy weather?' suggested Lucia.

'A smooth sea,' went on Demetrius, evenly. 'But my master did not sleep
well; and he ate but little.'

'Was the food palatable?'

'No worse than food usually is on ships, but my master did not eat; and
therefore he suffers of weakness. . . . May I go quickly now--and get the large
carriage for him?'

'Demetrius, you are trying to spare me, I think.' Lucia challenged his
eyes with a demand for the whole truth.

'Your brother,' said Demetrius, deliberately, 'is moody. He prefers not
to talk much, but does not like to be left alone.'

'But he did want to come home, didn't he?' asked Lucia, wistfully.

'Your brother,' replied Demetrius, gloomily, 'does not want
anything.'
He glanced up the driveway, restlessly. 'Shall I go now?'

Lucia nodded, and Demetrius, saluting with his spear, turned to go. She
moved forward and fell into step with him. He lagged to walk behind her. She
slowed her pace. He stopped.

'Please precede me,' he suggested, gently. 'It is not well that a slave
should walk beside his master's sister.'

'It is a stupid rule!' flashed Lucia.

'But--a
rule!'
Demetrius's impatience had sharpened his tone.
Instantly he saw that he had offended her. Her cheeks were aflame and her eyes
were swimming. 'I am sorry,' he murmured, contritely. 'I did not mean to hurt
you.'

'It was my fault,' she admitted. Turning abruptly, she led the way with
long, determined steps. After they had proceeded for a little way in silence,
Lucia, her eyes straight ahead, declared bitterly, 'I hate this whole business
of slavery!'

'I don't care much for it myself,' rejoined Demetrius, dryly.

It was the first time he had been amused for nearly two months.
Half-turning suddenly, Lucia caught him in a broad grin. Her lips curved into a
fleeting, reluctant smile. Squaring her shapely shoulders, she quickened her
swinging stride and marched on. Demetrius lengthening his steps as he followed,
stirred by the rhythm of her graceful carriage.

She paused where the driveway divided to serve the great house and the
stables. Demetrius stood at attention.

'Tell me truly,' she begged, in a tone that disposed of his slavery, 'is
Marcellus's mind affected?'

Demetrius accepted his temporary freedom and spoke without constraint.

'Marcellus has had a severe shock. Perhaps he will improve, now that he
is back home. He will make an effort to show his interest, I think. He has
promised me that much. But you must not be startled if he stops talking--in the
middle of a remark--and seems to forget what you were talking about. And then,
after a long wait, he will suddenly ask you a question--always the same
question--' Demetrius averted his eyes, and seemed unwilling to proceed
further.

'What is the question,' insisted Lucia.

'He will say, "Were you out there?"'

'Out where?' she asked, frowning mystifiedly.

Demetrius shook his head and winced.

'I shall not try to explain that,' he said. 'But when he asks you if you
were out there, you are to say, "No!" Don't ask him,
"Where?" Just say, "No!" And then he will recover quickly,
and seem relieved. At least, that was the way the conversation went when we
were on the
Vestris.
Sometimes he would talk quite freely with the Captain,
almost as if nothing was the matter. Then he would suddenly lose interest and
retreat inside himself. Then he would inquire, "Were you out there?"
And Captain Fulvius would say, "No." Then Marcellus would be pleased,
and say, "Of course--you weren't there. That is good. You should be
glad."'

'Did the Captain know what he was talking about?' inquired Lucia.

Demetrius nodded, rather grudgingly, she thought.

'Why can't you tell me?' Her tone was almost intimate.

'It's--it's a long story,' he stammered. 'Perhaps I may tell you,
sometime.'

She took a step nearer, and lowering her voice almost to a whisper,
asked, 'Were
you
"out there"?'

He nodded reluctantly, avoiding her eyes. Then, impetuously abandoning
the last shred of reserve, he spoke on terms of equality.

'Don't question him, Lucia. Treat him exactly as you have always done.
Talk to him about anything--except Jerusalem. Be careful not to touch this sore
spot. Maybe it will heal. I don't know. It's very deep and painful, this mental
wound.'

Her cheeks had flushed a little. Demetrius had made full use of the
liberty she had given him: he had spoken her name. Well, why not? Who had a
better right? They all owed much to this devoted slave.

