Weekly Meredy.com E-book - The Robe - Part Two

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Chapter XV


They had reached Cana too late to hear Miriam sing, but Marcellus thought it was just as well, for Jonathan was so tired and sleepy that he could hardly hold his head up.

By the time they had pitched camp, washed off their dust, eaten a light supper, and put the little boy to bed, many voices could be heard; villagers strolling home in the moonlight from their customary rendezvous at the fountain.

Justus sauntered out to the street. Marcellus, wearily stretched at full length on his cot, heard him talking to a friend. After a while he returned to say he had been informed by Hariph the potter that Jesse, the son of Beoni, was leaving early in the morning for Jerusalem. Doubtless he would carry the letter to Demetrius.

'Very good!' Marcellus handed him the scroll and unstrapped his coin purse. 'How much will he expect?'

'Ten shekels should be enough.' There was an expression of satisfaction in Justus's face and tone, perhaps because the letter had been given up so casually. His look said that there could be nothing conspiratorial in this communication. 'Jesse will probably be over here presently,' he added. 'Hariph will tell him. He lives hard by the home of Beoni.'

'You can talk with him,' said Marcellus. 'I am going to sleep.'

And he did; but after a while the murmur of low-pitched voices roused him. He raised up on his elbow, and through the open tent- door the white moonlight showed Justus and a stocky, shaggy-haired man of thirty, seated cross-legged on the ground. Jesse, the son of Beoni, was rumbling gutturally about the business that was taking him to Jerusalem. He was going to attend the annual camel auction. They always had it at the end of Passover. Many caravans from afar, having disposed of their merchandise, offered their pack- animals for sale rather than trek them home without a pay-load. You could get a sound, three-year-old she-camel for as little as eighty shekels, Jesse said. He hoped to buy six, this time. He could easily sell them in Tiberias for a hundred or better. Yes-- he made this trip every year. Yes, he would gladly carry Justus's letter to the Greek who worked for Benyosef. And when Justus asked him how much, Jesse said, 'Nothing at all. It's no bother.'

'But it isn't my letter,' explained Justus. 'It is sent by this Roman, Marcellus Gallio, who is up here buying homespun. He's there in the tent, asleep.'

'Oh, that one! My mother told me about him. It is strange that he should want our simple weaving. No one ever thought it was valuable. Well, if it is his letter, and not yours, he should pay me eight shekels.'

'He will give you ten.' The coins were poured chinking into Jesse's hand.

'Eight is enough,' said Jesse. 'You keep the other two.'

'But I have done nothing to earn them,' protested Justus. 'They are yours. I think the Roman would prefer to give you ten.'

Jesse chuckled, not very pleasantly.

'Since when have the Romans turned soft-hearted?' he growled. 'I hope there is nothing queer about this scroll. They tell me the jail in Jerusalem is alive with vermin. What say you, Justus? You ought to know.' Jesse laughed at his own grim jest. 'You lodged there for a couple of weeks, last spring.'

Marcellus could not hear Justus's rejoinder. Perhaps he had merely grinned or scowled at Jesse's bucolic raillery.

'You can trust Marcellus,' said Justus, confidently. 'He is a man of good will. Not all Romans are crooked, Jesse. You know that.'

'Yes, yes,' consented Jesse. 'As the saying goes, "Every Jew has his Roman." Mine happens to be Hortensius.'

'You mean the Centurion, over in Capernaum, whose orderly Jesus cured of a palsy? Did you have dealings with him, Jesse?'

'I sold him four camels--shortly before that affair of his servant. Three, for a hundred each. I told him he could have the other one for sixty because she was spavined. And he said, "She doesn't limp. What did you pay for her?" And I said, "Eighty, but I didn't know the spavin was bad until we were on the road two days." And he said, "She seems to be all right now." And I said, "She's rested. But she'll go lame on a long journey with anything of a load." And he said, "You needn't have told me." Then he said, "Do you know Jesus?" And I said, "Yes." And he said, "I thought so." And then he said, "Let's split the cost of the spavin. I'll give you seventy." And I said, "That's fair enough." And then I said, "Do you know Jesus, sir?" And he said, "No, but I heard him talk, one day." And then I asked him, just as if we were equals, "Are you one of us?" And he was busy counting out the money, and didn't answer that; but when he handed it to me he said--that was four years ago, and I looked younger than now--he said, "You keep on listening to Jesus, boy! You'll never be rich, but you'll never be poor!"'

'I'm glad you told me that, Jesse,' said Justus. 'You see what happened there? Hortensius heard Jesus talk about how people ought to treat one another. And maybe he wondered whether anybody was trying to practise it. And then you told him the truth about the spavined camel. And he began to believe that Jesus had great power.'

Jesse laughed.

'So you think the camel deal had something to do with his believing that Jesus could cure his sick orderly.'

'Why not?' It was Justus's turn to chuckle. 'I suppose the Centurion decided that any man who could influence a Jewish camel- drover to tell the truth about a spavin should be able to heal the sick. But'--Justus's tone was serious now--'however Hortensius came by his faith, he had plenty of it. I was there that day, Jesse. The Centurion came forward--a fine figure, too, in full uniform--and said, very deferentially, that his servant was sick unto death. Would Jesus heal him? "You need not trouble to come to my house, sir," he said. "If you will say that my servant is healed, that will be sufficient." Jesus was much pleased. Nothing like that had happened before. None of us had ever been so sure as that. He said to Hortensius, "You have great faith. Your wish is granted."'

'And then,' Jesse recollected, 'they say that almost everyone in the crowd set off at top speed for Hortensius's house.'

'Yes,' said Justus, 'and they never did agree on a story. One report had it that the restored orderly met Hortensius at the gate. Some said the follow was recovered and sitting up in bed. Others told that when the Centurion returned, the orderly was saddling a horse to ride to Capernaum. You know how these rumours get about. I suppose the fact is that none of these curious people was admitted to the Centurion's grounds.'

'But the man did recover, that day, from his sickness, didn't he?' Jesse insisted.

'He did, indeed!' declared Justus. 'I heard him say so. By the way, think you that Hortensius will be made Commander of the fort at Capernaum, now that old Julian has been promoted to succeed Pilate?'

'No such luck for Galilee!' grumbled Jesse. 'Everyone likes Hortensius. He is a just man, and he would be friendly to our cause. That old fox Herod will see to it that someone tougher than Hortensius gets the job. The thing that surprises me is the appointment of lazy old Julian to the Insula at Jerusalem.'

'Perhaps it's because Julian is lazy that the Temple crowd wanted him as their Procurator,' suggested Justus. 'The more indolent and indifferent he is, the more power will be exercised by the High Priest. He will let Caiaphas do anything he pleases. There are times, Jesse,' went on Justus, thoughtfully, 'when a weak, lazy, vacillating man--of good intent--is more to be feared than a crafty and cruel man. He shuts his eyes--and lets the injustices and persecutions proceed. In truth, our cause would have been better served if Pilate had remained.'

'Does anyone know what has become of Pilate?' asked Jesse.

'Sent back to Crete, I understand. Better climate. The rumour is that Pontius Pilate is a sick man. He hasn't made a public appearance for quite a year.'

'Why, that goes back to the crucifixion!' said Jesse. 'Do you mean that Pilate hasn't been seen in public since that day?'

'That's what they say. Benyosef thinks Pilate's sickness is mental.'

'Well, if that's the case, a change of climate will do him no good,' remarked Jesse. 'Hariph says he heard that there's talk of transferring the Commander of the fort at Minoa to Capernaum.'

'Impossible!' muttered Justus. 'They wouldn't dare! It was the legion from Minoa that put Jesus to death!'

'Yes, I know that,' said Jesse. 'I think, too, that it's just idle talk. Hariph didn't say where he'd picked it up. Someone told him that this Paulus from Minoa would probably be our next Commander. If so, we will have to be more careful than ever.'

Justus sighed deeply and rose to his feet.

'I must not keep you longer, Jesse. You have a long day ahead of you. Salute Benyosef for me, and any of the others who may have returned, now that the Passover is at an end. And'--he laid a hand on Jesse's shoulder--'keep watchful eyes on the roads, for no one knows the day, or the hour--' His deep voice subsided to a whisper. They shook hands and Jesse drifted away.

With his face turned toward the tent-wall, Marcellus feigned sleep when Justus entered quietly. For a long time he lay wide awake, pondering the things he had overheard. So, it hadn't been so easy for Pilate. Pilate had washed his hands in the silver basin, but apparently the Galilean's blood was still there. So, Julian was in command at Jerusalem: Caiaphas could have his own way now. Julian wouldn't know; wouldn't care if he did know what persecutions were practised on the little handful that wanted to keep the memory of Jesus alive. It wouldn't be long until old Benyosef and his secretive callers would have to give it all up. And perhaps Paulus was to be sent up here to keep Galilee in order. Well, maybe Paulus wouldn't be as hard on them as they feared. Paulus wasn't a bad fellow. Paulus had been forced to take part in the crucifixion of Jesus. That didn't mean he had approved of it. It was conceivable that Paulus might even take an interest in the Galilean friends of Jesus. But they would never accept his friendship. The very sight of him would be abhorrent. Justus's comments had made that clear. A man who had had anything to do with nailing their adored Jesus to the cross could never hope to win their good will, no matter how generously he treated them.

Marcellus realized now that he had been altogether too sanguine in believing that his sincere interest in the story of Jesus might make it safe for him to confide in Miriam. He had been telling himself that Miriam--uncannily gifted with sympathetic understanding--would balance his present concern about Jesus against the stark facts of his part in the tragedy. Miriam, he felt, would be forgiving. That was her nature; and, besides, she liked him, and would give him the benefit of whatever doubts intruded. Perhaps he would not need to go the whole way with his confession. It might be enough to say that he had attended the trial of Jesus, and had seen him die. Whether he could bring himself to be more specific about his own participation in this shameful business would depend upon her response as he proceeded.

But he knew now that such a conversation with Miriam was unthinkable! Justus, too, was a fair-minded person to whom one might safely confide almost anything; but Justus had revolted against the shocking suggestion that an officer from MINOA might be sent to preserve the peace of Galilee. 'They wouldn't dare!' Justus had muttered through locked teeth.

No, he couldn't tell Miriam. Perhaps it would be more prudent if he made no effort to see her alone.

* * * * * *

Hariph the potter, upon whom Cana relied for most of its information on current events, had risen at daybreak with the remembrance that Reuben had mentioned his need of a few wine-jars. Although it lacked some three months of the wine-pressing season, this was as good a time as any to learn Reuben's wishes. Also, he thought Reuben might be glad to learn that Barsabas Justus had arrived in Cana, last evening, with his small grandson--the one who, crippled from birth, had been made sound as any boy ever was-- and the handsome young Roman who, for some obscure reason, was buying up homespun at better than market prices. To this might be added the knowledge that Jesse, the son of Beoni, had been engaged by this Marcellus to carry an important letter to Jerusalem. After these items had been dealt out to Reuben, piecemeal, he could be told that Justus would be taking his grandson to see Miriam.

And so it happened that when the three callers sauntered across Reuben's well-kept lawn, at mid-forenoon, instead of taking the family by surprise they discovered that their visit was awaited.

Feeling that little Jonathan might enjoy a playmate, Miriam had sent for her nine-year-old cousin Andrew, who lived a mile farther out in the country. And Andrew's widowed mother, Aunt Martha, had been invited too, which had made her happy, for she had not seen Justus in recent months. There were many questions she wanted to ask him.

They were all in the arbour, grouped about Miriam, who was busy with the inevitable embroidery. She was very lovely, this morning, with a translucent happiness that made her even prettier than Marcellus had remembered. After greetings and introductions had been attended to--the artless sincerity of Miriam's welcome speeding Marcellus's pulse--they all found seats. Miriam held out a slim hand to Jonathan and gave him a brooding smile that brought him shyly to her side.

'You must be a very strong boy, Jonathan,' she told him, 'keeping up with these big men on a journey, all the way from Sepphoris.'

'I rode a donkey--most of the time,' he mumbled, self-consciously; then, with more confidence, 'I had a nicer donkey--of my own. His name was Jasper.' He pointed a finger vaguely in Marcellus's direction without looking at him. 'He gave Jasper to me. And I gave him to Thomas, because Thomas is lame.'

'Oh, what a lovely thing to do!' exclaimed Miriam. Her shining eyes drifted past Jonathan and gave Marcellus a heart-warming glance, and then darted to Justus, whose lips were drawn down in grim warning. 'I suppose Thomas really needs a donkey,' she went on accepting Justus's hint. 'It must have made you very happy to do that for him.'

Jonathan smiled wanly, put one brown bare foot on top of the other, and seemed to be meditating a dolorous reply. Divining his mood, Miriam interrupted with a promising diversion.

'Andrew,' she called, 'why don't you take Jonathan to see the conies? There are some little ones, Jonathan, that haven't opened their eyes yet.'

This suggestion was acted upon with alacrity. When the children had scampered away, Naomi turned to Marcellus.

'What's all this about the donkey?' she inquired, smiling.

Marcellus recrossed his long legs and wished that he had been included in the expedition to inspect the conies.

'I think Jonathan has told it all,' he replied, negligently. 'I found a lazy little donkey that nobody wanted and gave him to Jonathan. There was a lame lad in the neighbourhood and Jonathan generously presented him with the donkey. We thought that was pretty good--for a seven-year-old.'

'But we don't want his good-heartedness to go to his head,' put in Justus, firmly. 'He's already much impressed.'

'But Jonathan is only a child, Barsabas Justus,' protested Miriam.

'Of course!' murmured Martha.

'I know,' mumbled Justus, stroking his beard. 'But we can't have him spoiled, Miriam. If you have an opportunity, speak to him about it. . . . Well, Reuben, what's the prospect for the vineyard?'

'Better than usual, Justus.' Reuben slowly rose from his chair. 'Want to walk out and have a look at the vines?'

They ambled away. Presently Naomi remembered something she had to do in the kitchen. Aunt Martha, with a little nod and a smile, thought she might help. Miriam bent over her work attentively as they disappeared around the corner of the house.

'You have been much in my thoughts, Marcellus,' she said, softly, after a silence which they both had been reluctant to invade with some casual banality.

'You can see that I wanted to come back.' Marcellus drew his chair closer.

'And now that you're here'--Miriam smiled into his eyes companionably--'what shall we talk about first?'

'I am much interested in the story of that carpenter who did so many things for your people.'

Miriam's eyes widened happily.

'I knew it!' she cried.

'How could you have known it?' wondered Marcellus.

'Oh, by lots of little things--strung together. You knew nothing about textiles, nor does good old Justus, for that matter. You have had no experience in bargaining. It was clear that you were in Galilee on some other errand.'

'True--but what made you think I was interested in Jesus?'

'Your choosing Justus to conduct you. He saw as much of Jesus as anyone, except Simon and the Zebedee boys who were with him constantly. But you had me quite mystified.' She shook her head and laughed softly. 'Romans are under suspicion. I couldn't understand why Justus had consented to come up here with you. Then it came out that you knew the Greek who works for Benyosef. He must have planned your meeting with Justus, for surely that was no accident! The men who frequent Benyosef's shop are friends of Jesus. So, I added it all up and--'

'And concluded that I had employed Justus to inform me about Jesus,' interposed Marcellus. 'Well, your deduction is correct, though I must say that Justus seems to know a great deal that he isn't confiding in me.'

'Have you told him why you are interested in Jesus?' Miriam studied his eyes as she waited for his reply.

'Not fully,' admitted Marcellus, after some hesitation. 'But he is not suspicious of my motives.'

'Perhaps if you would tell Justus exactly how you happened to become interested in Jesus, he might be more free to talk,' suggested Miriam; and when Marcellus failed to respond promptly, she added, 'I am full of curiosity about that, myself.'

'That's a long story, Miriam,' muttered Marcellus, soberly.

'I have plenty of time,' she said. 'Tell me, Marcellus.'

'A year ago, I was in Jerusalem, on business--' he began, rather uncertainly.

'But not buying homespun,' she interjected, when he paused.

'It was government business,' Marcellus went on. 'I was there only a few days. During that time, there was a considerable stir over the arrest of this Galilean on a charge of treason. I was present at the trial when he was sentenced to death. It seemed clear that the man was innocent. The Procurator himself said so. I had much difficulty putting the matter out of my mind. Everything indicated that Jesus was a remarkable character. So, when I had occasion to come to Jerusalem again, this spring, I decided to spend a few days in Galilee, and learn something more about him.'

'What was it, about Jesus, that so deeply impressed you?' Miriam's tone entreated full confidence.

'His apparently effortless courage, I think,' said Marcellus. 'They were all arrayed against him--the Government, the Temple, the merchants, the bankers, the influential voices, the money. Not a man spoke in his behalf. His friends deserted him. And yet--in the face of cruel abuse--with a lost cause, and certain death confronting him--he was utterly fearless.' There was a thoughtful pause. 'It was impossible not to have a deep respect for a person of that fibre. I have had an immense curiosity to know what manner of man he was.' Marcellus made a little gesture to signify that he had ended his explanation.

'That wasn't such a very long story, after all, Marcellus,' remarked Miriam, intent upon her work. 'I wonder that you were so reluctant to tell it. Did you, perhaps, omit to tell Justus some of the things you have just told me?'

'No,' said Marcellus. 'I told him substantially the same thing.'

'But I thought you said you had not told him fully!'

'Well, what I have told you and Justus is sufficient, I think, to assure you that my interest is sincere,' declared Marcellus. 'At least, Justus appears to be satisfied. There are some stories about Jesus which he hints at, but refuses to tell, because, he says, I am not ready to be told. Yesterday he was lamenting that he had talked about that wedding-feast where the guests thought the water tasted like wine.'

'You didn't believe it.' Miriam smiled briefly. 'I do not wonder. Perhaps Justus is right. You weren't prepared for such a story.' A slow flush crept up her cheeks, as she added, 'And how did he happen to be talking of Anna's wedding?'

'We had been hoping to reach Cana in time to hear you sing,' said Marcellus, brightly, glad to have the conversation diverted. 'Naturally that led to comments about your sudden discovery of your inspiring voice. Justus had told me previously that it had occurred on the day of a wedding-feast. I pressed the subject, and he admitted that your strange experience had happened on the same day.'

'The changing of water into wine--that was too much for you,' laughed Miriam, sympathetically. 'I'm not surprised. However,' she went on, seriously, 'you seem to have had no trouble believing in my discovery that I could sing. It has completely transformed my life--my singing. It instantly made another kind of person of me, Marcellus. I was morbid, helpless, heart-sick, self-pitying, fretful, unreasonable. And now, as you see, I am happy and contented.' She stirred him with a radiant smile, and asked, softly, 'Is that so much easier to understand than the transformation of water into wine?'

'May I infer, then, that there was a miracle performed in your case, Miriam?' asked Marcellus.

'As you like,' she murmured, after some hesitation.

'I know you prefer not to discuss it,' he said, 'and I shall not pursue you with questions. But--assuming that Jesus spoke a word that made you sing--why did he not add a word that would give you power to walk? He straightened little Jonathan's foot, they say.'

Miriam pushed her embroidery aside, folded her arms, and faced Marcellus with a thoughtful frown.

'I cannot tell you how I came by my gift,' she said, 'but I do not regret my lameness. Perhaps the people of Cana are more helped by the songs I sing--from my cot--than they might be if I were physically well. They all have their worries, agonies, defeats. If I had been made whole, perhaps they would say, "Oh, it's easy enough for Miriam to sing and rejoice. Miriam has no trouble. Why indeed shouldn't she sing?"'

'You're a brave girl!' declared Marcellus.

She shook her head.

'I do not feel that I merit much praise, Marcellus. There was a time when my lameness was a great affliction, because I made it an affliction. It afflicted not only me but my parents and all my friends. Now that it is not an affliction, it has become a means of blessing. People are very tender in their attitude toward me. They come to visit me. They bring me little gifts. And, as Jesus said so frequently, it is more blessed to give than to receive, I am fortunate, my friend. I live in an atmosphere of love. The people of Cana frequently quarrel--but not with me. They are all at their best--with me.' She flashed him a sudden smile. 'Am I not rich?'

Marcellus made no response, but impulsively laid an open hand on the edge of the cot, and she gave him hers with the undeliberated trust of a little child.

'Shall I tell you another strange story, Marcellus?' she asked, quietly. 'Of course Justus must have told you that after Jesus had done some amazing things in our Galilean villages, the news spread throughout the country, and great crowds followed him wherever he went; hundreds, thousands; followed along for miles and miles and days and days! Men in the fields would drop their hoes and run to the road as the long procession passed; and then they too would join the throng, maybe to be gone from home for a week or more, sleeping in the open, cold and hungry, completely carried away! Nothing mattered--but to be close to Jesus! Well, one day, he was entering Jericho. You haven't been to Jericho, have you? No--you came up through Samaria. Jericho is one of the larger towns of Judea. As usual, a big crowd followed him and the whole city rushed to the main thoroughfare as the word spread that he had come. At that time, the Chief Revenue Officer of Jericho was a man named Zacchaeus--'

'A Greek?' broke in Marcellus.

'No, he was an Israelite. His name was Zaccai, really; but being in the employ of the Roman Government--' Miriam hesitated, coloured a little, and Marcellus eased her embarrassment with an understanding grin.

'You needn't explain. These provincial officers usually alter their names as soon as they begin to curry favour with their foreign masters. It's fashionable now to have a Greek name; much smarter and safer than to have a Roman name. I think I know something about this Zaccai (alias Zacchaeus) without meeting him. He is a common type of rascally tax-collector; disloyal to everybody--to the Government and to his own countrymen. We have them in all of our provinces throughout the Empire. You can't have an empire, Miriam, without scoundrels in the provincial seats of government. Think you that Tiberius could govern far-away Hispania and Aquitania unless certain of their men betrayed their own people? By no means! When the provincial officers go straight, the Empire goes to pieces! . . . But--pardon the interruption, Miriam, and the long speech. Tell me about Zacchaeus.'

'He was very wealthy. The people of Jericho feared and hated him. He had spies at every keyhole listening for some rebellious whisper. Anyone suspected of grumbling about the Government was assessed higher taxes, and if he protested, he was charged with treason. Zacchaeus had built a beautiful home on a knoll at the southern boundary of Jericho and lived like a prince. There were landscaped gardens and lagoons--and scores of servants.'

'But no friends,' surmised Marcellus.

'Neither among the rich nor the poor; but Zacchaeus did not care. He had contempt for their hatred. Well, on this day, having heard that Jesus was proceeding toward Jericho, Zacchaeus came down into the city for a glimpse of him. The waiting crowd was so dense that he abandoned his carriage and struggled through the multitude to reach a spot where he might see. A legionary, recognizing him, assisted him to climb up into the fork of a tree, though this was forbidden to anyone else. Presently Jesus came down the street with his large company, and stopped by the tree. He called to Zacchaeus, addressing him by name, though they had never met, saying, "May I dine with you to-day?"'

'And what did the people of Jericho think of that?' wondered Marcellus.

'They were indignant, of course,' said Miriam. 'And Jesus' closest friends were very unhappy. Zacchaeus had been so mean, and now Jesus had singled him out for special attention. Many said, "This Galilean is no better than the priests, who are ever truckling to the rich."'

'I suppose Zacchaeus made the most of their discomfiture,' commented Marcellus.

'He was much flattered; hurried down from the tree and swaggered proudly at Jesus' side as the procession moved on. And when they arrived at his beautiful estate, he gave orders that the multitude might enter the grounds and wait--'

'While he and his guest had dinner,' assisted Marcellus. 'They must have resented that.'

'They were deeply offended; but they waited. And saw Jesus enter the great marble house of Zacchaeus. After they had sat waiting for almost an hour, Zacchaeus came out and beckoned to the people. They scrambled to their feet and ran to hear what he might say. He was much disturbed. They could see that something had happened to him. The haughtiness and arrogance was gone from his face. Jesus stood a little way apart from him, sober and silent. The great multitude stood waiting, every man holding his breath and staring at this unfamiliar face of Zacchaeus. And then he spoke, humbly, brokenly. He had decided, he said, to give half of all he owned to feed the poor. To those whom he had defrauded, he would make abundant restitution.'

'But what had happened?' demanded Marcellus. 'What had Jesus said to him?'

Miriam shook her head.

'Nobody knows,' she murmured; then, with averted, reminiscent eyes, she added, half to herself: 'Maybe he didn't say anything at all. Perhaps he looked Zacchaeus squarely in the eyes until the man saw, reflected there, the image of the person he was meant to be.'

'That is a strange thing to say,' remarked Marcellus. 'I'm afraid I don't understand.'

'Many people had that experience,' said Miriam, softly. 'When Jesus looked directly into your eyes--' She broke off suddenly, and leaned far forward to face him at close range. 'Marcellus,' she went on, in an impressive tone lowered almost to a whisper, 'if you had ever met Jesus--face to face--and he had looked into your eyes until--until you couldn't get away--you would have no trouble believing that he could do ANYTHING--ANYTHING HE PLEASED! If he said, "Put down your crutches!" you would put them down. If he said, "Pay back the money you have stolen!" you would pay it back.'

She closed her eyes and relaxed against the cushions. Her hand, still in his, was trembling a little.

'And if he said, "Now you may sing for joy!"' ventured Marcellus, 'you would sing?'

Miriam did not open her eyes, but a wisp of a smile curved her lips. After a moment, she sat up with suddenly altered mood, reclaimed her hand, patted her curls, and indicated that she was ready to talk of something far afield.

'Tell me more about this Greek who worked for Benyosef,' she suggested. 'Evidently he too is interested in Jesus, or he wouldn't have had the confidence of the men who meet one another there.'

'It will be easy to talk about Demetrius,' replied Marcellus, 'for he is my closest friend. In appearance he is tall, athletic, handsome. In mind, he is widely informed, with a sound knowledge of the classics. At heart, he is loyal and courageous. As to his conduct, I have never known him to do an unworthy thing.' Marcellus paused for a moment, and went on resolutely, 'When I was seventeen, my father presented Demetrius to me--a birthday gift.'

'But you said he is your closest friend!' exclaimed Miriam. 'How can that be? Does he not resent being enslaved?'

'No man can be expected to like slavery, Miriam; but, once you have been a slave, there is not very much you could do with your freedom if you achieved it. I have offered Demetrius his liberty. He is free to come and go as he likes.'

'You must have been a good master, Marcellus,' said Miriam, gently.

'Not always. At times--especially during the past year--I have made Demetrius very unhappy. I was moody, restless, wretched, sick.'

'And why was that?' she asked. 'Would you like to tell me?'

'Not on this fair day,' rejoined Marcellus, soberly. 'Besides--I am well now. I need not burden you with it.'

'As you please,' she consented. 'But--how did Demetrius happen to be working in Benyosef's shop?'

'That is a long story, Miriam.'

'You and your long stories,' she put in, dryly.

Marcellus feigned a wince, and smiled.

'Briefly, then, we were in Athens. Through no fault of his, and in defence of some helpless people, Demetrius engaged in combat with a man who held a position of authority, but had not been advised that a blow delivered by this Greek slave would stun an ox. It was a well-justified battle, albeit one-sided and of short duration. But we thought it prudent for Demetrius to lose no time increasing the distance between himself and the Athenian jail. So he drifted to Jerusalem, and because he had some knowledge of carding and spinning--'

'And how had he picked that up?' asked Miriam, busy again with her precise stitches.

'At a weaver's shop in Athens. He was studying Aramaic under the weaver's instructions, and made himself useful.'

'Was that where you got your Aramaic, Marcellus?'

'Yes.'

'Did you learn carding and spinning, too?'

'No,' laughed Marcellus. 'Just Aramaic--such as it is.'

'That was in preparation for this tour of Galilee, I think,' ventured Miriam. 'And when you have learned all you wish to know about Jesus--what then?'

'My plans are uncertain.' Marcellus frowned his perplexity. 'I must go back to Rome, though my return is not urgent. Naturally I want to rejoin my family and friends, but--'

Miriam took several little stitches before she looked up to ask, almost inaudibly, 'But what?'

'Something tells me I am going to feel quite out of place in Rome,' he confessed. 'I have been much impressed by what I have heard of your brave Galilean's teachings about human relations. They seem so reasonable, so sensible. If they become popular, we could have a new world. And, Miriam, we must have a new world! Things can't go on this way! Not very much longer!'

Miriam put down her work and gave him her full attention. She had not seen him in such a serious mood before.

'During these past few days,' he went on, 'I have had a chance to look at the world from a different angle. It wasn't that I had never stopped to think about its injustice, its waste, its tragic unhappiness. But--out here in this quiet country--I lie at night, looking up at the stars, and suddenly I recall Rome!--its greed and gluttony at the top; its poverty and degradation, growing more and more desperate all the way down to the bottom of damp dungeons and galleys and quarries. And Rome rules the world! The Emperor is a lunatic. The Prince Regent is a scoundrel. They rule the world! Their armies control the wretched lives of millions of people!' He paused, patted a damp brow, and muttered, 'Forgive me, my friend, for haranguing you.'

'Would it not be wonderful,' exclaimed Miriam, 'if Jesus were on the throne?'

'Impossible!' expostulated Marcellus.

'Maybe not,' said Miriam, quietly.

He studied her eyes, wondering if she were really serious, and was amazed at her sober sincerity.

'You can't be in earnest!' he said. 'Besides, Jesus is dead.'

'Are you sure of that?' she asked, without looking up.

'I agree that his teachings are not dead, and something should be done to carry them to as many people as can be reached!'

'Do you intend to tell your friends about him--when you go home?'

Marcellus sighed.

'They would think me crazy.'

'Would your father think you were crazy?'

'He would, indeed! My father is a just man of generous heart, but he has contempt for people who interest themselves in religion. He would be embarrassed--and annoyed, too--if I were to discuss these things with our friends.'

'Might he not think it brave of you?'

'Brave? Not at all! He would think it was in very bad taste!'

Justus and Reuben were sauntering in from the vineyard, much occupied with their low-voiced conversation.

'How long will you be here, Marcellus?' asked Miriam, with undisguised concern. 'Shall I see you again; to-morrow, maybe?'

'Not to-morrow. We go to Capernaum to-morrow, Justus says. He wants me to meet an old man named Nathanael. Ever heard of him?'

'Of course. You will like him. But you are coming back to Cana, aren't you, before you return to Jerusalem?'

'I'd like to.'

'Please. Now you let me have a word with Justus, alone, will you?'

'Justus,' said Marcellus, as the men approached, 'I shall go back to the village, and meet you there at your convenience.'

He offered his hand to Reuben, who clasped it cordially. Evidently Justus had given Reuben a friendly account of him.

'Good-bye, Miriam,' he said, taking her hand. 'I shall see you next week.'

'Good-bye, Marcellus,' she said, 'I shall be looking for you.' The bearded Galileans stood by and watched them exchange a lingering look. Reuben frowned a little, as if the situation perplexed him. The frown said that Reuben didn't want his girl hurt. This Roman would go away and forget all about her, but Miriam would remember.

'You're coming back this way, then,' said Reuben to Justus, as Marcellus moved away.

'It seems so.' Justus grinned.

'Let me tell Naomi that you will tarry and break bread with us,' said Reuben.

When they were alone, Miriam motioned Justus to sit down beside her.

'Why don't you tell Marcellus everything?' she asked. 'He is deeply concerned. It seems he knows so little. He was in Jerusalem and attended the trial at the Insula, heard Jesus sentenced to death, and knows that he was crucified. And that is all. So far as he is aware, the story of Jesus ended that day. Why haven't you told him?'

'I intend to, Miriam, when he is prepared to hear it. He would not believe it if I were to tell him now.' Justus moved closer and lowered his voice. 'I thought perhaps you would tell him.'

'I almost did. Then I wondered if you might not have some reason, unknown to me, for keeping it a secret. I think Marcellus has a right to know everything now. He thinks it such a pity that no plans have been made to interest people in Jesus' teachings. Can't you tell him about the work they are doing in Jerusalem, and Joppa, and Cæsarea? He hasn't the faintest idea of what is going on!'

'Very well,' nodded Justus. 'I shall tell him--everything.'

'To-day!' urged Miriam.

'Tell me truly, daughter,' said Justus, soberly. 'Are you losing your heart to this foreigner?'

Miriam took several small, even stitches before she looked up into his brooding eyes.

'Marcellus doesn't seem a bit foreign to me,' she said, softly.

* * * * * *

Aimlessly sauntering back to the tent, Marcellus began sorting over the homespun he had accumulated, wondering what he should do with it. Now that there was no longer any reason for pretending an interest in such merchandise, the articles already purchased were of no value to him. The thought occurred--and gave him pleasure-- that he might take them to Miriam. She would be glad to see that they were distributed among the poor.

He took up a black robe and held it against the light. It was of good wool and well woven. He had paid twenty shekels for it. Fifteen would have been enough, but the woman was poor. Besides, he had been trying to make a favourable impression on Justus by dealing generously with his fellow countrymen.

With nothing better to entertain him, Marcellus sat down on the edge of his cot, with the robe in his hands, and indulged in some leisurely theorizing on the indeterminate value of this garment. If you computed the amount of skilled labour invested by the woman who wove it, on a basis of an adequate wage per hour for such experienced workmanship, the robe was easily worth thirty shekels. But not in Sepphoris, where she lived; for the local market was not active. In Sepphoris it was worth twelve shekels. A stranger would have been asked fifteen. Marcellus had made it worth twenty. Now it wasn't worth anything!

