THE ROBE (74 page)

One afternoon, when fully a score of workers had gathered about him,
Marcellus told them a story about a man he knew in a far-away country, who had
important things to say to poor people with heavy burdens, and how he believed
that a man's life did not consist of the things he owned, and how much
unhappiness could be avoided if men did not covet other men's possessions. If
you want to be happy, make other people happy. He paused, and found himself
looking squarely into Metella's eyes, pleased to see them so softly responsive.

'And what did this Jesus do to make other people happy?' asked an old
man.

Well, in the case of Jesus, Marcellus had explained, he wasn't just an
ordinary man; for he performed remarkable deeds of healing. He could make blind
men see. People had but to touch him, and they were cured of their diseases. It
was dark that evening before the melon-workers trudged up the hill. Reproaching
himself for having detained them so long, Marcellus had said, 'If you want to
hear more stories about Jesus, let us meet tomorrow in the village, after you
have your supper.'

And so it had become a daily event for Marcellus to meet the people of
Arpino on the grassy knoll at the foot of the mountain. He told them of the
great, surging crowds that had followed Jesus; told them, with much detail,
about the miracles, about little Jonathan's foot--and the story of the donkey
that the lad gave to his crippled friend. He told them about Miriam's voice,
and the broken loom that Jesus had mended, and how the woman had woven him a
robe.

They had sat motionless, hardly breathing, until darkness fell. All
Arpino looked forward to these evening stories, and discussed them in the
fields next day. Even Vobiscus came and listened. One evening, Antonia and
Antony appeared at the edge of the crowd while Marcellus was telling them about
the feeding of five thousand people from a small boy's lunch-basket. It was a
story of many moods, and the Arpinos laughed and wept over it. And then there
was the great storm that Jesus had stilled with a soothing word.

'I hear you've been entertaining the people with strange stories,'
remarked Kaeso, next day.

'About a great teacher, sir,' explained Marcellus, 'and his deeds for
the relief of the people in the provinces of Palestine.'

'What kind of deeds?' pursued Kaeso; and when Marcellus had told him a
few of the miracle-stories he said, 'Did this Jesus deal only with the poor?'

'By no means!' said Marcellus. 'He had friends among the rich, and was
frequently invited to their houses. You might be interested, sir, in something
that happened at the home of a wealthy man named Zacchaeus.'

'Divided half of his money among the poor, eh?' remarked Kaeso, when the
story was finished. 'Much thanks he got for that, I suppose.'

'I don't know,' said Marcellus. 'I daresay the only way you could find
out how people would act, in such a case--'

'Divide your money with them--and see, eh?' grumbled Kaeso.

'Well, you might make a little experiment that wouldn't cost quite so
much,' said Marcellus, soberly. 'For example, have Vobiscus pay everybody four
sesterces, instead of three, from now to the end of the melon season.'

'Then they'd raise a row if we went back to the old wage!' protested
Kaeso.

'Very likely,' agreed Marcellus. 'Maybe it isn't worth doing. It would
probably just stir up trouble.'

'Vobiscus would think I had gone crazy!' exclaimed Kaeso.

'Not if you increased his wages too. Vobiscus is a valuable man, sir,
and very loyal. He isn't paid enough.'

'Did he say so?' snapped Kaeso.

'No. Vobiscus wouldn't complain to me.'

'He has never asked for more.'

'That does not mean he is getting enough.'

'Perhaps you will be wanting better wages too.' Kaeso chuckled
unpleasantly.

'Vobiscus gets six sesterces. Let us pay him ten, and I will be content
with sixteen instead of twenty.'

'Very well,' said Kaeso. 'You're a fool--but if that's the way you want
it--'

'With one stipulation, sir. Vobiscus is not to know how his rise in
wages came about. Let him think you did it--and see what happens.'

Kaeso took much pride in the pool, and admitted that he was glad the
idea had occurred to him to build it. The people didn't know what had come over
Kaeso, but they believed the same thing was happening to him that had happened
to them. He even conceded to Marcellus that the sesterces he had added to the
workers' wage might have had something to do with the gratifying fact that
there had been a surprisingly small loss lately on melons bruised by careless
handling. Marcellus did not tell him that he had made them a speech, the next
morning after their pay was increased, in which he had suggested that they show
their appreciation by being more faithful to their employer's interests.

