THE ROBE (67 page)

Marcellus stepped out into the peristyle, frowning thoughtfully. It was
an unexpectedly lavish reception he was having at the hands of the Emperor. His
rank entitled him to certain courtesies, but the attention he was receiving
needed a better explanation. It was flattering enough, but perplexing.
Demetrius had arrived now, and the porters had brought the luggage. The
Chamberlain came out to announce that the Tribune's bath was ready.

'And at your convenience, sir,' added Nevius, 'the daughter of Gallus
will receive you--in the garden at her villa.'

They had offered to conduct him, but Marcellus preferred to go alone
after receiving general directions. Diana's villa! And what did Diana want with
a villa--at Capri? Or did she want a villa? Or was it the old man's idea?

He was approaching it now, involuntarily slowing his steps as he
marvelled at its grace and symmetry. It was a large house, but conveyed no
impression of massiveness. The Doric columns of the portico were not ponderous;
the carving on the lintel was light and lacy. It was an immense doll's house,
suggestive of something an ingenious confectioner might have made of white
sugar.

A guard met him on the tessellated pavement and led the way in and
through the unfurnished atrium, ceiled with blue in which gold stars were set;
and on to the peristyle where many workmen glanced down from the scaffoldings
with casual interest in the guest. Beyond lay the indications of a terraced
garden. Pointing to the pergola that was on the southern rim of the plateau,
the guard retraced his steps and Marcellus proceeded with lengthened stride,
full of happy anticipation.

Diana was leaning against the marble balustrade, looking out upon the
sea. Sensitive to his coming, perhaps hearing his footsteps, she slowly turned
about; and, resting her elbows on the broad stone railing, waited his approach
with a sober, wide-eyed stare which Marcellus easily interpreted. She was
wondering--and with deep apprehension--whether he had fully recovered from his
mental sickness; whether there would be constraint in their meeting. Her eyes
were a little frightened, and she involuntarily pressed the back of her hand
against her lips.

Marcellus had no time to regard the attractive costume she wore, the
gracefully draped white silk stola with the deep crimson border at the throat,
the slashed sleeves loosely clasped with gold buttons, the wide, tightly bound
girdle about the hips, the pearl-beaded crimson coronet that left a fringe of
black curls on her white forehead--but Diana was an enchanting picture. She had
developed into a mature woman in his absence. In his recollections of her,
Diana was a beautiful girl. Sometimes he had wondered, when abroad, whether he
might have idealized her too extravagantly; but now she was far more lovely
than he had remembered. His happiness shone in his face.

Slowly she advanced to meet him, tall and regal in the caressing lines
of the white stola, her full lips parting in a tentative smile that was gaining
confidence with every step. She extended her hands, as he neared her, still
studying him with a yearning hope.

'Diana!' he exclaimed hopefully. 'Dearest Diana!' Grasping her hands, he
smiled ecstatically into her uplifted eyes.

'Have you really come back to me, Marcellus?' she murmured.

He drew her closer and she came confidently into his arms, reached up her
hand and laid her palm gently on his cheek. Her long lashes slowly closed and
Marcellus tenderly kissed her eyes. Her hand moved softly around his neck,
suddenly tightening, almost fiercely, as his lips touched hers. She drew a
quick, involuntary breath, and raced his heart with her unrestrained answer to
his kiss. For a long moment they clung to each other, deeply stirred.

'You are adorable!' whispered Marcellus, fervently.

With a contented sigh, Diana childishly snuggled her face against his
breast while he held her tightly to him. She was trembling. Then, slowly
disengaging herself from his arms, she looked up into his face with misty,
smiling eyes.

'Come, let us sit down,' she said softly. 'We have much to talk about.'
The timbre of her voice had altered too. It had deepened and matured.

Marcellus followed her graceful figure to the marble lectus that gave an
entrancing view of the sea, and they sat, Diana facing him with a brooding
concern.

'Have you seen the Emperor?' she asked; and when he shook his head
absently--as if seeing the Emperor was a matter of small importance--she said,
soberly, 'Somehow I wish you didn't have to talk with him. You know how
eccentric he has been; his curiosity about magic and miracles and stars and
spirits--and such things. Lately he has been completely obsessed. His health is
failing. He doesn't want to talk about anything else but metaphysical things.'