He would give it to Miriam, who had no use for it, and it still wouldn't be worth anything until she had presented it to someone who needed it. At that juncture, the robe would begin to take on some value again, though just how much would be difficult to estimate. If the man who received this excellent robe should be inspired by it to wash his hands and face and mend his torn sandals-- thereby increasing public confidence in his character, and enabling him to find employment at a better wage--the robe might eventually turn out to be worth more than its original cost. If the man who received it was a lazy scalawag, he might sell it for whatever it would fetch, which wouldn't be much; for no person of any substance would want, at any price, a garment that had been in the possession of this probably verminous tramp. You could amuse yourself all day with speculations concerning the shifting values of material things.

Marcellus had been doing an unusual amount of new thinking, these past few days, on the subject of property. According to Justus, Jesus had had much to say about a man's responsibility as a possessor of material things. Hoarded things might easily become a menace; a mere fire-and-theft risk; a breeding-ground for destructive insects; a source of worry. Men would have plenty of anxieties, but there was no sense in accumulating worries over THINGS! That kind of worry destroyed your character. Even an unused coat, hanging in your closet--it wasn't merely a useless thing that did nobody any good; it was an active agent of destruction to your life. And your LIFE must be saved, at all costs. What would it advantage a man--Jesus had demanded--if he were to gain the whole world, and lose his own life?

A bit bewildered by this statement, Marcellus had inquired:

'What did he mean, Justus, about the importance of saving your own life? He didn't seem to be much worried about losing his! He could have saved it if he had promised Pilate and the priests that he would go home and say nothing more to the people about his beliefs.'

'Well, sir,' Justus had tried to explain, 'Jesus didn't mean quite the same thing that you have in mind when he talked about a man's life. You see, Jesus wasn't losing his life when they crucified him, but he would have lost it if he had recanted and gone home. Do you understand what I mean, Marcellus?'

'No, I can't say that I do. To speak that way about life is simply trifling with the accepted definition of the word. I believe that when a man is dead, he has lost his life; perhaps lost it in a good cause; perhaps still living, for a little while, in the memory of those who believed in him and cherished his friendship. But if our human speech is of any use at all, a man who is dead has lost his life.'

'Not necessarily,' protested Justus. 'Not if his soul is still alive. Jesus said we need have no fear of the things that kill the body. We should fear only the things that kill the soul.' And when Marcellus had shrugged impatiently, Justus had continued, 'The body isn't very important; just, a vehicle; just a kit of tools--to serve the soul.' He had chuckled over Marcellus's expression of disgust. 'You think that sounds crazy; don't you?' he added, gently.

'Of course!' Marcellus had shrugged. 'And so do you!'

'I admit it's not easy to believe,' conceded Justus.

And then Marcellus had stopped in the road--they were on their way from Sepphoris to Cana--and had delivered what for him was a long speech.

'Justus,' he began, 'I must tell you candidly that while I am much interested in the sensible philosophy of your dead friend Jesus, I hope you will not want to report any more statements of that nature. I have a sincere respect for this man's mind, and I don't wish to lose it.'

He had half-expected Justus to be glum over this rebuke, but the big fellow had only grinned and nodded indulgently.

'I didn't mean to be offensive,' said Marcellus.

'I am not troubled,' said Justus, cordially. 'It was my fault. I was going too fast for you; offering you meat when you should have milk.'

* * * * * *

He tossed the black robe aside and examined a white shawl with a fringe. He couldn't imagine his mother wearing it, but the woman who had made it had been proud of her handiwork. He remembered how reluctant she was to see it go out of her little house, down on the Samaritan border somewhere. She should have been permitted to keep the shawl. It meant more to her than it could possibly mean to anyone else. Such things should never be sold, or bought, either. Marcellus recalled the feeling of self-reproach he had often experienced at lavish banquets in Rome, where the wines were cooled with ice that had been brought from the northern mountains by relays of runners who sometimes died of exhaustion. No honest man could afford such wine. It had cost too much.

Well, he would give all these garments to Miriam. She would put them to good use. But wouldn't it be rather ungracious to let Miriam know that these things, fabricated with great care by her own fellow countrymen, weren't worth carrying away?

'But they are gifts,' he would say to Miriam. 'The people who receive them will be advantaged.'

And then Miriam would have a right to say, though she probably wouldn't, 'How can they be gifts, Marcellus, when they are only useless things that you don't want to be bothered with?'

And then, assuming that Miriam had said that, he could reply:

'But so far as the people are concerned who get these things, they would be gifts, wouldn't you say?'

'No,' he thought she might reply, 'they would never be gifts. You see, Marcellus--' And then she would go on to explain again how Jesus had felt about gifts.

He pitched the heavy white shawl back on to the pile of homespun and glanced up to see a tall, lean, rugged-faced fellow standing at the door of the tent. The visitor grinned amiably and Marcellus invited him to come in. He sat down on a camp-stool, crossed his long legs, and said his name was Hariph.

'Doubtless you came to see Justus,' said Marcellus, cordially. 'He is at Reuben's house. If you call this afternoon, I think he will be there.'

Hariph nodded, but made no move to go; sat slowly swinging his pendent foot and nursing his elbows on his knee, while he candidly surveyed the furniture in the tent, the heap of homespun, and the urbane stranger from Rome.

'I think I have heard Justus speak of you,' said Marcellus, feeling that if Hariph meant to stay awhile some conversation might be appropriate. 'You are a potter, I believe. You make water-jars, and wine-jars, and things like that.'

Hariph nodded and the grin widened a little.

'Tell me,' went on Marcellus, hopefully, 'is it customary to use the same sort of jar either for wine or water?'

'Oh, yes, sir,' replied Hariph, with deliberate professional dignity. 'Many do that. Water or wine--it's all the same. Oil too. Same pot.'

'But I suppose that after you've had oil in a pot, you wouldn't want to put wine in it,' observed Marcellus, sensibly enough, he thought.

'No, that wouldn't be so good,' agreed Hariph. 'The wine would taste of oil.'

'The same thing might be true, I daresay, of water in a jar that had held wine,' pursued Marcellus. 'The water might taste like wine.'

Hariph stopped swinging his foot and gazed squintingly toward the street, the fine lines on his temple deepening. Marcellus surmised that the town gossip was trying to decide whether it would be prudent to discuss the matter. After some delay, he turned to his young host and gratified him by saying:

'Did Justus tell you?'

'Yes.'

'Did you believe it?' asked Hariph.

'No,' replied Marcellus, firmly. 'I should be much interested in hearing what you think about it.'

'Well, sir,' rejoined Hariph, 'we ran out of wine at the wedding of my daughter Anna, and when Jesus came he made wine--out of water. I don't know how. I just know that he did it.'

'Did you taste it?'

'Yes, sir. I never tasted wine like that--before or since.'

'What was it--a heavy, potent wine?'

'N-no, sir,' Hariph screwed up his face indecisively. 'It was of a delicate flavour.'

'Red?' queried Marcellus.

'White,' remembered Hariph.

'White as water?'

'Yes, sir.' Hariph's eyes collided briefly with Marcellus's dry smile, and drifted away. Nothing further was said for a long moment.

'I am told that everyone was very fond of Jesus,' remarked Marcellus.

'Indeed they were, sir!' responded Hariph. 'He came late, that day. You should have seen them when he appeared; the shouts of greeting; many leaving their places to crowd about him. It was so, wherever he went, sir. Nobody had eyes for anyone else.'

'Had you ever kept wine in those jars, Hariph?' asked Marcellus.

'Yes, sir,' admitted Hariph.

Marcellus nodded his head slowly and grinned.

'Well, thank you for telling me,' he said. 'I was almost sure there must be an explanation.' He rose, significantly. 'I am glad you called, Hariph. Shall I tell Justus you will be back later?'

Hariph had not risen. His face was perplexed.

'If it was only that one thing, sir,' he said, quite unaffected by his dismissal, 'if it had been only that one time--'

Marcellus sat down again and gave respectful attention.

'But from that day on, sir,' continued Hariph, deliberately, 'there were many strange happenings.'

'So I have heard,' admitted Marcellus. 'Let me ask you: did you see any of these mysterious things done, or did you just learn about them from others? Strange stories always grow in the telling, you know.'

'Has anyone told you,' asked Hariph, 'how Jesus fed a crowd of five thousand people when he had nothing but a little basketful of bread and a couple of smoked fish?'

'No,' said Marcellus, eagerly. 'Tell me, please.'

'Perhaps Justus will tell you, if you ask him. He was there. He was closer to it--when it happened.'

'Were you there, Hariph?'

'Yes, but I was rather far back in the crowd.'

'Well, tell me what you saw. I shall be much interested in your view of it. Where did all this happen?'

'It wasn't so very long after our wedding. Jesus had begun going about through the villages, talking with the people, and large crowds were following him.'

'Because of what he said?' interposed Marcellus.

'Partly, but mostly because of the reports that he was healing all manner of diseases, and giving blind men their sight, and--'

'Do you believe that--about the blind men?'

'Yes, sir!' declared Hariph. 'I saw one man who could see as well as you can, sir.'

'Had you known him before?'

'No, sir,' confessed Hariph. 'But his neighbours said he had been blind for years.'

'Did you know them--his neighbours?'

'No, sir. They were from down around Sychar.'

'That kind of testimony,' observed Marcellus, judicially, 'wouldn't get very far in a court of law; but you must have some good reason for believing it. . . . Well, go on, please, about the strange feast.'

'Always there were big crowds following him,' continued Hariph, undismayed by the Roman's incredulity. 'And sometimes they weren't easy to handle. Everybody wanted to be close enough to see these wonderful things happen; and you never could tell when it would be. It's no small matter, sir,' Hariph interrupted himself to comment, 'when one of your own neighbours, as you might say, who had grown up with the other youngsters of his village, and had worked at a carpenter's bench, takes to talking as nobody else had ever talked; and stopping in the middle of a speech to point his finger at some old man who might be standing in the front row, with his mouth open and both hands cupped behind his ears, trying to hear--and suddenly the old man yells "Ahhh!" and begins dancing up and down, shouting, "I can hear! I can hear! I can hear!" And Jesus wouldn't have stopped talking: he would just point at the man--and he could hear!'

'Did you ever see Jesus do that, Hariph?' demanded Marcellus.

'No, sir, but there were plenty who did; people whose word you could trust, too!'

'Very well,' consented Marcellus, indulgently. 'Now tell me about the feeding of the five thousand people. You say you saw that?'

'It was this way, sir. It all began over in Capernaum. A lot of strange things had happened, and the news had spread abroad until a great crowd had collected--a disorderly crowd it was; for nobody was trying to keep them from pushing and jostling and tramping on one another.'

'It's a wonder they didn't call out the legionaries,' said Marcellus. 'There's a fort at Capernaum.'

'Yes, and many of the soldiers were there; but I don't think the priests and elders of the city wanted the crowd to be kept in order. They probably hoped something would happen, a bad accident, maybe, so that Jesus could be arrested for disturbing the peace.'

'But didn't he have a few close friends who might have ordered the people to cease this confusion?'

'Yes, sir, Jesus had many close friends. He named twelve of them to be known as his disciples. But they had no authority to give orders to that big crowd. They were really beside themselves to know what to do. Reuben and I had gone over to Capernaum--like everybody else--to see what was going on. When we arrived, the people were pushing and struggling in the central plaza. I never was in such a press, sir! Men and women with sick children in their arms, being jostled roughly in the swaying pack. Blind men. Half-dead people on cots, carried by their friends. There were even lepers in the crowd.' Hariph chuckled grimly. 'Nobody jostled THEM!'

'It's a wonder they weren't arrested,' put in Marcellus.

'Well, sir,' drawled Hariph, 'when a leper is out on his own, not even a legionary is anxious to lay hands on him. And you couldn't blame the poor lepers, sir. They hoped to be healed, too.'

'Is Jesus supposed to have healed lepers, Hariph?' Marcellus's tone was heavy with doubt.

'Yes, sir. . . . Well, when the crowd became unmanageable, Jesus began retreating, down toward the shore. Several of his disciples had run on ahead and engaged a boat. And before the people realized what was happening, Jesus and his twelve closest friends were pulling away from the beach.'

'Wasn't that a rather heartless thing to do?' queried Marcellus.

'He had tried to talk to them, sir, but there was too much confusion. You see, the people who crowded in about him hadn't come to hear him talk, but to witness some strange thing. They wouldn't even give way to the cripples or the blind or the very sick ones borne on cots. And then, too, Jesus had just received bad news. One of his best friends, whom old Herod Antipas had thrown into prison, had just been beheaded. Word of it came to Jesus while he was trying to deal with that unruly mob. You can't blame him, sir, for wanting to get away.'

'Quite to the contrary, Hariph!' declared Marcellus. 'It's gratifying to hear that he could be puzzled about something. It was lucky that there was a boat available. Was the crowd enraged?'

'Oh, they behaved each according to his own temper,' remembered Hariph. 'Some shook their fists and shouted imprecations. Some shook their heads and turned away. Some wept. Some stood still and said nothing, as they watched the boat growing smaller.'

'And what did you and Reuben do?'

'Well, sir, we decided to go home. And then somebody noticed that the boat was veering toward the north. A great shout went up, and the people began racing toward the beach. It seemed likely that the party in the boat was making for some place up in the neighbourhood of Bethsaida.'

'How far was that?' inquired Marcellus.

'For the boat, about six miles. For the crowd, nearly nine. It was a hot day and rough going. That country up there is mostly desert. But everybody went, or so it seemed. It was a singular sight, sir, that long procession stumbling over the stones and through the dried weeds. It was far past midday when we found them.'

'Did Jesus seem annoyed when the crowd arrived?'

'No, just sorry,' murmured Hariph. 'His face was sad. The people were so very tired. They weren't pushing one another--not after that trip!' He laughed a little at the recollection.

'Did he chide them for the way they had behaved in Capernaum?'

'No, sir. He didn't say anything for a long time. The people flung themselves down to rest. Justus told me afterwards that Simon urged Jesus to talk to them, but he wanted to wait until all of them had arrived; for some were carrying their sick, and were far behind. He didn't speak a word until they were all there. And then he stood up and began to talk. He did not reprove us for trailing him to this place, nor did he have aught to say of the people's rudeness. He talked about all of us being neighbours. We were all one family. Everyone was very quiet. There wasn't a sound--but the voice of Jesus. And remember, sir; there were five thousand people in that crowd!' Hariph's chin twitched involuntarily. He cleared his throat. Marcellus studied his face soberly.

'I am not one to weep easily, sir,' he went on, huskily. 'But there was something about those words that brought the tears. There we were--nothing but a great crowd of little children--tired and worn out--and here was a man--the only man there--and all the rest of us nothing but quarrelsome, stingy, greedy, little children. His voice was very calm, but--if you can believe me, sir-- his words were as ointment to our wounds. While he talked, I was saying to myself, "I have never lived! I have never known how to live! This man has the words of life!" It was as if God himself were speaking, sir! Everybody was much moved. Men's faces were strained and their tears were flowing.' Hariph wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

'After a while,' he continued, brokenly, 'Jesus stopped talking and motioned to some who had carried a sick man all that long way, and they brought their burden and put it down at Jesus' feet. He said something to the sick man. I could not hear what it was. And the sick man got up! And so did everybody else--as if Jesus had suddenly pulled us all to our feet. And everyone gasped with wonder!' Hariph grinned pensively and faced Marcellus directly with childishly entreating eyes. 'Do you believe what I am telling you, sir?'

'It is difficult, Hariph,' said Marcellus, gently. 'But I think you believe what you are saying. Perhaps there is some explanation.'

'That may be, sir,' said Hariph, politely. 'And then there were many, many others who went to Jesus to be healed of their diseases; not jostling to be first, but waiting their turn.' He hesitated for a moment, embarrassed. 'But I shall not weary you with that,' he went on, 'seeing you do not believe.'

'You were going to tell me how he fed them,' prompted Marcellus.

'Yes, sir. It was growing late in the afternoon. I had been so moved by the things I had heard and seen that I had not thought of being hungry. Reuben and I, knowing there would be nothing out there to eat, had stopped at a market-booth in Capernaum and had bought some bread and cured fish. In any other kind of crowd, we would have eaten our luncheon. But now that we had begun to feel hungry, I was ashamed to eat what I had before the faces of the men about me; for, as I have said, Jesus had been talking about us all being of one family, and how we ought to share what we had with one another. I should have been willing to divide with the man next to me; but I hadn't much more than enough for myself. So--I didn't eat; nor did Reuben.'

'I daresay there were plenty of men in the crowd who were faced with the same dilemma,' surmised Marcellus.

'Well, the disciples were around Jesus telling him he had better dismiss the people, so they could go to the little villages and buy food. Justus told me afterwards that Jesus only shook his head and told them that the people would be fed. They were much bewildered and worried. There was a small boy, sitting very close and overhearing this talk. He had a little basket, his own lunch, not very much; just enough to feed a boy. He went to Jesus with his basket and said he was willing to share what he had.'

Marcellus's eyes lighted, and he leaned forward attentively.

'Go on!' he demanded. 'This is wonderful.'

'Yes, it really was wonderful, sir. Jesus took the basket and held it up for the people to see. And then he told how the boy wanted to share his food with all the people. And he looked up and thanked God for the little boy's gift. It was very, very quiet, sir. Then he began breaking the small loaves into bits, and the fish he tore into little shreds; and he gave these fragments to his disciples and told them to feed the people.'

'Did the crowd laugh?' asked Marcellus.

'Well, no, sir. We didn't laugh, although almost everyone smiled over such a big crowd being fed on almost nothing, as you might say. As I told you, I had been ashamed to bring out the food I had, and now I was ashamed not to; so I unwrapped my bread and fish, and broke off a piece, and offered it to the man next to me.'

'Wonderful!' shouted Marcellus. 'Was he glad to get it?'

'He had some of his own,' said Hariph, adding, quickly, 'but there were plenty of people who hadn't brought any food along with them, sir. And everyone was fed, that day! After it was over, they gathered up a dozen basketfuls of fragments, left over.'

'It sounds as if some other people, besides you and Reuben, had had the forethought to bring some provisions along,' speculated Marcellus. 'They probably wouldn't have gone out into the desert with empty baskets. This is really a marvellous story, Hariph!'

'You believe it, sir?' Hariph was happily surprised.

'Indeed I do! And I believe it was a miracle! Jesus had inspired those stingy, selfish people to be decent to one another! It takes a truly great man to make one harmonious family out of a crowd like that! I can't understand the healing, Hariph; but I believe in the feeding! And I'm glad you wanted to tell me!'



Chapter XVI


They were on the way from Cana to Capernaum. All day their narrow road had been gaining altitude, not without occasional dips into shallow valleys, but tending upwards toward a lofty plateau where the olive-green terrain met an azure sky set with masses of motionless white clouds.

It had been a fatiguing journey, with many pauses for rest, and as the shadows slanted farther to the east, the two men trudged the steepening track in silence, leaving the little pack-train far behind. They were nearing the top now. Justus had promised that they would make camp in the lee of the great rock they had sighted two hours ago. There was a cool spring, he said, and plenty of forage. He hoped they would find the spot untenanted. Yes, he knew the place well. He had camped there many times. There was a splendid view. Jesus had loved it.

Throughout this tour of Galilee, Marcellus had paid very little attention to the physical characteristics of the province. Until now the landscape had been unremarkable, and he had been fully preoccupied by the strange business that had brought him here. Marcellus had but one interest in this otherwise undistinguished land of rock-strewn fields, tiny vineyards, and apathetic villages drowsing in the dust around an ancient well. He was concerned only about a mysterious man who had walked these winding roads, a little while ago, with crowds of thousands surging about him.

It was not easy to-day, on this sleepy old highway, to picture either the number or the temper of that multitude. The people must have come from long distances, most of them, for this country was not thickly populated. Nor was it easy to imagine the confusion, the jostling, the shouting. Such Galileans as Marcellus had seen were not emotional, not responsive; rather stolid, indeed.

That weary, weather-beaten woman, leaning on her hoe, in the frowsy little garden they had just passed--had she, too, bounded out of her kitchen, leaving their noonday pottage on the fire, to join in that curious throng? This bearded man in the meadows--her husband, obviously; now sluggishly mowing wisps of grass with his great- grandfather's scythe--had he run panting to the edge of the crowd, trying to scramble through the sweating pack for a glimpse of the face of Jesus?

It was almost incredible that this silent, solemn, stodgy province could ever have been haled out of its age-long lethargy and stirred to such a pitch of excitement. Even Justus, looking back upon it all, could only shake his shaggy head and mutter that the whole affair was quite beyond comprehension. You could think what you liked about the miracles, reflected Justus, soberly: many of the people were hysterical and had reported all manner of strange occurrences, some of which had never been satisfactorily confirmed. The air had been full of wild rumours, Justus said. A few Nazarenes had been quoted as remembering that when Jesus was a lad, at play with them, he had fashioned birds of clay, and the birds had come to life and had flown away. You could hear such tales by the score, and they had confused the public's estimate of Jesus, making him seem a mountebank in the opinion of many intelligent people.

But these passionate throngs of thousands who followed, day after day, indifferent to their hunger and discomfort--all Galilee knew that this was true because all Galilee had participated. You might have good reasons for doubting the validity of some of these miracle stories, but you couldn't doubt this one! Obscure little Galilee, so slow and stupid that its bucolic habits and uncouth dialect were stock jokes in Judea, had suddenly come alive! Its dull work was abandoned. Everybody talking at once! Everybody shouting questions which nobody tried to answer! Camels were left standing in their harness, hitched to water-wheels. Shuttles were left, midway of the open warp. Tools lay scattered on the floor of the carpenter shop. Ploughs stopped in the furrow. Fires burned out in the brick-kiln. Everybody took to the road, on foot, on donkeys, on carts, on crutches. Helpless invalids who couldn't be left were bundled up on stretchers and carried along. Nothing mattered but to follow the young man who looked into your eyes and made you well--or ashamed--or tightened your throat with longing for his calm strength and flower-like purity.

Now the bright light had gone out. The great crowds had scattered. The inspired young man was dead. Galilee had gone back to sleep. It was a lonely land. Perhaps the Galileans themselves were now conscious of its loneliness, after having briefly experienced this unprecedented activity.

Marcellus wished he knew how much of Jesus' influence still remained alive. Of course, you could depend upon a few of them-- those who had known him best and owed him much--to remember and remember until they died; people like Miriam. Or were there any more like Miriam? Justus had said that some of these Galileans had been completely transformed, almost as if they had been born again. Certain men of low estate had learned new occupations. Certain beggars had become productive. A few publicans had become respected citizens. Women who had been known as common scolds were going about doing deeds of kindness. But perhaps the majority had been unable to hold on to their resolutions. He must press Justus for some more information about that.

Now they had arrived at the top of the terrain, every step adding depth to the view. Far to the north lay a range of snow-capped mountains. A few steps farther on, and the distant turrets and domes of a modern city glistened in the declining sun. There was no need to inquire its name: it had to be Tiberias. Marcellus lengthened his stride to keep pace with Justus, who was moving swiftly toward the northern rim, turning his head from side to side, and peering intently in all directions, as if he had expected to meet a friend up here.

Suddenly the whole breath-taking panorama was spread before them and Marcellus had his first sight of the deep-blue lake that had figured so much in his guide's conversation. It had been around this little sea that Jesus had spent most of his days. Justus dropped wearily to the ground, folded his arms, and sat in silent contemplation of the scene. Marcellus, a little way apart, reclined on his elbows. Far in the distance was a slanting sail. All along the shore-line, flat-roofed villages straggled down to the water's edge.

After a long interval, Marcellus stirred.

'So--this is the Sea of Galilee!' he said, half to himself.

Justus nodded slowly. Presently he pointed to the farthest settlement that could be seen.

'Capernaum,' he said. 'Eight miles.'

'I daresay this lake has some tender memories for you, Justus,' remarked Marcellus. 'Tell me,' he went on, with a slow gesture that swept the landscape, 'has the general behaviour of those people been greatly altered by the career of Jesus?'

'It is hard to say,' replied Justus. 'They do not talk much about it. They are afraid. The Roman fort is close by. One could easily get into trouble by asking questions. One only knows what has happened in the lives of one's friends. I expect to visit some of them while we are here.'

'Will I see them?' inquired Marcellus, doubtfully.

'Not many,' said Justus, frankly. 'You will see old Bartholomew, as I told you. He has a story I want you to hear. Bartholomew will not be afraid to talk to you, after I assure him it will be safe.' He turned about and faced Marcellus with a reminiscent smile. 'You might be interested in knowing how Jesus and Bartholomew first met. The old man was sitting out in his little fig orchard, one morning, when Jesus and Philip passed the house. And Jesus cheerily waved a hand and said, "Peace be upon you, Nathanael!"'

'I thought his name was Bartholomew,' put in Marcellus.

'That's the amusing part of it,' chuckled Justus. 'It is not customary with us to call venerable men by their given names. I don't suppose old Bartholomew had heard himself called Nathanael for at least two-score years. And here was this young stranger taking an immense liberty with him.'

'Was he offended?' asked Marcellus, with a grin.

'Well, perhaps not seriously offended, but certainly astonished. He called Jesus to come to him, perhaps intending to take him to task for what looked like a bit of impudence. Philip told me the story. He said that old Bartholomew was looking stern as he waited for Jesus to approach. Then his eyes widened and softened; and he smiled and said, "You knew my name." "Yes," replied Jesus, "and because it means 'God-given' it is fitting, for you are an Israelite of high integrity."'

'That should have pleased the old man,' observed Marcellus.

'It did,' said Justus soberly. 'It made him a disciple.'

'You mean, he--followed after Jesus?'

'Yes. There was something strange about that. The old man had long since taken to his chair in the garden, thinking his active days were ended. But he got up and went along with Jesus--and he rarely left his side for nearly three years.'

'His vigour was restored?' Marcellus's face showed disbelief.

'No, he was still an old man. It was hard work for him to keep up with the others. He got very weary indeed, and he wheezed and panted like any other hard-pressed old man--'

'But he came along,' assisted Marcellus.

'Yes--Bartholomew came along. No one else would have ventured to call him Nathanael--but Jesus did, invariably. And Bartholomew liked it.'

'Perhaps Jesus did that to keep the old man going,' suggested Marcellus. 'Maybe it made him feel younger.'

'Well, it wasn't only Bartholomew who felt younger and immature in the company of Jesus.' Justus frowned and stroked his beard, his habit when groping for an elusive memory. 'With the exception of John, all the close friends and disciples of Jesus were older than he; but he was our senior, by years and years. Sometimes, after we had slipped away for an hour's rest, he would say, "Come, children: we must be on our way." But no one smiled, or thought it peculiar.'

'He seemed remote?' asked Marcellus.

Justus deliberately pondered a reply, then shook his head.

'No, not remote. He was companionable. You wanted to get closer to him, as if for protection. I think that's why the people were always crowding about him, until he hardly had room to move.'

'That must have put him under a great strain,' said Marcellus. 'Didn't he ever seem weary?'

'Very, very weary!' remembered Justus. 'But he never protested. Sometimes men would brace a shoulder against the crowd and push their way in, knocking others off their feet, but I can't recall that he ever rebuked anyone for it. . . . Marcellus, did you ever see a flock of little chickens climbing over one another to get under the hen's wings? Well, the hen doesn't seem to notice; just holds out her feathers, and lets them scramble in. That was his attitude. And that was our relation to him.'

'Very strange!' murmured Marcellus, abstractedly. 'But I think--I understand--what you mean,' he added, as from a distance.

'You couldn't!' declared Justus. 'You think you understand, but you would have had to know Jesus to comprehend what I am saying. Some of us were old enough to have been his father, but we were just--just little chickens! Take Simon, for example. Simon was always the leader among the disciples. I hope you meet him when you go back to Jerusalem. Simon is a very forceful, capable man. Whenever Jesus happened to be absent from us, for an hour, Simon was far and away the big man of the company, everyone deferring to him. But--when Jesus would rejoin us'--Justus grinned, pursed his lips, and slowly shook his head--'Simon was just a little boy; just a humble, helpless little boy! A little chicken!'

'And Bartholomew--he was a little chicken, too?'

'Well,' deliberated Justus, 'not quite in the same way, perhaps. Bartholomew never expressed his opinions so freely as Simon, when Jesus was away from us. He didn't have quite so far to drop--as Simon. It was amazing how much fatigue the old fellow could endure. He attended the last supper they had together on the night Jesus was betrayed. But when the news came in that the Master had been arrested, it was too much for Bartholomew. He was very sick. They put him to bed. By the time he recovered--it was all over.' Justus closed his eyes, sighed deeply, and an expression of pain swept his face. 'It was all over,' his lips repeated, soundlessly.

'He must be quite infirm, by this time,' said Marcellus, anxious to lift the gloom.

'About the same,' said Justus. 'Not much older. Not much weaker.' He grinned a little. 'Bartholomew has a queer idea now. He thinks he may never die. He sits all day in the fig orchard, when the weather is fair.'

'Looking up the road, perhaps,' speculated Marcellus, 'and wishing he might see Jesus again, coming to visit him.'

Justus had been gazing down at the lake. Now he turned his eyes quickly towards Marcellus and stared into his face. After a rather tense moment, which left Marcellus somewhat bewildered, Justus returned his gaze to the lake.

'That is exactly what old Bartholomew does,' he murmured. 'All day long. He sits, watching the road.'

'Old men get strange fancies,' commented Marcellus.

'You don't have to be old,' said Justus, 'to get strange fancies.'

The little caravan, which had lagged on the last steep climb, now shuffled over the shoulder of the hill. Jonathan came running across, and snuggled down beside Justus.

'When shall we have supper, Grandfather?' he wheedled.

'Quite soon, son,' answered Justus, gently. 'Go and help the boy unload. We will join you presently.' Little Jonathan scampered away.

'The lad seems in quite good spirits to-day,' observed Marcellus.

'That's Miriam's work,' declared Justus. 'She had a long talk with Jonathan yesterday. I think we need not worry about him now.'

'That conversation must have been worth hearing,' said Marcellus.

'Jonathan didn't seem inclined to talk about it,' said Justus, 'but he was deeply impressed. You noticed how quiet he was, last night.'

'I doubt whether there is another young woman--of Miriam's sort--in the whole world!' announced Marcellus, soberly.

'There is a widow in Capernaum,' said Justus. 'Perhaps you may have an opportunity to meet her. She spends all her time with the very poor who have sickness in their houses. Her name is Lydia. You might be interested in her story.'

'Tell me, please.' Marcellus sat up and gave attention.

'Lydia lost her husband, Ahira, while still quite a young woman. I do not know how it is in your country, but with us the predicament of a young widow is serious. She goes into retirement. Lydia was one of the most beautiful girls in Capernaum, so everyone said. Ahira had been a man of considerable wealth, and their home was in keeping with his fortune. Shortly after his death, Lydia became grievously afflicted with an ailment peculiar to women, and gradually declined until her beauty faded. Her family was most sympathetic. At great expense, they summoned the best physicians. They carried her to many healing springs. But nothing availed to check her wasting disease. The time came when it was with great difficulty that she could move about in her room. And now the whole country began to be stirred by reports of strange things that Jesus had done for many sick people.' Justus hesitated, seemingly in doubt how to proceed with the story. Marcellus waited with mounting curiosity.

'I think I had better tell you,' continued Justus, 'that it wasn't always easy for substantial people to have an interview with Jesus. As for the poor, they had no caste to lose. Most of them were in the habit of begging favours, and were not reticent about crowding in wherever they thought it might be to their advantage. But men and women in better circumstances--no matter how much they wanted to see Jesus--found it very hard to shed their natural pride and push into that clamorous multitude. Jesus was always sorry about this. Often and often, he consented to talk alone with important men, late in the night, when he sorely needed his rest.'

'Men who wanted to be privately cured of something?' asked Marcellus.

'Doubtless, but I know of some cases in which very influential men, who had no malady at all, invited Jesus into their homes for a long conference. Once we waited at the gate of Nicodemus ben Gorion, the most widely known lawyer of this region, until the cocks crew in the early morning. And there was nothing the matter with Nicodemus; at least, nothing physical.'

'Do you suppose he was warning Jesus to cease his work?' wondered Marcellus.

'No. Nicodemus came out with him, that night, as far as the gate. Jesus was talking earnestly to him. When they parted, each man laid a hand on the other's shoulder. We only do that with social equals. Well--as I had meant to say--it would have taken a lot of courage for a gently bred woman of means to have invaded the crowd that thronged about Jesus.'

'That's quite understandable,' agreed Marcellus.

'One day, when Jesus was speaking in the public plaza in Capernaum, a well-to-do man named Jairus pushed his way through the crowd. The people made way for him when someone spoke his name. It was plain to see that he was greatly excited. He went directly to Jesus and said that his little daughter was sick unto death. Would Jesus come at once? Without asking any questions, Jesus consented, and they started down the principal street, the crowd growing larger as they went. When they passed Lydia's house, she watched them from the window, and saw Jairus, whom she knew, walking at Jesus' side.'

'Where were you, Justus?' asked Marcellus. 'You seem quite familiar with these details.'

