Authors: Unknown
THE ROBE (7 page)
'No,' he said, shortly. 'I shall have my dinner on the galley. You may
arrange for it.'
'Yes, sir.' Demetrius' tone indicated that he quite approved of this decision.
Marcellus followed slowly toward the house. There were plenty of things
he would have liked to do, if he had been given one more day. There was Tullus,
for one. He must leave a note for Tullus.
Upon meeting in the arbor, Lucia and Diana had both wept, wordlessly.
Then they had talked in broken sentences about the possibilities of Marcellus'
return, his sister fearing the worst, Diana wondering whether some pressure
might be brought to bear on Gaius.
'You mean'--Lucia queried--'that perhaps my father might--'
'No.' Diana shook her head decisively. 'Not your father. It would have
to be done some other way.' Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
'Maybe your father could do something about it,' suggested Lucia.
'I don't know. Perhaps he might, if he were here. But his business in
Marseilles may keep him stationed there until next winter.'
'You said good-bye to Marcellus?' asked Lucia, after they had walked on
a little way in silence. She questioned Diana's eyes and smiled pensively as
she watched the color creeping up her cheeks. Diana nodded and pressed Lucia's
arm affectionately, but made no other response.
'How did Demetrius get down here so fast?' she asked, impulsively. 'He
came for me, you know, telling me Marcellus was leaving and wanted to see me.
Just now I passed him. Don't tell me that slave was saying good-bye--like an
equal?'
'It was rather strange,' admitted Lucia. 'Demetrius had never spoken to
me in his life, except to acknowledge an order. I hardly knew what to make of
it, Diana. He came out here, saluted with his usual formality, and delivered a
little speech that sounded as if he had carefully rehearsed it. He said,
"I am going away with the Tribune. I may never return. I wish to bid
farewell to the sister of my master and thank her for being kind to her
brother's slave. I shall remember her goodness." Then he took this ring
out of his wallet--'
'Ring?' echoed Diana, incredulously. 'Hold still. Let me look at it,'
she breathed. Lucia held up her hand, with fingers outspread, for a closer
inspection in the waning light. 'Pretty; isn't it?' commented Diana. 'What is
that device--a ship?'
'Demetrius said,' continued Lucia, '"I should like to leave this
with my master's sister. If I come back, she may return it to me. If I do not
come back, it shall be hers. My father gave it to my mother. It is the only
possession I was able to save."'
'But--how queer!' murmured Diana. 'What did you say to him?'
'Well--what could I say?' Lucia's tone was self-defensive. 'After
all--he is going away with my brother--at the risk of his own life. He's human;
isn't he?'
'Yes--he's human,' agreed Diana, impatiently. 'Go on! What did you say?'
'I thanked him,' said Lucia, exasperatingly deliberate, 'and told him I
thought it was wonderful of him--and I do think it was, Diana--to let me keep
his precious ring; and--and--I said I hoped they would both come home
safely--and I promised to take good care of his keepsake.'
'That was all right, I suppose,' nodded Diana, judicially. 'And--then
what?' They had stopped on the tiled path, and Lucia seemed a little confused.
'Well,' she stammered, 'he was still standing there--and I gave him my
hand.'
'You didn't!' exclaimed Diana. 'To a slave?'
'To shake, you know,' defended Lucia. 'Why shouldn't I have been willing
to shake hands with Demetrius? He's as clean as we are; certainly a lot cleaner
than Bambo, who is always pawing me.'
'That's not the point, Lucia, whether Demetrius' hands are cleaner than
Bambo's feet--and you know it. He is a slave, and we can't be too careful.' Diana's
tone was distinctly stern, until her curiosity overwhelmed her indignation.
'So--then'--she went on, a little more gently--'he shook hands with you.'
'No--it was ever so much worse than that.' Lucia grinned at the sight of
Diana's shocked eyes. 'Demetrius took my hand, and put the ring on my
finger--and then he kissed my hand--and--well--after all, Diana--he's going
away with Marcellus--maybe to die for him! What should I have done? Slap him?'
Diana laid her hands on Lucia's shoulders and looked her squarely in the
eyes.
'So--then--after that--what happened?'
'Wasn't that enough?' parried Lucia, flinching a little from Diana's
insistent search.