'That's not surprising,' commented Marcellus, reaching for her hand.

'Sometimes, all day long and far into the night,' she went on, in that
new, deep register that made every word sound confidential, 'he tortures his
poor old head with these matters, while his queer sages sit in a circle about
his bed, delivering long harangues to which he tries to listen--as if it were his
duty.'

'Perhaps he is preparing his mind for death,' surmised Marcellus.

Diana nodded with cloudy eyes.

'He has been impatient for your return, Marcellus. He seems to think
that you may tell him something new. These old men!' She flung them away with a
scornful gesture. 'They exhaust him; they exasperate him; and they impose upon
him--cruelly! That horrible old Dodinius, who reads oracles, is the worst of
the lot. Always, at the Feast of the New Moon, he slaughters a sheep, and
performs some silly ceremonies, and pretends he has had a revelation. I don't
know how.'

'They count the warts on the sheep's underpinning, I think,' recalled
Marcellus, 'and they examine the entrails. If a certain kink in an intestine
points east, the answer is "Yes"--and the fee is five hundred
sesterces.'

'Well'--Diana dismissed the details with a slim hand--'however it is
accomplished, dirty old Dodinius does it; and they say he has occasionally made
a true prediction. If the weather is going to be stormy, he always knows it
before anyone else.'

'Perhaps he feels the change in his creaking hinges,' suggested
Marcellus.

'You're a confirmed sceptic, Marcellus.' She gave him a sidelong glance
that played at rebuking him. 'There should be no frivolous comments about these
holy men. Dodinius's best forecast was when he discovered that Annaeus Seneca
was still living, next day after the report had come that the old poet was
dead. How he divined that, the gods only know; but it was true that Seneca had
drifted into a deathlike coma from which he recovered--as you know.'

'You don't suppose he hired Seneca to play dead?' ventured Marcellus,
with a chuckle.

'My dear, if Annaeus Seneca wanted to connive with somebody, it wouldn't
be an old dolt like Dodinius,' Diana said with conviction. Dropping the
badinage, she grew serious. 'About ten days ago, it was revealed to him--so he
insists--that the Emperor is going to live forever. He hasn't found it easy to
convince the Emperor, for there is quite a lot of precedent to overcome; but
you will find His Majesty immensely curious about this subject. He wants to
believe Dodinius; sends for him, first thing in the morning, to come and tell
him again all about the revelation, and Dodinius, the unscrupulous old reptile,
reassures him that there can be no doubt of it. Isn't that a dreadful way to
torment the Emperor in his last days when he should be allowed to die in
peace?'

Marcellus, with eyes averted, nodded non-committally.

'Sometimes, my dear'--Diana impulsively leaned forward, shaking her head
in despair--'it makes me hot with shame and loathing that I have to live here
surrounded by these tiresome men who fatten on frauds! All one ever hears, on
this mad island, is a jumble of atrocious nonsense that no healthy person, in
his right mind, would give a second thought to! And now--as if the poor old
Emperor hadn't heard enough of such stupid prattle--Dodinius is trying to
persuade him to live forever.'

Marcellus made no comment on that; sat frowningly gazing out on the sea.
Presently he stirred, returned, and put his arm about her shoulders.

'I don't know what you have come to tell the Emperor, Marcellus,'
continued Diana, yielding to his caress, 'but I do know it will be honest. He
will want to know what you think of this crazy notion that Dodinius has put
into his head. This may call for some tact.'

'Have you any suggestion?' asked Marcellus.

'You will know what to say, I think. Tiberius is a worn-out old man. And
he certainly doesn't look very heroic. But there was a time when he was brave
and strong. Perhaps, if you remind him, he will be able to remember. He wasn't
afraid to die when he was vigorous and had something to live for.' Diana
lightly traced a pattern on Marcellus's forearm with her finger-tips. 'Why
should that weary old man want to live forever? One would think he should be
glad enough to put his burden down, and leave all these scheming courtiers and
half-witted prophets, and find his peace in oblivion.'

Marcellus bent over her and kissed her lips, and was thrilled by her
warm response.