'As it happened, it was in the neighbourhood of Lydia's house that I joined the crowd. I had come with a message for Simon, who had serious illness at home. His wife's mother was sick, and had become suddenly worse. I was as close to Jesus as I am to you when this thing happened. I don't suppose Lydia would have attempted it if she hadn't seen Jairus in the throng. That must have given her confidence. Summoning all her poor strength, she ran down the steps and into that crowd, desperately forced her way through, and struggled on until she was almost at Jesus' side. Then, her courage must have failed her; for, instead of trying to speak to him, she reached out and touched his robe. I think she was frightened at her own audacity. She turned quickly and began forcing her way out.'

'Why didn't some of you call Jesus' attention to her?' asked Marcellus.

'Well,' said Justus defensively, 'there was a great deal of confusion, and it all happened so quickly--and then she was gone. But, instantly, Jesus stopped and turned about. "Who touched me?" he demanded.'

'You mean--he felt that contact--through his robe?' exclaimed Marcellus.

Justus nodded, and went on.

'Simon and Philip reminded him that there were so many crowding about. Almost any of them might have crushed against him. But he wasn't satisfied with that. And while he stood there, questioning them, we heard this woman's shrill cry. They opened the way for her to come to him. It must have been a very trying moment for Lydia. She had lived such a sheltered life. The crowd grew suddenly quiet.'

Justus's voice was husky as he recalled the scene.

'I saw many pathetic sights, through those days,' he continued, 'but none more moving. Lydia came slowly, with her head bowed and her hands over her eyes. She knelt on the ground before Jesus and confessed that she was the one who had touched him. Then she lifted her eyes, with the tears running down her cheeks, and cried, "Master! I have been healed of my affliction!"'

Overcome by his emotions, Justus stopped to wipe his eyes on his sleeve. Steadying his voice with an effort, he went on:

'Everyone was deeply touched. The people were all in tears. Jairus was weeping like a child. Even Jesus, who was always well controlled, was so moved that his eyes were swimming as he looked down into Lydia's face. Marcellus--that woman gazed up at him as if she were staring into a blinding sunshine. Her body was shaking with sobs, but her face was enraptured! It was beautiful!'

'Please go on,' insisted Marcellus, when Justus fell silent.

'It was a very tender moment,' he said, thickly. 'Jesus gave her both of his hands and drew her gently to her feet; and then, as if he were speaking to a tearful little child, he said, "Be comforted, my daughter, and go in peace. Your faith has made you whole."'

'That is the most beautiful story I ever heard, Justus,' said Marcellus, soberly.

'I hardly know why I told you,' muttered Justus. 'I've no reason to think you could believe that Lydia was cured of her malady merely by touching Jesus' robe.'

He sat waiting, with an almost wistful interest, for a further comment from Marcellus. It was one thing to say of a narrative that it was a beautiful story; it was quite another thing to concede its veracity. Marcellus had been adept in contriving common-sense explanations of these Galilean mysteries. The story of Lydia's healing had obviously moved him, but doubtless he would come forward presently with an attempt to solve the problem on natural grounds. His anticipated argument was so long in coming that Justus searched his face intently, astonished at its gravity. He was still more astounded when Marcellus replied, in a tone of deep sincerity:

'Justus, I believe every word of it!'

* * * * * *

Notwithstanding his weariness, Marcellus had much difficulty in going to sleep that night. Justus's story about Lydia had revived the memory of his own strange experiences with the robe. It had been a long time since he had examined his mind in respect to these occurrences.

He had invented reasons for the amazing effects the robe had wrought in his own case. His explanation was by no means conclusive or satisfying, but he had adopted it as less troublesome than a downright admission that the robe was haunted.

The case, viewed rationally, began with the fact that he had had a very serious emotional shock. The sight of a crucifixion was enough to leave scars on any decent man's soul. To have actually conducted a crucifixion was immeasurably worse. And to have crucified an innocent man made the whole affair a shameful crime. The memory of it would be an interminable torture, painful as a physical wound. Not much wonder that he had been so depressed that all his mental processes had been thrown into disarray.

There was that night at the Insula when he had drunkenly consented to put on the blood-stained robe. Apparently his weighted remorse over the day's tragedy had reached a stage where it could not endure this one more perfidy. A wave of revulsion had swept through him, as if some punitive power, resident in the robe, had avenged the outrage.

For a long time Marcellus had suffered of that obsession. The robe was possessed! He shuddered when he thought of it. The robe had become the symbol of his crime and shame.

Then had come his remarkable recovery, that afternoon in Athens. His mental affliction had reached a moment of crisis. He could bear it no longer. The only way out was by suicide. And at that critical juncture, the robe had stayed his hand.

For a few hours thereafter, Marcellus had been completely mystified. When he tried to analyse the uncanny thing that had happened to him, his mind refused to work on it. Indeed, he had been so ecstatic over his release from the bondage of his melancholia that he was in no mood to examine the nature of his redemption. Such brief and shallow reasoning as he put upon it was as futile as an attempt to evaluate some fantastic, half-forgotten dream.

The time came when he could explain his recovery even as he had explained his collapse. The robe had been a focal point of interest on both occasions. But--did the robe actually have anything to do with it? Wasn't it all subjective?

The explanation seemed sound and practical. His mind had been deeply wounded, but now it had healed. Evidently the hour had arrived, that afternoon in the cottage at the inn, when his harassed mind determined to overthrow the torturing obsession. It was a reasonable deduction, he felt. Nature was always in revolt against things that thwarted her blind but orderly processes. For many years a tree might wage a slow and silent warfare against an encumbering wall, without making any visible progress. One day the wall would topple--not because the tree had suddenly laid hold upon some supernormal energy, but because its patient work of self- defence and self-release had reached fulfilment. The long- imprisoned tree had freed itself. Nature had had her way.

Marcellus had contented himself with this explanation. He had liked the analogy of the tree and the wall; had liked it so well that he had set it to work on other phases of his problem. You had had a peculiar experience that had forced you to a belief in the supernatural. But your mind--given a chance to resume its orderly functions--would begin to resist that untenable thought. It wasn't natural for a healthy mind to be stultified by alleged supernatural forces. No matter how convincing the evidences of supernatural power, one's mind would proceed--automatically, involuntarily--to push this intrusive concept away, as a tree-root pushes against an offending wall.

Until long after midnight, Marcellus lay on his cot, wide awake, re- examining his own rationalizings about the robe in the light of Lydia's experience, and getting nowhere with it. He had impulsively told Justus that he believed the story. There was no reason to doubt the good man's integrity; but, surely, there must be a reasonable explanation. Maybe Lydia's malady had run its course, that day, needing only this moment of high emotional stress to effect her release. He silently repeated this over and over, trying to make it sound reasonable; trying to make it hold good. Then he agreed with himself that his theory was nonsense, and drifted off to sleep.

Rousing with a start, Marcellus cautiously raised himself on one elbow and peered out through the open tent-door. In the grey-blue, pre-dawn twilight he dimly saw the figure of a tall, powerfully built, bearded man. It was much too dark to discern the intruder's features.

His attitude did not denote furtiveness. He stood erect, apparently attempting to identify the occupants of the tent, and probably finding it impossible. Presently he moved away.

As soon as he had disappeared, Marcellus arose, quietly strapped his sandals, buckled his belt, and slipped out. There had been nothing sinister in this unexpected visitation. Obviously the man was neither a thief nor an ordinary prowler. He had not acted as if he had plans to molest the camp. It was quite conceivable that he had arranged to meet Justus up here and had been delayed. Finding the campers still asleep, he had probably decided to wait awhile before making himself known.

This seemed a reasonable surmise, for upon their arrival at the hilltop yesterday afternoon Justus had scrutinized the terrain as if expecting to be joined here by some acquaintance, though that was a habit of his--always scanning the landscape whenever an elevation presented a farther view; always peering down cross- roads; always turning about with a start whenever a door opened behind him.

It was still too dark to explore the terrain in quest of the mysterious visitor. Marcellus walked slowly toward the northern rim of the narrow plateau where he and Justus had sat. Low in the east, beyond the impenetrable darkness that mapped the lake, the blue was beginning to fade out of the grey. Now the grey was dissolving on the horizon and a long, slim ribbon of gleaming white appeared. Outspread lambent fingers reached up high, higher, higher into the dome from beyond a dazzling, snow-crowned mountain. Now the snow was touched with streaks of gold. Marcellus sat down to watch the dawn arrive.

At not more than a stadium's distance, also facing the sunrise, sat the unidentified wayfarer, not yet aware that he was observed. Apparently absorbed by the pageant in the east, he sat motionless with his long arms hugging his knees. As the light increased, Marcellus noted that the man was shabbily dressed and had no pack; undoubtedly a local resident; a fisherman, perhaps, for the uncouth knitted cap, drawn far down over his ears, was an identifying headgear affected by sailors.

With no wish to spy on the fellow, Marcellus noisily cleared his throat. The stranger slowly turned his head, then arose nimbly and approached. Halting, he waited for the Roman to speak first.

'Who are you?' asked Marcellus. 'And what do you want?'

The newcomer ran his fingers through his beard, and smiled broadly. Then he tugged off the wretched cap from a swirl of tousled hair.

'This disguise,' he chuckled, 'is better than I had thought.'

'Demetrius!' Marcellus leaped to his feet and they grasped each other's hands. 'Demetrius!--how did you find me? Have you been in trouble? Are you being pursued? Where did you come by such shabby clothes? Are you hungry?'

'I learned yesterday afternoon in Cana that you were on the way to Capernaum. I have not been in much trouble, and am not now pursued. The clothes'--Demetrius held up his patched sleeves, and grinned--'are they not befitting to a vagrant? I had plenty to eat, last night. Your donkey-boy helped me to my supper and lent me a rug.'

'Why didn't you make yourself known?' asked Marcellus, reproachfully.

'I wanted to see you alone, sir, before encountering Justus.'

'Proceed, then,' urged Marcellus, 'and tell me as much as you can. He will be waking presently.'

'Stephanos told you of my flight from Jerusalem--'

'Have you been back there?' interrupted Marcellus.

'No, sir; but I contrived to send Stephanos a message, and he wrote me fully about your meeting.' Demetrius surveyed his master from head to foot. 'You are looking fit, sir, though you've lost a pound or two.'

'Walking,' explained Marcellus. 'Good for the torso; bad for the feet. Keep on with your story now. We haven't much time.'

Demetrius tried to make it brief. He had fled to Joppa, hoping to see his master when his ship came in. He had been hungry and shelterless for a few days, vainly seeking work on the docks.

'One morning I saw an old man dragging a huge parcel of green hides along the wharf,' he went on. 'I was so desperate for employment that I shouldered the reeking pelts and carried them to the street.' The old Jew trotted alongside protesting. When I put the loathsome burden down, he offered me two farthings. I refused, saying he had not engaged me. He then asked what I would take to carry the hides to his tannery, a half-mile up the street that fronted the beach. I said I would do it for my dinner.'

'Not so many details, Demetrius!' insisted Marcellus, impatiently. 'Get on with it!'

'These details are important, sir. The old man wanted to know what part of Samaria I had come from. Perhaps you have discovered that our Aramaic is loaded with Samaritan dialect. His people had lived in Samaria. His name was Simon. He talked freely and cordially, asking many questions. I told him I had worked for old Benjamin in Athens, which pleased him, for he knew about Benjamin. Then I confided that I had worked for Benyosef in Jerusalem. He was delighted. At his house, hard by the tannery, he bade me bathe and provided me with clean clothing.' Demetrius grinned at his patches. 'This is it,' he said.

'You shall have something better,' said Marcellus. 'I am a clothing merchant. I have everything. Too, too much of everything. So--what about this old Simon?'

'He became interested in me because I had worked for Benyosef, and asked me if I were one of them, and I said I was.' Demetrius studied Marcellus's face. 'Do you understand what I mean, sir?' he asked, wistfully.

Marcellus nodded, rather uncertainly.

'Are you, really--one of them?' he inquired.

'I am trying to be, sir,' responded Demetrius. 'It isn't easy. One is not allowed to fight, you know. You just have to take it-- the way he did.'

'You're permitted to defend yourself, aren't you?' protested Marcellus.

'HE didn't,' replied Demetrius, quietly.

Marcellus winced, and shook his head. They fell silent for a moment.

'That part of it,' went on Demetrius, 'is always going to be difficult; too difficult, I fear. I promised Stephanos, that morning when I left Jerusalem, that I would do my best to obey the injunctions, and in less than an hour I had broken my word. Simon Peter--he is the chief of the disciples, the one they call "The Big Fisherman"--he baptised me, just before dawn, in the presence of all the others in Benyosef's shop, and, sir--'

'Baptized you?' Marcellus's perplexity was so amusing that Demetrius was forced to smile, in spite of his seriousness.

'Water,' he explained. 'They pour it on you, or put you in it, whichever is more convenient--and announce that you are now clean, in Jesus' name. That means you're one of them, and you're expected to follow Jesus' teachings.' Demetrius's eyes clouded and he shook his head self-reproachfully as he added, 'I was in a fight before my hair was dry.'

Marcellus tried to match his slave's remorseful mood, but his grin was already out of control.

'What happened?' he asked, suppressing a chuckle.

Demetrius glumly confessed his misdemeanour. The legionaries had a habit of stopping unarmed citizens along the road, compelling them to shoulder their packs. A great hulk of a soldier had demanded this service of Demetrius and he had refused to obey. Then there was the savage thrust of a lance. Demetrius had stepped out of the way, and the legionary had drawn up for another onslaught.

'In taking the lance from him,' continued Demetrius, 'I broke it.'

'Over his head, I suspect,' accused Marcellus.

'It wasn't a very good lance, sir,' commented Demetrius. 'I am surprised that the army doesn't furnish these men with better equipment.'

Marcellus laughed aloud. 'And then what?' he urged.

'That was all. I did not tarry. Now that I have broken my promise,'--Demetrius's tone was repentant--'do you think I can still consider myself a Christian? Do you suppose I'll have to be baptized again?'

'I don't know,' mumbled Marcellus, busy with his own thoughts. 'What do you mean--"Christian"?'

'That's the new name for people who believe in Jesus. They're calling Jesus "The Christos," meaning "The Anointed."'

'But that's Greek! All these people are Jews, aren't they?'

'By no means, sir! This movement is travelling fast--and far. Simon the tanner says there are at least three hundred banded together down in Antioch.'

'Amazing!' exclaimed Marcellus. 'Do you suppose Justus knows?'

'Of course.'

'This is astounding news, Demetrius! I had considered the whole thing a lost cause! How could it stay alive--after Jesus was dead?'

Demetrius stared into his master's bewildered eyes.

'Don't you--haven't you heard about that, sir?' he inquired, soberly. 'Hasn't Justus told you?'

Both men turned at the sound of a shrill shout.

'Who is the child?' asked Demetrius, as Jonathan came running toward them. Marcellus explained briefly. The little boy's pace slowed as he neared them, inquisitively eyeing the stranger.

'Grandfather says you are to come and eat now,' he said moving close to Marcellus, but giving full attention to the unexplained man in the shabby tunic. 'Do you catch fish?' he asked Demetrius. 'Have you a boat? Can I ride in it?'

'This man's name is Demetrius,' said Marcellus. 'He is not a fisherman, and he does not own a boat. He borrowed the cap.'

Demetrius smiled and fell in behind them as Marcellus, with the little boy's hand in his, walked toward the tent. Jonathan turned around, occasionally, to study the newcomer who followed with measured steps.

Justus, busily occupied at the fire, a few yards from the tent, glanced up with a warm smile of recognition and a word of greeting, apparently not much surprised at the arrival of their guest.

'May I take over, sir?' asked Demetrius.

'It is all ready, thank you,' said Justus. 'You sit down with Marcellus, and I shall serve you.'

Demetrius bowed and stepped aside. Presently Justus came to the low table he had improvised by drawing a couple of packing-cases together, and served Marcellus and Jonathan with the broiled fish and honey cakes. Jonathan motioned with his head toward Demetrius and looked up anxiously into Marcellus's face.

'Why doesn't he come and eat with us?' he inquired.

Marcellus was at a loss for a prompt and satisfactory reply.

'You needn't worry about Demetrius, son,' he remarked, casually. 'He likes to stand up when he eats.'

Instantly he divined that he had said the wrong thing. Justus, who was sitting down opposite them, with his own dish, frowned darkly. He had some deep convictions on the subject of slavery. It was bad enough, his glum expression said, that Demetrius should be Marcellus's slave. It was intolerable that this relationship should be viewed so casually.

Jonathan pointed over his shoulder with his half-eaten cake in the direction of Demetrius, who was standing before the fire, dish in hand, apparently enjoying his breakfast.

'That man stands up when he eats, Grandfather!' he remarked in a high treble. 'Isn't that funny?'

'No,' muttered Justus, 'it is not funny.' With that, he left the table, and went over to stand beside the slave.

Marcellus decided not to make an issue of it and proceeded to some lively banter with Jonathan, hoping to distract the child's attention.

Demetrius surveyed Justus's grim face and smiled.

'You mustn't let this slave business distress you, sir,' he said, quietly. 'My master is most kind and considerate. He would gladly give his life for me, as I would for him. But slaves do not sit at table with their masters. It is a rule.'

'A bad rule!' grumbled Justus, deep in his throat. 'A rule that deserves to be broken! I had thought better of Marcellus Gallio.'

'It is a small matter,' said Demetrius, calmly. 'If you wish to make my slavery easier, please think no more of it, sir.'

At that, Justus's face cleared a little. There was no use making a scene over a situation that was none of his business. If Demetrius was contented, there wasn't much more to be said.

After they had eaten, Justus carried a dish of food out to the donkey-boy, Jonathan trotting beside him, still perplexed about the little episode.

'Grandfather,' he shrilled, 'Marcellus Gallio treats Demetrius no better than we treat our donkey-boy.'

Justus frowned, but made no attempt to explain. His grandson had given him something new to think about. In the meantime Demetrius had joined Marcellus, his bearded lips puckered as he tried to control a grin.

'Perhaps it will clear the air for everybody, sir,' he said, 'if I go on by myself to Capernaum. Let me meet you, late this afternoon.'

'Very well,' consented Marcellus. 'Ask Justus where he proposes to stop. But are you sure it is prudent for you to go down to Capernaum? We have a fort there, you know.'

'I shall be watchful, sir,' promised Demetrius.

'Take this!' Marcellus poured a handful of coins into his palm. 'And keep your distance from that fort!'

* * * * * *

Demetrius, unencumbered, made good progress down the serpentine road to the valley floor. The air was hot. He carried his shabby coat and the disreputable cap under his arm. The lake-shore on this side was barren and unpopulated. Tossing off his clothing, he waded out and swam joyously, tumbled about like a dolphin, floated on his back, churned the water with long overhand strokes, luxuriating in his aquatics and the thorough cleansing. He came out shaking his mop of hair through his fingers, the blazing sun drying him before he reached the little pile of patched and faded garments.

Tiberias gleamed white in the mid-forenoon sun. The marble palace of Herod Antipas, halfway up the hill, appropriately set apart from the less noble but surprisingly lavish residences, glistened dazzlingly. Demetrius imagined he could see a sinuous shimmer of heat enveloping the proud structure, and was glad he did not have to live there. He was not envious of Herod's privilege to spend the summer here. However, he reflected, the family had probably sought a more congenial altitude for the hot season, leaving a small army of servants to sweat and steal and quarrel until the weather eased with the coming of autumn.

He had reached the little city now, and proceeded on through it, keeping close to the beach, where many fishing-boats had been drawn up on the sand, and the adjacent market-booths reeked of their merchandise. Occasionally he was viewed with a momentary curiosity by small groups of apathetic loungers, sitting cross-legged in the shade of dirty food-shops. The air was heavy with decaying fruit and the stench of rancid oil sizzling in tarnished pans. It had been a long time since breakfast, and Demetrius had had an unusual amount of exercise. He tarried before one of the unpleasant food- stalls. The swarthy cook scowled, and waved his wooden spoon at the shabby traveller with the uncouth cap--and no pack.

'Begone, fellow!' he commanded. 'We have nothing to give you.'

Demetrius jingled his money, and made a wry face.

'Nor have you anything to sell that a dog would eat,' he retorted.

The greasy fellow instantly beamed with a wheedling smile, lifting his shoulders and elbows into a posture of servitude. It was this type of Jew that Demetrius had always despised, the Jew who was arrogant, noisy, and abusive until he heard a couple of coins clink. Immediately, you were his friend, his brother, his master. You could pour out a torrent of invective on him now, if you liked. He would be weather-proofed and his smile undiminished. He had heard the pennies.

'Oh, not so bad as that, sir!' exclaimed the cook. 'The evil smell'--he wagged a confidential thumb toward the neighbouring booth--'it is that one who defiles the air with his stale perch and wretched oil.' Tipping a grimy kettle forward, he stirred its steaming contents, appreciatively sucking his lips. 'Delicious!' he murmured.

A tousled, red-eyed legionary sauntered up from the water-front, rested an elbow on the end of the high table, and sourly sniffed the heavy scent of burning fat. His uniform was dirty. Apparently he had slept where he fell. Doubtless he was ready for food now. He gave Demetrius a surly stare.

'Have a bowl of this beautiful pottage, Centurion,' coaxed the cook. 'Choice lamb, with many costly spices. A great helping for only two farthings.'

Demetrius repressed a grin. 'Centurion,' eh? Why hadn't the Jew gone the whole way and addressed the debauched legionary as 'Legate'? But perhaps he knew where to stop when dishing out flattery. The unkempt Roman snarled a curse, and rubbed his clammy forehead with his dirty brown head-band. The cook took up an empty bowl and smiled encouragingly at Demetrius, who scowled and shook his head.

'None for me,' he muttered, turning away.

'I'll have some!' declared the legionary truculently, slapping an empty wallet.

The cook's eager face collapsed, but he was not in a position to refuse the penniless soldier. With a self-piteous shrug, he half- filled the bowl and put it down on the filthy table.

'Business is so bad,' he whined.

'So is your pottage,' mumbled the legionary, chewing a hot mouthful. 'Even that slave would have none of it.'

'Slave, sir?' The cook leaned over the high table to have another look at the tall Greek, who was moving leisurely up the street. 'He has a wallet full of money. Good money, too--from the sound of it! A thief, no doubt!'

The legionary put down his spoon. His lip curled in a crafty grin. If an overdue soldier could reappear at the fort with a prisoner in tow, he might make a better case for his absence all night.

'Hi, you!' he shouted. 'Come back here!'

Demetrius hesitated, turned, held a brief parley with himself, and retraced his steps. It would do no good to attempt an escape in the neighbourhood of a fort.

'Did you call me, sir?' he asked quietly.

'How do you happen to be in Tiberias alone, fellow?' The legionary wiped his stubbled chin. 'Where is your master? Don't pretend you're not a slave--with that ear.'

'My master is on the way to Capernaum, sir. He sent me on to seek out a desirable camping-place.'

This sounded reasonable. The legionary untidily helped himself to another large spoonful of the pottage.

'Who is your master, fellow? And what is he doing in Capernaum?'

'A Roman citizen, sir; a merchant.'

'A likely tale!' snorted the legionary. 'What manner of merchandise does a Roman find in Capernaum?'

'Homespun, sir,' said Demetrius. 'Galilean rugs and robes.'

The legionary chuckled scornfully and scraped the bottom of his bowl with a shaky spoon.

'Greek slaves are usually better liars than that,' he growled. 'You must think me a fool. A slave in rags and patches, seeking a camp-site for a Roman who comes all the way to little Capernaum to buy clothing!'

'And with much money on him!' shrilled the cook. 'A robber he is!'

'Shut up, pig!' bellowed the legionary. 'I should take you up too if you were not so filthy.' Setting his soiled head-band at a jaunty angle, he rose, tightened his belt, belched noisily, and motioned to Demetrius to fall in behind him.

'But why am I arrested, sir?' demanded Demetrius.

'Never mind about that!' snarled the legionary. 'You can tell your story at the fort.' With an exaggerated swagger, he marched stiffly up the street without turning to see whether his captive was following.

Demetrius hesitated for a moment, but decided that it would be foolhardy to attempt an escape in a vicinity so well patrolled. He would go along to the fort and try to send a message to Marcellus.

Beyond the limits of Tiberias the grim old sand-coloured barracks loomed up on the arid hillside. Above the centre of the quadrangle reared the parapets of the inevitable praetorium. The legionary strutted on toward the massive wooden gate. A sentry sluggishly unbarred the heavy barricade. They passed into the treeless, sun- blistered drill-ground and on between orderly rows of brown tents, unoccupied now, for it was noon and the legion would be in the mess- hall. Presently they brought up before the relatively impressive entrance of the praetorium. A grey-haired guard made way for them.

'Take this slave below and lock him up,' barked the legionary.

'What's your name, fellow?' demanded the guard.

Demetrius told him.

'And your master's name?'

'Lucan, a Roman citizen.'

'Where does he live?'

'In Rome.'

The guard gave the dishevelled legionary an appraising glance. Demetrius thought he saw some hesitancy on the part of the older man.

'What's the charge?' asked the guard.

'Suspicion of theft,' said the legionary. 'Lock him up, and let him explain later how he happens to be wandering about, away from his master, dressed like a fisherman--and with a wallet full of money.'

'Write his name on the slate, then,' said the guard. 'The Centurion is at mess.'

The legionary fumbled with the chalk, and handed it to Demetrius.

'Can you write your name, slave?' he enquired gruffly.

In spite of his predicament, Demetrius was amused. It was obvious that neither of these Romans could write. If they couldn't write, they couldn't read. He took the chalk and wrote:

'Demetrius, Greek slave of Lucan, a Roman encamped in Capernaum.'

'Long name--for a slave,' remarked the legionary. 'If you have written anything else--'

'My master's name, sir.'

'Put him away, then,' said the legionary, turning to go. The old guard tapped on the floor with his lance and a younger guard appeared. He signed with a jerk of his head that Demetrius should follow, and strode off down the corridor to a narrow stairway. They descended to the prison. Bearded faces appeared at the small square apertures in the cell-doors; Jewish faces, mostly, and a few tough-looking Bedouins.

Demetrius was pushed into an open cell at the far end of the narrow corridor. A perpendicular slit, high in the outer wall, admitted a frugal light. The only furniture was a wide wooden bench. Anchored to the masonry lay a heavy chain with a rusty manacle. The guard ignored the chain, retreated into the corridor, banged the heavy door shut and pushed the bolt.

Sitting down on the bench, Demetrius surveyed his cramped quarters, and wondered how long he would have to wait for some official action in his case. It suddenly occurred to him that if the dissipated legionary suspected the entry on the slate he might have thought it safer to rub it out. In that event, the new prisoner stood a good chance of being forgotten. Perhaps he should have made a dash for it when he had an opportunity. Assuming a speedy trial, how much should he tell? It would be difficult to explain Marcellus's business in Galilee. Without doubt, old Julian the Legate was under orders to make short work of this Christian movement. There was no telling what attitude he might take if he learned that Marcellus had been consorting with these disciples of Jesus.

As his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, Demetrius noticed a shelf in the corner bearing an earthenware food-basin and a small water-bowl. He had been hungry an hour ago. Now he was thirsty. Moving to the door he crouched--for the barred window was not placed for a tenant of his height--and looked across the narrow corridor into a pair of inquisitive Roman eyes framed in the opposite cell-door. The eyes were about the same age as his own, and seemed amused.

'When do we get food and water?' asked Demetrius, in circus Latin.

'Twice,' replied the Roman, amiably. 'At mid-morning--you should have arrived earlier--and again at sunset. Praise the gods, I shan't be here for the next feeding. I'm getting out this afternoon. My week is up.'

'I can't wait until sunset for water,' muttered Demetrius.

'I'll wager you ten sesterces you'll wait until they bring it to you,' drawled the Roman. He straightened to relieve his cramped position, revealing a metal identification tablet on the chain around his neck.

'What is your legion?' inquired Demetrius, seeing his neighbour was disposed to be talkative.

'Seventeenth: this one.'

'Why aren't you in the legion's guardhouse,' ventured Demetrius, 'instead of down in this hole with the villains?'

'The guardhouse is full,' chuckled the legionary.

'Was there a mutiny?' inquired Demetrius.

Not a mutiny, the legionary explained. They had had a celebration. Julian the Legate had been transferred to Jerusalem. The new Legate had brought a detachment of fifty along with him from his old command, to guard him on the journey. During the festivities, much good wine had flowed; much good blood, too, for the detachment from Minoa was made up of quarrelsome legionaries--

'From Minoa!' exclaimed Demetrius. 'Is Tribune Paulus your new Legate?'

'Indeed he is!' retorted the legionary. 'And hard! Old Julian was easy-going. This fellow has no mercy. As for the fighting, it was nothing; a few dagger cuts, a couple of bloody noses. One man from Minoa lost a slice off his ear.' He grinned reminiscently. 'I sliced it off,' he added, modestly. 'It didn't hurt him much. And he knew it was accidental.' After a little pause, 'I see somebody nicked you on the ear.'

'That wasn't accidental,' grinned Demetrius, willing to humour the legionary, who laughed appreciatively, as if it were a good joke on the Greek that he had been enslaved.

'Did you run away?' asked the Roman.

'No--I was to have joined my master in Capernaum.'

'He'll get you out. You needn't worry. He's a Roman, of course.'

'Yes,' said Demetrius, 'but he doesn't know I'm here.' He lowered his voice. 'I wonder if you could get a message to him. I'd gladly give you something for your trouble.'

The legionary laughed derisively.

'Big talk--for a slave,' he scoffed. 'How much? Two denarii, maybe?'

'I'll give you ten shekels.'

'That you won't!' muttered the legionary. 'I don't want any of that kind of money, fellow!'

'I didn't steal it,' declared Demetrius. 'My master gave it to me.'

'Well, you can keep it!' The legionary scowled and moved back from the door.

Demetrius sat down dejectedly on the bench. He was very thirsty.



Chapter XVII


Of course it was sheer nonsense to say that you had full confidence in Nathanael Bartholomew's integrity but disbelieved his eye- witness account of the storm.

Nor could you clarify this confusion by assuming that the old man had been a victim of hallucination. Bartholomew wasn't that type of person. He was neither a liar nor a fool.

According to his story, told at great length as they sat together in his little fig orchard, Jesus had rebuked a tempest on the Sea of Galilee; he commanded the gale to cease, and it had obeyed his voice--instantly! Jesus had spoken and the storm had stopped! Bartholomew had snapped his dry old fingers. Like THAT!

And the story wasn't hearsay. Bartholomew hadn't heard it from a neighbour who had got it from his cousin. No, sir! The old man had been in the boat that night. He had heard and seen it all! If you couldn't believe it, Bartholomew would not be offended; but it was TRUTH!

The tale was finished now. The aged disciple sat calmly fanning his wrinkled neck, drawing his long, white beard aside and loosening the collar of his robe. Marcellus, with no further comments to offer and no more questions to ask, frowned studiously at his own interlaced fingers, conscious of Justus's inquisitive eyes. He knew they expected him to express an opinion; and, after a silence that was becoming somewhat constrained, he obliged them by muttering to himself, 'Very strange! Very strange indeed!'

The dramatic story had been told with fervour, told with an old man's verbosity, but without excitement. Bartholomew wasn't trying to persuade you; nor was he trying to convert you. He had nothing to sell. Justus had asked him to tell about that storm, and he had done so. Perhaps it was his first opportunity for so complete a recital of all its incidents. Certainly it was the first time he had ever told the story to someone who hadn't heard it.

Shortly after Demetrius had set off alone, that morning, the little caravan had proceeded slowly down the winding road to the valley; had skirted the sparsely populated lake-shore to Tiberias where the ostentatious Roman palaces on the hills accented the squalor of the water-front; had followed the beach street through the city; had passed the frowning old fort, and entered the sprawling suburbs of Capernaum.

Jonathan had been promised a brief visit with Thomas--and the donkey; so they had turned off into a side street where, after many inquiries, they had found the little house and an enthusiastic welcome. Upon the urgent persuasion of Thomas and his mother, Jonathan was left with them, to be picked up on the morrow. Everybody agreed that the donkey recognized Jonathan, though the elders privately suspected that the sugar which had been melting in the little boy's warm hand for the past two hours might have accounted partly for Jasper's flattering feat of memory.

Regaining the principal thoroughfare, they had moved on toward the business centre of the town which had figured so prominently in Justus's recollections of Jesus. They had halted for a moment in front of Lydia's home, and Justus was for making a brief call, but Marcellus dissuaded him as it was nearing midday and a visit might be inopportune.

The central plaza had seemed familiar. The synagogue--ironically more Roman than Jewish in its architecture, which was understandable because Centurion Hortensius had furnished the money--spread its marble steps fanwise into the northern boundary of the spacious square, exactly as Marcellus had pictured it; for it was from these steps that Jesus had addressed massed multitudes of thousands. It was almost deserted now, except for the beggars, tapping on the pavement with their empty bowls; for everybody who had a home to go to was at his noonday meal.

Marcellus felt he had been here many times before. Indeed he was so preoccupied with identifying the cherished landmarks that he almost forgot they were to have met Demetrius here. Justus had reminded him, and Marcellus had looked about apprehensively. It would be a very awkward situation if Demetrius had been arrested. He had no relish for an interview with old Julian; not while on his present mission. Justus relieved his anxiety somewhat by saying he had told Demetrius where they would make camp, on the grounds of the old Shalum Inn; but what could be detaining Demetrius in the meantime?

