THE ROBE (9 page)

Sextus grinned unpleasantly and shrugged.

'You're in Gaza now,' he remarked, half-contemptuously. 'In Gaza, you
will find, we do things the easy way, and are more patient than our
better-dressed equals in Rome. Incidentally,' added Sextus, dryly, as he led
the way down the hall, 'I too am a Roman citizen.'

'How long has Centurion Paulus been in command here?' asked Marcellus,
glancing about the large room into which Sextus had shown him.

'Since December. He took over temporarily, after the death of Legate
Vitelius.'

'What did Vitelius die of?'

'I don't know, sir.'

'Not of wounds, then,' guessed Marcellus.

'No, sir. He had been ailing. It was a fever.'

'It's a wonder you're not all sick,' observed Marcellus, dusting his
hands, distastefully. Turning to Demetrius he advised him to go out and stand
guard over their equipment until it was called for.

Sextus mumbled some instructions to the sentry, who drifted away.

'I'll show you the quarters you may occupy until Commander Paulus
returns,' he said, moving toward the door. Marcellus followed. The room into
which he was shown contained a bunk, a table, and two chairs. Otherwise it was
bare and grim as a prison cell. A door led into a smaller unfurnished cubicle.

'Order another bunk for this kennel,' growled Marcellus. 'My slave will
sleep here.'

'Slaves do not sleep in the officers' row, sir,' replied Sextus, firmly.

'My slave does!'

'But it's against orders, sir!'

'There are no orders at this fort--but mine!' barked Marcellus.

Sextus nodded his head, and a knowing grin twisted his shaggy lips as he
left the room.

It was a memorable evening at the fort. For years afterwards the story
was retold until it had the flavour of a legend.

Marcellus, accompanied by his orderly, had entered the big mess-hall to
find the junior officers seated. They did not rise, but there were no evidences
of hostility in the inquisitive glances they turned in his direction as he made
his way to the round table in the centre of the room. A superficial survey of
the surrounding tables informed Marcellus that he was the youngest man present.
Demetrius went directly to the kitchen to oversee his master's service.

After a while, Centurion Paulus arrived, followed by Sextus who had
apparently waited to advise his chief of recent events. There was something of
a stir when they came striding across the room to the centre table. Sextus
mumbled an ungracious introduction. Marcellus rose and was ready to offer his
hand, but Paulus did not see it; merely bowed, drew out his chair, and sat. He
was not drunk, but it was evident that he had been drinking. His lean face,
stubbly with a three-days' beard, was unhealthily ruddy; and his hands, when he
began to gobble his food, were shaky. They were also dirty. And yet, in spite
of his general appearance, Paulus bore marks of a discarded refinement. This
man, thought Marcellus, may have been somebody, once upon a time.

'The new Legate, eh?' mumbled Paulus, with his mouth full. 'We have had
no word of his appointment. However'--he waved a negligent hand, and helped
himself to another large portion from the messy bowl of stewed meat--'we can go
into that later; tomorrow, perhaps.' For some minutes he wolfed his rations,
washing down the greasy meat with noisy gulps of a sharp native wine.

Having finished, Paulus folded his hairy arms on the table and stared
insolently into the face of the young interloper. Marcellus met his cloudy eyes
steadily. Each knew that the other was taking his measure, not only as to
height and weight--in which dimensions they were approximately matched, with
Paulus a few pounds heavier, perhaps, and a few years older--but, more
particularly, appraising each other's timbre and temper. Paulus grimaced
unpleasantly.

'Important name--Gallio,' he remarked, with mock deference. 'Any
relation to the rich Senator?'

'My father,' replied Marcellus, coolly.

'Oh-oh!' chuckled Paulus. 'Then you must be one of these clubhouse
Tribunes'. He glanced about, as conversation at the adjoining tables was
suppressed. 'One would think Prince Gaius could have found a more attractive
post for the son of Senator Gallio,' he went on, raising his voice for the
benefit of the staff. 'By Jove, I have it!' he shouted hilariously, slapping
Sextus on the shoulder. 'The son of Marcus Lucan Gallio has been a bad boy!' He
turned again to Marcellus. 'I'll wager this is your first command, Tribune.'

'It is,' replied Marcellus. The room was deathly still now.

'Never gave an order in your life, eh?' sneered Paulus.