The grapes were ripening now, and Kaeso enjoyed strolling through the
vineyards. Sometimes the older ones ventured to turn their heads in his
direction, and smile, rather shyly. One afternoon, he heard them singing, as he
came down the road. When he appeared at the gate, the song stopped. He asked
Vobiscus.

'They thought it might annoy you, sir,' stammered Vobiscus.

'Let them sing! Let them sing!' shouted Kaeso, indignantly. 'What makes
them think I don't want to hear them sing?'

Vobiscus was clean-shaven to-day, and carrying himself with an air.
Yesterday the wife of Kaeso had called at his house to show his wife a tapestry
pattern and ask her how she had dyed the shawl she wore last night.

Near the end of a day when Marcellus had said he was going to stroll
down to the vineyards, Antony asked if he might go along with him. At the gate,
Marcellus picked up a couple of baskets and handed one to Antony.

'Want to do me a little favour?' he asked. 'Come along--and we'll gather
some grapes.'

'Why should we?' inquired Antony. 'What will they think of us?'

'They will think no less of us,' said Marcellus, 'and it will make them
think better of themselves--and their work.'

Presently they came upon an old woman who was straining hard to lift her
heavy basket up to the platform of a cart. The driver, lounging against the
wheel, watched her lazily.

'Give her a hand, Antony,' said Marcellus, quietly.

Everybody in that vicinity stopped work for a moment to witness this
strange sight. The elegant son of Kaeso, who, they all had thought, considered
the people of Arpino as dirt under his dainty feet, had volunteered to share a
labourer's burden. There was a spontaneous murmur of approval as Marcellus and
Antony moved on.

'Thank you, Antony,' said Marcellus, in a low tone.

'I didn't mind giving her a lift,' said Antony, flushing as he noted the
appreciative smiles of the workers.

'You gave
everybody
a lift,' said Marcellus, 'including yourself,
I think.'

When August was more than half gone and the orders for fruit had
dwindled until the scrivener's duties for the season were of small importance,
Marcellus told Kaeso that he would like to be on his way.

'How about staying on for a while to help Antony with his modelling?'
suggested Kaeso.

'I have shown him almost everything I know,' said Marcellus.

'Nonsense!' scoffed Kaeso. 'He can learn much from you. Besides, you are
good for him. Antony's a different boy. You're making a man of him.'

'That's your doing, Kaeso,' said Marcellus, gently. 'Can't you see the
way Antony hangs on your words? He admires you greatly, sir. It should be your
own privilege to make a man of him.'

'Will you come back to Arpino next summer?' asked Kaeso, almost
entreatingly.

Marcellus expressed his gratitude for the invitation, but did not know
where he might be, next summer. Finishing his work at the desk, he was more
painstaking than usual in filing things away, Kaeso moodily watching him.

'When are you leaving?' he asked.

'Early in the morning, sir. I am going to Rome.'

Kaeso followed him out into the garden, where they met Antonia. In her
presence he invited Marcellus to dine with the family. Antonia smiled her approval.

'He is leaving us,' said Kaeso. 'Where is Antony? I shall tell him.' He
turned back toward the house.

'Aren't you contented here, Marcellus?' asked Antonia, gently, after a
little silence between them. 'Haven't we done everything you wished?'

'Yes, that's why I'm going.'

She nodded understandingly and gave him a pensive smile.

'Marcellus, do you remember the story you told us about the people's
belief--in Cana, was it?--that Jesus had changed water into wine?'

'You found that hard to believe, I think,' he said.

'No,' she murmured; 'I can believe that story. It's no more mysterious
than the changes you have made--in Arpino.'

That evening, according to their recent custom, all the villagers
assembled on the knoll to wait for Marcellus to appear and tell them a story.
When he came, Kaeso and Antonia and Antony were with him. Sitting down in the
open circle the people had left for him, Marcellus hesitated for a long moment
before beginning to speak.