'Perhaps he misunderstood me,' suggested Justus.

'It's possible,' agreed Marcellus, 'but unlikely. Demetrius has a good ear for instructions.'

They had sauntered down to the beach, strewn with fishing-boats drawn up on the shingle, leaving the donkey-boy to keep an eye open for Demetrius. Justus had suggested that they eat their lunch on the shore. After waiting a half-hour for the Greek to appear, they had packed their lunch kit and proceeded northward, Marcellus anxious but still hopeful of meeting his loyal slave at the inn. It was a quiet spot--the Inn of Ben-Shalum, with spacious grounds for travellers carrying their own camping equipment. No one had seen anything of a tall Greek slave. Hastily unpacking, they put up the tent in the shade of two tall sycamores, and made off toward the home of Bartholomew, a little way up the suburban street.

And now the old man had ended the story they had come to hear. In its preliminary phases, episodes had been introduced which bore no closer relation to the eventful storm than that they had occurred on the same day. Jesus had been very weary that night; so weary that he had slept at the height of the gale and had had to be awakened when it became clear that the little ship was foundering. Such deep fatigue had to be accounted for; so Bartholomew had elaborated the day's activities.

Sometimes, for a considerable period, the husky old voice would settle deep in the sparse white beard and rumble on in an almost inaudible monotone, and you knew that Bartholomew had deserted you and Justus for the great crowd that sat transfixed on a barren coast--a weary, wistful, hungry multitude of self-contained people who, in the melting warmth of Jesus' presence, had combined into one sympathetic family, for the sharing of their food.

'A clean, bright lad,' Bartholomew was mumbling to himself; 'a nephew of Lydia's, who had none of her own; he spent most of his time at her house. She had packed his little basket.'

And then, suddenly remembering his guests, Bartholomew had roused from his reverie to tell Marcellus all about Lydia's strange healing; and Justus had not intervened with a hint that their young Roman friend had already heard of her experience. Having finished with Lydia--and Jairus, too, whose little daughter had been marvellously restored that day--the old man had drifted back to his memories of the remarkable feast in the desert.

'The boy must have been sitting at the Master's feet,' he soliloquized, with averted eyes. 'He must have been sitting there all the time; for when Jesus said we would now eat our supper, there he was, as if he had popped up from nowhere, holding out his little basket.'

It had taken Bartholomew a long time to tell of that strange supper; the sharing of bread, the new acquaintances, the breaking down of reserve among strangers, the tenderness toward the old ones and the little ones. . . . And then the tempo of the tale speeded. Wisps of chill wind lashed the parched weeds. Dark clouds rolled up from the north-east. The old man swept them on with a beckoning arm; black clouds that had suddenly darkened the sky. There was a low muttering of thunder. The crowd grew apprehensive. The people were scrambling to their feet, gathering up their families, breaking into a run. The long procession was on its way home.

Darkness came on fast, the lowering black clouds lanced by slim, jagged, red-hot spears that spilled torrents splashing on to the sun-parched sand. Philip was for rushing to shelter in the little village of Bethsaida, two miles east. Peter was for beaching the big boat and using the mainsail for cover. And when they had all finished making suggestions, Jesus said they would embark at once and return to Capernaum.

'He said we had nothing to fear,' went on Bartholomew, 'but we were afraid, nevertheless. Some of them tried to reason with him. I said nothing, myself. Old men are timid,' he paused to interpolate directly to Marcellus. 'When there are dangers to be faced, old men should keep still, for there's little they can do, in any case.'

'I should have thought,' commented Marcellus, graciously, 'that an elderly man's experience would make him a wise counsellor--on any occasion.'

'Not in a storm, young man!' declared Bartholomew. 'An old man may give you good advice, under the shade of a fig tree, on a sunny afternoon; but--not in a storm!'

The boat had been anchored in the lee of a little cove, but it was with great difficulty that they had struggled through the waves and over the side. Unutterably weary, Jesus had dropped down on the bare bench near the tiller and they had covered him up with a length of drenched sail-cloth.

Manning the oars, they had manoeuvred into open water, had put out a little jib and promptly hauled it in, the tempest suddenly mounting in fury. No one of them, Bartholomew said, had ever been out in such a storm. Now the boat was tossed high on the crest, now it was swallowed up, gigantic waves broke over their heads, the flood pounded them off their seats and twisted the oars out of their hands. The tortured little ship was filling rapidly. All but four oars had been abandoned now. The rest of the crew were bailing frantically. But the water was gaining on them. And Jesus slept!

Justus broke into the narrative here, as Bartholomew--whose vivid memory of that night's hard work with a bailing-bucket brought big beads of perspiration out on his deep-lined forehead--had paused to wield his palm-leaf fan.

'You thought Jesus should get up and help, didn't you?' Justus was grinning broadly.

The old man's lips twitched with a self-reproachful smile.

'Well,' he admitted, 'perhaps we did think that after getting us into this trouble he might take a hand at one of the buckets. Of course,' he hastened to explain, 'we weren't quite ourselves. We were badly shaken. It was getting to be a matter of life or death. And we were completely exhausted--the kind of exhaustion that makes every breath whistle and burn.'

'And so you shouted to him,' prodded Justus.

'Yes! We shouted to him!' Bartholomew turned to address Marcellus. '_I_ shouted to him! "Master!" I called. "We are going to drown! The boat is sinking! Don't you care?"' The old man dropped his head and winced at the memory. 'Yes,' he muttered, contritely, '_I_ said that--to my Master.'

After a moment's silence, Bartholomew gave a deep sigh, and continued. Jesus had stirred, had sat up, had stretched out his long, strong arms, had rubbed his fingers through his drenched hair.

'Not alarmed?' inquired Marcellus.

'Jesus was never alarmed!' retorted Bartholomew, indignantly. 'He rose to his feet and started forward, wading through the water, hands reaching up to steady him as he made for the housing of the mainmast. Climbing up on the heavy planking, he stood for a moment with one arm around the mast, looking out upon the towering waves. Then he raised both arms high. We gasped, expecting him to be pitched overboard. He held both hands outstretched--and spoke! It was not a shrill shout. It was rather as one might soothe a frightened animal. "Peace!" he said. "Peace! Be still!"'

The climax of the story had been built up to such intensity that Marcellus found his heart speeding. He leaned forward and stared wide-eyed into the old man's face.

'Then what?' he demanded.

'The storm was over,' declared Bartholomew.

'Not IMMEDIATELY!' protested Marcellus.

Bartholomew deliberately raised his arm and snapped his brittle old fingers.

'Like THAT!' he exclaimed.

'And the stars came out,' added Justus.

'I don't remember,' murmured Bartholomew.

'Philip said the stars came out,' persisted Justus, quietly.

'That may be,' nodded Bartholomew. 'I don't remember.'

'Some have said that the boat was immediately dry,' murmured Justus, with a little twinkle in his eyes as if anticipating the old man's contradiction.

'That was a mistake,' sniffed Bartholomew. 'Some of us bailed out water all the way back to Capernaum. Whoever reported that should have been helping.'

'How did you all feel about this strange thing?' asked Marcellus.

'We hadn't much to say,' remembered Bartholomew. 'I think we were stunned. There had been so much confusion--and now everything was quiet. The water, still coated with foam, was calm as a pond. As for me, I experienced a peculiar sensation of peace. Perhaps the words that Jesus spoke to the storm had stilled us too--in our hearts.'

'And what did HE do?' asked Marcellus.

'He went back to the bench by the tiller and sat down,' replied Bartholomew. 'He gathered his robe about him, for he was wet and chilled. After a while he turned to us, smiled reproachfully, and said, as if speaking to little children, "Why were you so frightened?" Nobody ventured to answer that. Perhaps he didn't expect us to say anything. Presently he reclined, with his arm for a pillow, and went to sleep again.'

'Are you sure he was asleep?' asked Justus.

'No, but he was very quiet and his eyes were closed. Perhaps he was thinking. Everyone thought he was asleep. There was very little talk. We moved to the centre of the boat and looked into each other's faces. I remember Philip's whispering, "What manner of man is this--that even the winds and waves obey him?"'

The story was finished. Marcellus, for whose benefit the tale had been told, knew they were waiting for him to say whether he believed it. He sat bowed far forward in his chair, staring into the little basket he had made of his interlaced fingers. Bartholomew wasn't wilfully lying. Bartholomew was perfectly sane. But--by all the gods!--you couldn't believe a story like THAT! A man--speaking to a storm! Speaking to a storm as he might to a stampeded horse! And that storm obeying his command! No!--you couldn't have any of THAT! He felt Justus's friendly eyes inquiring. Presently he straightened a little, and shook his head.

'Very strange!' he muttered, without looking up. 'Very strange indeed!'

* * * * * *

The afternoon was well advanced when the grey-haired captain of the guard came down to free the legionary who had sliced off the ear of a visiting fellow-in-arms from Minoa.

Demetrius listened attentively at the little window in his door as his neighbour's bolt was drawn, hoping to overhear some conversation relative to the prisoner's release; but was disappointed. Neither man had spoken. The heavy door was swung back and the legionary had emerged. The captain of the guard had preceded him down the dusky corridor. The sound of their sandals, scraping on the stone floor, died away.

Shortly afterwards there was a general stir throughout the prison; guttural voices; unbolting of doors and rattling of heavy earthenware bowls and basins; the welcome sound of splashing water. Feeding time had arrived and was being greeted with the equivalent of pawing hoofs, clanking chains, and nostril-fluttering whimpers in a stable. Demetrius's mouth and throat were dry; his tongue a clumsy wooden stick. His head throbbed. He couldn't remember ever having been so thirsty; not even in the loathsome prison-ship on the way from Corinth to Rome, long years ago.

It seemed they would never reach his end of the corridor. He hoped the water would hold out until they came to his cell. That was all he wanted--water! As for food, it didn't matter; but he had to have water--NOW!

At length they shuffled up to his door, unbolted it, and swung it wide open. Two burly, brutish, ear-slit Syrian slaves appeared in the doorway. The short, stocky one, with the spade beard, deep pockmarks, and greasy hands, plunged his gourd-dipper into an almost empty bucket of malodorous pottage and pointed angrily to the food-basin on the shelf. Demetrius, with nothing on his mind but his consuming thirst, had been waiting with his water-bowl in hand. He reached up for the food-basin, and the surly Syrian dumped the gourdful of reeking hot garbage into it. Then he rummaged in the bottom of a filthy bag and came up with a small loaf of black bread which he tossed on to the bare bench. It bounced and clattered like a stone.

Retreating to make room for his companion, the stocky one edged out into the corridor and the tall one entered with a large water-jar on his shoulder. Half-crazed with thirst, Demetrius held his water- bowl high. The Syrian, with a crooked grin, as if it amused him to see a Greek in such a predicament, tipped the jar, and from its considerable height poured a stream that overflowed the bowl, drenching the prisoner's clothing. There was hardly more than a spoonful left. The Syrian was backing toward the door.

'Give me water!' demanded Demetrius, huskily.

The fellow sneered, tipped the jar again, and poured the remainder of the water over Demetrius's feet. Chuckling, but vigilant, he moved back into the doorway.

Though the bowl was not large, it was heavy and sturdy pottery, and in the hand of a man as recklessly thirsty and angry as Demetrius it was capable of doing no small amount of damage. But for the thick mop of kinky hair that covered his forehead, the blow might have cracked the Syrian's skull, for it was delivered with all the earnestness that Demetrius could put into it.

Dropping the water-jar, which broke into jagged fragments, the dizzied Syrian, spluttering with rage, whipped out a long dagger from his dirty sash, and lunged forward. Hot pottage would not have been Demetrius's choice of weapons, but it was all he had to fight with; so he threw it into his assailant's face. Momentarily detained by this unexpected onslaught, the Syrian received another more serious blow. Raising the heavy food-basin in both hands, Demetrius brought it down savagely on the fellow's forearm, knocking the dagger from his hand. Unarmed, the Syrian reeled back into the corridor, where the stocky one, unable to force his way into the cell, was waiting the outcome of the battle. Demetrius took advantage of this moment to pick up the dagger. With the way cleared, the stocky one, dagger in hand, was about to plunge in; but when he saw that the prisoner had armed himself, he backed out and began swinging the door shut.

Unwilling to be trapped and probably killed with a lance thrust through the window, Demetrius threw his weight against the closing door and forced his way out into the corridor. Excited by the confusion, the prisoners set up a clamour of encouraging shouts that brought the elderly Captain of the guard and three others scurrying down the stone stairway. They paused, a few feet from the engagement. One of the younger guards was for rushing in to separate them, but the Captain put out an arm and barred the way. It wasn't every day that you could see a determined fight waged with daggers. When angry men met at close range with daggers, it was rough sport.

Cautious in their cramped quarters, the contestants were dodging about, taking each other's measure. The Syrian, four inches shorter but considerably outweighing the Greek, crouched for a spring. One of the younger guards emptied his flat wallet into his hand.

'Two shekels and nine denarii on the Syrian pig,' he wagered. The others shook their heads. The Greek was at a disadvantage. The dagger was the favourite weapon with the Syrians--a dagger with a long, curving blade. The Syrian considered it good strategy to slip up behind an enemy in the dark and let him have it between the ribs a little below and to the right of the left shoulder. On such occasions one needed a long knife. Demetrius was not unfamiliar with daggers, but had never practised with one that had been especially contrived for stabbing a man in the back.

He was finding his borrowed weapon unwieldly in this narrow corridor. It was close-in fighting and a decidedly dangerous business. The tall Syrian lurked back in the darkness behind his companion. The stocky one, facing an appreciative audience of guards, seemed eager to bring the event to an early conclusion. They were sparring actively now, their clashing blades striking sparks in the gloom. Demetrius was gradually retreating, very much on the defensive. The guards backed away to give him a chance. The pace of the fighting increased, the Syrian forcing the action.

'Ha!' he shouted; and a dark, wet streak showed up on the Greek's right sleeve, above the elbow. An instant later, a long gash appeared across the back of the Syrian's hand. He gave a quick fling of his arm to shake off the blood, but not quick enough. A cut had opened over his collar-bone, dangerously close to his throat. He retreated a step. Demetrius pursued his advantage, and added another gash to his antagonist's hand.

'ON GUARD, Greek!' shouted the Captain. The tall Syrian in the rear had drawn back his arm to hurl a chunk of the broken water- jar. Demetrius dodged, at the warning, and the murderous missile grazed the side of his head.

'Enough!' yelled the Captain. Grasping Demetrius's shoulder, he pushed him aside, the younger guards followed with lances poised to strike.

'Come out of there, vermin!' the Captain ordered. The Syrians sullenly obeyed, the stocky one yielding his bloody dagger as he squeezed by the guards. The procession started down the corridor and up the stairs. Arriving on the main floor, the Captain led the way along the spacious hall, and out into the courtyard. Water was brought, wounds were laved and crudely bandaged. Demetrius grabbed a water-jar, and drank greedily. The cut on his arm was deep and painful, and the wide abrasion on his temple burned, but now that he had had a drink, nothing else mattered much.

The Captain gave a command to proceed and they re-entered the praetorium, turned to the left at a broad marble staircase, and ascended to the second floor. A sentry informed the guard at an imposing door that Captain Namius wished to see the Legate. The guard disappeared, returning presently with a curt nod. They advanced through the open door and filed into the sumptuous courtroom, brightly lighted with great lamps suspended from beautifully wrought chains.

Demetrius's wounds were throbbing but he was not too badly hurt to be amused. Paulus, rattling a leather dice-cup, was facing Sextus across the ornately carved table that dominated the dais at the far end of the room. So Paulus, transferred to the command of the fort at Capernaum, had brought his old gaming companion along. The guards and their quarry, preceded by two sentries, in gay uniforms, marched forward. Legate Paulus glanced disinterestedly in their direction and returned his attention to the more important business in hand. Shaking the cup, he poured out the dice on the polished table, and shrugged. Sextus grinned, took the cup, shook it languidly, poured it out--and scowled. Paulus laughed, and sat down in the huge chair behind the table. Centurion Sextus came to attention.

'What is it, Namius?' yawned Paulus.

'The Syrians were fighting this Greek prisoner, sir.'

'What about?' asked Paulus, impatiently.

Captain Namius didn't know. The Syrian slaves were feeding the prisoners, and 'somehow got mixed up with this Greek.'

'Step nearer, Greek.' Paulus's eyes had narrowed. He was searching his memory. Demetrius stepped forward, scowling to keep from smiling. Sextus leaned over and mumbled something. Paulus's eyes lighted. He nodded and grinned dryly.

'Take the Syrians away for the present, Captain,' he said. 'I would talk with this Greek.' He waited until the guards and the Syrians had left the room.

'Are you badly hurt, Demetrius?' asked Paulus, kindly.

'No, sir.' Demetrius was becoming aware that the room was slowly revolving and growing dark. The Legate's ruddy face was blurred. He heard Paulus bark an order and felt the edge of a chair pushed up behind him. He sank down in it weakly. A sentry handed him a glass of wine. He gulped it. Presently the vertigo cleared. 'I am sorry, sir,' he said.

'How do you happen to be here, Demetrius?' inquired Paulus. 'But no, that can wait. Where is your master?'

Demetrius told him.

'Here? in Capernaum!' exclaimed Paulus. 'And whatever brings the excellent Tribune Marcellus to this sadly pious city?'

'My master has taken a fancy to Galilean homespun, sir. He has been touring about, looking for--such things.'

Paulus frowned darkly and stared into Demetrius's face.

'Is he well--in his head, I mean?'

'Oh, yes, sir,' said Demetrius, 'quite well, sir.'

'There was a rumour--' Paulus did not finish the sentence, but it was evident that he expected a rejoinder. Demetrius, unaccustomed to sitting in the presence of his betters, rose unsteadily to his feet.

'The Tribune was ill, sir, for several months. He was deeply depressed. He went to Athens, and recovered.'

'What was he so depressed about, Demetrius?' asked Paulus; and when the reply was not immediately forthcoming, he added, 'Do I know?'

'Yes, sir,' said Demetrius.

'Something cracked--when he put on that robe--at the Procurator's banquet.'

'Yes, sir. It did something to him.'

'I remember. It affected him strangely.' Paulus shook himself loose from an unpleasant recollection. 'Now for your case. Why are you here?'

Demetrius explained in a few words, and when Paulus inquired about the fight, he replied that he had wanted water and the Syrian wouldn't give it to him.

'Bring Captain Namius in!' commanded Paulus. A sentry went out and returned almost immediately with the guards and the Syrians. The explanation proceeded swiftly. Namius gave an account of the duel in the corridor.

'We stopped it,' he concluded, 'when this Syrian picked up a shard of the broken water-jar and threw it at the Greek.'

'Take him out and give him thirty-nine lashes with a bull-whip!' shouted Paulus. 'Lock the other pig up--and don't try to fatten him. That will be all, Captain.'

'And the Greek, sir?' asked Namius.

'Put him to bed, and have the physician attend to his injuries.'

Namius gave an order. The guards made off with the Syrians.

'Shall I go now, sir?' asked Demetrius.

'Yes, with the Captain. No--wait. You may go, Namius. I shall summon you.' Paulus watched the retreating figure of the old guard until he reached the door; then, glancing about the room, he said quietly, 'You may all go.' He looked up over his shoulder. 'You, too, Sextus. I want a word alone with Demetrius.'

* * * * * *

They had almost nothing to say to each other on the way back to the inn. Justus, preoccupied and somehow elevated, as if the afternoon with Bartholomew had reinvigorated his spirit, strode along with confident steps.

As for Marcellus, the old disciple's story had impressed and disturbed him. Had he never known of Jesus until to-day, and Bartholomew had said, 'I heard this man speak to a storm--and the storm ceased,' he could have dismissed that statement as utterly preposterous. But the testimony about Jesus' peculiar powers had been cumulative. It had been coming at him from all directions.

Marcellus's footsteps lagged as his thoughts became more involved. Justus, appreciating his dilemma, gave him an understanding smile, lengthened his stride, and moved on alone, leaving his bewildered patron to follow at his leisure.

The trouble was, once you began to concede that there might be an element of truth in some of these stories, it was unreasonable to draw an arbitrary line beyond which your credulity would not go. It was childish to say, 'Yes--I believe Jesus could have done THIS extraordinary thing, but I don't believe he could have done THAT!'

Some of the stories permitted a common-sense explanation. Take Hariph's naïve account of the wedding-feast, for example. That wasn't hard to see through. The porous water-jars had previously held wine. Of course you had to concede the astounding effect of Jesus' personality on the wedding-guests, who loved, admired, and trusted him. Not everybody could have made that water taste like wine. You were willing to grant that. Mean and frugal fare could be made pleasantly palatable when shared with a well-loved friend. If the water-into-wine episode had been the only example of Jesus' inexplicable power, it would present no problem at all. But there was Miriam's sudden realization that she possessed an inspired voice; had made this amazing discovery on the same day that the other thing had happened in the home of Hariph. If you consented to Miriam's story (and its truth was self-evident) you might as well accept Hariph's. And there was the strange feeding of the five thousand. You could explain that without difficulty. Under Jesus' persuasive words about human brotherhood, they had shared their food. You had to concede nothing here but the tremendous strength of Jesus' personality, which you were glad enough to do because you believed in it yourself. Demosthenes had wrought wonders with his impassioned appeals to the Greeks. Such infusions of courage and honesty required no miracle.

But there was little Jonathan. The whole town of Sepphoris knew that Jonathan had been born a cripple. Of course you could maintain that Jesus could have manipulated that crooked little foot and reduced its dislocation; and if that were the only story of Jesus' surprising deeds, your explanation might suffice. To be sure, that leaves the entire population of Sepphoris believing something that wasn't true; but even that was possible. There was no limit to the credulity of unsophisticated people. Indeed, they rather liked to believe in the uncanny.

There was Lydia, healed of a long-time disease by touching Jesus' robe. Well--you couldn't say that was impossible in the face of your own experience. You had impulsively told Justus that you believed it, and Justus felt that you were ready to hear about the storm. If you believed that Jesus' supernormal power could heal the physical and mental sickness of those who merely touched his robe, by what reasoning do you disbelieve that he could still a storm? Once you impute to him supernormal power, what kind of impertinence consents to your drawing up a detailed list of the peculiar things he can and cannot do? Yet this storm story was too, too much! Here you have no human multitude yielding to the entreating voice. This is an inanimate, insensible tempest! No human being--however persuasive--could still a storm! Concede Jesus THAT power, and you admit that he was DIVINE.

* * * * * *

'I have taken the liberty of asking Shalum to bake us a fish,' announced Justus, as Marcellus slowly sauntered toward the tent. We will have supper at the inn. It will be a relief from my poor cooking.

'Very well,' agreed Marcellus, absently. 'Haven't you seen anything of Demetrius?'

'No, and I inquired at the inn.'

'I had almost forgotten about the poor fellow,' confessed Marcellus. 'There has been much to think about, this afternoon.'

'If Demetrius has been arrested, he will give an account of himself,' said Justus, reassuringly. 'You will learn his whereabouts promptly, I think. They will surrender him--for a price--no matter what the indictment is. Valuable slaves don't stay long in jail. Shall we go to supper now, sir?'

The dining-hall had accommodation for only a score of guests, but it was tastefully appointed. Because the lighting facilities in small town hostelries were not good, travellers dined early. The three dignified Pharisees, whose commodious tent had been pitched in the sycamore grove during the afternoon, occupied a table in the centre of the room. Two centurions from the fort were enjoying their wine at a table by a western window while they waited to be served. Shalum--grizzled, bow-legged, obsequious--led the way to a corner table, bowing deeply when Justus introduced his friend.

'Is he a Christian?' asked Marcellus, as Shalum waddled away.

Justus blinked with surprise, and Marcellus grinned.

'Yes,' said Justus, in a barely audible tone that strongly counselled caution.

'You didn't think I knew that word, did you?' murmured Marcellus.

Justus did not reply, but sat with arms folded, staring out into the garden.

'Demetrius picked it up in Joppa,' explained Marcellus, quietly.

'We must be careful,' admonished Justus. 'Pharisees have small hearts, but big ears.'

'Is that a saying?' Marcellus chuckled.

'Yes, but not a loud saying,' warned Justus, breaking one of the small brown loaves. He raised his voice a little and said, casually, 'Shalum bakes a good bread. Have some.'

'You come here frequently?'

'This is the first time for a year and a half,' confided Justus. 'Last time I was in this room, it was full. Shalum gave a dinner for Jesus. All the disciples and a few others were here; and there must have been a hundred outside. Shalum fed them too.'

'Nothing secret about it, then.'

'No, not at that time. The priests were already plotting how they might destroy his influence with the people, but they were not yet openly hostile.'

'That's strange,' said Marcellus. 'When Jesus was alive and an active menace to the priests' business, no effort was made to keep his doings a secret. Now that he is dead and gone--you must talk about him in whispers.'

Justus looked Marcellus squarely in the eyes, and smiled. He seemed about to make some rejoinder, but refrained. An old servitor came with their supper; the baked fish on a large platter, lentils in cream, stewed figs, and a pitcher of wine. It was an attractive meal and they were hungry.

'Did you sit close to Jesus at that dinner?' asked Marcellus, after some moments devoted to their food.

'No, I sat with Matthias, over yonder by the door.'

'Where did Jesus sit?' inquired Marcellus.

'There,' nodded Justus, 'where you're sitting.'

Marcellus started.

'No one should ever sit here!' he declared.

Justus's eyes mellowed, and he approved Marcellus's sentiment with a comradely smile.

'You talk like a Christian yourself, my friend,' he murmured; adding, after a moment, 'Did you enjoy Bartholomew's story?'

'It wasn't meant to be enjoyed!' retorted Marcellus. 'I confess I'm thoroughly bewildered by it. Bartholomew is a fine old man. I'm convinced that he believes his story to be true.'

'But you don't believe it,' said Justus.

'Bartholomew made one statement, Justus, that may throw a little light on the matter. Do you remember his saying that he felt at peace, that he felt calmed, when Jesus spoke to the storm? Maybe that's where the storm was stilled, the storm in these men's minds! Jesus spoke to their fears, and they were reassured.'

'Does that explanation content you?' asked Justus, soberly.

'Of course not!' admitted Marcellus. 'But see here, Justus! You can't have Jesus stopping a storm!'

'Why not?' asked Justus, gently.

'Why not! Don't you realize that he has to be superhuman to do that? Can't you see that such an act makes him A GOD?'

'Well, and if it does--'

'Then you're left with a lot more explaining to do. Suppose you say that Jesus is divine; a god! Would he permit himself to be placed under arrest, and dragged about in the night from one court to another, whipped and reviled? Would he--this god!--consent to be put to death on a cross? A god, indeed! Crucified--dead--and buried!'

Justus sat for a moment, saying nothing, staring steadily into Marcellus's troubled eyes. Then he leaned far forward, grasped his sleeve, and drew him close. He whispered something into Marcellus's ear.

'NO, Justus!' declared Marcellus, gruffly. 'I'm not a fool! I don't believe that--and neither do you!'

'But--I SAW HIM!' persisted Justus, unruffled.

Marcellus swallowed convulsively, and shook his head.

'Why do you want to say a thing like that to me?' he demanded, testily. 'I happen to know it isn't true! You might make some people believe it--but not me! I hadn't intended to tell you this painful thing, Justus, but--I SAW HIM DIE! I saw a lance thrust deep into his heart! I saw them take his limp body down--dead as ever a dead man was!'

'Everybody knows that,' agreed Justus, calmly. 'He was put to death and laid away in a tomb. And on the morning of the third day, he came to life again, and was seen walking about in a garden.'

'You're mad, Justus! Such things don't happen!'

'Careful!' warned Justus. 'We mustn't be overheard.'

Pushing his plate away, Marcellus folded his arms on the table. His hands were trembling.

'If you think Jesus is alive,' he muttered, 'where is he?'

Justus shook his head, made a hopeless little gesture with both hands, and gave a long sigh.

'I don't know,' he said, dreamily, 'but I do know he is alive.' After a quiet moment, Justus brightened a little. 'I am always looking for him,' he went on. 'Every time a door opens. At every turn of the road. At every street-corner. At every hill-crest.'

Marcellus's eyes had widened, and he nodded understandingly.

'I knew you were always expecting to meet someone,' he said. 'If you persist in that habit, you'll lose your wits.' Neither man spoke for some moments. Marcellus looked toward the door. 'Do you mean to say,' he asked, cautiously, 'that you wouldn't be surprised if Jesus came in here now--and asked Shalum to serve him his supper?'

Justus repressed a smile at the sight of Marcellus's almost boyish expression of complete bafflement.

'No,' he replied, confidently. 'I shouldn't be surprised, at all. I confess I was badly shaken the first time I saw him. As you say, such things don't happen. They're quite impossible. Had I been alone, I should have doubted my senses--and my sanity, too.'

'Where was this?' demanded Marcellus, as seriously as if he expected to believe the story.

'At Benyosef's house; quite a little company of us; ten days after Jesus had been put to death. We had had a simple supper together. The sun had set, but the lamps had not yet been lighted. There had been much talk about Jesus' reappearance. Several of the disciples claimed to have seen him. I, for one, didn't believe it; though I kept still. There had been a lot of confusing reports. On the morning of the third day, some women had gone to the sepulchre and found it empty. One of them said she had seen Jesus, walking in the garden; said he had spoken to her.'

'Hysterical, I dare say,' put in Marcellus.

'That's what I made of it,' admitted Justus. 'And then there was a story that two men had seen him on the highway and asked him to have supper with them at an inn.'

'Reliable people?'

'I didn't know them. One was a man named Cleopas, a cousin of Alphaeus. I never heard the other man's name.'

'Sounds to me like poor testimony.'

'It seemed that way to me also,' said Justus. 'Several of the disciples declared he had come into the room where they were sitting, that same night. But they were terribly wrought up, and I thought they might have imagined seeing him, what with so many strange reports flying about--'

'Naturally!' agreed Marcellus. 'Once the stories started, the hallucinations multiplied. Well, go on. You were at Benyosef's house--'

'John had been telling how he looked and what he said--'

'He's that dreamy young fellow, eh?'

'Yes, that's the one,' Justus went on, undisturbed by the implications of Marcellus's query. 'And when John had finished his story, Thomas stood up and spoke his mind--and my mind, too. "I don't believe a word of it!" he shouted. "And I don't intend to believe it until I have seen him with my own eyes--and touched his wounds with my hands!"'

'He was a bold fellow,' remarked Marcellus. 'Was John offended?'

'I don't know,' said Justus, absently. 'He didn't have much time to be offended. Jesus was standing there, at Thomas's elbow.'

'No, Justus!'

'Yes--with the same compassionate smile we all knew so well.'

'A spectre?'

'Not at all! He was a little thinner. You could see the effects of the bad treatment he had suffered. There were long scratches on his forehead. He held his hands out to Thomas---'

'Did you all gather about him?' asked Marcellus, with a dry throat.

'No, I think we were stunned. I'm sure I was. I couldn't have moved if I had tried. There was complete silence. Jesus stood there, holding out his hands and smiling into Thomas's eyes. You could see the deep wounds in his palms. "Touch them," he said, gently. This was too much for Thomas. He covered his face with his hands and cried like a child.'

The dining-room had cleared. Twilight was settling. Shalum came over to inquire if there was anything else he could do for them. Marcellus glanced up bewilderedly at this summons back to reality.

'I have been telling my friend some things about Jesus,' said Justus.

'Yes, yes,' nodded Shalum. 'Once, when he honoured my poor house, he was seated there, sir, where you are sitting.'

'Did he rise and speak--at the dinner?' asked Marcellus.

'He did not rise to speak,' remembered Justus.

'He told a story,' said Shalum. 'It seems someone had asked him to explain what was meant by "my neighbour" as it is written in our law. And Jesus told a fable about a man who was travelling from Jerusalem to Jericho--a dangerous road--and was beset by Bedouins who stripped, robbed, and wounded him, leaving him half-dead. A priest came along and saw him, but passed on. A Levite, too, paused--but went his way. Then a Samaritan came--we do not care much for Samaritans up here, sir--and tied up the man's wounds, and took him to an inn. "Which of these men," he asked, "was a neighbour to him who fell among thieves?"'

'That was easily answered, I think,' observed Marcellus. 'Had I been there, I should have asked another question. I am told that Jesus did not believe in fighting--regardless of the circumstances. Now, if the brave Samaritan had arrived while the Bedouins were beating the life out of this unfortunate fellow, what was he supposed to do--join in the defence, or wait until the robbers had completed their work, and fled?'

Shalum and Justus exchanged looks of inquiry, each inviting the other to reply.

'Jesus was interested in binding up wounds,' said Justus, solemnly, 'not in inflicting them.'

'Does that answer your question, sir?' inquired Shalum.

'No,' said Marcellus. 'Perhaps we should go, Justus. It is growing dark.' They rose. 'The fish was good, Shalum. Let us have another for breakfast.'

Taking up the little lantern that Shalum had provided, Justus led the way across the well-kept grounds to the tent, where he lighted their larger one and hung it to the centre pole. Marcellus unlaced his sandal-thongs, took off his belt, and lounged on his cot, his eyes following Justus as he made his bed. He resumed the conversation, asking:

'And then what happened after Thomas looked at the wounds?'