'Quite!' After a pause, she said, 'You're not expecting to wear that
ring; are you, Lucia?'
'No. There's no reason why I should. It might get lost. And I don't want
to hurt Tertia.'
'Is Tertia in love with Demetrius?'
'Mad about him! She has been crying her eyes out, this afternoon, the
poor dear.'
'Does Demetrius know?'
'I don't see how he could help it.'
'And he doesn't care for her?'
'Not that way. I made him promise he would say good-bye to her.'
'Lucia--had it ever occurred to you that Demetrius has been secretly in
love with you--maybe for a long time?'
'He has never given me any reason to think so,' replied Lucia, rather
vaguely.
'Until today, you mean,' persisted Diana.
Lucia meditated an answer for a long moment.
'Diana,' she said soberly, 'Demetrius is a slave. That is true. That is
his misfortune. He was gently bred, in a home of refinement, and brought here
in chains by ruffians who weren't fit to tie his sandals!' Her voice trembled
with suppressed anger. 'Of course'--she went on, bitterly ironical--'their
being Romans made all the difference! Just so you're a Roman, you don't have to
know anything--but pillage and bloodshed! Don't you realize, Diana, that
everything in the Roman Empire today that's worth a second thought on the part
of any decent person was stolen from Greece? Tell me!--how does it happen that
we speak Greek, in preference to Latin? It's because the Greeks are leagues
ahead of us, mentally. There's only one thing we do better: we're better
butchers!'
Diana frowned darkly.
With her lips close to Lucia's ear, she said guardedly, 'You are a fool
to say such things--even to me! It's too dangerous! Isn't your family in enough
trouble? Do you want to see all of us banished--or in prison?'
Marcellus stood alone at the rail of the afterdeck. He had not arrived
at the wharf until a few minutes before the galley's departure; and, going up
to the cramped and stuffy cabin to make sure his heavy luggage had been safely
stowed, was hardly aware that they were out in the river until he came down and
looked about. Already the long warehouse and the docks had retreated into the
gloom, and the voices sounded far away.
High up on an exclusive residential hillside, two small points of light
flickered. He identified them as the brasiers at the eastern corners of the
pergola. Perhaps his father was standing there at the balustrade.
Now they had passed the bend and the lights had disappeared. It was as
if the first scroll of his life had now been written, read, and sealed. The
pink glow that was Rome had faded and the stars were brightening. Marcellus
viewed them with a strange interest. They seemed like so many unresponsive
spectators; not so dull-eyed and apathetic as the Sphinx, but calmly observant,
winking occasionally to relieve the strain and clear their vision. He wondered
whether they were ever moved to sympathy or admiration; or if they cared, at
all.
After a while he became conscious of the inexorable rasp of sixty oars
methodically swinging with one obedience to the metallic blows of the
boatswain's hammers as he measured their slavery on his huge anvil. . . .
Click! Clack! Click! Clack!
Home--and Life--and Love made a final, urgent tug at his spirit. He
wished he might have had an hour with Tullus, his closest friend. Tullus hadn't
even heard what had happened to him. He wished he had gone back once more to
see his mother. He wished he had kissed Diana. He wished he had not witnessed
the devastating grief of his sister. . . . Click! Clack! Click! Clack!
He turned about and noticed Demetrius standing in the shadows near the
ladder leading to the cabins. It was a comfort to sense the presence of his
loyal slave. Marcellus decided to engage him in conversation; for the steady
hammer-blows, down deep in the galley's hull, were beginning to pound hard in
his temples. He beckoned. Demetrius approached and stood at attention.
Marcellus made the impatient little gesture with both hands and a shake of the
head which, by long custom, had come to mean, 'Be at ease! Be a friend!'
Demetrius relaxed his stiff posture and drifted over to the rail beside
Marcellus where he silently and without obvious curiosity waited his master's
pleasure.
'Demetrius'--Marcellus swept the sky with an all-inclusive arm--'do you
ever believe in the gods?'
'If it is my master's wish, I do,' replied Demetrius, perfunctorily.
'No, no,' said Marcellus, testily, 'be honest. Never mind what I
believe. Tell me what you think about the gods. Do you ever pray to them?'