'You have all been very kind to me,' he said, 'and you will be much in
my thoughts, wherever I may go.'

A disappointed little sigh went over the crowd.

'I have told you many stories about this strange man of Galilee, who
befriended the poor and helpless. Tonight, I shall tell you one more story
about him--the strangest story of them all. Let that be my parting gift to
you.'

It was a sad story, of a misunderstood man, forsaken at the last, even
by his frightened friends; a dismaying story of an unfair trial and a cruel
death, and Marcellus told it so impressively that most of his audience was in
tears.

'Now, there was nothing so strange about that,' he went on, in a
suddenly altered mood, 'for wise men have always been misunderstood and
persecuted--and many of them have been slain, as Jesus was. But Jesus came to
life again!'

'What? No!' shouted an old man, in a quavering voice. They hushed him
down, and waited for Marcellus to go on.

In the tense silence, the amazing story proceeded. Jesus was in the
world--alive--to remain until his kingdom of kindness should rule all
men--everywhere.

'You need not weep for him!' declared Marcellus. 'He asks no pity! If
you want to do something to aid him, be helpful to one another--and await his
coming.'

'Where is he now, sir?' called the old man, shrilly.

'No one knows,' said Marcellus. 'He might appear--anywhere, any time. We
must not be found doing anything that would grieve him if he should come upon
us suddenly, at an hour when we were not expecting him. Will you keep that in
your remembrance?'

The twilight was falling fast now and so was the dew. It was time they
dispersed. Marcellus drew a folded, much-handled sheet of papyrus from the
breast of his tunic, and held it up in the fading light.

'One day,' he said, 'when a great company of Galileans had assembled
about him on a hilltop, Jesus talked to them quietly about what he called
"the blessed life." My friend Justus remembered these words and
recited them for me. I wrote them down. Let me read them to you--and then we
will part.'

The Arpinos leaned forward to listen; all but Metella, who sat hugging
her knees, with her face buried in her folded arms. A deep hush fell over them
as Marcellus read:

'Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted. Blessed are the meek,
for they shall inherit the earth. Blessed are they who hunger and thirst after
righteousness, for they shall be filled. Blessed are the merciful, for they
shall obtain mercy. Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God.
Blessed are they who are persecuted for righteousness' sake, for theirs is the
kingdom of heaven. Rejoice and be glad, for great will be your reward.'

Rising before dawn, Marcellus slipped quietly out of the villa, meeting
no one--except Metella, who startled him by stepping out of the shrubbery near
the gate to say farewell in a tremulous little voice. Then she had started to
scamper away. He spoke her name softly. Taking her toil-roughened hands, he
said tenderly, 'Metella, you are indeed a faithful friend. I shall always
remember you.'

'Please,' she sobbed, 'take good care of yourself, Marcellus!' And then,
abruptly tearing loose from him, she had disappeared in the dark.

It was with a strange sense of elation that he strode along the foothill
road in the shadow of the mountain as a pink sunrise lighted the sky. Last
night, after taking leave of the Kaeso family--who had made an earnest effort
to dissuade him--he had gone to bed with misgivings. He was happy in Arpino. He
knew he had been sent there on a mission. Lately, something kept telling him
his work was done; telling him he must go to Rome. All night, with the
entreaties of young Antony still sounding in his ears, he kept asking himself,
'Why
am
I going to Rome?'

This morning, his anxieties had been put aside. He did not know why he
was headed toward Rome, but the reason would appear in due time. He had never
been able to explain to himself why, when he had been washed up by the tide on
the Capua beach, he had turned his face toward Arpino; or why, tarrying at
Kaeso's melon-field, he had accepted employment. It was almost as if he were
being led about by an invisible hand.

By mid-afternoon, the winding road had angled away from the mountain
range and was being joined and widened by many tributaries. It was becoming a
busy highway now, drawing in all manner of laden carts and waggons from the
gates and lanes of the fertile valley. The day was hot and the air was heavy
with dust. Scowling drivers lashed their donkeys cruelly and yelled obscenities
as they contended for the right of way. Every added mile increased the
confusion and sharpened the ostentatious brutality of the men who pressed
toward Rome.