'I love you, dear!' he declared, passionately.

'Then take me away from here,' she whispered. 'Take me somewhere where
nobody is insane--and nobody talks metaphysical rubbish--and nobody cares about
the future--or the past--or anything but just now!' She hugged him closer to
her. 'Will you, Marcellus? The Emperor wants us to live here. That's what this
horrible villa is about.' Diana's voice trembled. 'I can't stay here! I can't!
I shall go mad!' She put her lips close to his ear. 'Let us try to slip away.
Can't we bribe a boat?'

'No, darling,' protested Marcellus. 'I shall take you away, but not as a
fugitive. We must bide our time. We don't want to be exiles.'

'Why not?' demanded Diana. 'Let us go to some place, far, far away, and
have a little house--and a little garden, close by a stream--and live in
peace.'

'It is a beautiful picture, dear,' he agreed, 'but you would soon be
lonely and restless; and besides, I have some important work to do that can't
be done--in a peaceful garden. And then, too, there are our families to
consider.'

Diana relaxed in his arms, earnestly thinking.

'I'll be patient,' she promised, 'but don't let it be too long. I am not
safe here.'

'Not safe!' exclaimed Marcellus. 'What are you afraid of?'

Before she could reply, they both started, and drew apart, at the sound
of footsteps. Glancing towards the villa, Marcellus saw the guard approaching
who had directed him to the pergola.

'Tiberius is too feeble and preoccupied to be of any protection to me,'
said Diana, in a low voice. 'The Empress is having more and more to say about
our life here on this dreadful island. Gaius comes frequently to confer with
her--'

'Has that swine been annoying you?' broke in Marcellus.

'I have managed to avoid being alone with him,' said Diana, 'but old
Julia is doing her utmost to--'

The guard had halted, a little distance away.

'Yes, Acteus?' inquired Diana, turning toward him.

'The Emperor is ready to receive Tribune Marcellus Gallio,' said the
guard deferentially.

'Very well,' nodded Marcellus. 'I shall come at once.'

The guard saluted and marched stiffly away.

'When and where do we meet, dear?' asked Marcellus, rising reluctantly.
'At dinner, perhaps?'

'Not likely. The Emperor will want to have you all to himself this
evening. Send me a message--to my suite at the Jovis--when you are at liberty.
If it is not too late, I may join you in the atrium. Otherwise, let us meet
here in the pergola, early in the morning.' Diana held out her hand and
Marcellus kissed it tenderly.

'Does this Acteus belong to you?' he asked.

Diana shook her head.

'I brought only two maids from home,' she said. 'All the others who
attend me belong here. Acteus is a member of the guard at the Jovis. He follows
me about wherever I go.'

'Is he to be trusted?' asked Marcellus, anxiously.

Diana shrugged--and smiled doubtfully.

'How can one tell who is to be trusted in this hotbed of conspiracy?
Acteus is respectful and obliging. Whether he would take any risks in my
behalf, I don't know. Whether he is now on his way to tell old Julia that he saw
you kiss me, I don't know. I shouldn't care to bet much on it, either way.'
Diana rose, and slipped her arm through his. 'Go, now,' she whispered. 'The
poor old man will be waiting, and he is not patient. Come to me--when you can.'

Marcellus took her in his arms and kissed her.

'I shall be thinking of nothing else,' he murmured, 'but you!'

The last time Marcellus had seen the Emperor--and that at a considerable
distance--was on the opening day of the Ludi Florales, eleven years ago.
Indeed, it was the last time that anyone had seen him at a public celebration.

His recollection was of an austere, greying man, of rugged features and
massive frame, who paid but scant attention to the notables surrounding him in
the imperial box, and even less to the spectacles in the arena.

Marcellus had not been surprised at the glum detachment of this
dour-faced man; for it was generally known that Tiberius, who had always
detested crowds and the extravagance of festivals, was growing alarmingly
morose. Elderly men, like Senator Gallio, who could remember the wanton
profligacy of Augustus, and had rejoiced in the Tiberian economies which had
brought an unprecedented prosperity to Rome, viewed the Emperor's increasing
moodiness with sympathetic regret. The younger generation, not quite so
appreciative of the monarch's solid virtures, had begun to think him a sour and
stingy old spoil-sport, and earnestly wished he would die.