'When I was a small boy, sir,' complied Demetrius, 'my mother taught us
to invoke the gods. She was quite religious. There was a pretty statue of
Priapus in our flower garden. I can still remember my mother kneeling there, on
a fine spring day, with a little trowel in one hand and a basket of plants in
the other. She believed that Priapus made things grow. . . . And my mother
prayed to Athene every morning when my brothers and I followed the teacher into
our schoolroom.' He was silent for a while; and then, prodded by an encouraging
nod from Marcellus, he continued: 'My father offered libations to the gods on
their feast-days, but I think that was to please my mother.'
'This is most interesting--and touching, too,' observed Marcellus. 'But
you haven't quite answered my question, Demetrius. Do you believe in the
gods--now?'
'No, sir.'
'Do you mean that you don't believe they render any service to men? Or
do you doubt that the gods exist, at all?'
'I think it better for the mind, sir, to disbelieve in their existence.
The last time I prayed--it was on the day that our home was broken up. As my
father was led away in chains, I knelt by my mother and we prayed to Zeus--the
Father of gods and men--to protect his life. But Zeus either did not hear us;
or, hearing us, had no power to aid us; or, having power to aid us, refused to
do so. It is better, I think, to believe that he did not hear us than to
believe that he was unable or unwilling to give aid. . . . That afternoon my
mother went away--upon her own invitation--because she could bear no more
sorrow. . . . I have not prayed to the gods since that day, sir. I have cursed
and reviled them, on occasions; but with very little hope that they might
resent my blasphemies. Cursing the gods is foolish and futile, I think.'
Marcellus chuckled grimly. This fine quality of contempt for the gods
surpassed any profanity he had ever heard. Demetrius had spoken without heat.
He had so little interest in the gods that he even felt it was silly to curse
them.
'You don't believe there is any sort of supernatural intelligence in
charge of the universe?' queried Marcellus, gazing up into the sky.
'I have no clear thought about that, sir,' replied Demetrius,
deliberately. 'It is difficult to account for the world without believing in a
Creator, but I do not want to think that the acts of men are inspired by
superhuman beings. It is better, I feel, to believe that men have devised their
brutish deeds without divine assistance.'
'I am inclined to agree with you, Demetrius. It would be a great
comfort, though, if--especially in an hour of bewilderment--one could nourish a
reasonable hope that a benevolent Power existed--somewhere--and might be
invoked.'
'Yes, sir,' conceded Demetrius, looking upward. 'The stars pursue an
orderly plan. I believe they are honest and sensible. I believe in the Tiber,
and in the mountains, and in the sheep and cattle and horses. If there are gods
in charge of them, such gods are honest and sound of mind. But if there are
gods on Mount Olympus, directing human affairs, they are vicious and insane.'
Apparently feeling that he had been talking too much, Demetrius stiffened, drew
himself erect, and gave the usual evidences that he was preparing to get back
on his leash. But Marcellus wasn't quite ready to let him do so.
'Perhaps you think,' he persisted, 'that all humanity is crazy.'
'I would not know, sir,' replied Demetrius, very formally, pretending
not to have observed his master's sardonic grin.
'Well'--hectored Marcellus--'let's narrow it down to the Roman Empire.
Do you think the Roman Empire is an insane thing?'
'Your slave, sir,' answered Demetrius, stiffly, 'believes whatever his
master thinks about that.'
It was clear to Marcellus that the philosophical discussion was ended.
By experience he had learned that once Demetrius resolved to crawl back into
his slave status, no amount of coaxing would hale him forth. They both stood
silently now, looking at the dark water swirling about the stern.
The Greek is right, thought Marcellus. That's what ails the Roman
Empire: it is mad! That's what ails the whole world of men.
Mad!
If
there is any Supreme Power in charge, He is
mad!
The stars are honest
and sensible. But humanity is
insane! . . .
Click! Clack! Click! Clack!
After the tipsy little ship had staggered down past the Lapari Islands
in the foulest weather of the year, and had tacked gingerly through the
perilous Strait of Messina, a smooth sea and a favourable breeze so eased
Captain Manius's vigilance that he was available for a leisurely chat.
'Tell me something about Minoa,' urged Marcellus, after Manius had
talked at considerable length about his many voyages: Ostia to Palermo and
back, Ostia to Crete, to Alexandria, to Joppa.