'Benyosef filled a supper-plate, and offered it to Jesus,' said Justus, sitting down on the edge of his cot. 'There was a piece of broiled fish, a small loaf, and some honey in the comb. And Jesus took it, and ate.'

'Not just a spirit then,' commented Marcellus.

'I don't know,' mumbled Justus, uncertainly. 'He ate it, or some of it. The day was fading fast. Philip suggested that the lamps be lighted. Andrew, who was near the door to an adjoining room, went out and returned with a taper. Old Benyosef held up a lamp and Andrew lighted it. Jesus was not there.'

'Vanished?' Marcellus sat up.

'I don't know. It was getting dark in there. He might have gone out through the door. But nobody heard it open or close.'

'Had he come in through the door?'

'I don't know. I didn't hear it. The first I knew, he was standing there beside Thomas. And then--when the lamp was lighted-- he wasn't there.'

'What do you suppose became of him?'

'I don't know.' Justus shook his head.

There was a long silence.

'Ever see him again?' asked Marcellus.

Justus nodded.

'Once more,' he said, 'about a month afterwards. But in the meantime, he was seen up here in Galilee. A very unfortunate thing happened on the night Jesus was tried. When they had him before old Annas, Simon was waiting in the courtyard where the legionaries had built a fire. A servant-girl said to Simon, "Aren't you a friend of this Galilean?" And Simon said, "No, I don't know him."'

'But I thought Simon was leader among the disciples,' remarked Marcellus.

'That's what made it so bad,' sighed Justus. 'Ordinarily, Simon is a bold fellow, with plenty of courage. But he certainly did himself no credit that night. He followed along, at a distance, when they took Jesus to the Insula, and waited, across the street, while the trial was held. I don't know where he went after the procession started out toward the place of execution, or where he spent the night and the next day. I heard him confess it all. He was sick with remorse, and hurried back home.'

'So Simon wasn't present on that first occasion when the disciples thought they saw Jesus.'

'No, but Jesus told them to be sure and tell Simon.'

'Did Jesus know that Simon had denied his friendship?'

'Oh, yes, he knew. You see that's why he was so anxious to have Simon know that everything was all right again. Well, the next morning, the Zebedee brothers and Thomas decided to take old Bartholomew home. He had been sick. They put him on a donkey and set out for Galilee, where they found Peter, restless and heartsore, and told him what had happened. He was for rushing back to Jerusalem, but they counselled him to wait; for the news of Jesus' return was being noised about, and the priests were asking questions. And Benyosef's shop was being watched. So that night, they all went fishing. In the early morning, at sunrise, they left off and sailed toward the east shore. Bartholomew said that when they were within about two hundred cubits of the beach, chilled and drowsy from their long night on the water, they were suddenly roused by a loud shout and a splash. Simon had jumped overboard and was swimming. They all leaped up to see what had come over Simon. And they saw Jesus standing at the water's edge, waiting. It was a very tender meeting, he said, for Simon had been quite broken-hearted.'

'And then'--Marcellus's voice was impatient--'did he vanish, as before?'

'Not at once. They broiled fish for breakfast on the beach. He sat and talked with them for about an hour, showing special attention to Simon.'

'What did he talk about?'

'Their future duties,' replied Justus, 'to remember and tell the things he had taught. He would come back, he said, though he could not tell them the day or the hour. They were to be on the alert for his coming. After they had eaten, someone suggested that they return to Capernaum. They had beached the boat, and all hands-- except Jesus--fell to work, pushing off into the water. Bartholomew was up in the bow, rigging a sail. The others scrambled over the side and shipped the oars. When they looked about for Jesus, he was nowhere to be seen.'

'But he appeared again--another time?'

'The last time he was seen,' said Justus, 'I was present. It was on a hill top in Judea, a few miles north of Jerusalem. Perhaps I should tell you that the disciples and other friends of Jesus were closely watched, through those days. Such meetings as we had were late in the night and held in obscure places. In Jerusalem, the Temple people had the legionaries of the Insula patrolling the streets in search of us. Up here in Galilee, Herod Antipas and Julian the Legate had threatened death to anyone who so much as spoke Jesus' name.'

'They too believed that he had returned to life?'

'Perhaps not. I don't know. But they knew they had failed to dispose of him. They thought the people would soon forget and settle down to their old ways; but it soon appeared that Jesus had set some forces in motion--'

'I don't understand,' broke in Marcellus. 'What forces?'

'Well, for one thing, the Temple revenues were falling off. Hundreds of people, accustomed to paying tithes, stayed away from the synagogues whose priests had persecuted Jesus. There was no violence; but in the market-places throughout all Judea, Samaria, and Galilee, merchants who had thought to win favour with the authorities by denouncing Jesus found that their business was failing. The Christians were patronizing one another. It was apparent that they were in collusion and had a secret understanding. An edict was published prohibiting any assembly of Jesus' adherents. We agreed among ourselves to hold no more meetings until such time as it might be more prudent.'

'How many Christians were there in Jerusalem, at that time?' asked Marcellus. 'A score, perhaps?'

'About five hundred that had declared themselves. One afternoon, about five weeks after the crucifixion, Alphaeus came to my house saying that Simon had called a meeting. A week hence, we were to assemble shortly after sunrise on a hill, quite off the highway, where we had often spent a day of rest when Jesus was with us. Knowing it was dangerous to be seen on the roads in company with others of our belief, we journeyed singly. It was a beautiful morning. As I came to the well-remembered footpath that led across the fields toward the hills, I saw, in the early dawn-light, several men preceding me; though I could identify none but Simon, who is a tall man. As the slope grew steeper, I overtook old Bartholomew leaning on his staff, already tired and labouring for breath.'

'He had walked all that way from Capernaum?' asked Marcellus.

'And had spent the whole week at it,' said Justus. 'But it seemed that the hill would be too much for him. I counselled him not to try; that his heart might fail him; but he wouldn't listen. So I gave him an arm and we trudged along slowly up the winding path that became more difficult with every turn. Occasionally we had glimpses of the others, widely separated, as they climbed the rugged hill. We were about halfway up when Bartholomew stopped, pointed with his staff, and hoarsely shouted, "Look you! On the rock!" I looked up--and there he was! He was wearing a white robe. The sunshine made it appear dazzling. He was standing on the big white rock--at the summit--waiting.'

'Were you amazed?'

'No, not amazed; but eager to press on. Bartholomew urged me to leave him. He would manage alone, he said. But the good old man was half-dead with weariness, so I supported him the rest of the way. When at last we came out on the little plateau in a shady grove, we saw Jesus. He was standing, with both arms outstretched in a gesture of blessing. The disciples were kneeling about his feet. Simon, with his great hands covering his face, had bowed over until his head nearly touched the ground. Poor old Bartholomew, much moved and thoroughly spent, couldn't take another step. He fell to his knees. So did I, though we were at least a hundred cubits from the others. We bowed our heads.'

Justus's voice broke, and for a moment he was overcome with emotion. Marcellus waited silently for him to regain his self- control.

'After a while,' continued Justus, thickly, 'we heard the murmuring of voices. We raised our eyes. He was gone.'

'Where, Justus? Where do you think he went?' asked Marcellus, huskily.

'I don't know, my friend. I only know that he is alive--and I am always expecting to see him. Sometimes I feel aware of him, as if he were close by.' Justus smiled faintly, his eyes wet with tears. 'It keeps you honest,' he went on. 'You have no temptation to cheat anyone, or lie to anyone, or hurt anyone--when, for all you know, Jesus is standing beside you.'

'I'm afraid I should feel very uncomfortable,' remarked Marcellus, 'being perpetually watched by some invisible presence.'

'Not if that presence helped you defend yourself against yourself, Marcellus. It is a great satisfaction to have someone standing by-- to keep you up to your best.' Justus suddenly rose to his feet, and went to the door of the tent. A lantern was bobbing through the trees.

'Someone coming?' inquired Marcellus, sitting up.

'A legionary,' muttered Justus.

'News of Demetrius, perhaps.' Marcellus joined Justus at the tent- door. A tall legionary stood before them.

'I bear a message,' he announced, 'from Legate Paulus to Tribune Marcellus Lucan Gallio.'

'TRIBUNE!' murmured Justus, in an agitated voice.

'The Legate presents his compliments,' continued the legionary, in formal tones, 'and desires his excellent friend, Tribune Marcellus, to be his guest to-night at the fort. If it is your wish, you may accompany me, sir, and I shall light your way.'

'Very good,' said Marcellus. 'I shall be ready in a moment. Tarry for me at the gate.'

The legionary raised his spear in a salute and marched away.

'Apparently Demetrius is safe!' exclaimed Marcellus, brightly.

'And I have betrayed my people!' moaned Justus, sinking down on his cot. 'I have delivered my friends into the hands of their enemies!'

'No, Justus, no!' Marcellus laid a hand on his shoulder. 'All this may seem disquieting to you, but I assure you I am not a spy! It is possible I may befriend you and your people. Wait for me here. I shall return by midday to-morrow.'

Justus made no response; he sat dejectedly, with his face in his hands, until Marcellus's footsteps faded away. It was a long night of agony and remorse. When the first pale blue light appeared, the heavy-hearted Galilean gathered up his few belongings; made his way to the silent street, and trudged along, past the old fort, to the plaza. For a long time, he sat on the marble steps of the synagogue, and when the sun had risen he proceeded to the little house where he had left Jonathan.

Thomas's mother was in the kitchen, preparing breakfast.

'You are early,' she said. 'I was not expecting you so soon. I hope all is well with you,' she added, searching his troubled face.

'I wish to be on the road as soon as may be,' he replied.

'But where is your young Roman, and your little pack-train?'

'They are remaining here,' said Justus. 'Jonathan and I are going home.'



Chapter XVIII


Paulus had been in command of the fort at Capernaum only a week, but he already knew he wasn't going to like the place.

For a dozen years he had been hoping to get out of Minoa. It was a disgrace to be stationed there, and the Empire meant you to realize that an appointment to this fort was a degradation.

The buildings were ugly and shabby, the equipment bad, the climate abominable. No provision had ever been made for an adequate water- supply. On the sun-blistered grounds there wasn't a tree, a flower, or a blade of grass; not even a weed. The air was always foul with yellow, abrasive dust. You couldn't keep clean if you wanted to, and after a few months at Minoa you didn't care.

The garrison was lazy, surly, dirty, and tough. With little to do, except occasional brief and savage raids on the Bedouins, discipline was loose and erratic. There were no decent diversions; no entertainment. When you couldn't bear the boredom and discomfort another minute, you went down to Gaza and got drunk, and were lucky if you didn't get into a bloody brawl.

As for that vicious old city, was not Gaza known throughout the world for the squalor of its stinking kennels, where the elderly riff-raff of a half-dozen quarrelsome races screamed imprecations, and the young scum swapped unpleasant maladies, and the hapless stranger was stripped and robbed in broad daylight? Gaza had her little imperfections; there was no doubt about that. But she had docks and wharves and a spacious harbour. Little coastal ships tied up to her piers; bigger ships lay at anchor in her bay. You strolled down to watch them come and go, and felt you were still in contact with the outside world. Sometimes ships' officers would come out to the fort for a roistering evening; sometimes military men you had known in Rome would visit you while their vessel took on cargo.

Paulus's unexpected appointment to Capernaum had been received with hilarious joy. He had never been there, but he had heard something about its quiet charm. Old Julian had been envied his post.

For one thing, the fort was within a half-hour's ride of Tiberias, that ostentatious seat of the enormously wealthy sycophant, Herod Antipas. Paulus had no reason for thinking he was going to like him: he had nothing but contempt for these provincial lickspittles who would sell their own sisters for a smile from some influential Roman; but Herod frequently entertained interesting guests who, though they might despise him, must make a show of honouring his position as Tetrarch of Galilee and Peraea.

And Capernaum, everyone said, was beautiful; ringed by green hills, with snow-capped mountains in the distance. There was a lovely inland sea. The people were docile. They were reputed to be melancholy over the execution of their Jesus, but they were not violently resentful. Doubtless that problem would solve itself if you gave it time. Old Julian's tactics--listening at the keyholes of cottages for revolutionary talk, the posting of harsh edicts, floggings and imprisonments--what did they accomplish but to band these simple, harmless people together for mutual sympathy? Of course, if the foolhardy fishermen persisted in making a nuisance of their cult, you would have to punish them, or get yourself into trouble with Herod. That's what you would be there for--to keep the peace.

Now that you were here, you had much more peace than you had bargained for. Had the gods ever ordained such quiet nights? Paulus had not fully appreciated this oppressive silence for the first day or two. There was the novelty of settling into his immeasurably better quarters. He proudly inspected the trim pleasure-craft that Herod had placed at the disposal of the Legate. He luxuriated in the well-equipped baths, thinking kindly of old Julian whom he had never had any use for.

The fort buzzed with activity. A fairly large contingent from Minoa had accompanied Paulus. There had been the usual festivities at the Insula in Jerusalem during Passover Week--though Paulus had been moody and taciturn, anxious to have done with it, and move on. His retinue had come along to Capernaum, for his defence on the journey as well as to dignify his inauguration. A generous dinner had been served after the ceremonies, to which Herod (represented by a deputy) had contributed lavish supplies of potent wine. It was a noisy night. Heads had been cracked, noses flattened, more urgent arguments had been settled with knives. Paulus had filled the courtroom with battered celebrants; had crowded the guardhouse; had stormed and shouted oaths new to the local legionaries; and, well pleased with his first day's duties, had gone to bed tight as a drum.

Next day, the Minoa contingent had left for home--all but Sextus. At the last minute, Paulus (with a premonition of loneliness) had told Sextus to remain, at least for a time. And when the last of them had disappeared, a strange quietness settled over the fort. That night, after Sextus had ambled off early to bed, Paulus sat by his window watching the moonlight on the lake. Except for Sextus's snoring, the silence was profound. Perhaps it had been a mistake to retain Sextus. He wasn't very good company, after all.

What did one do for diversion in Capernaum? The little town was sound asleep. The Herod family was away. Tiberias was dead as a doornail. If this was a sample of life at Capernaum, you had been better off at Minoa.

The days trudged along, scraping their sandal-heels; sitting down, now and then, for a couple of hours, while Time remained standing. Paulus, strolling in the courtyard, paused before the sundial, read its laconic warning, 'Tempus fugit,' and sourly remarked to Sextus, 'It's apparent that old Virgil never visited Capernaum.'

After a week, Paulus was so restless that he even thought of contriving some errand to Jerusalem, though his recent visit there had been lacking in interest. Perhaps that was because the insufferable young Quintus, who had been sent by the Crown to reshuffle the Palestinian commands, was too, too much in evidence. Paulus, who was a good hater, had never despised anybody so quickly, so earnestly. Quintus was a vain, overbearing, patronizing, strutting peacock; he was an insolent, ill-mannered puppy; he was a pompous ass! In short, Paulus didn't like him at all. But Quintus would have sailed for home by now. Maybe Quintus was what had ailed Jerusalem, this time.

* * * * * *

It was late afternoon. The sun was setting. Paulus and Sextus had been apathetically shaking the old leather dice-cup on the long table in the courtroom. Sextus yawned cavernously and wiped his eyes.

'If it's bedtime,' yawned Paulus, 'perhaps we'd better light the lamps.' He clapped his hands. A guard scurried up. Paulus pointed to the lamps. The guard saluted and made haste to obey. 'Nine,' mumbled the Legate, handing the dice-cup to his drowsy friend.

At this juncture, old Namius had come in with three dishevelled slaves. Somewhere, Paulus felt, he had seen that tall Greek. Sextus jogged his memory. Ah--Demetrius! He had always liked Demetrius, in spite of his cool superiority. Demetrius was a haughty fellow, but you had respect for him. Paulus suddenly recalled having seen an announcement, posted at the Insula in Jerusalem, offering a reward for the capture of a Greek slave belonging to Tribune Marcellus Gallio. The bulletin said that the Greek had assaulted a Roman citizen in Athens, and was thought to be in hiding in Jerusalem. So--here he was. Somebody had gathered him in. But no--a brief examination revealed that Demetrius had been arrested on suspicion. He had been loitering; he was shabby; he had money. In prison he had fought the rascally Syrians who denied him water. So much for that. Then Paulus had wanted to know about Marcellus, who had been reported crazy--or the next thing to it--and was delighted to learn that his friend was in the neighbourhood.

But before he could release Demetrius, he must learn something about this charge against him. If it were true that he had struck a Roman, and run away, you couldn't dismiss him so easily. Paulus put them all out, including Sextus, who didn't like it.

'Demetrius'--Paulus frowned judiciously--'what have you to say about this report that you are a fugitive; that you struck a Roman citizen in Athens? That is very serious, you know!'

'It is true, sir,' replied Demetrius, without hesitation. 'I found it necessary to punish Tribune Quintus severely.'

'Quintus!' shouted the Legate. 'You mean to say you struck Quintus?' He leaned forward over the desk, eyes beaming. 'Tell me all about it!'

'Well, sir, the Tribune came to the Inn of Eupolis with a message for my master. While waiting for the reply, he made himself grossly offensive to the daughter of the innkeeper. They are a highly respected family, sir, and the young woman was not accustomed to being treated like a common trollop. Her father was present, but feared to intervene lest they all be thrown into prison.'

'So you came to the damsel's rescue, eh?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Don't you know you can be put to death for so much as touching a Roman Tribune?' demanded Paulus, sternly; and when Demetrius had slowly and remorsefully nodded his head, the Legate's frown relaxed, and he asked, in a confidential tone, 'What did you do to him?'

'I struck him in the face with my fist, sir,' confessed Demetrius. 'And, once I had struck him, I knew I had committed a crime punishable by death, and couldn't make my position any worse, so--'

'So--you hit him again, I think,' surmised Paulus, with mounting interest. 'Did he fight back?'

'No, sir. The Tribune was not expecting that first blow, and was unprepared for the next one.'

'In the face.' Paulus's eyes were wide and bright.

'Many times, sir,' admitted Demetrius.

'Knock him down?'

'Oh, yes, sir; and held him up by his helmet-strap, and beat his eyes shut. I was very angry, sir.'

'Yes, I can see that you were.' Paulus put both hands over his suddenly puffed cheeks and stifled something like a hiccough. 'And then you ran off?'

'Without a moment's delay, sir. There was a ship sailing. The Captain befriended me. Tribune Quintus was on board, and would have had me apprehended, but the Captain let me escape in the small boat at Gaza. From there I walked to Jerusalem.'

'Didn't the Captain know he could be punished for that?' growled Paulus. 'What was his name?'

'I cannot remember, sir,' Demetrius answered regretfully, after some hesitation.

'That is undoubtedly a lie,' said Paulus, 'but you are to be commended for your loyalty. So, then, you went to Jerusalem. Why?'

'My master expected to come shortly.'

'What did you do there?'

Demetrius told him of the weaver's shop. Paulus grew interested again.

'I understand there is a weaver's shop where the leaders of the Jesus-people meet. What was the name of your weaver?'

'Benyosef, sir.'

'That was the name! And how did you happen to be in that company, Demetrius? Are you, perhaps, one of these--these--what do they call them--Christians?'

'Yes, sir,' confessed Demetrius, tardily. 'Not a very good one; but I believe as they do.'

'You can't!' shouted Paulus. 'You have a good mind! You don't mean to tell me that you believe all this nonsense--about Jesus returning to life, and being seen on various occasions!'

'Yes, sir,' said Demetrius. 'I am sure that is true.'

'But, see here!' Paulus stood up. 'You were out there, that day, and saw him die!'

'Yes, sir. I am sure he died; and I am sure he is alive.'

'Have you seen him?' Paulus's voice was unsteady.

Demetrius shook his head and the Legate grinned.

'I hadn't thought,' he said, dryly, 'that you could be taken in by such a story. Men who die do not return. Only fools think so!' Paulus sat down again, relaxing in his chair. 'But you are not a fool. What makes you believe that?'

'I heard the story from a man who did see him; a man of sound mind; a man who does not lie.' Demetrius broke off, though it was evident he would have said more.

'Very well; go on!' commanded the Legate.

'It did not surprise me very much,' continued Demetrius. 'There never was a person like that before. Surely you, sir, must have noticed that. He had something nobody else ever had! I don't believe he was an ordinary man, sir.'

'How do you mean--not ordinary? Are you trying to say that you think he was something else than a man? You don't think he was a god!'

'Yes, sir,' said Demetrius, firmly. 'I think he was--and is--a god!'

'Nonsense! Don't you know we are locking up people for saying things like that about this dead Galilean?' Paulus rose impetuously and paced back and forth behind the long table. 'I mean to let you go, for your master's sake; but'--he stopped suddenly and shook a warning finger--'you are to clear out of Galilee, and there's to be no more talk about this Jesus. And if you ever tell anyone that you told me about your assault on Quintus-- and I learn of it--I'll have you flogged! Do you understand? I'll have you stripped and lashed with a bull-whip!'

'Thank you, sir,' said Demetrius, gratefully. 'I am very sorry that I struck him.'

'Then you don't deserve your freedom,' growled Paulus. 'That's why I am turning you loose--and now you're sorry you did it. And you believe that dead men come to life. You're crazy!' He clapped his hands, and a guard stalked in. 'Make this Greek comfortable,' he barked. 'Have the physician attend to his cuts. Give him a good supper and a bed. He is to be released from prison.'

Demetrius wincingly brought his arm up in a salute, and turned to follow.

'One more thing!' rasped Paulus, to the guard. 'When you have finished with the Greek, return here. I want you to carry a message to Shalum's Inn. Make haste!'

* * * * * *

Marcellus was pleased to observe that Paulus's promotion had not altered his manner. The easy informality of their friendship was effortlessly resumed.

A small table had been laid in the Legate's handsomely furnished suite; a silver cake-tray, a bowl of fresh fruit, a tall flagon of wine. Paulus, clean-shaven, wearing an expensive white toga and a red silk head-band that accented the whiteness of his close-cropped hair, was a distinguished figure. He met his guest in the doorway and embraced him warmly.

'Welcome, good Marcellus!' he exclaimed. 'And welcome to Galilee; though, if you have been touring about up here, you may be better acquainted with this province than I.'

'It is a delight to see you again, Paulus!' rejoined Marcellus. 'All my good wishes for the success and happiness of your new command! It was most generous of you to send for me.'

With his arm around Marcellus's shoulders, Paulus guided his friend to a chair by the table, and sauntered to its mate on the other side.

'Come; sit down.' He filled their goblets. 'Let us drink to this happy meeting. Now you must tell me what brings you into my quiet little Galilee.'

Marcellus smiled, raised the goblet to the level of his eyes, and bowed to his host.

'It would take an hour to explain my errand, Paulus,' he replied, sipping his wine. 'A long story--and a somewhat fantastic one, too. In short, the Emperor ordered me to learn something more about the Galilean whom we put to death.'

'A painful business for you, I think,' frowned Paulus. 'I still reproach myself for placing you in such an unhappy position that night at the Procurator's banquet. I did not see you again, or I should have tried to make amends. If it is not too late to say so, I am sorry it happened. I was drunk.'

'We all were,' remembered Marcellus. 'I bore you no ill-will.'

'But it wasn't drunkenness that ailed you, sir, when you groped your way out of that banquet-hall. When you put on the dead man's robe, something happened to you. Even I, drunk as I was, could see that. By the gods!--I thought you must have sighted a ghost!' Raising his goblet, Paulus drank deeply; then, shrugging his dour mood aside, he brightened. 'But why revive unpleasant memories? You were a long time ill. I heard of it and was sad. But now you are quite recovered. That is well. You are the picture of health, Marcellus. Drink, my friend! You have hardly tasted your wine; and it is good.'

'Native?' Marcellus took another sip.

Paulus grinned; then suddenly stiffened to pantomime an attitude of cool hauteur.

'My eminent patron,' he declaimed, with elaborate mockery, 'my exalted lord, the ineffable Herod Antipas--Tetrarch of Galilee and Peraea, robber of the poor, foot-washer to any titled Roman that comes within reach--he sent the wine. And though Herod himself may be a low form of life, his wine is noble.' Slipping easily out of his august role, Paulus added, casually, 'I have had no native wine yet. By the way, the country people have a story that our Jesus once supplied a wedding-party with a rare vintage that he made by doing some incantations over a water-pot. There are innumerable yarns of this order. Perhaps you have heard them.'

Marcellus nodded, but did not share the Legate's cynical amusement.

'Yes,' he said, soberly. 'I have heard them. They are very hard to understand.'

'Understand!' echoed Paulus. 'Don't tell me you have tried to understand them! Have we not plenty of such legends in Rome--tales that no one in his right senses gives a second thought to?'

'Yes, I know, Paulus,' agreed Marcellus, quietly, 'and I should want to be among the last to believe them, but--'

At the significant pause, Paulus stood up, busying himself with refilling their goblets. He offered the silver cake-tray, which Marcellus declined, and sat down again with a little gesture of impatience.

'I hope you aren't going to say that these Galilean stories are credible, Marcellus,' he remarked, coolly.

'This Jesus was a strange man, Paulus.'

'Granted! By no means an ordinary man! He had a peculiar kind of courage, and a sort of majesty, all his own. But I hope you don't believe that he changed water into wine!'

'I do not know, Paulus,' replied Marcellus, slowly. 'I saw a child who had been born with a crippled foot; now as active as any other little boy.'

'How do you know he was born with a crippled foot?' demanded Paulus.

'The whole village knew. There was no reason why they should have invented the story for my benefit. They were suspicious of me. In fact, the boy's grandfather, my guide, was reluctant to talk about it.'

'Well, you can be sure there is some reasonable explanation,' rasped Paulus. 'These people are as superstitious as our Thracian slaves. Why, they even believe that this man came to life--and has been seen!'

Marcellus nodded thoughtfully.

'I heard that story for the first time about an hour ago, Paulus. It is amazing!'

'It is preposterous!' shouted Paulus. 'These fools should have contented themselves with tales of water changed to wine and the magical healing of the sick.' Paulus drank again, noisily. His ruddy face showed annoyance as he watched Marcellus absently toying with the stem of his goblet, his eyes averted. 'You know well enough that the Galilean was dead!' he stormed, angrily. 'No one can tell you or me that he came to life!' Drawing up the sleeve of his toga, Paulus tapped his muscular forearm with measuring fingers, and shrilled, 'I thrust my spear into his chest that deep!'

Marcellus glanced up, nodded, and dropped his eyes again, without comment. Paulus suddenly leaned forward over the table, and brought his fist down with a thump.

'By the gods! Marcellus,' he shouted, 'YOU BELIEVE IT!'

There was a tense silence for a long moment. Marcellus stirred and slowly raised his eyes, quite unruffled by the Legate's outburst.

'I don't know what to believe, Paulus,' he said, quietly. 'Of course my natural reaction is the same as yours; but--there is a great mystery here, my friend. If this story is a trumped-up lie, the men who have been telling it at the risk of their lives are quite mad; yet they do not talk like madmen. They have nothing to gain--and everything to lose--by reporting that they saw him.'

'Oh, I'll concede that,' declared Paulus, loftily. 'It's no uncommon thing for a fanatic to be reckless with his life; but-- look you, Marcellus!--however difficult that is to understand, you can't have a dead man coming back from his grave! Why, a man who could overcome death, could--'

'Exactly!' broke in Marcellus. 'He could do anything! He could defy any power on earth! If he cared to, he might have the whole world for his kingdom!'

Paulus drank greedily, spilling some of the wine on the table.

'Odd thing to say,' he muttered, thickly. 'There was some talk at his trial--about his kingdom: remember? Pilate asked him--absurdly enough, I thought--if he were a king.' Paulus chuckled mirthlessly. 'He said he was, and it shook Pilate a little, too. Indeed, it stunned everybody, for a minute; just the cool audacity of it. I was talking with Vinitius, that night at the banquet, and he said the Galilean explained that his kingdom was not in the world; but--that doesn't mean anything. Or does it?'

'Well, it certainly wouldn't mean anything if _I_ said it,' replied Marcellus. 'But if a man who had been out of this life were able to return from--from wherever he had been--he might conceivably have a kingdom elsewhere.'

'You're talking rubbish, Marcellus,' scoffed Paulus. 'I'll assist you,' he went on, drunkenly. 'You are my guest, and I must be polite. If it's so--that a dead man--with some kind of elsewhere- kingdom--has come back to life:--mind you, now, I know it isn't so-- but if it's so--I'd rather it were this Jesus than Quintus or Julian or Pilate--or the half-witted Gaius that old Julia whelped.' He laughed boisterously at his own absurdity. 'Or old Tiberius! By the gods!--when crazy old Tiberius dies, I'll wager he stays dead! By the way, do you mean to go back and tell the old fool this story? He'll believe it, you know, and it will scare the very liver out of him!'

Marcellus grinned tolerantly, reflecting that the Legate---albeit pretty drunk--had said something worth thinking about.

'Good idea, Paulus,' he remarked. 'If we're going to have a king who knows how to outlive all the other kings, it might be a great thing for the world if he were a person of good deeds and not evil ones.'

The Legate's face sobered, and Marcellus, noting his serious interest, enlarged upon his impromptu idea.

'Consider these tales about Jesus, Paulus. He is reputed to have made blind men see: there is no story that he made any man blind. He is said to have changed water into wine; not wine into water. He made a crippled child walk; he never made any child a cripple.'

'Excellent!' applauded Paulus. 'The kings have been destroyers, despoilers. They have made men blind, crippled, broken.' He paused, and went on, muttering half to himself, 'Wouldn't the world be surprised if once it should have a government that came to the rescue of the blind and sick and lame? By the gods! I wish this absurd tale about the Galilean were true!'

'Do you mean that, Paulus, or are you jesting?' demanded Marcellus, earnestly.

'Well,' compromised the Legate, 'I'm as serious as the matter warrants, seeing it hasn't a leg to stand on.' His forehead wrinkled in a judicial frown. 'But see here, Marcellus, aren't you going in for this Jesus business a little too far for your own good?'

Marcellus made no reply, other than an enigmatic pursing of the lips. Paulus grinned, shrugged, and replenished his goblet. His manner said they would drop that phase of the subject.

'What else do they say about him, up here in the country?' he asked, negligently. 'You seem to have been making inquiries.'

'They have a story in Cana,' replied Marcellus, quietly, 'about a young woman who discovered she could sing. The people think Jesus was responsible for it.'

'Taught her to sing?'

'No. One day she found that she could sing. They believe he had something to do with it. I heard her, Paulus. There hasn't been anything quite like it, so far as I know.'

'Indeed!' enthused Paulus. 'I must tell the Tetrarch. It's part of my business, you know, to please the old rascal. He may invite her to entertain one of his banquets.'

'No, Paulus, please!' protested Marcellus. 'This girl has been gently bred. Moreover, she is a cripple; can't stand up; never leaves the neighbourhood.'

'He gave her a voice, and left her a cripple, eh?' Paulus grinned. 'How do you explain that?'

'I don't explain it; I just report it. But I sincerely hope you will say nothing about her to Herod. She would feel very much out of place in his palace, if what I have heard about him is correct.'

'If what you've heard is revolting,' commented Paulus, bitterly, 'it's correct. But if you are so concerned about these Christians, it might be to their advantage if one of their daughters sang acceptably for the lecherous old fox.'

'No!' snapped Marcellus, hotly. 'She and her family are friends of mine. I beg of you not to degrade her with an invitation to meet Herod Antipas or any member of his household!'

Paulus agreed that they were a precious lot of scoundrels, including Herod's incorrigible daughter Salome. A dangerous little vixen, he declared, responsible for a couple of assassinations, and notoriously unchaste. He chuckled unpleasantly, and added that she had come by her talents honestly enough, seeing that her father--if he was her father--hadn't even the respect of the Sanhedrin, and her mother was as promiscuous as a cat. He snorted contemptuously, and drank to take the taste of them out of his mouth. Marcellus scowled, but made no comment. Presently he became aware that Paulus was regarding him with a friendly but reproachful inspection.

'I wonder if you realize, Marcellus,' Paulus was saying, 'that your keen concern for these Christians might sometime embarrass you. May I talk to you about that, without giving offence?'

'Why not, Paulus?' replied Marcellus, graciously.

'Why not? Because it may sound impertinent. We are of the same rank. It does not behove me to give you advice, much less injunctions.'

'Injunctions?' Marcellus's brows lifted a little. 'I'm afraid I don't understand.'

'Let me explain, then. I assume you know what has been happening in Palestine during the past year. For a few weeks, after the execution of the Galilean, his movement appeared to be a closed incident. The leaders of his party scattered, most of them returning to this neighbourhood. The influential men of Jerusalem were satisfied. There were sporadic rumours that Jesus had been seen in various places after his death, but nobody with any sense took these tales seriously. It was expected that the whole affair would presently be forgotten.'

'And then it revived,' remarked Marcellus, as Paulus paused to take another drink.

'Revived is not the word. It hadn't died. Secret groups had been meeting in many cities. For a few months there were very few outward signs of it. The authorities had contempt for it, feeling that it was a thing of no importance, either as to size or quality. Then, one day, it began to dawn on the priests that their synagogues were not being patronized; the tithes were not paid. Then the merchants observed that their business was increasingly bad. In Jericho, more than half of the population now make no secret of their affiliations. In Antioch, the Christians are quite outspoken, and adding daily to their numbers. Nor is interest in this party limited to the poor and helpless, as was at first supposed. Nobody knows how many there are in Jerusalem, but the Temple is beside itself with anxiety and anger, prodding the Insula to do something drastic. Old Julian is being harassed by the priests and merchants, who are making it plain that he must act--or resign.'