Tiberius had not fully accommodated them in this respect, but he had
done the next thing to it; for, not long afterwards, he had taken up his
residence on Capri, where his subsequent remoteness from the active affairs of
government was almost equivalent to an abdication.

That had been a long time ago; and as Marcellus, in full uniform, sat in
the spacious, gloomy atrium, waiting to be summoned into the imperial
bedchamber, he prepared his mind for the sight of a very old man. But nobody
could prepare himself for an interview with this old man who, on first sight,
seemed to have so little of life left in him; but, when stirred, was able to
mobilize some surprisingly powerful reserves of mental and physical vigour.

The Emperor was propped up on his pillows, an indistinct figure, for the
sun was setting and the huge room was full of shadows. Nothing appeared to be
alive in the massive bed but the cavernous eyes that had met Marcellus at the
door and accompanied him through the room to the straight-backed chair. The
face in the pillows was a scaffolding of bulging bones thinly covered with
wrinkled parchment. The neck was scrawny and yellow. Under the sparse white
hair at Tiberius's sunken temple a dogged artery beat slow but hard, like the
tug of an exhausted oar at the finish of a long race. The bony hand that
pointed to the chair--which had been drawn up uncomfortably close to the
bedside--resembled the claw of an old eagle.

'Your Majesty!' murmured Marcellus, bowing deeply.

'Sit down!' rumbled Tiberius, testily. 'We hope you have learned
something about that haunted robe!' He paused to wheeze asthmatically. 'You
have been gone long enough to have found the river Styx--and the Jews' Garden
of Eden! Perhaps you rode home on the Trojan Horse, with the Golden Fleece for
a saddle-blanket!'

The old man turned his head to note the effects of his acidulous drollery,
and Marcellus--thinking that the Emperor might want his dry humour
appreciated--risked a smile.

'Funny, is it?' grumbled Tiberius.

'Not if Your Majesty is serious,' replied Marcellus, soberly.

'We are always serious, young man!' Digging a sharp elbow into his
pillow, the Emperor drew himself closer to the edge of the bed. 'Your father
had a long tale about the crucifixion of a mad Galilean in Jerusalem. That
fellow Pilate--who forever gets himself into trouble with the Jews--ordered you
to crucify this fanatic, and it went to your head.' The old man licked his dry
lips. 'By the way--how is your head now?'

'Quite well, Your Majesty,' responded Marcellus, brightly.

'Humph! That's what every crazy man thinks. The crazier he is, the
better he feels.' Tiberius grinned unpleasantly, as one fool to another, and
added, 'Perhaps you think your Emperor is crazy.'

'Crazy men do not jest, sire,' parried Marcellus.

Tiberius screwed up a mouth that looked like the neck of an old, empty
coin-purse, and frowningly cogitated on this comforting thought.

'How do you know they don't?' he demanded. 'You haven't seen all of
them--and there are no two alike. But'--suddenly irritable--'why do you waste
the Emperor's time with such prattle? Be on with your story! But wait! It has
come to our ears that your Greek slave assaulted the son of old Tuscus with his
bare hands. Is this true?'

'Yes, Your Majesty,' admitted Marcellus, 'it is true. There was great
provocation; but that does not exonerate my slave, and I deeply regret the incident.'

'You're a liar!' muttered Tiberius. 'Now we shall believe nothing you
say! But tell us that story first.'

The malicious old eyes grew brighter as Marcellus obediently reported
the extraordinary episode under the trees at the House of Eupolis, and by the
time Quintus had been unrecognizably disfigured by the Greek's infuriated fists
the Emperor was up on one elbow, his face beaming.

'And you still have this slave?' barked Tiberius. 'He should have been
put to death! What will you take for him?'

'I should not like to sell him, sir; but I shall gladly lend him to Your
Majesty, for as long as--'

'Long as we live, eh?' rasped the old man. 'A few weeks, eh? Perhaps we
may live longer! Perhaps your Emperor may never die!' The lean chin jutted
forward challengingly. 'Is that silly?'

'It is possible for a man to live forever,' declared Marcellus.