'Thanks, Demetrius,' she said, gently. 'It was good of you to tell me
what to do.'

At that, he abruptly terminated his brief parole, snapped to a stiff
military posture, looked through her without seeing her as he made a
ceremonious salute, then turned, and marched away. Lucia stood for a moment,
indecisively, watching his dignified retreat with softened eyes.

For the first hour after his arrival, it was difficult to reconcile
Marcellus's behaviour and his slave's warning. Parting from Demetrius, Lucia
had hurried upstairs with the appalling news, and before she had finished
devastating her mother with these sad tidings of her brother's predicament, her
father had returned. There was little to be said. They were awed, stunned. It
was as if they had learned of Marcellus's death, and were waiting for his body to
be brought home.

It was a happy surprise, therefore, when he entered breezily with
unusually affectionate greetings. True, he was alarmingly thin and his face was
haggard; but good food and plenty of rest (boomed Father, confidently) would
quickly restore him to full weight and vitality. As for his mental condition,
Demetrius's report had been wholly incorrect. What, indeed, had ailed the
fellow--to frighten them with the announcement that his master was moody and
depressed? Quite the contrary, Marcellus had never been so animated!

Without pausing to change after his journey, he had seemed delightfully
eager to talk. In his mother's private parlour, they had drawn their chairs
close together, at his suggestion, though Marcellus had not sat down himself.
He had paced about, like a caged animal, talking rapidly with an almost
boisterous exuberance, pausing to toy with trifles on his mother's table,
halting to peer out at the window, but continuing to chatter about the ship,
the ports of call, the aridity of Gaza, the crude life at Minoa. Under normal
conditions, the family might have surmised that he had had too much wine. It
wasn't like Marcellus to talk so incessantly, or so fast. But they were glad
enough that it wasn't the other thing! He was excited over his home-coming;
that was all. They listened attentively, their eyes shining. They laughed gaily
at his occasional drolleries and cheered him on.

'Do sit down, boy!' his mother had urged, tenderly, at his first full
stop. 'You're tired. Don't wear yourself out.'

So Marcellus had sat down, in the very middle of a stirring story about
the bandits who infested the old salt trail, and his voice had become less
strident. He continued talking, but more slowly, pausing to grope for the right
word. Presently his forced gaiety acknowledged his fatigue, and he
stopped--quite suddenly, too, as if he had been interrupted. For an instant his
widened eyes and concentrated expression made him appear to have seen or heard
something that had commanded his full attention. They watched him with silent
curiosity, their hearts beating hard.

'What is it, Marcellus?' asked his mother, trying to steady her voice.
'Would you like a drink of water?'

He tried unsuccessfully to smile, and almost imperceptibly shook his
head, as the brightness faded from his eyes. The room was very quiet.

'Perhaps you had better lie down, my son,' his father suggested, trying
hard to sound casual.

Marcellus seemed not to have heard that. For a little while his
breathing was laborious. His hands twitched, and he slowly clenched them until
the thin knuckles whitened. Then the seizure passed, leaving him sagged and
spiritless. He nervously rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. Then he
slowly turned his pathetically sad face toward his father, stared at him
curiously, and gave a long, shuddering sigh.

'Were you--were you out there, sir?' he asked, weakly.

'No, my son.' It was the thin voice of an old, old man.

Marcellus made a self-deprecating little chuckle, and shook his head, as
if decrying his own foolishness. He glanced about with an attempted smile,
vaguely searching their eyes for an opinion of this strange behaviour. He
swallowed noisily.

'Of course you weren't,' he said, disgusted with himself. 'You have been
here, all the time; haven't you?' Then he added, in a tired voice, 'I think I
should go to bed now, Mother.'

'I think so too,' said his mother, softly. She had made an earnest
effort not to let him see how seriously she had been affected, but at the sight
of his drooping head, she put both hands over her eyes and sobbed. Marcellus
looked toward her pleadingly, and sighed.

'Will you call Demetrius, Lucia?' he asked, wearily.

She stepped to the door, thinking to send Tertia, but it was
unnecessary. Demetrius, who obviously had been waiting in the corridor, just
outside the door, entered noiselessly and assisted his master to his feet.