'What does he think of doing about it?' inquired Marcellus.

'Well'--Paulus flicked his hands in a baffled gesture--'it's obvious that the movement cannot be tolerated. It may look innocuous to a casual visitor like yourself; but, to the solid respectables of Jerusalem, it is treason, mutiny, blasphemy, and a general disintegration of their established ways. Julian doesn't want a bloody riot on his hands, and has been playing for time; but the city fathers are at the end of their patience.'

'But surely they can't find much fault with the things Jesus taught,' interposed Marcellus. 'He urged kindness, fair dealing, good will. Don't the influential men of Palestine believe in letting the people treat one another decently?'

'That isn't the point, Marcellus, and you know it,' argued Paulus, impatiently. 'These Christians are refusing to do business on the old basis. More and more they are patronizing one another. Why, even here in little Capernaum, if you don't have the outline of a fish scrawled on the door of your shop, it doesn't pay you to open up.' He studied his friend's interested face, and grinned. 'I suppose you know what that fish stands for.'

Marcellus nodded, and smiled broadly.

'No, it isn't a bit funny!' warned Paulus, grimly. 'And I must strongly counsel you that the less you see of these Christians, the better it will be'--he checked himself, and finished lamely in a tone almost inaudible--'for all of us.'

'But for me in particular, I think you mean,' said Marcellus.

'Have it your own way.' Paulus waved his arm. 'I'm not having a good time--saying these things to you. But I don't want to see you get into trouble. And you easily could, you know! When the pressure is put on, it's going to get rough! The fact that you're a Roman Tribune will not count for much, once the stampede begins! We are going to make war on the Christians, Marcellus, no matter who they are! Why don't you clear out before you get into trouble? Take your slave--and go!'

'I do not know where he is,' admitted Marcellus.

'Well, I do,' grinned Paulus. 'He is in bed, somewhere here in the fort.'

'A prisoner?'

'No, but he ought to be.' The Legate laughingly recounted the afternoon's revelations. 'By the way,' he ended, 'did you see him destroy Quintus?'

Marcellus, who had been much amused by the recital, shook his head.

'I saw the Tribune shortly afterwards,' he said. 'The work had been well done, I assure you.'

'It gratified me to hear about it,' said Paulus, 'as I have no respect for Quintus and his misfortunes do not annoy me; but'--he grew suddenly serious--'this was no light offence, and may yet have to be settled for. Your Demetrius is free to go, but I hope he will not linger in this country; at least, not in my jurisdiction. Nor you, Marcellus! Consider your predicament: your slave is wanted for assaulting a Tribune; moreover, he is known to have been in close association with the Christian party in Jerusalem. He can be apprehended on either count. Now, it may be assumed that you know all this. In short, you have been harbouring a criminal and a Christian; and your own position as a friend of the Christians is of no advantage to you. What do you intend to do about it?'

'I had thought of remaining in Palestine for a few weeks, before proceeding to Rome,' said Marcellus. 'I have no definite plans.'

'Better have some plans!' advised Paulus, sternly. 'Your situation is more hazardous than you think. It will do your pious Galilean friends no good to have you championing their cause. I tell you candidly that they are all in imminent danger of arrest. I advise you to pack your travel equipment early in the morning, go quietly across country to Joppa, and take the first ship that heads for home.'

'Thanks for the counsel, Paulus,' replied Marcellus, non- committally. 'May I have a word with Demetrius now?'

Paulus frowned darkly and dismissed the request with a gesture of exasperation.

'The fact that your Greek slave is a superior fellow and your friend,' he said, crisply, 'does not alter his status in the opinion of my own retinue. I suggest that you wait until morning to see him.'

'As you like,' said Marcellus, unruffled.

Paulus rose unsteadily.

'Let us retire now,' he said, more cordially, 'and meet for breakfast at sunrise. Then'--he smiled meaningly--'if you will insist upon leaving at once, I shall speed you on your way. I shall do better than that: I shall order a small detachment of legionaries, acquainted with the less travelled roads, to see you safely to Joppa.'

'But I am not going to Joppa, Paulus,' declared Marcellus, firmly. 'I am not leaving Palestine until I have fully satisfied myself about this story of the Galilean's return to life.'

'And how are you to do that?' demanded Paulus. 'By interviewing a few deluded fishermen, perhaps?'

'That's one way of putting it,' rejoined Marcellus, unwilling to take offence. 'I want to talk with some of the leaders.'

'They are not here now,' said Paulus. 'The foremost of them are in Jerusalem.'

'Then I am going to Jerusalem!'

For a moment, Paulus, with tight lips, deliberated a reply. A sardonic grin slowly twisted his mouth.

'If you start to-morrow for Jerusalem,' he predicted ominously, 'you should arrive about the right time to find them all in prison. Then--unless you are more prudent than you appear to be at present-- you will get into a lot of trouble.' He clapped his hands for the guard. 'Show the Tribune to his room,' he ordered. Offering his hand, with his accustomed geniality, he smiled and said, 'I hope you rest well. We will see each other in the morning.'



Chapter XIX


They entered the city unchallenged two hours before sunset. The sentries at the Damascus Gate did not so much as bother to ask Marcellus his name or what manner of cargo was strapped to the tired little donkeys. It was evident that Jerusalem was not on the alert.

The journey from Capernaum had been made with dispatch, considering the travellers were on foot. By rising before dawn and keeping steadily at it--even through the sultry valleys, where the prudent rested in the shade while the sun was high--the trip had been accomplished in three days.

Warned by Paulus's grim forecast of drastic action about to be taken against the Christians, Marcellus had expected to encounter arrogant troops and frightened people, but the roads were quiet and the natives were going about their small affairs with no apparent feeling of insecurity. If it were true that a concerted attack on them had been planned, it was still a well-guarded secret.

Their leave-taking of Capernaum had been almost without incident. Arriving early at the tent, they found that Justus had disappeared. Shalum had no explanation to offer. The mother of little Thomas, when they stopped at her home to make inquiries, had no more to say than that Justus and Jonathan had left for Sepphoris an hour ago. Marcellus had a momentary impulse to follow them and reassure Justus; but, remembering Paulus's injunction that the Galileans would now be better served if he gave them no further attention, he proceeded on his way with many misgivings. If was no small matter to have lost Justus's friendship. He wanted to stop in Cana and have a farewell word with Miriam, but decided against it.

After supper that first night out (they had camped in a meadow five miles south-east of Cana) Marcellus had insisted on hearing all about Demetrius's experiences with the Christians in Jerusalem, especially with reference to their belief in the reappearance of Jesus. The Greek was more than willing to tell everything he knew. There was no uncertainty in his mind about the truth of the resurrection story.

'But, Demetrius, that is impossible, you know!' Marcellus had declared firmly when his slave had finished.

'Yes, I know, sir,' Demetrius had admitted.

'But you believe it!'

'Yes, sir.'

'Well, there's no sense to be made out of that!' grumbled Marcellus, impatiently. 'To admit a thing's impossible, and in the next breath confess your belief in it, makes your argument very unconvincing.'

'If you will pardon me, sir,' ventured Demetrius, 'I was not arguing. You asked me: I told you. I am not trying to persuade you to believe in it. And I agree that what I have been saying doesn't make sense.'

'Then the story is nonsense!' reasoned Marcellus; and after he had given his slave ample time to reply, he added crisply, 'Isn't it?'

'No, sir,' reiterated Demetrius, 'the story is true. The thing couldn't happen; but it did.'

Feeling that this sort of conversation didn't have much to recommend it, Marcellus had mumbled good night and pretended to sleep.

On the next day and the day thereafter, the subject had been discussed on the road, as profitlessly. Jesus had been seen after his death. Such things didn't happen; couldn't happen. Nevertheless, he had been seen; not once, but many times; not by one man only, but by a score. Demetrius was advised that he was losing his mind. He conceded the point without debate and offered to change the subject. He was told that he had been duped and deluded, to which accusation he responded with an indulgent nod and a smile. Marcellus was thoroughly exasperated. He wanted to talk about it; wanted Demetrius to plead his case, if he had one, with an air of deep conviction. You couldn't get anywhere with a man who, when you called him a fool, calmly admitted it.

'I never would have thought, Demetrius,' Marcellus had said, taking pains to make it sound derisive, 'that a man with as sound a mind as yours would turn out to be so childishly superstitious!'

'To tell you the truth, sir,' Demetrius had replied, 'I am surprised at it myself.'

They had been trudging along, with Marcellus a little in advance, stormily vaunting his indignation over his slave's stubborn imbecility, when it suddenly occurred to him that he wasn't having it out with Demetrius--but with himself. He swung about, in the middle of an angry sentence, and read--in his companion's comradely grin--a confirmation of his discovery. Falling into step, he walked along in silence for a while.

'Forgive me, Demetrius,' he said, self-reproachfully. 'I have been very inconsiderate.'

Demetrius smiled broadly.

'I understand fully, sir,' he said. 'I went through all that, hour after hour, day after day. It is not easy to accept as the truth something that one's instinct rejects.'

'Well then,' deliberated Marcellus, 'let us, just for sake of argument, batter our instincts into silence and accept this, for the moment, as the truth. Consider the possibilities of a man with a divine personality who, if he wants to, can walk up to Emperor Tiberius, without fear, and demand his throne!'

'He will not want to,' rejoined Demetrius. 'If he were that sort of person, he would have demanded Pilate's seat. No, he expects to come into power another way; not by dethroning the Emperor, but by inspiring the people. His rule will not begin at the top. It will begin at the bottom, with the common people.'

'Bah!' scoffed Marcellus. 'The common people, indeed! What makes you think they have it in them to set up a just government? Take this weak-spined little handful of pious fishermen, for example, how much courage is to be expected of them? Why, even when their Jesus was on trial for his life, they were afraid to speak out in his defence. Except for two or three of them, they let him go to his death alone!'

'True, sir,' said Demetrius, 'but that was before they knew he could overcome death.'

'Yes, but Jesus' ability to overcome death wouldn't make their lives any more secure than they were before.'

'Oh yes, sir!' exclaimed Demetrius. 'He promised them that they too would live forever. He said that he had overcome death--not only for himself, but for all who had faith in him.'

Marcellus slowed to a stop, thrust his thumbs under his belt, and surveyed his slave with a frown of utter mystification.

'Do you mean to say that these crazy fishermen think they are going to live forever?' he demanded.

'Yes, sir--forever, with him,' said Demetrius, quietly.

'Ridiculous!' snorted Marcellus.

'It seems so, sir,' agreed Demetrius. 'But if they sincerely believe that, whether it is true or not will have no bearing on their behaviour. If a man considers himself stronger than death, he has nothing to fear.'

'Then why are these people in hiding?' asked Marcellus, reasonably enough, he thought.

'They have their work to do, sir. They must not be too reckless with their lives. It is their duty to tell the story of Jesus to as many as can be reached. Every man of them expects to be killed, sooner or later, but--it won't matter. They will live on-- somewhere else.'

'Demetrius, do you believe all this nonsense yourself?' asked Marcellus, pityingly.

'Sometimes,' mumbled Demetrius. 'When I'm with them, I believe it.' He tramped on moodily through the dust, his eyes on the road. 'It isn't easy,' he added, half to himself.

'I should say not!' commented Marcellus.

'But, sir,' declared Demetrius, 'the fact that an idea is not easy to understand need not discredit it. Are we not surrounded with facts quite beyond our comprehension?' He stretched a long arm toward the hillside, gay with flowers. 'We can't account for all that diversity of colour and form--and we don't have to. But they are facts.'

'Well, that's beside the point,' protested Marcellus. 'Stick to your business, now, and don't let your mind wander. We'll agree that all life's a mystery. Proceed with your argument.'

'Thank you, sir,' grinned Demetrius. 'Now these disciples of Jesus honestly believe that the world will eventually be ruled by faith in his teachings. There is to be a universal government founded on good will among men. Whoever believes and practises this has the assurance that he will live forever. It isn't easy to believe that one may live forever. I grant you that, sir.'

'And not much easier to believe that the world could be governed by good will,' put in Marcellus.

'Now the Emperor,' went on Demetrius, 'rules the world by force. That is not easy. Thousands of men have to lose their lives to support this form of government. Germanicus leads an expedition into Aquitania, promising his Legates riches in captured goods and slaves if they follow and obey him at the risk of their lives. They take that chance. Many of them are killed and have nothing to show for their courage. Jesus promises everlasting life as a reward for those who follow and obey him in his effort to bring peace to the world. His disciples believe him, and--'

'And take that chance,' interposed Marcellus.

'Well, sir, it isn't a more hazardous chance than the legions take who follow Germanicus,' insisted Demetrius. 'This faith in Jesus is not easy, but that doesn't make it nonsense--if you will pardon my speaking so freely.'

'Say on, Demetrius!' approved Marcellus. 'You are doing well, considering what kind of material you have to work with. Tell me, do you, personally, expect to live on here forever, in some spectral form?'

'No.' Demetrius shook his head. 'Somewhere else. He has a kingdom-- somewhere else.'

'And you truly believe that!' Marcellus studied his slave's sober face as if he had never seen it before.

'Sometimes,' replied Demetrius.

Neither had anything to say for a while. Then, coming to an abrupt halt, the Greek faced his master with an expression of self- confidence.

'This faith,' he declared deliberately, 'is not like a deed to a house in which one may live with full rights of possession. It is more like a kit of tools with which a man may build him a house. The tools will be worth just what he does with them. When he lays them down, they will have no value until he takes them up again.'

* * * * * *

It was nearly sundown when Demetrius arrived at the shop of Benyosef, for much time had been consumed in the congested streets on the way to the inn where Marcellus had stopped on his previous visit to Jerusalem. The travel equipment and Galilean purchases had to be unloaded and stored. The man who owned the donkeys had to be paid off. Marcellus was eager for a bath and fresh clothing. Having made his master comfortable and having attended to his own reconditioning, Demetrius had set off to find Stephanos.

Since his course led directly past Benyosef's, he decided to look in, for it was possible that his friend was still at work. The front door was closed and bolted. Going around to the side door which admitted to the family quarters, he knocked; but there was no response. This seemed odd, for the aged Sarah never went anywhere, and would surely be here at supper-time.

Perplexed, Demetrius hastened on to the shabby old house where he had lodged with Stephanos. Here, too, the doors were locked and apparently everyone was gone. A short distance up the street, a personable young Jew, John Mark, lived with his widowed mother and an attractive young cousin, Rhoda. He decided to call there and inquire, for Stephanos and Mark were close friends, though he had often wondered whether it wasn't the girl that Stephanos went to see.

He found Rhoda locking the high wicket-gate and preparing to leave with a well-filled basket on her arm. She greeted him warmly, and Demetrius noted that she was prettier than ever. She seemed to have matured considerably in his absence.

'Where is everybody?' he inquired, after a brief account of the closed houses he had visited.

'Oh, don't you know?' Rhoda handed him the basket and they moved toward the gate. 'We all have supper together now. You must come with me.'

'Who have supper together?' wondered Demetrius.

'The Christians. Simon began it many weeks ago. They leased the old building where Nathan had his bazaar. We all bring food every evening, and share it. That is,' she added, with an impatient little shrug, 'some of us bring food--and all of us share.'

'It doesn't sound as if it was much fun,' observed Demetrius.

'Well'--Rhoda tossed her curly head--'it hasn't turned out as Simon had expected.'

They were walking rapidly, Demetrius taking long strides to keep pace with the nimble steps that seemed to be beating time for some very vigorous reflections. He decided not to be too inquisitive.

'How is Stephanos?' he asked, with a sly smile that Rhoda tried unsuccessfully to dodge.

'You will see him presently,' she replied, archly. 'Then you may judge for yourself.'

'Rhoda'--Demetrius sounded at least sixty--'these pink cheeks tell me that something has been going on here since I left. If this means what I think, I am happy for both of you.'

'You know too much, Uncle Demetrius,' she retorted, with a prim smile. 'Can't Stephen and I be friends without--'

'No. I don't think so,' interjected Demetrius. 'When is it going to be, Rhoda? Will I have time to weave a tablecloth for you?'

'A little one.' She flashed him a bright smile.

Promising that he would borrow a loom and begin work early in the morning, if his master could spare him the time, Demetrius found his curiosity mounting in regard to these daily suppers.

'How many people come?' he asked.

'You will be surprised! Three hundred or more. Many have disposed of their property in the country and are living here now; quite a colony of them. At least a hundred take all their meals at the Ecclesia.'

'The Ecclesia,' repeated Demetrius. 'Is that what you call it? That's Greek, you know. Most of you are Jews, are you not? How did you happen to call your headquarters the Ecclesia?'

'It was Stephen,' said Rhoda, proudly. 'He said it was a suitable name for such an assembly. Besides, fully a third of the Christians are Greeks.'

'Well, it's a comfort to see the Jews and Greeks getting together on something,' remarked Demetrius. 'Just one big, happy family, eh?' he added, with some private misgivings.

'It's big enough: no question about that!' murmured Rhoda; and then, making hasty amends for this comment, she continued, 'Most of them are deeply in earnest, Demetrius. But there are enough of the other kind to spoil it.'

'Quarrelling, are they? I'm afraid they won't get very far with this new idea that what the world needs is good will.'

'That's what Stephen says,' approved Rhoda. 'He is very disappointed. He thinks this whole business--of having all the Christians live together--is a mistake. He believes they should have stayed at home and kept on with their daily work.'

'What's the rumpus about?' Demetrius couldn't help asking.

'Oh, the same old story,' sighed Rhoda. 'You Greeks are stingy and suspicious and over-sensitive about your rights, and--'

'And you Jews are greedy and tricky,' broke in Demetrius, with a grin.

'We're NOT greedy!' exclaimed Rhoda.

'And we Greeks are not stingy!' retorted Demetrius. They both laughed.

'That's a good little picture of the rumpus,' said Rhoda. 'Poor Simon. He had such high hopes for the Ecclesia. I was so sorry for him, last night, I could have cried. After supper he gave us a serious talk, repeating some of the words of Jesus about loving one another, even those who mistreat us; and how we were all the children of God, equal in his sight, regardless of our race. And-- if you'll believe it--even while Simon was speaking, an old man from the country, named Ananias, got up and stamped out!'

Demetrius could think of no appropriate comment. It gave him a sickish feeling to learn that so lofty an ideal had fallen into such disrepute in the hands of weak people. Rhoda sensed his disappointment.

'But please don't think that Simon is held lightly,' she went on. 'He has great influence. The people believe in him! When he walks down the street, old men and women sitting at their windows beg him to stop and talk with them. Stephen says they even bring out their sick ones on cots so that he may touch their foreheads as he passes. And Demetrius, it's wonderful how they all feel toward Stephen, too. Sometimes I think that if anything ever happened to Simon--' Rhoda hesitated.

'Stephen might be the leader?' asked Demetrius.

'He is big enough for it!' she declared. 'But don't tell him I said that,' she added. 'He would think it a great misfortune if anything happened to Simon.'

They were nearing the old bazaar now. Several women were entering with baskets. A few men loitered about the open door. No legionaries were to be seen. Apparently the Christians were free to go and come as they pleased.

Rhoda led the way into the large, bare, poorly lighted room, crowded with men, women, and children, waiting beside the long tables on which food was being spread. Stephanos advanced with a welcoming smile.

'Adelphos Demetrius!' he exclaimed, extending both hands. 'Where did you find him, Rhoda?'

'He was looking for you.' Her tone was tenderly possessive.

'Come, then,' he said. 'Simon will want to see you. You're thin, my friend. What have they been doing to you?'

Demetrius flinched involuntarily as Stephanos squeezed his arm.

'A little accident,' he explained. 'It's not quite healed.'

'How did you do it?' asked Rhoda. 'You've a cut on your wrist too; a bad one!'

Demetrius was spared the necessity of replying, Stephanos coming to his rescue with a little pantomime of pursed lips and a slight shake of his head for Rhoda's benefit.

'You were fighting, I think,' she whispered, with a reproving grin. 'Christians don't fight, you know.' Impishly puckering a meaningful little smile at Stephanos, she added, 'They don't even fret about things.' Preoccupied, Stephanos missed this sally, and beckoned to Demetrius to follow him.

* * * * * *

Conversation on the way back was forced and fragmentary. John Mark and his mother walked on ahead. The tall Greeks followed on either side of Rhoda, who felt dwarfed and unimportant, for it was evident, by their taciturnity, that they wanted to be alone with each other. She did not resent this. She was so deeply in love with Stephanos that anything he did was exactly right, even when he so plainly excluded her from his comradeship with Demetrius.

After a hasty good night at Mark's gate, the Greeks sauntered down the street toward their lodgings, silently at first, each waiting for the other to speak. Stephanos's steps slowed.

'Well, what did you think of it?' he demanded, bluntly. 'Tell me truly.'

'I'm not quite sure,' temporized Demetrius.

'But you are!' snapped Stephanos. 'You have seen our Christian Ecclesia in action. If you are not quite sure, that means you think we have taken the wrong road!'

'Very well,' consented Demetrius, with an indulgent chuckle. 'If that's what I think, why not go on and tell me what YOU think? You've had a better chance to form an opinion. I haven't seen your Ecclesia do anything yet--but eat. What else is it good for? I'm bound to say, Stephanos, that if I were selecting a company of people to engage in some dangerous tasks requiring endless faith and courage, I might have skipped a few who were present to-night.'

'There you are!' lamented Stephanos. 'That's what is wrong. Jesus commands us to carry on his work, no matter at what cost in privation, pain, and hazard of life; and all we've accomplished is a free boarding-house and loafing-place for anybody who will say, "I believe."'

'Doubtless Simon's intentions were good,' observed Demetrius, feeling that he was expected to make some comment.

'Excellent!' agreed Stephanos. 'If everybody connected with the Ecclesia had the bravery and goodness of Simon Peter, the institution might develop great power. You see, at the beginning, what he wanted was a close-knit body of men who would devote their full time to this work. He thought they could inspire one another if they lived together. You remember how it was at the shop, Demetrius, the disciples spending hours in conference. Simon wanted to increase this circle, draw in other devoted men, and weld them together in spirit and purpose.'

'And made the circle a little too large?' suggested Demetrius.

Stephanos came to a halt, and moodily shook his head.

'The whole plan was unsound,' he said, disconsolately. 'Simon announced that any Christian might sell his property and bring the proceeds to the Ecclesia, with the promise that his living would be provided for.'

'No matter how much or how little he had?' queried Demetrius.

'Right! If you owned a farm or a vineyard, you sold it--probably at a sacrifice--and brought Simon the money. If you had nothing but a few chickens, a milk-goat, and a donkey, you came with the money you'd got from that. And all would live together in brotherly love.'

Gloomily Stephanos recited the misadventures of this unhappy experiment. The word had quickly spread that any Christian family could insure its living by joining the Ecclesia. There was no lack of applicants. Simon had rejoiced to see the large number of people who professed to be Christians. At an all-night conference in Benyosef's shop, Simon had been almost beside himself with happiness. The kingdom was growing!

'That night,' continued Stephanos, 'it was decided that Simon should remain to oversee our Ecclesia. The others were to see how nearly ready the Christians were to attempt similar projects in Joppa, Caesarea, Antioch, and other good-sized cities. So they scattered; John, James, Philip, Alphaeus, Matthew--' Stephanos made an encircling gesture that included all the rest of them. 'Simon is impetuous, you know. When he captures an idea, he saddles and bridles it and rides away at a gallop!'

'And the Ecclesia grew!' assisted Demetrius.

'In numbers--yes! Large families, with next to nothing, moved in to live in idleness, lustily singing hymns and fervent in prayer, but hardly knowing what it was all about, except that they had three meals a day and plenty of good company.'

'And how did the other people like it, the ones who had owned considerable property?'

'Well, that was another problem. These people began to feel their superiority over the indigents. The more money you had contributed to the Ecclesia, the more right you thought you had to dictate the policies of the institution.' Stephanos smiled unhappily. 'Only this morning, one arrogant old fellow, who had been impudent and cross over something Simon had said, was discovered to have cheated in his dealings with the Ecclesia, and when Simon confronted him with it, he went into such a mad rage that he had a stroke. Died of it! And Simon will probably get the blame for it.'

'It must be very discouraging,' said Demetrius.

'That isn't all!' sighed Stephanos. 'This daily supper! Many merchants are coming to these meetings now--bringing their food along; I must give them credit for that--but quite clearly patronizing the Ecclesia to make friends for business reasons. In short, the Ecclesia is becoming too, too popular!'

'What's to be done about it?' Demetrius wanted to know.

Stephanos moved on slowly, shaking his head.

'Demetrius, until this Ecclesia began to take in boarders, the Christian community in Jerusalem was a force to reckon with. Men continued their gainful occupations, careful to deal honestly and charitably, eager to live according to Jesus' commandments, and talking of his way of life to all who would give heed. And in the evening they would assemble to hearten one another. Simon would stand up and challenge them to greater efforts. He would repeat the words of Jesus, and renew their strength. He was magnificent!' Stephanos stopped again and faced his friend sadly. 'You heard him to-night--squandering his splendid energies in wheedling a lot of selfish, bickering people to forget their little squabbles and stop nagging one another. Did you notice that weak, solicitous smile on his face as he entreated them to be more generous with their gifts to the Ecclesia? Well, that wasn't Simon! That wasn't the Simon who fired the hearts of the men who used to meet in the night to repledge their all to the cause of our Christos! It is a disgrace!' Stephanos clenched both hands in his tousled hair and shook his head hopelessly. 'Is it for this,' he cried, 'that Jesus suffered on the cross--and died--and rose again?'

'Have you talked with Simon about it?' asked Demetrius, after a discreet interval.

'Not lately. A couple of weeks ago, when it became evident there was going to be an open ruction between the Jews and Greeks, several of us inquired whether we could do anything to help him, and he appointed seven of us to oversee the fair apportioning of food and clothing; but, Demetrius, my feeling for Jesus and his worth to the world is a sort of exalted passion that can't bring itself down to the low level of listening patiently to ill-mannered quarrels over whether Bennie Issacher was given a better coat than little Nicolas Timonodes.'

Demetrius snorted his sympathetic disgust and suggested that his friend would do well to keep away from such annoyances.

'I mean to do just that!' declared Stephanos. 'I made a decision to-night. I'm not going back there, any more!'

'It is possible,' said Demetrius, 'that Julian may soon solve the Ecclesia's difficulties. Had you heard anything about an attack? My master thinks the Christians are presently to be set upon by the Insula.'

Stephanos laughed bitterly.

'If the Procurator waits a little while, the Ecclesia will destroy itself, and save him the bother. But, tell me, how does your Roman master feel about Jesus, now that he has been in Galilee?'

'Much impressed, Stephanos. He finds it difficult to believe that Jesus came to life again, but he considers him the greatest man who ever lived. He wants to talk with you. He was deeply touched when you asked to see the robe, and were so moved by the sight of it.'

'He still has it, I suppose,' murmured Stephanos. 'Do you think he would let me see it again, Demetrius? So much has happened, lately, to depress me. Do you know, my friend, that when I touched the robe, that night, it--it did something for me! I can't explain it, but--'

'Let us go to the inn!' said Demetrius, impetuously. 'Now! He will still be up, and glad to see you. I think you need to have a talk with each other.'

'Are you sure he won't think it an intrusion?' asked Stephanos, anxiously.

'No, he will welcome you. It will be good for you both.'

Once the decision was made, Stephanos set the pace with long, determined strides.

'Are you going to tell the Tribune about the Ecclesia?' he asked.

'By no means!' declared Demetrius. 'I believe that Marcellus is on the way to becoming a Christian. He is infatuated with the story of Jesus, and talks of nothing else. If he decides to be a Christian, he will be a good one and a brave one; you can depend on that! But we mustn't expose him to things that might disgust him. If he knew that some of his companions in this cause were mere quarrelsome idlers, he might not want to debase himself.'

'Those are hard words, my friend,' said Stephanos.

'It gave me no pleasure to say them,' rejoined Demetrius. 'But I know the Tribune very well. It is true he has been brought up as a pagan, but he is particular about the company he keeps.'

* * * * * *

They found Marcellus alone and reading. He greeted them warmly, showing an instant interest in Stephanos, who was ready with an apology for the untimely call.

'There is no one I would rather see, Stephanos,' he said, cordially, offering him a chair. 'You sit down too, Demetrius. You men have had a pleasant reunion, I think.'

'Did you have an interesting journey in Galilee, sir?' asked Stephanos, rather shyly.

'Interesting--and bewildering,' replied Marcellus. 'Justus was a good guide. I heard many strange stories. It is difficult to believe them--and difficult not to believe them.' He paused, his expression inviting a rejoinder; but Stephanos, at a disadvantage in the presence of this urbane Roman, merely nodded, with averted eyes.

'I was greatly attracted by old Nathanael Bartholomew,' went on Marcellus.

'Yes,' said Stephanos, after a tongue-tied interval.

Demetrius, growing restless, thought he would come to his timid compatriot's rescue.

'I think Stephanos would like to see the robe, sir,' he suggested.

'Gladly!' agreed Marcellus. 'Will you find it for him, Demetrius?'

After some moments in the adjoining room, during which time Marcellus and Stephanos sat silent, Demetrius returned and laid the folded robe across his friend's knees. Stephanos gently smoothed it with his finger-tips. His lips were trembling.

'Would you like to be alone for a little while?' asked Marcellus, softly. 'Demetrius and I can take a walk in the garden.'

Stephanos gave no sign that he had heard. Gathering the robe up into his arms, he glanced at Marcellus and then at Demetrius, with a new light of assurance in his eyes.

'This was my Master's robe!' he announced, in confident tones, as if delivering a public address. 'He wore it when he healed the sick and comforted the sorrowing. He wore it when he spoke to the multitudes as no man has ever spoken. He wore it when he went to the cross to die--for ME, a humble weaver!' Stephanos boldly searched Marcellus's astonished face. 'And for YOU--a wealthy Tribune!' He turned toward Demetrius. 'And for YOU--a slave!'

Marcellus leaned forward on the arms of his chair, baffled by the suddenly altered manner of the Greek who had thrown aside his reticence to declare his faith in such resonant tones.

'You killed my Lord, Tribune Marcellus!' went on Stephanos, boldly.

'Stephanos! Please!' entreated Demetrius.

Marcellus held up a cautioning hand toward his slave.

'Proceed, Stephanos!' he commanded.

'It was forgivable,' went on Stephanos, rising to his feet, 'for you did not know what you were doing. And you are sorry. The Temple and the Insula killed him! And they did not know what they were doing. But they are not sorry--and they would do it again, to- morrow!' He took a step toward Marcellus, who rose from his chair, and stood, as one receiving an order. 'You, Tribune Marcellus Gallio, can make amends for what you have done! He forgave you! I was there! I heard him forgive you! Make friends with him! He is alive! I have seen him!'

Demetrius was at his elbow now, murmuring half-articulate entreaties. Gently taking the robe from him, he tugged him back to his chair. They all sat down, and there was a long moment when no one spoke.

'Forgive me, sir,' said Stephanos, contritely. He clumsily rubbed the back of a nervous hand across his brow. 'I have been talking too freely.'

'You need not reproach yourself, Stephanos,' replied Marcellus, huskily. 'You have not offended me.'

There was a long, constrained silence which no one seemed disposed to break. Stephanos rose.

'It is late,' he said. 'We should go.'

Marcellus held out his hand.

'I am glad you came, Stephanos,' he said, soberly. 'You are welcome to come again. . . . Demetrius, I shall see you here in the morning.'

* * * * * *

Badly shaken and perplexed, Marcellus sat for an hour staring at the wall. At length, he was overcome by the day's fatigue. Stretching out on his bed, he fell asleep. Shortly before dawn he was roused by hoarse cries and shrill screams accompanied by savage commands and thudding blows. It was not unusual, at an inn, to be annoyed at almost any hour of the day by loud lamentations signifying that some hapless kitchen-slave was being flogged; but this pandemonium, which seemed to emanate from the courtyard below, sounded as if the whole establishment was in trouble.

Marcellus pushed his long legs over the edge of his bed, walked to the window, and looked down. Instantly he knew what was happening. Julian's threatened day of wrath had arrived. A dozen legionaries, in full battle equipment, were clubbing the household slaves into a corner of the courtyard. Evidently other troops were inside, chasing their quarry out. The entire lower floor was in confusion. There were blows and protestations, scuffling of feet, splintering of door-panels. Presently there was a scurry of sandals on the stairs. Marcellus's door was thrown open.

'Who are you?' bawled a brutish voice.

'I am a Roman citizen,' replied Marcellus, coolly. 'And you would do well, fellow, to show better manners when you enter the room of a Tribune.'

'We have no manners to-day, sir,' retorted the legionary, with a brief grin. 'We are searching for Christians.'

'Indeed!' growled Marcellus. 'And does Legate Julian think these poor, harmless people are important enough to warrant all this racket at daybreak?'

'The Legate does not tell me what he thinks, sir,' the legionary retorted, 'and it is not customary for ordinary troops to ask him. I am obeying orders, sir. We are rounding up all the Christians in the city. You are not a Christian, and I am sorry I have disturbed you.' He was retreating into the hall.