Marcellus pushed back his chair and rose, conscious that three score of
interested eyes were studying his serious face.

'I am about to give an order now!' he said, steadily. 'Centurion Paulus,
you will stand and apologize for conduct unbecoming an officer!'

Paulus hooked an arm over the back of his chair, and grinned.

'You gave the wrong order, my boy,' he snarled. Then, as he watched
Marcellus deliberately unsheathing his broadsword, Paulus overturned his chair
as he sprang to his feet. Drawing his sword, he muttered, 'You'd better put
that down, youngster!'

'Clear the room!' commanded Marcellus.

There was no doubt in anyone's mind now as to the young Tribune's
intention. He and Paulus had gone into this business too far to retreat. The
tables were quickly pushed back against the wall. Chairs were dragged out of
the way. And the battle was on.

At the beginning of the engagement, it appeared to the audience that
Paulus had decided to make it a brief and decisive affair. His command of the
fort was insecurely held, for he was of erratic temper and dissolute habits.
Obviously he had resolved upon a quick conquest as an object-lesson to his
staff. As for the consequences, Paulus had little to lose. Communication with
Rome was slow. The tenure of a commander's office was unstable and brief.
Nobody in Rome cared much what happened in the fort at Minoa. True--it was
risky to kill the son of a Senator, but the staff would bear witness that the
Tribune had drawn first.

Paulus immediately forced the fight with flailing blows, any one of
which would have split his young adversary in twain had it landed elsewhere
than on Marcellus's parrying sword. Quite willing to be on the defensive for a
while, Marcellus allowed himself to be rushed backwards until they had almost
reached the end of the long mess-hall. The faces of the junior officers, ranged
around the wall, were tense. Demetrius stood with clenched fists and anxious
eyes as he saw his master being crowded back toward a corner.

Step by step, Paulus marched into his retreating antagonist, raining
blow after blow upon the defensive sword until, encouraged by his success, he
saw his quarry backing into a hopeless position. He laughed--as he decreased
the tempo of his strokes, assured now of his victory. But Marcellus believed
there was a note of anxiety in the tone of that guttural laugh; believed also
that the decreased fury of the blows was not due to the heavier man's
assurance, but because of a much more serious matter. Paulus was getting tired.
There was a strained look on his face as he raised his sword-arm. It was
probably beginning to ache. Paulus was out of training. Life at Minoa had told
on him. We take things easy in Gaza.

As they neared the critical corner, Paulus raised his arm woodenly to
strike a mighty blow; and, this time, Marcellus did not wait for it to descend,
but slashed his sword laterally so close to Paulus's throat that he
instinctively threw back his head, and the blow went wide. In that instant
Marcellus wheeled about quickly. It was Paulus now who was defending the
corner.

Marcellus did not violently press his advantage. Wearied by his
unaccustomed exercise, Paulus was breathing heavily and his contorted mouth
showed a mounting alarm. He had left off flailing now; and, changing his
tactics for a better strategy, seemed to be remembering his training. And he
was no mean swordsman, Marcellus discovered: at least, there had been a time,
no doubt, when Paulus might have given a good account of himself in the arena.

Marcellus caught sight of Demetrius again, and noted that his slave's
face was eased of its strain. We were on familiar ground now, doing battle with
skill rather than brute strength. This was ever so much better. Up till this
moment, Marcellus had never been engaged in a duelling-match where his
adversary had tried to hew him down with a weapon handled as an axe is swung.
But Paulus was fighting like a Roman Centurion now, not like a common butcher
cleaving a beef.

For a brief period, while their swords rang with short, sharp, angry
clashes, Marcellus gradually advanced. Once, Paulus cast his eyes about to see
how much room was left to him; and Marcellus obligingly retreated a few steps.
It was quite clear to every watcher that he had voluntarily given Paulus a
better chance to take care of himself. There was a half-audible ejaculation.
This manoeuvre of the new Legate might not be in keeping with the dulled spirit
of Minoa, but it stirred a memory of the manner in which brave men dealt with
one another in Rome. The eyes of Demetrius shone with pride. His master was
indeed a thoroughbred. 'Eugenos!' he exclaimed.