'I'll see you--all--in the morning,' mumbled Marcellus. He leaned
heavily on his slave as they left the room. Lucia made a little moan and
slipped away quietly. The Senator bowed his head in his hands, and was silent.

Marcus Lucan Gallio had not made a quick and easy decision when he
resolved to have a confidential, man-to-man conference with Demetrius. The
Senator punctiliously practised the same sort of justice in dealing with his
slaves as he had ever proudly observed in his relations with freedmen; but he
also believed in firm discipline for them. Sometimes it annoyed him when he
observed a little gesture of affection--almost a caress, indeed!--in Lucia's
attitude toward Tertia; and on a couple of occasions (though this was a long
time ago) he had had to remind his son that the way to have a good slave was to
help him keep his place.

Gallio had an immense respect for Marcellus's handsome and loyal Corinthian.
He would have trusted him anywhere and with anything, but he had never departed
from the inexorable line which he felt should be drawn, straight and candid,
between master and slave. It had now come to pass that he must invite Demetrius
to step across that social boundary; for how else could he hope to get the full
truth about the circumstances which had made such sad havoc of his son's mind?

Two days had passed, Marcellus remaining in his room. Gallio had gone up
several times to see him, and had been warmly but shyly welcomed. A disturbing
constraint on Marcellus's part, a forced amiability, an involuntary shrinking
away from a compassionate contact lest it inadvertently touch some painfully
sensitive lesion--these strange retreats, in pathetic combination with an
obvious wish to show a filial affection, constituted a baffling situation.
Gallio didn't know how to talk with Marcellus about it; feared he might say the
wrong thing. No, Demetrius had the key to it. He must make Demetrius talk. In
the middle of the afternoon, he sent for him to come to the library.

Demetrius entered and stood at attention before Gallio's desk.

'I wish to have a serious talk with you, Demetrius, about my son. I am
greatly disturbed. I shall be grateful to you for a full account of whatever it
is that distresses him.' The Senator pointed to the chair opposite his desk.
'You may sit down, if you like. Perhaps you will be more comfortable.'

'Thank you, sir,' said Demetrius, respectfully. 'I shall be more
comfortable standing, if you please, sir.'

'As you choose,' said Gallio, rather curtly. 'It occurred to me that you
might be able to speak more freely, more naturally, if you sat.'

'No, sir, thank you,' said Demetrius. 'I am not accustomed to sitting in
the presence of my betters. I can speak more naturally on my feet.'

'Sit down!' snapped Gallio. 'I don't want you towering over me,
answering questions in stiff monosyllables. This is a life-and-death matter! I
want you to tell me everything I ought to know--without reserve!'

Demetrius laid his heavy metal-studded leather shield on the floor,
stood his spear against a pillar, and sat down.

'Now, then!' said Gallio. 'Let's have it! What ails my son?'

'My master was ordered to bring a detachment of legionaries to
Jerusalem. It was a custom, during the annual festival of the Jews, for
representations from the various Palestinian forts to assemble at the
Procurator's Insula, presumably to keep order, for the city was crowded with
all sorts.'

'Pontius Pilate is the Prefect of Jerusalem: is that not true?'

'Yes, sir. He is called the Procurator. There is another provincial
governor residing in Jerusalem.'

'Ah--I remember. A vain fellow--Herod. A rascal.'

'Doubtless,' murmured Demetrius.

'Jealous of Pilate, I am told.'

'No one should be jealous of Pilate, sir. He permits the Temple to
dictate to him. At least he did, in the case I must speak of.'

'The one that concerns my son?' Gallio leaned forward on his folded arms
and prepared to listen attentively.

'May I inquire, sir, whether you ever heard of the Messiah?'

'No. What is that?'

'For hundreds of years the Jews have been expecting a great hero to rise
and liberate them. He is their promised Messiah. On these yearly feast-weeks,
the more fanatical among them are on the alert, thinking he may appear.
Occasionally they have thought they had found the right man--but nothing much
ever came of it. This time--' Demetrius paused, thoughtfully, stared out of the
open window, and neglected to finish the sentence.