'Stay!' shouted Marcellus. 'How do you know I am not a Christian? Can't a Roman Tribune be a Christian?'

The legionary chuckled, shrugged, tugged off his heavy metal helmet, and wiped his dripping forehead with a swipe of his rough sleeve.

'I've no time for jesting, sir, if the Tribune will excuse me.' He resumed his helmet, saluted with his spear, and stamped down the hall.

The cries outside were subsiding now. Apparently the evacuation had been completed. A terrified group of slaves had huddled against the area wall, nursing their bruises. Apart from them a little way stood a few shabbily clad, frightened guests. The ageing wife of Levi, the innkeeper, hovered close to them. She was pale, and her head kept jerking up involuntarily with some nervous quirk. Marcellus wondered whether she did that all the time or only when she was badly scared.

The tall, handsome Centurion marched forward, faced the victims, shouted for silence, drew out an impressive scroll to its full length, and in a dry crackle read an edict. It was pompously phrased. There was to be no further assembling of the blasphemers who called themselves Christians. There was to be no further mention, in public or private, of the name of Jesus the Galilean, who had been found guilty of treason, blasphemy, and offences against the peace of Jerusalem. This edict was to be considered the first and last official warning. Disobedience would be punishable by death.

Rolling up the scroll, the Centurion barked an order, the detachment stiffened, he stalked toward the street, they fell in behind him. After a moment, one old retainer, with blood oozing through the sparse white hair on his temple and trickling down over his bare shoulder, quietly crumpled into a shapeless heap. A slave- girl of twenty stooped over him and cried aloud. A bearded Greek bent down and listened with his ear against the old man's chest. He rose and shook his head. Four of them picked up the limp body and moved off slowly toward the servants' quarters, most of the others trudging dejectedly after them. The innkeeper's wife turned slowly about. Her head was bobbing violently. She pointed to a fallen broom. A limping slave with a crooked back took up the broom and began ineffectively sweeping the tiled pavement. Except for him, the courtyard was empty now. Marcellus turned away from the window, scowling.

'Brave old Julian!' he muttered. 'Brave old Roman Empire!'

He finished his dressing and went below. Levi met him at the foot of the stairs with much bowing and fumbling of hands. He hoped the Tribune had not been disturbed by all the commotion. And would he have his breakfast served at once? Marcellus nodded.

'We will have less trouble with these Christians now,' declared Levi, to assure his Roman guest that his sympathies were with the Insula.

'Had they been causing you trouble?' asked Marcellus, negligently.

Levi hunched his shoulders, spread out his upturned fingers, and smirked.

'It is enough that their sect is in disfavour with the Government,' he parried, discreetly.

'That wasn't what I asked you,' growled Marcellus. 'Have these Christians, who were being knocked about here this morning, given you any cause for complaint? Do they steal, lie, fight? Do they get drunk? Are they brawlers? Tell me--what sort of people are they?'

'In truth, sir,' admitted Levi, 'I cannot complain of them. They are quiet, honest, and faithful. But, sir, as the Insula has decreed, we cannot tolerate blasphemy!'

'Blasphemy? Rubbish!' snarled Marcellus. 'What does the Insula know or care about blasphemy? What is it that these people blaspheme, Levi?'

'They have no respect for the Temple, sir.'

'How could they, when the Temple has no respect for itself?'

Levi shrugged a polite disapproval, though he still smiled weakly.

'The religion of our people must be protected, sir,' he murmured, piously.

Marcellus made a little grimace and sauntered out into the sunny arcade where he found, laying his breakfast table, the slave-girl who had been so deeply grieved over the old man's death in the courtyard. Her eyes were red with weeping, but she was going about her duties competently. She did not look up when Marcellus took his seat.

'Was that old man related to you?' he asked, kindly.

She did not reply. Sudden tears overflowed her eyes and ran down her cheeks. In a moment she moved away, obviously to return to the kitchen for his breakfast. Levi strolled toward his table.

'How was this girl related to the old man they killed?' asked Marcellus.

'He was her father,' said Levi, reluctantly.

'And you are making her still serve the table?'

Levi's shoulders, elbows, eyebrows, and palms came up in a defensive gesture.

'Well--it is her regular task, sir. It is not my fault that her father was killed.'

Marcellus rose, and regarded his host with cool contempt.

'And you prate about your religion! What a mean fellow you are, Levi!' He strode toward the door.

'But, please, sir!' begged Levi. 'I myself shall serve you! I am sorry to have given offence!' He toddled off toward the kitchen. Marcellus, angrily returning to his table, wondered if the loathsome creature would slap the girl for unwittingly creating an awkward incident.

* * * * * *

Demetrius had risen at daybreak so that he might have time to do an errand at the Ecclesia before going on to attend his master at the inn. He had tried to dress without waking his friend who, he knew, had spent a restless night; but Stephanos roused and sat up, rubbing his eyes.

'I'll see you this evening,' whispered Demetrius, as if his companion were still asleep and shouldn't be wakened. 'Shall I meet you here?'

'At the Ecclesia,' mumbled Stephanos.

'Thought you weren't going there any more.'

'I can't let good old Simon down, Demetrius. He is alone, now that the other disciples are away on missions.'

Tiptoeing out of the house, Demetrius walked rapidly toward the Ecclesia, where he hoped to have a private word with Simon. It had seemed almost disloyal not to take counsel with Stephanos about this, but Marcellus had insisted upon secrecy. He wanted an interview with Simon. Demetrius was to arrange for it, if he could. There had been no opportunity to ask Simon, last night. Perhaps he would have a better chance to see him alone this morning before the day's activities began.

The Ecclesia was already astir. Cots were being folded up and put away to make room for tables. Tousled, half-dressed children of all sizes were racing about, babies were crying, old men were crouching in out-of-the-way corners, scowling meditatively as they stroked their patriarchal beards. The women were bustling back and forth between the kitchen at the rear and the breakfast tables which their men were setting up. Demetrius approached the nearest group and inquired for Simon. One of them glanced about, and pointed. Simon was standing by a window, quite apart from the others, brooding over a tattered scroll. Even in this relaxed posture there was something majestic about this huge Galilean. If only he had a suitable setting and a courageous constituency, thought Demetrius, Simon would have great weight. The man was of immense vitality and arresting personality, a natural leader. Not much wonder the people wanted him to lay his hands upon their sick.

Approaching, Demetrius waited to be recognized. Simon glanced up, nodded soberly, and beckoned to him.

'Sir, my master, Marcellus Gallio, earnestly desires a conversation with you, at your convenience,' said Demetrius.

'He that went into Galilee with Justus?' queried Simon. 'To look for homespun--or so he said.'

'My master did acquire a large quantity of homespun, sir,' said Demetrius.

'And what else?' asked Simon, in his deep voice.

'He became much interested in the life of Jesus, sir.'

'I think he had that before he went,' rumbled Simon, studying Demetrius's eyes. 'I think that was why he went.'

'Yes, sir,' conceded Demetrius. 'That was his real object in going to Galilee. He is deeply concerned--but full of questions. At present he is at Levi's inn. May I tell him you will talk with him, in private?'

'I will talk with him, on the morrow, at mid-afternoon,' said Simon. 'And as he desires privacy, let him come to me in the refuse-field, north of the city, the place they call Golgotha. There is a path through the field which leads to a knoll in the centre of it.'

'I know where it is, sir.'

'Then show him the way. Bid him come alone.' Simon rolled up the scroll; and, inattentive to Demetrius's murmured thanks, walked toward the tables. There was a whispered demand for silence, and the confusion ceased, except for the crying of a baby. Those who were seated rose. In a powerful, resonant voice, Simon began to read:

'The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light. They that dwell in the shadow of death, upon them the light shines. For unto us a child is born. Unto us a son is given. The government shall be upon his shoulder.'

There was a clamour at the entrance, and all eyes turned apprehensively. Crisp commands were being shouted. The frightened people did not have long to wait in anxiety. The doors burst open, and a whole company of legionaries marched in, deploying fanwise as they advanced. With their spears held horizontally, breast-high, they moved rapidly forward, pushing the terrified Christians before them. Some of the older ones fell down in their excitement. They were ruthlessly prodded to their feet and shoved on in the wake of the scurrying pack that was massing against the rear wall.

Demetrius, who had remained near the window quite apart from the residents, found himself in the position of a spectator. The troops swept on relentlessly. Simon, a towering figure, stood his ground. He was alone, now, all the others having huddled at the wall. The Centurion shouted an order, and the company halted. He strode arrogantly toward Simon and faced him with a sardonic grin. They were of the same height, both magnificent specimens of manhood.

'Are you, then, the one they call The Fisherman?' demanded the Centurion.

'I am!' answered Simon, boldly. 'And why are you here to break up a peaceful assembly? Has any one of us committed a crime? If so, let him be taken for trial.'

'As you wish,' snapped the Centurion. 'If you want to be tried for blasphemy and treasonable utterances, the Procurator will accommodate you. . . . Take him away!'

Simon turned about and faced his desperate people. 'Be of good cheer!' he shouted. 'Make no resistance! I shall come back to you!'

'That you will not!' broke in the Centurion. In obedience to a sharp command and a sweep of his sword, two burly legionaries leaped forward, caught Simon by the arms, whirled him about, and started for the door. The company pressed forward toward the defenceless crowd. The Centurion called for silence. Pale-faced women nervously cupped their hands over the mouths of their screaming children. An edict was read. By order of the Procurator, there was to be no further assembling of the blasphemers who called themselves Christians.

Demetrius began slowly edging his way along the wall in the direction of the front door. He caught fragments of the Centurion's announcement. This building was to be vacated immediately. Anyone found on the premises hereafter would be taken into custody. The name of Jesus, the blasphemer and traitor, was never again to be spoken.

'Away with you now!' yelled the Centurion. 'Back to your homes! and do not inquire for your Fisherman! You will not see him any more!' As he neared the door, realizing that the speech had ended and the troops would be promptly moving out, Demetrius speeded his going, ran to the street and crossed it, dodged into a narrow alley, pursued it to the next street, slowed to a brisk walk, and proceeded to Levi's inn. Everything was quiet there. He entered and moved toward the stairway leading to Marcellus's quarters. Levi, observant, called him back.

'Your master is out,' he said.

'Do you know where he went, sir?' inquired Demetrius, anxiously.

'How should I?' retorted Levi.

Thinking that Marcellus might have left instructions in his room, Demetrius asked and was granted permission to go upstairs. A Greek slave-girl was putting the room to rights. She recognized him and smiled shyly. Informed of his errand, she joined in the search for a message.

'Did you see my master this morning?' asked Demetrius.

She shook her head.

'We had much trouble here, a little while ago,' she said.

Demetrius pressed her for particulars, and she told him what had occurred. He went to the window and stood for a long moment, looking out, trying to imagine what might be Marcellus's reaction to this cruel business. He would be very angry, no doubt. He would want to do something about it, perhaps. It was not inconceivable that Marcellus might go to Julian and remonstrate. The more Demetrius deliberated on this possibility, the more reasonable it seemed. It would be an audacious thing to do, but Marcellus was impetuous enough to attempt it. After all, the word of a Tribune should have some weight.

He turned about and met the Greek girl's eyes. They were friendly but serious. Glancing cautiously toward the open door, she moved closer to him and whispered, 'Are you one of us?'

Demetrius nodded soberly, and she gave him an approving smile. With a sudden burst of interest in her duties, she began folding and patting the blankets on the bed, as if suspicious that she might be found idling.

'Better stay off the streets to-day,' she said, softly, out of the corner of a pretty mouth. 'Go down to the kitchen. You'll be safe there.'

'Thanks,' said Demetrius. 'That's not a bad idea. Besides, I'm hungry.' He was crossing the room. The girl laid her hand on his sleeve as he passed her.

'Does your master know you are one of us?' she whispered.

Demetrius was not sure how this question should be answered, so he gave her an enigmatic smile which she was free to interpret as she chose, and left the room. The ever-present Levi met him at the foot of the stairs and unexpectedly informed him that it was a fine morning.

'Beautiful!' agreed Demetrius, aware that the Jew was sparring for news.

'Had your master left instructions for you?' asked Levi, amiably.

'I am to have my breakfast, sir, and await his return.'

'Very good,' said Levi. 'Go to the kitchen. They will serve you. He followed as far as the door. 'I suppose everything was quiet on the streets this morning.'

'It was still quite early, sir, when I left my lodgings,' replied Demetrius, unhelpfully.

After his breakfast of bread, milk and sun-cured figs, he paced restlessly up and down the small area bounded by the servants' quarters. Nobody seemed inclined to talk. The girl who had served him was crying. He resolved to stroll over to the Insula and wait outside. Something told him that Marcellus was there. Where else could he be?

* * * * * *

Having finished his breakfast, which Levi himself had served with a disgusting show of servility, Marcellus began to be apprehensive about the safety of Demetrius, who, he felt, should have arrived by this time unless he had encountered some trouble.

He did not know where Stephanos lived, but they could tell him at Benyosef's shop. Then it occurred to him that Benyosef's might have been visited by the legionaries. Doubtless they knew it was a meeting-place of the disciples of Jesus, and might be expected to deal severely with anyone found there. Prudence suggested that he keep out of that storm-centre. If Demetrius had been arrested, it would be sensible to wait until order had been restored. Then he could learn where his slave was, and make an effort to have him released.

The obsequious Levi helped him to a decision. Marcellus was stalking up and down in the courtyard, feverishly debating what to do, when the Jew appeared in the doorway, obviously much interested in his guest's perturbation. Levi did not say anything; just stood there slowly blinking his brightly inquisitive eyes. Then he retreated into the little foyer and emerged a moment later carrying a chair, as to say that if the Tribune knew what was good for him to-day, he would stay where he was and avoid getting into trouble. Marcellus scowled, lengthened his stride, and, without a backward glance, marched down the steps to the street.

To reach Benyosef's shop, it was necessary to traverse a few blocks on the rim of the congested market district where the shabby hovels of the very poor huddled close to the reeking alleys. Here there was much excitement, frantic chatter, and gesticulations. Marcellus slowed his steps near one vociferous group of slatternly people and learned that the Christians' meeting-place had been invaded, emptied, and locked up. The leaders had been dragged off to prison. Simon the Fisherman was to be beheaded.

Marcellus quickened his pace. A little way down the street, in the vicinity of Benyosef's shop, a crowd had gathered. At the edge of it, apparently waiting for orders, ranged a company of legionaries, negligently leaning on their spears. Someone in the middle of the crowd was making an impassioned speech. In a moment Marcellus had drawn close enough to recognize the voice.

It was Stephanos. Bareheaded, and in the brown tunic he wore at his loom, he had evidently been dragged out for questioning; and from the sullen silence of the throng, it was to be inferred that these people were willing to wait patiently until the reckless Greek had incriminated himself.

Taller than most, Marcellus surveyed the spectators with curiosity to discover what manner of men they were. Instantly he divined the nature of this audience. They were well dressed, for the most part, representing the more substantial element from the business district. There was a sprinkling of younger priests, too. The face of the crowd was surly, but everybody was listening in a tense silence.

Stephanos was not mincing his words. He stood there boldly, in the open circle they had formed about him, his long arms stretched out in an appeal to reason--but by no means an appeal for mercy. He was not defiant, but he was unafraid.

It was no rabble-rousing speech addressed to the emotions of ignorant men, but a scathing indictment of Jerusalem's leaders who, Stephanos declared, had been unwilling to recognize a cure for the city's distresses.

'You have considered yourselves the Chosen People!' he went on, audaciously. 'Your ancestors struggled out of one bondage into another, century after century, ever looking for a Deliverer, and never heeding your great teachers when they appeared with words of wisdom! Again and again, inspired leaders have risen among your people, only to be thwarted and reviled--not by the poor and needy, but by such as YOU!'

A concerted growl rumbled through the angry crowd.

'Which of the prophets,' demanded Stephanos, 'did your fathers not persecute? And now you have become the betrayers--and murderers-- of the Just One!'

'Blasphemer!' shouted an imperious voice.

'You!' exclaimed Stephanos, sweeping the throng with an accusing hand, 'you, who claim to have received your law at the hands of angels--how have YOU kept it?'

There was an infuriated roar, but no one moved to attack him. Marcellus wondered how much longer the suppressed fury of these maddened men would tolerate this rash excoriation.

From far back on the fringe of the crowd, someone hurled a cobblestone. It was accurately thrown and struck Stephanos on the cheekbone, staggering him. Instinctively he reached up a hand to wipe away the blood. Another stone, savagely hurled by a practised hand, crashed against his elbow. A loud clamour rose. For an instant, Marcellus hoped it might be a protest against this lawless violence, but it was quickly evident that the hoarse shouts were in denunciation of the speech, and not the stoning. A vengeful yell gave sinister applause to the good aim of another stone as it struck the Greek full in the face. Two more, not so well thrown, went over Stephanos's head and drove into the crowd. Trampling upon one another, the dignitaries on the other side of the open circle scurried for cover against the walls and fences. Stephanos, shielding his bleeding head with his arms, backed away slowly from the hostile crowd, but the stones kept coming.

The Centurion barked an order now and the legionaries sprang into action, ploughing roughly through the pack, tossing men right and left, with utter disregard of their importance. Marcellus, who had been standing beside a tall soldier, followed him through, and was surprised to see him jab his elbow into the face of a stocky priest whose ponderous dignity hadn't permitted him to move swiftly enough. Now the legionaries were lined up inside the semicircle of spectators. They had made a fence of their spears. The stones were coming faster now, and with telling effect. Marcellus began to realize that this was no impulsive, impromptu incident. The better citizens were not throwing stones, but without doubt they had planned that the stones should be thrown. The men who were doing it were expert.

Stephanos was down now, on his elbows and knees, trying to protect his head with one bleeding hand. The other arm hung limp. The crowd roared. Marcellus recognized that bestial cry. He had heard it many a time in the Circus Maximus. He pushed his way on to the side of the tall legionary who, after a glance in his direction, made room for him.

Several of the younger men in the shouting multitude now decided to take a hand in the punishment. The Centurion pretended not to notice when they dodged under the barricade of spears. Their faces were deeply flushed and contorted with rage. There was nothing more they could do to Stephanos, who had crumpled on the ground, but perhaps the stones they threw were to be merely tokens of their willingness to share the responsibility for this crime.

Marcellus's heart ached. There had been nothing he could do. Had Julian been there, he might have protested, but to have denounced the Centurion would have done no good. The fellow was obeying his orders. Poor Stephanos lay dead, or at least unconscious, but the dignitaries continued to stone him.

Immediately in front of Marcellus, on the other side of the barrier, stood a young, bookish man, wearing a distinctive skull- cap with a tassel, evidently a student. He was of diminutive stature, but sturdily built. His hands were clenched and his rugged face was twisted with anger. Every thudding stone that beat upon the limp body had his approval. Marcellus studied his livid face, amazed that a man of his seeming intelligence could be so viciously pleased by such an exhibition of inhuman brutality.

Presently a fat man in an expensive black robe, ducked through the line, took off his robe, and tossed it to the short one, bidding him hold it. Another man of lofty dignity followed his friend in; and, handing his robe also to the bow-legged scholar, began clawing up a stone from the pavement.

Marcellus, towering over the short-legged fellow, leaned forward and demanded, sternly, 'What harm had he done to YOU?'

The little man turned about and glanced up impudently into Marcellus's eyes. He was a malicious creature, but no fool. It was a face to be remembered.

'He is a blasphemer!' he shouted.

'How does the crime of blasphemy compare with murder?' growled Marcellus. 'You seem to be a learned man. Perhaps you know.'

'If you will come to the Rabbinical School to-morrow, my friend,' replied the little man, suddenly cooled by the prospect of airing his theology, 'I shall enlighten you. Ask for Saul, of Tarsus,' he added, proudly. 'I am a Roman citizen, like yourself, sir.'

There were no stones flying now. The crowd was growing restless. The young theologian handed back the robes he had held and was shouldering out through the loosening throng. The legionaries were still maintaining their barricade, but were shifting their weight uneasily as if impatient to be off. The Centurion was soberly talking, out of the corner of his mouth, to a long-bearded Jew in an impressive black robe. The multitude was rapidly dispersing.

Marcellus, with brooding eyes fixed on the broken body of the gallant Greek, thought he saw a feeble movement there. Stephanos was slowly raising himself on one elbow. A hush fell over the people as they watched him rise to his knees. The blood-smeared face looked up, and the bruised lips were parted in a rapturous smile. Suddenly Stephanos raised his arm aloft as if to clutch a friendly hand.

'I see him!' he shouted, triumphantly. 'I see him! My Lord Jesus-- take me!' The eyes closed, the head dropped, and Stephanos crumpled down among the stones.

The spectators, momentarily stunned, turned to go. Men did not pause to ask questions. They scurried away as if frightened. Marcellus's heart was pounding and his mouth was dry. But he found himself possessed of a curious exaltation. His eyes were swimming, but his face trembled with an involuntary smile.

He turned about and looked into the bewildered eyes of the tall legionary.

'That was a strange thing, sir!' muttered the soldier.

'More strange than you think!' exclaimed Marcellus.

'I would have sworn the Greek was dead! He thought he saw someone coming to rescue him!'

'He DID see someone coming to rescue him!' shouted Marcellus, ecstatically.

'That dead Galilean, maybe?' queried the legionary, nervously.

'That Galilean is not dead, my friend!' declared Marcellus. 'He is more alive than any man here!'

Thoroughly shaken, his lips twitching with emotion, Marcellus moved away with the scattering crowd. His mind was in a tumult. At the first corner, he turned abruptly and retraced his steps. Nobody was interested in Stephanos now. The troops from the Insula, four abreast, were disappearing down the street. None of the friends of the intrepid Greek had yet ventured to put in an appearance. It was too soon to expect any of them to take the risk.

Dropping to one knee beside the battered corpse, Marcellus gently drew aside the matted hair and gazed into the impassive face. The lips were still parted in a smile.

After a long time, old Benyosef hobbled out of the shop. His eyes were red and swollen with weeping. He approached diffidently, halting a few steps away. Marcellus looked up and beckoned to him and he came, pale with fright. Stooping over, with his wrinkled hands bracing his feeble knees, he peered into the quiet face. Then he searched Marcellus's eyes inquisitively, but without recognition.

'It was a cruel death, sir,' he whimpered.

'Stephanos is not dead!' declared Marcellus. 'He went away with Jesus!'

'I beg of you, do not mock our faith, sir!' pleaded Benyosef. 'This has been a sad day for us who believe in Jesus!'

'But did he not promise you that if you believe in him, you will never die?'

Benyosef slowly nodded his head, staring into Marcellus's eyes incredulously.

'Yes, but YOU do not believe that, sir!' he mumbled.

Marcellus rose and laid his hand on the old man's thin arm.

'Jesus may never come for me, Benyosef,' he said, quietly, 'and he may never come for you--but he came for Stephanos! Go, now, and find a younger man to help me. We will carry the body into your shop.'

Still pale with fright, the neighbours gathered about the mangled form of Stephanos as it lay on the long table in Benyosef's workroom. All were crying. Rhoda's grief was inconsolable. Some of the men regarded Marcellus with suspicion that he might be there to spy upon them. It was no time to explain that he felt himself one of them. Presently he was aware of Demetrius at his elbow, and importuned him to stay and be of service.

Taking Benyosef by the arm, he led the tearful old man into the corner behind his loom.

'There is nothing I can do here,' he said, laying some gold coins in the weaver's hands. 'But I have a request of you. When Justus comes again to Jerusalem, tell him I saw Stephanos welcomed into Jesus' kingdom, and am persuaded that everything he told me, in Galilee, is the truth.'

* * * * * *

It had been a long day for Simon, sitting there heavily manacled in the darkness. At noon they had brought him some mouldy bread and a pitcher of water, but he had not eaten; he was too heartsick for that.

For the first hour after his incarceration, derisive voices from adjoining cells had demanded to know his name, his crime, and when he was to die. With noisy bravado, they jested obscenely about their impending executions, and taunted him for being too scared to speak. He had not answered them, and at length they had wearied of reviling him.

The wooden bench on which he sat served also as a bed. It was wider than the seat of a chair, and Simon could not rest his back against the wall. This unsupported posture was fatiguing. Sometimes he stretched his huge frame out on the bench, but with little ease. The wall was damp, as was the floor. Huge rats nibbled at his sandals. The heavy handcuffs cut his wrists.

He thought that he could have born these discomforts and the threat of a death sentence with a better fortitude had he been able to leave behind him a determined organization to carry on the work that had been entrusted to him. Obviously he had blundered. Perhaps it had been a mistake to establish the Ecclesia. Maybe the time had not come for such a movement. He had been too impatient. He should have let it grow, quietly, unobtrusively, like yeast in meal, as Jesus had said.

What, he wondered, would become of the Christian cause now, with all of them scattered and in hiding? Who would rise up as their leader? Philip? No; Philip was a brave and loyal fellow, but he lacked boldness. The leader would have to be audacious. John? No. James? No. They had the heart for it, but not the voice. There was Stephen. Stephen might do it--but not in Jerusalem. The Jews would insist on an Israelite, as perhaps they should; for the Christian heritage was of the Hebrew people.

Why had the Master permitted this dreadful catastrophe? Had he changed his plans for the prosecution of his work? Had he lost confidence in the leader he had appointed? Simon's memory reconstructed the eventful day when Jesus had said to him, 'Simon-- I shall call you Peter, Peter the Rock! I shall build on this Rock!' Simon closed his eyes and shook his head as he compared the exultation of that moment with the utter hopelessness of his present plight.

When night fell, a guard with a flickering torch noisily unlocked each cell in turn and another replenished the water-pitcher. Noting that his bread had not been eaten, the guard did not give him any more; nor did he offer any comment. Perhaps it was not unusual for men, awaiting death, to take but little interest in food.

At feeding time there had been much rattling of chains and scuffling of feet, but everything was quiet now. Simon grew drowsy, sank back uncomfortably with his head and shoulders against the old wall, and slept. After a while, he found himself experiencing a peculiar dream, peculiar in that it didn't seem like a dream, though he knew it was, for it couldn't be real. In his dream, he roused, amazed to find that the manacles had slipped from his hands and were lying open on the bench. He lifted his foot. The weight was gone. He drew himself up and listened. Everything was quiet but the rhythmic breathing of his fellow prisoners. He had never had a dream of such keen vividness.

Simon stood up and stretched his long arms. He took three or four short steps toward the cell-door, slipping his sandals along the stone floor as he felt his way in the darkness. There was no sound of the scuffing of his sandals on the flagging. Except for this, the dream was incredibly real. He put out his hand and touched the heavy, nail-studded door. It noiselessly retreated. He advanced his hand to touch the door again. It moved forward. He took another step--and another. There had never been such a dream! Simon was awake and could feel his heart pounding, and the rapid pulse-beat in his neck; but he knew he was still asleep on the bench.

He put his hand against the damp wall and moved on with cautious steps that made no sound. At the end of the long corridor, a feeble light showed through the iron bars of a door. As he neared it the door swung open so slowly and noiselessly that Simon knew the thing was unreal! He walked through with firmer steps. In the dim light he saw two guards sitting on the floor, with their arms around their knees and their heads bent forward in sleep. They did not stir. He proceeded toward the massive entrance gates, recognizing the ponderous lock that united them. He expected his dream to swing them open, but they had not moved. He put his hand on the cold metal, and pushed, but the heavy gates remained firm.

By this he knew that the dream was over, and he would rouse to find himself manacled in his cell. He was chilly. He wrapped his robe more tightly about him, surprised that he still had the unimpeded use of his hands. He glanced about, completely bewildered over his strange mental condition. Suddenly his eye lighted on a narrow gate, set within one of the greater gates. It was open. Simon stepped through, and it closed behind him without a sound. He was on the street. He started to walk briskly. At a crossing, he stumbled against a kerb in the darkness. Surely this rough jar would waken him. Simon stood still, looked up at the stars, and laughed softly for joy. He was awake! He had been delivered from prison!

What to do now? Where to go? With lengthened steps, he made his way to Benyosef's, where all was dark. He moved on to the home of John Mark. A frail light showed from an upstairs window. He tapped at the high wicket gate. After a little delay, the small window in the gate was opened and he saw the frightened face of Rhoda.

She screamed and fled to the open house-door.

'It is Simon!' he heard her shout. 'Simon has returned from the dead!'

Rushing back to the gate, she unbolted it and drew it open. Her eyes were swollen with weeping, but her face was enraptured. She threw her arms around Simon, hugging him fiercely.

'Simon!' she cried. 'Jesus has brought you back from death! Did you see Stephen? Is he coming too?'

'Is Stephen dead, Rhoda?' asked Simon, sadly.

Her grip relaxed, and she collapsed into a dejected little figure of hopeless grief. Simon raised her up tenderly and handed her over to Mark's mother.

'We heard they had killed you,' said Mark.

'No,' said Simon. 'I was delivered from prison.'

They moved slowly into the house, Rhoda weeping inconsolably. The place was crowded with Christians. Their grieving eyes widened and their drawn faces paled as Simon entered, for they had thought him dead. They made way for him in silence. He paused in the midst of them. Some great experience had come to Simon. He had taken on a new dignity, a new power. Slowly he raised his hand and they bowed their heads.

'Let us pray,' said Peter the Rock. 'Blessed be God who has revived our hope. Though in great heaviness for a season, let us rejoice that this trial of our faith--more precious than gold--will make us worthy of honour when our Lord returns.'

* * * * * *

After walking up and down on the other side of the street facing the Insula for an hour or more, Demetrius's anxiety overwhelmed his patience. He must have been mistaken in his surmise that Marcellus would visit Julian himself on behalf of the persecuted Christians.

Abandoning his vigil, he made off rapidly for Benyosef's shop. While still a long way off, he began meeting well-dressed, sullen- faced men, apparently returning from some annoying experience. When he saw the sunshine glinting on the shields of an approaching military force, Demetrius dodged into an alley, and continued the journey by a circuitous route.

In spite of the edict prohibiting any further assembly of Christians, fully a score were crowded into the shop, silently gathered about a dead body. To his amazement, Demetrius saw his master in the midst of the people, almost as if he were in charge. He shouldered his way through the sorrowing group. Rhoda was down on her knees before the body, sobbing piteously. It seemed very unreal to find Stephanos, with whom he had talked only a few hours ago, lying here broken and dead.

Marcellus had taken him aside, when he had regained his composure.

'You remain with them, Demetrius,' he had said. 'Assist them with the burial. My presence here is an embarrassment. They cannot account for my interest, and are suspicious. I am going back to the inn.'

'Did you see this happen, sir?' Demetrius had asked.

'Yes.' Marcellus drew closer and said confidentially, 'And much more happened than appears here! I shall tell you--later.'

After they had put poor Stephanos away--and no one had molested them while on their errand--Demetrius had returned home with John Mark, thinking he would be free presently to rejoin Marcellus at the inn. But Mark's mother, Mary, and Rhoda, too, had insisted so urgently on his remaining with them that he dared not refuse. When their unwanted supper had been disposed of and darkness had fallen, friends of the family began to arrive singly and by twos and threes until the lower rooms were filled. No one acted as spokesman for the pensive party. There was much low-voiced conversation about a vision that appeared to Stephen before he died, but none of them had been close enough to know exactly what had happened. Demetrius had not attached much significance to the rumours. The only one who felt confident was Rhoda.

And then, to the astonishment of everyone, Simon had arrived; a more important, more impressive figure than he had been before. He seemed reluctant to tell the details of his release from prison; but, by whatever process that had come to pass, the experience had fortified Simon. He even seemed taller. They all felt it, and were shy about initiating conversation with him; hesitant about asking questions. Oddly enough, he had quietly announced that henceforth they should call him Peter.

Beckoning John Mark apart, Demetrius had suggested that they ask Simon Peter to lodge there. As for himself, he would cheerfully surrender his room and return to the inn. So it had been arranged that way and Demetrius had slipped out unobtrusively. It was nearing midnight when he tapped at Marcellus's door, finding him awake and reading. They had talked in whispers until daybreak, their master-slave relationship completely ignored in their earnest discussion of the day's bewildering experiences.

'I too am a Christian!' Marcellus had declared, when he had finished his account of the stoning of Stephanos, and it seemed to Demetrius that the assertion had been made with more pride than he had ever put into 'I am a Roman!' It was very strange, indeed, this complete capitulation of Marcellus Gallio to a way of belief and behaviour so foreign from his training and temperament.

Early in the afternoon, Demetrius accompanied him to the edge of the disreputable field that was called Golgotha. They were quiet as they approached it. Acrid smoke curled lazily from winnows of charred refuse. In the distance a grass-covered knoll appeared as a green oasis in a desert.

'Do you remember the place, sir?' asked Demetrius, halting.

'Vaguely,' murmured Marcellus. 'I'm sure I couldn't have found it. Is it clear in your memory, Demetrius?'

'Quite so. I came late. I could see the crosses from here, and the crowd.'

'What was I doing when you arrived?' asked Marcellus.

'You and the other officers were casting dice.'

'For the robe?'

'Yes, sir.'

Neither spoke for a little while.

'I did not see the nailing, Demetrius,' said Marcellus, thickly. 'Paulus pushed me away. I was glad enough to escape the sight. I walked to the other side of the knoll. It has been a bitter memory, I can tell you.'