But Paulus was in no mood to accept favours. He came along swiftly, with
as much audacity as if he had earned this more stable footing, and endeavoured
to force Marcellus into further retreat. But on that spot the battle was
permanently settled. Paulus tried everything he could recall, dodging,
crouching, feinting--and all the time growing more and more fatigued. Now his
guard was becoming sluggish and increasingly vulnerable. Twice, the spectators
noted, it would have been simple enough for the Tribune to have ended the
affair.

And now, with a deft manoeuvre, Marcellus brought the engagement to a
dramatic close. Studying his opportunity, he thrust the tip of his broadsword
into the hilt-housing of Paulus's wearied weapon, and tore it out of his hand.
It fell with a clatter to the stone floor. Then there was a moment of absolute
silence. Paulus stood waiting. His posture did him credit, all thought; for,
though his face showed the shock of this stunning surprise, it was not the face
of a coward. Paulus was decisively defeated, but he had better stuff in him
than any of them had supposed.

Marcellus stooped and picked up the fallen broadsword by its tip, drew
back his arm with the slow precision of a careful aim, and sent it swiftly,
turning end over end through the mess-hall, to the massive wooden door, where
it drove its weight deep into the timber with a resounding thud. Nobody broke
the stillness that followed. Marcellus then reversed his own sword in his hand,
again took a deliberate aim, and sent the heavy weapon hurtling through the air
towards the same target. It thudded deep into the door close beside the sword
of Paulus.

The two men faced each other silently. Then Marcellus spoke; firmly but
not arrogantly.

'Centurion Paulus,' he said, 'you will now apologize for conduct
unbecoming an officer.'

Paulus shifted his weight and drew a long breath; half-turned to face
the tightening ring of spectators; then straightened defiantly, folded his arms,
and sneered.

Marcellus deliberately drew his dagger from his belt, and stepped
forward. Paulus did not move.

'You had better defend yourself, Centurion,' warned Marcellus. 'You have
a dagger, have you not? I advise you to draw it!' He advanced another step.
'Because--if you do not obey my order--I intend to kill you!'

It was not easy for Paulus, but he managed to do it adequately.
Demetrius remarked afterwards that it was plain to be seen that Centurion
Paulus was not an accomplished orator, which Marcellus thought was a very droll
comment.

After Paulus had stammered through his glum impromptu speech, Marcellus
responded, 'Your apology is accepted, Centurion. Now perhaps there is something
else that you might think it timely to say to your fellow officers. I have not
yet been officially presented to them. As the retiring Commander, it is, I
feel, your right to extend this courtesy.'

Paulus fully found his voice this time, and his announcement was made in
a firm tone.

'I am introducing Tribune Marcellus Gallio, the Legate of this legion,
and Commander of this fort.'

There was a concerted clatter of swords drawn in salute--all but the
sword of paunchy old Sextus, who pretended to be adjusting his harness.

'Centurion Sextus!' called Marcellus, sharply. 'Bring me my sword!'

All eyes watched Sextus plod awkwardly over to the big door and tug the
sword out of the thick planking.

'Bring the sword of Centurion Paulus, also!' commanded Marcellus.

Sextus worked the second broadsword out of the timber, and came with heavy
feet and a dogged air. Marcellus took the heavy weapons, handed Paulus his, and
waited to receive Sextus's salute. The hint was taken without further delay.
Paulus also saluted before sheathing his sword.

'We will now finish our dinner,' said Marcellus, coolly. 'You will
restore the tables to their places. Breakfast will be served to the staff
tomorrow morning at five. All officers will be smooth-shaven. There will be an
inspection on the parade-ground at six, conducted by Lieutenant-Commander Paulus.
That will do.'

Paulus had asked, respectfully enough, to be excused as they returned to
their table, and Marcellus had given him permission to go. Sextus was trailing
along after him, without asking leave; and upon being sharply asked if he had
not forgotten something, mumbled that he had finished his dinner.

'Then you will have time,' said Marcellus, 'to clear the Commander's
quarters, so that I may occupy those rooms tonight.'

Sextus acknowledged the order and tramped heavily to the door. Appetites
were not keen, but the staff made a show of finishing dinner. Marcellus
lingered at his table. At length, when he rose, they all stood in their places.
He bowed and left the room, followed by Demetrius. As they passed the open door
of the Commander's rooms, on their way to the quarters which had been assigned
them earlier, it was observed that a dozen slaves were busily engaged in making
the place ready for occupation.