'Well, sir,' said Demetrius, 'here is the path. I shall wait for you at the inn. I hope you will not be disappointed, but it seems unlikely that Simon Peter would try to keep his appointment.'

'He will come, I think,' predicted Marcellus. 'Simon Peter is safer from arrest to-day than he was yesterday. Both the Insula and the Temple have tried to convince the public that the Christians have no legal or moral sanction for their beliefs. Having captured their leader, with the expectation of making a tragic example of him, they are now stunned by the discovery that their victim has walked out of prison. Neither Julian nor Herod will want to undertake an explanation of that event. I think they will decide that the less said or done now, in the case of The Big Fisherman, the better it will be for everybody concerned. I fully expect Simon Peter will meet me here--unless, in all the confusion, he has forgotten about it.'

* * * * * *

Peter had not forgotten. Marcellus saw him coming, a long way off, marching militantly with head up and a swinging stride that betokened a confident mind. The man had leadership, reflected the admiring watcher.

As The Big Fisherman neared the grassy knoll, however, his steps slowed and his shoulders slumped. He stopped and passed an unsteady hand over his massive forehead. Marcellus rose and advanced to meet him as he mounted the slight elevation with plodding feet. Peter extended his huge hand, but did not speak. They sat down on the grass near the deep pits where the crosses had stood, and for a long time they remained in silence.

At length, Peter roused from his painful meditation and glanced at Marcellus with heavy eyes, which drifted back to the ground.

'I was not here that day,' rumbled the deep, throaty voice. 'I did not stand by him in the hour of his anguish.' Peter drew a deep sigh.

Marcellus did not know what to say, or whether he was expected to say anything. The big Galilean sat ruefully studying the palms of his hands with a dejection so profound that any attempt to relieve it would have been an impertinence. Now he regarded Marcellus with critical interest, as if noting him for the first time.

'Your Greek slave told me you were interested in the story of Jesus,' he said, soberly. 'And it has come to me that you were of friendly service, yesterday, when our brave Stephen was taken away. Benyosef thought he heard you profess the faith of a Christian. Is that true, Marcellus Gallio?'

'I am convinced, sir,' said Marcellus, 'that Jesus is divine. I believe that he is alive, and of great power. But I have much to learn about him.'

'You have already gone far with your faith, my friend!' said Peter, warmly. 'As a Roman, your manner of living has been quite remote from the way of life that Jesus taught. Doubtless you have done much evil, for which you should repent if you would know the fullness of his grace. But I could not ask you to repent until I had told you of the wrongs which I have done. Whatever sins you may have committed, they cannot compare to the disloyalty for which I have been forgiven. He was my dearest friend--and, on the day that he needed me, I swore that I had never known him.'

Peter put his huge hands over his eyes and bowed his head. After a long moment he looked up.

'Now,' he said, 'tell me how much you know about Jesus.'

Marcellus did not immediately reply, and when he did so, his words were barely audible. He heard himself saying, as if someone else were speaking:

'I crucified him.'

* * * * * *

The sun was low when they rose to return to the city. In those two hours, Marcellus had heard the stirring details of a story that had come to him previously in fragments and on occasions when his mind was unprepared to appreciate them.

They had found a strange kinship in their remorse, but Peter, fired by his inspiring recollections of the Master-man, had declared it was the future that must concern them now. He had daring plans for his own activities. He was going to Caesarea, to Joppa--perhaps to Rome!

'And what will you do, Marcellus?' he asked, in a tone of challenge.

'I am going home, sir.'

'To make your report to the Emperor?'

'Yes, sir.'

Peter laid his big hand heavily on Marcellus's knee and earnestly studied his eyes.

'How much are you going to tell him--about Jesus?' he demanded.

'I am going to tell the Emperor that Jesus, whom we thought dead, is alive, and that he is here to establish a new kingdom.'

'It will take courage to do that, my young brother! The Emperor will not like to hear that a new kingdom is coming. You may be punished for your boldness.'

'Be that as it may,' said Marcellus, 'I shall have told him the truth.'

'He will ask you how you know that Jesus lives. What will you say?'

'I shall tell him of the death of Stephanos, and the vision that he had. I am convinced that he saw Jesus!'

'Emperor Tiberius will want better proof than that.'

Marcellus was silently thoughtful. It was true, as Peter had said, such testimony would have very little weight with anyone disinclined to believe. Tiberius would scoff at such evidence, as who would not? Senator Gallio would say, 'You saw a dying man looking at Jesus. How do you know that is what he saw? Is this your best ground of belief that your Galilean is alive? You say he worked miracles; but you, personally, didn't see any.'

'Come,' said Peter, getting to his feet. 'Let us go back to the city.'

They strode along with very little to say, each immersed in his thoughts. Presently they were in the thick of city traffic. Peter had said he was going back to John Mark's house. Marcellus would return to the inn. Now they were passing the Temple. The sun was setting and the marble steps, throughout the day swarming with beggars, were almost deserted.

One pitiful cripple, his limbs twisted and shrunken, sat dejectedly on the lowest step, waggling his basin and hoarsely croaking for alms. Peter slowed to a stop. Marcellus had moved on, a little way, but drifted back when he observed that Peter and the beggar were talking.

'How long have you been this way, friend?' Peter was saying.

'Since my birth, sir,' whined the beggar. 'For God's sake, an alms!'

'I have no money,' confessed Peter; then, impulsively, he went on, 'but such as I have I give you!' Stretching out both hands to the bewildered, cripple, he commanded, 'In the name of Jesus, stand up, and walk!' Grasping his thin arms, he tugged the beggar to his feet--and he stood! Amazed--and with pathetic little whimpers, half-laughing, half-crying, he slipped his sandals along the pavement; short, uncertain, experimental steps--but he was walking. Now he was shouting!

A crowd began to gather. Men of the neighbourhood who recognized the beggar were pushing in to ask excited questions. Peter took Marcellus by the arm and they moved on, walking for some distance in silence. At length Marcellus found his voice, but it was shaky.

'Peter! How did you do that?'

'By the power of Jesus' spirit.'

'But the thing's impossible! The fellow was born crippled! He had never taken a step in his life!'

'Well, he will walk now,' said Peter, solemnly.

'Tell me, Peter!' entreated Marcellus. 'Did you know you had this power? Have you ever done anything like this before?'

'No, not like this,' said Peter. 'I am more and more conscious of his presence. He dwells in me. This power--it is not mine, Marcellus. It is his spirit.'

'Perhaps he will not appear again--except in men's hearts,' said Marcellus.

'Yes!' declared Peter. 'He will dwell in men's hearts--and give them the power of his spirit. But--that is not all! HE WILL COME AGAIN!'



Chapter XX


It was common knowledge that Rome had the noisiest nights of any city in the world, but one needed a quiet year abroad to appreciate this fully.

Except for the two celebrated avenues intersecting at the Forum-- the Via Sacra and the Via Novo--which were grandly laid with smooth blocks of Numidian marble, all the principal thoroughfares were paved with cobblestones ranging in size from plums to pomegranates.

To relieve the congestion in these cramped, crooked streets and their still narrower tributaries, an ordinance (a century old) prohibited the movement of market-carts, delivery waggons, or any other vehicular traffic from sunrise to sunset, except imperial equipages and officially sanctioned parades on festal occasions.

Throughout the daylight hours, the business streets were gorged with jostling crowds on foot, into which the more privileged ruthlessly rode their horses or were borne on litters and portable chairs; but when twilight fell, the harsh rasp and clatter of heavy iron wheels grinding the cobblestones set up a nerve-racking cacophony, accompanied by the agonized squawk of dry axles, the cracking of whips, and the shrill quarrels of contenders for the right of way; nor did this maddening racket cease until another day had dawned. This was every night, the whole year round.

But the time to see and hear Rome at her utmost was during the full of a summer moon when much building construction was in progress, and everybody who had anything to haul took advantage of the light. Unable to sleep, thousands turned out in the middle of the hideous night to add their jostling and clamour to the other jams and confusions. Shopkeepers opened up to serve the meandering insomniacs with sweets and beverages. Hawkers barked their catchpenny wares; minstrels twanged their lyres and banged their drums; bulging camel-trains doggedly plodded through the protesting throng, trampling toes and tearing tunics; great waggons loaded with lumber and hewn stone ploughed up the multitude, pitching the furrows against the walls and into open doorways. All nights in Rome were dreadful, and the more beautiful nights were dangerous.

Long before their galley from Ostia had rounded the bend that brought the city into full view on that bright June midnight of their home-coming, Marcellus heard the infernal din as he had never heard it before; heard it as no one could hear it without the preparation of a month's sailing on a placid summer sea.

The noise had a new significance. It symbolized the confounded outcry of a competitive world that had always done everything the hard way, the mean way, and had very little to show for its sweat and passion. It knew no peace, had never known peace, and apparently didn't want any peace.

Expertly the galley slipped into its snug berth, to be met by a swarm of yelling porters. Demetrius, one of the first passengers over the rail, returned in a moment with a half-dozen swarthy Thracians who made off with their abundant luggage. Engaging another port-waggon for themselves, the travellers were soon swallowed up in a bedlam of tangled traffic through which they crept along until Marcellus, weary of the delay, suggested that they should pay off the driver and continue on foot.

He had forgotten how insufferably rude and cruel the public could be. Massed into a solid pack, it had no intelligence. It had no capacity to understand how, if everyone calmly took his turn, some progress might be made. Even the wild animals around a water-hole in the jungle had more sense than this surly, selfish, shoving mob.

Marcellus's own words, spoken with such bland assurance to the cynical Paulus, flashed across his mind and mocked him. The kingdom of good will, he had declared, would not come into being at the top of society. It would not be handed down from a throne. It would begin with the common people. Well, here were your common people! Climb up on a cart, Marcellus, and tell the common people about good will. Admonish them to love one another, aid one another, defer to one another; and so fulfil the law of Christ. But look out! or they will pelt you with filth from the gutters, for the common people are in no mood to be trifled with.

* * * * * *

The reunion of the Gallio family, an hour later, was one of the happiest experiences of their lives. When Marcellus had left home a year ago, shaky, emaciated, and mentally upset, the three who remained mourned for him almost as if he were dead. True, there had been occasional brief letters assuring them that he was well, but there was a conspicuous absence of details concerning his experiences and only vague intimations of a desire to come home. Between the lines they read, with forebodings, that Marcellus was still in a state of mental upheaval. He had seemed very far away, not only in miles but in mind. The last letter they had received from him, a month ago, had said, in closing, 'I am trailing an elusive mystery for the Emperor. Mysteries are his recreation. This one may turn out to be something more serious than a mere pastime.' The Senator had sighed and shaken his head as he slowly rolled up the scroll.

But now Marcellus had come back as physically fit as a gladiator, mentally alert, free of his despondency, in possession of his natural zest and enthusiasm.

And something else had been added, something not easy to define, a curious radiance of personality. There was a new strength in Marcellus, a contagious energy that vitalized the house. It was in his voice, in his eyes, in his hands. His family did not at first ask him what this new thing was, nor did they let him know that it was noticeable; neither did they discuss it immediately with one another. But Marcellus had acquired something that gave him distinction.

The Senator had been working late in his library. He had finished his task, had put away his writing materials, and had risen from his desk-chair, when he heard confident footsteps.

Leaving Demetrius in the driveway to await the arrival of their luggage, Marcellus--joyfully recognized by the two old slaves on guard at the front door--had walked swiftly through to the spacious atrium. His father's door was partly open. Bursting in on him unceremoniously, he threw his arms around him and hugged him breathless. Although the Senator was tall and remarkably virile for his years, the Tribune's overwhelming vitality completely engulfed him.

'My son! My son!' Gallio quavered, fervently. 'You are well again! Strong again! Alive again! The gods be praised!'

Marcellus pressed his cheek against his father's and patted him on the back.

'Yes, sir!' he exclaimed. 'More alive than ever! And you, sir, grow more handsome every day! How proud I am to be your son!'

Lucia, in her room, suddenly stirred in her sleep, sat up wide- awake, listened, tossed aside the silk covers, listened again with an open mouth and a pounding heart.

'Oh!' she called. 'Tertia! My robe! Tertia! Wake up! Hurry! My sandals! Marcellus is here!' Racing down to the library, she threw herself into her brother's arms, and when he had lifted her off her feet and kissed her, she cried, 'Dear Marcellus--you are well!'

'And you, my sweet, are beautiful! You have grown up, haven't you?' He lightly touched her high coronet of glossy black hair with caressing fingers. 'Lovely!'

The Senator put his arms around both of them, to their happy surprise, for it was not his custom to be demonstrative with his affection.

'Come,' he said gently. 'Let us go to your mother.'

'It is very late,' said Marcellus. 'Should we waken her?'

'Of course!' insisted Lucia.

They crowded through the doorway, arm in arm. In the dimly lit atrium, a little group of the older servants had assembled, tousled and sleepy, their anxious eyes wondering what to expect of the son and heir who, on his last visit home, had been in such a distressing state of mind.

'Ho! Marcipor!' shouted Marcellus, grasping the outstretched hand. 'Hi! Decimus!' It wasn't often that the stiff and taciturn butler unbent, but he beamed with smiles as he thrust out his hand. 'How are you, Tertia!' called Marcellus to the tall, graceful girl descending the stairs. They all drew in closer. Old Servius was patted on the shoulder, and the wrinkled, toothless mouth chopped tremulously while the tears ran unchecked.

'Welcome! Welcome!' the old man shrilled. 'The gods bless you, sir!'

'Ah, Lentius!' hailed Marcellus. 'How are my horses?' And when Lentius had made bold to reply that Ishtar had a filly, three months old--which made them all laugh merrily as if this were a good joke on somebody--Marcellus sent them into another gale of laughter by demanding, 'Bring in the colt, Lentius! I must see her at once!'

There were more than a score of slaves gathered in the atrium now, all of them full of happy excitement. There had never been such an utter collapse of discipline in the Gallio household. Long-time servants, accustomed to moving about soberly and on tiptoe, heard themselves laughing hilariously--laughing here in the atrium! laughing in the presence of the Senator! And the Senator was smiling too!

Marcellus was brightening their eyes with his ready recognition, calling most of them by name. A pair of pretty Macedonian twins arrived, hand in hand, dressed exactly alike; practically indistinguishable. He remembered having had a glimpse of them, two years ago, but had forgotten their names. He looked their way, and so did everyone else, to their considerable embarrassment.

'Are you girls sisters?' he inquired.

This was by far the merriest thing that anyone had said, and the atrium resounded with full-throated appreciation.

'Decimus!' shouted the Senator, and the laughter ceased. 'You will serve supper! In an hour! In the banquet-room! With the gold service! Marcipor! let all the lamps be lighted! Throughout the villa! And the gardens!'

Marcellus brushed through the scattering crowd and bounded up the stairs. Cornelia met him in the corridor, outside her door, and he gathered her hungrily into his arms. They had no adequate words for each other; just stood there, clinging together, Cornelia smoothing his close-cropped hair with her soft palm and sobbing like a child, while the Senator, with misty eyes, waited a little way apart, fumbling with the silk tassels on his broad sash.

Her intuition suggesting that Marcellus and their emotional mother might need a quiet moment alone together, Lucia had tarried at the foot of the staircase for a word with Decimus about the supper. All the other servants had scurried away to their duties, their very sandal-straps confiding in excited whispers that this was a happy night and that it was good to be there.

'Not too much food, Decimus,' Lucia was saying. 'Some fresh fruit and cold meats and wine--and a nut-cake if there is one. But don't cook anything. It is late, and the Senator will be tired and sleepy before you have time to prepare an elaborate dinner. Serve it in the big dining-room, as he said, and use the gold plate. And tell Rhesus to cut an armful of roses--red ones. And let the twins serve my brother. And--'

With suddenly widened eyes, she sighted Demetrius--tall, tanned, serious, and handsome--entering the atrium. Dismissing the butler with a brief nod, Lucia held her arm high and waved a welcome, her flowing sleeve baring a shapely elbow. Decimus, keenly observant, scowled his displeasure and stalked stiffly away.

Advancing with long strides, Demetrius came to a military halt before her, bowed deferentially, and was slowly bringing up his spear-shaft to his forehead in the conventional salute when Lucia stepped forward impulsively, laying both hands on his bronzed arms.

'All thanks, good Demetrius,' she said, softly. 'You have brought Marcellus home, well and strong as ever. Better than ever!'

'No thanks are due me for that,' he rejoined. 'The Tribune needed no one to bring him home. He is fully master of himself now.' Demetrius raised his eyes and regarded her with frank admiration. 'May I tell the Tribune's sister how very--how very well she is looking?'

'Why not, if you think so?' Lucia, toying with her amber beads, gave him a smile that was meant to be non-committal. 'There is no need to ask how you are, Demetrius. Have you and the Tribune had some exciting experiences?' Her eyes were wincingly exploring a long, new scar on his upper arm. He glanced down at it with a droll grin. 'How did you get that awful cut?' she asked, squeamishly.

'I met a Syrian,' said Demetrius. 'They are not a very polite people.'

'I hope you taught him some of the gentle manners of the Greeks,' drawled Lucia. 'Tell me--did you kill him?'

'You can't kill a Syrian,' said Demetrius, lightly. 'They die only of old age.'

Lucia's little shrug said they had had enough of this banter and her face slowly sobered to a thoughtful frown.

'What has happened to my brother?' she asked. 'He seems in such extraordinarily high spirits.'

'He may want to tell you--if you give him time.'

'You're different, too, Demetrius.'

'For the better, I hope,' he parried.

'Something has expanded you both,' declared Lucia. 'What is it? Has Marcellus been elevated to a more responsible command?'

Demetrius nodded enthusiastically.

'Will his new assignment take him into danger?' she asked, suddenly apprehensive.

'Oh, yes, indeed!' he answered, proudly.

'He doesn't appear to be worrying much about it. I never saw him so happy. He has already turned the whole villa upside-down with his gaiety.'

'I know. I heard them.' Demetrius grinned.

'I hope it won't spoil them,' she said, with dignity. 'They aren't used to taking such liberties; though perhaps it will not hurt--to have it happen--this once.'

'Perhaps not,' said Demetrius, dryly. 'It may not hurt them--to be really happy--this once.'

Lucia raised her brows.

'I am afraid you don't understand,' she remarked, coolly.

'I'm afraid I do,' he sighed. 'Had you forgotten that I too am a slave?'

'No.' She gave a little toss of her head. 'But I think YOU have.'

'I did not mean to be impudent,' he said, contritely. 'But what we are talking about is very serious, you know; discipline, slavery, mastery, human relations--and who has a right to tell others when they may be happy.'

Lucia searched his face with a frown.

'Well, I hope my brother's genial attitude towards our servants is not going to make us lose our control of this house!' she snapped, indignantly.

'It need not,' said Demetrius. 'He believes in a little different kind of control, that is all. It is much more effective, I think, than controlling by sharp commands. More pleasant for everybody, and, besides, you get better service.'

Marcellus was calling to her from the head of the stairs.

'I am sorry I spoke impatiently, Demetrius,' she said, as she moved away. 'We are so glad you are home again.'

He met her level eyes and they smiled. He raised his spear-shaft to salute. She pursed her lips, shook her head, and made a negligent gesture.

'Never mind the salute,' she said, 'for once.'

Marcipor, who had been lingering impatiently in the alcove, waiting for this conversation to end, came forward as Lucia disappeared up the stairway. He fell into step with Demetrius and they strolled out through the peristyle into the moonlight.

'It is amazing--how he has recovered!' said Marcipor. 'What happened to him?'

'I shall tell you fully when there is an opportunity; later to- night, if possible. Marcellus has become an ardent believer. He toured through Galilee--'

'And you?' asked Marcipor. 'Were you not with him?'

'Only part of the time. I spent many weeks in Jerusalem. I have much to tell you about that. Marcipor, the Galilean is alive!'

'Yes, we have heard that.'

'"We"? and who are "we"?' Demetrius took hold of Marcipor's arm and drew him to a sudden halt.

'The Christians in Rome,' replied Marcipor, smiling at his friend's astonishment.

'Has it then come to Rome--so soon?'

'Many months ago--brought by merchants from Antioch.'

'And how did you find out?'

'It was being whispered about in the markets. Decimus, who is forever deriding the Greeks, was pleased to inform me that certain superstitious traders from Antioch had brought the report of a Jewish carpenter who had risen from the dead. Remembering what you had told me about this man, I was devoured with curiosity to hear more of it.'

'And you found the men from Antioch?' encouraged Demetrius.

'The next day. They were quite free to talk, and their story sounded convincing. They had had it from an eye-witness of many astounding miracles--one Philip. Seeking to confirm it, several of them went to Jerusalem, where they talked with other men who had seen this Jesus after his death--men whose word they trusted. All that--added to what you had reported--gave me cause to believe.'

'So you are a Christian!' Demetrius's eyes shone. 'You must tell the Tribune. He will be delighted!'

Marcipor's face grew suddenly grave.

'Not yet, Demetrius. My course is not clear. Decimus made it his business to inform the Senator of this new movement, describing it as a revolution against lawful authority.'

'Has the Senator done anything about it?'

'Not that I know of, but is it not natural that his feeling toward the Christians should be far from complacent? He associates all this with his son's misfortunes. Now, if Marcellus is told that we have a large body of believers here in Rome, he might impetuously throw himself into it. That would be dangerous. The Christians are keeping under cover. Already the patrols are beginning to make inquiries about their secret meetings. We must not cause a breach between Marcellus and his father.'

'Very well, Marcipor,' agreed Demetrius. 'We will not tell the Tribune, but he will find it out; you may be sure of that. And as for estrangement, it is inevitable. Marcellus will not give up his belief, and it is quite unlikely that the Senator could be persuaded of its truth. Old men do not readily change their opinions. However, this new cause cannot wait, Marcipor, until all the opinionated old men have approved of it. This story of Jesus is our only hope that freedom and justice may come. And if it is to come, at all, it must begin now!'

'I believe that,' said Marcipor, 'but still, I shouldn't like to see Marcellus offend his father. The Senator is not going to live long.'

'There was just such a case reported to Jesus,' said Demetrius. 'I had this from a Galilean who heard the conversation. A young man, very much impressed that it was his duty to come out openly for this new way of life, said to Jesus, "My father is an old man, sir, with old views. This new religion is an offence to him. Let me first bury my father, and then I shall come--and follow."'

'That sounds reasonable,' put in Marcipor, who was sixty-seven.

'Jesus didn't think so,' went on Demetrius. 'It was high time for a drastic change in men's belief and behaviour. The new message couldn't wait for the departure of old men with old views. Indeed, these old men were already dead. Let them be buried by other dead ones.'

'Did he say that?' queried Marcipor.

'Well, something like that.'

'Sounds rather rough to me, coming from so gentle a person.'

Demetrius slipped his hand affectionately through the older Corinthian's arm.

'Marcipor, let us not make the mistake of thinking that, because this message of Jesus concerns peace and good will, it is a soft and timid thing that will wait on every man's convenience, and scurry off the road, to hide in the bushes, until all other things go by! The people who carry this torch are going to get into plenty of trouble. They are already being whipped and imprisoned! Many have been slain!'

'I know, I know,' murmured Marcipor. 'One of the traders from Antioch told me of seeing a young Greek stoned to death by a mob in Jerusalem. Stephanos was his name. Did you, by any chance, know him?'

'Stephanos,' said Demetrius, sadly, 'was my closest friend.'

* * * * * *

Marcellus had not finished his breakfast when Marcipor came in to say that Senator Gallio was in his library and would be pleased to have a talk with the Tribune at his early convenience.

'You may tell the Senator that I shall be down in a few minutes,' said Marcellus.

He would have preferred to postpone, for a few days, this serious interview with his father. It would be very difficult for the Senator to listen to his strange story with patience or respect. For some moments Marcellus sat staring out of the open window, while he absently peeled an orange that he didn't intend to eat, and tried to decide how best to present the case of Jesus the Galilean; for, in this instance, he would be more than an advocate. Marcellus would be on trial, too.

Marcus Lucan Gallio was not a contentious man. His renown as a debater in the Senate had been earned by diplomacy; by his knowing when and how much to concede, where and whom to appease, and the fine art of conciliation. He never doggedly pursued an argument for vanity's sake. But he was proud of his mental morality.

If, for example, he became firmly convinced that at all times and everywhere water seeks a level, there would be no use in coming to him with the tale that on a certain day, in a certain country, at the behest of a certain man, water was observed to run uphill. He had no time for reports of events which disregarded natural laws. As for 'miracles,' the very word was offensive. He had no tolerance for such stories and not much more tolerance for persons who believed in them. And because, in his opinion, all religions were built on faith in supernatural beings and supernatural doings, the Senator was not only contemptuous of religion, but admitted a candid distaste for religious people. Anybody who went in for such beliefs was either ignorant or unscrupulous. If a man, who had any sense at all, became a religious propagandist, he needed watching; for, obviously, he meant to take advantage of the feeble-minded, who would trust him because of his piety. Some people, according to Senator Gallio, seemed to think that a pious man was inevitably honest, whereas the facts would show that piety and integrity were categorically irrelevant. It was quite proper for old Servius to importune his gods. One could even forgive old Tiberius for his consuming interest in religion, seeing that he was half crazy. But there was no excuse for such nonsense in a healthy, educated man.

Marcellus had been treated with deep sympathy when he had come home a year ago. He had suffered a great shock and his mind was temporarily unbalanced. He couldn't have said anything too preposterous for his father's patience. But now he was sound in body and mind. He would tell the Senator this morning an amazing story of a man who had healed all manner of diseases; a man who, having been put to death on a cross, rose from his grave to be seen of many witnesses. And this would undoubtedly make the Senator very angry--and disgusted. 'Bah!' he would shout. 'Nonsense!'

* * * * * *

This forecast of his father's probable attitude had been appallingly accurate. It turned out to be a very unhappy interview. From almost the first moment, Marcellus sensed strong opposition. He had decided to begin his narrative with Jesus' unjust trials and crucifixion, hoping thus to enlist the Senator's sympathy for the persecuted Galilean, but he was not permitted to build up his case from that point.

'I have heard all that, my son,' said Gallio, crisply. 'You need not review it. Tell me of the journey you made into the country where this man lived.'

So, Marcellus had told of his tour with Justus; of little Jonathan, whose crippled foot had been made strong; of Miriam, who had been given a voice; of Lydia, who had found healing by a touch of his robe; of old Nathanael Bartholomew, and the storm at sea--while his father gazed steadily at him from under shaggy, frowning brows, offering no comments and asking no questions.

At length he had arrived at the phase of the story where he must talk of Jesus' return to life. With dramatic earnestness he repeated everything that they had told him of these reappearances, while the lines about the Senator's mouth deepened into a scowl.

'It all sounds incredible, sir,' he conceded, 'but I am convinced that it is true.' For a moment, he debated the advisability of telling his father about the miracle he had seen with his own eyes-- Peter's healing of the cripple. But no, that would be too much. His father would tell him he had been imposed upon by these miracle stories reported to him by other men. But there would be nothing left for the Senator to say except 'You lie!' if he told him that he himself had seen one of these wonders wrought.

'On the testimony of a few superstitious fishermen!' growled Gallio, derisively.

'It was not easy for me to accept, sir,' admitted Marcellus, 'and I am not trying to persuade you of it. You asked me to tell you what I had learned about Jesus, and I have told you truly. It is my belief that this Galilean is still alive. I think he is an eternal person, a divine person with powers that no king or emperor has ever possessed, and I further believe that he will eventually rule the world!'

Gallio chuckled bitterly.

'Had you thought of telling Tiberius that this Jesus intends to rule the world?'

'I may not need to say that to Tiberius. I shall tell him that Jesus, who was put to death, is alive again. The Emperor can draw his own conclusions.'

'You had better be careful what you say to that crazy old man', warned Gallio. 'He is insane enough to believe you, and this will not be pleasant news. Don't you know he is quite capable of having you punished for bringing him a tale like that?'

'He can do no more than kill me,' said Marcellus, quietly.

'Perhaps not,' retorted Gallio; 'but even so light a punishment as death--for an aspiring young man--might be quite an inconvenience.'

Marcellus humoured his father's grim jest with a smile.

'In sober truth, sir, I do not fear death. There is a life to come.'

'Well, that is an ancient hope, my son,' conceded Gallio, with a vague gesture. 'Men have been scrawling that on their tombs for three thousand years. The only trouble with that dream is that it lacks proof. Nobody has ever signalled us from out there. Nobody has ever come back to report.'

'Jesus did!' declared Marcellus.

Gallio sighed deeply and shook his head. After a moody silence, he pushed back his chair and walked slowly around the big desk, as Marcellus rose to meet his approach.

'My son,' he said, entreatingly, laying his hands on the broad shoulders, 'go to the Emperor and tell him what you have learned of this Galilean prophet. Quote Jesus' words of wisdom. They are sensible and should do Tiberius much good if he would heed them. Tell him, if you must, about the feats of magic. The old man will believe them, and the more improbable they are the better they--and you--will please him. That, in my opinion, should be sufficient.'

'Nothing about Jesus' return to life?' inquired Marcellus, respectfully.

'Why should you?' demanded Gallio. 'Take a common-sense view of your predicament. Through no fault of yours, you have had an unusual experience, and are now obliged to report on it to the Emperor. He has been mad for a dozen years or more and everybody in Rome knows it. He has surrounded himself with scores of scatter- brained philosophers, astrologers, soothsayers, and diviners of oracles. Some of them are downright impostors and the rest of them are mentally unhinged. If you tell Tiberius what you have told me, you will be just one more monkey added to his menagerie.'

It was strong medicine, but Marcellus grinned; and his father, feeling that his argument was gaining ground, went on, pleadingly:

'You have a bright future before you, my son, if you will it so; but not if you pursue this course. I wonder if you realize what a tragedy maybe in the making for you--and for all of us! It will be a bitter experience for your mother, and your sister, and your father, to know that our friends are telling one another you have lost your mind; that you are one of the Emperor's wise fools. And what will Diana say?' he continued, earnestly. 'That beautiful creature is in love with you! Don't you care?'

'I do care, sir!' exclaimed Marcellus. 'And I realize that she may be sadly disappointed in me, but I have no alternative. I have put my hand to this plough--and I am not turning back!'

Gallio retreated a step and lounged against his desk, with a sly smile.

'Wait until you see her before you decide to give her up.'

'I am indeed anxious to see her, sir.'

'Will you try to meet her, down there, before you talk to Tiberius?'

'If possible, yes, sir.'

'You have made your arrangements for the voyage?'

'Yes, sir. Demetrius has seen to it. We leave this evening. Galley to Ostia. To Capri on the Cleo.'

'Very good,' approved Gallio, much encouraged. He slapped Marcellus on the back. 'Let us take a walk in the gardens. And you haven't been to the stables yet.'

'A moment, please, sir, before we go.' Marcellus's face was serious. 'I know you have a feeling that everything is settled now, according to your wish, and I would be happy to follow your counsel if I were free to do so.'

'Free?' Gallio stared into his son's eyes. 'What do you mean?'

'I feel obliged, sir, to tell the Emperor of Jesus' return to life.'

'Well, well, then,' consented Gallio, brusquely, 'if you must talk about that, let it be as a local rumour among the country people. You don't have to tell Tiberius that YOU believe it! If you want to say that a few fishermen thought they saw him, that should discharge your obligation. You have no personal knowledge of it. YOU didn't see him!'

'But I saw a man who did see him, sir!' declared Marcellus. 'I SAW THIS MAN LOOKING AT HIM!'

'And that constitutes proof, in your opinion?' scoffed Gallio.

'In this instance, yes, sir! I saw a Greek stoned for his Christian belief. He was a brave man, ready to risk his life for his faith. I knew him, and trusted him. When everyone thought him dead, he raised himself up, smiled, and shouted, "I SEE HIM!" And-- I KNOW THAT HE SAW HIM!'

'But you don't have to tell that to Tiberius!' said Gallio, testily.

'Yes, sir! Having heard and seen that, I should be a coward if I did not testify to it! For I, too, am a Christian, sir! I cannot do otherwise!'

Gallio made no reply. With bent head, he turned away slowly and left the room, without a backward glance.

Lamenting his father's disappointment, Marcellus sauntered out to the pergola, feeling sure that Lucia would be waiting for him. She saw him coming and ran to meet him. Linking their arms, she tugged him along gaily toward their favourite rendezvous.

'What's the matter?' she insisted, shaking his arm. 'Had a row with the Senator?'

'I hurt his feelings,' muttered Marcellus.

'I hope you weren't talking to him about that awful business up there in Jerusalem that made you sick!'

'No, dear; but I was telling him about that man--and I would be glad to tell you, too.'

'Thanks, my little brother!' chaffed Lucia. 'I don't want to hear a word of it! High time you forgot all about it! . . . Here, Bambo! . . . Make a fuss over him, Marcellus. He hardly knows you.' Her lips pouted. 'Neither do I,' she murmured. 'Aren't you ever going to be happy any more? Last night we all thought you were well again. I was so glad, I lay awake for hours, hugging myself for joy! Now you're glum and moody.' Big tears stood in her eyes. 'Please, Marcellus!'

'Sorry, sister.' He put his arm around her. 'Let us go and look at the roses. . . . Here, Bambo!'

Bambo strolled up and consented to have his head patted.

* * * * * *

The Emperor had not been well for many weeks. Early in April, while rashly demonstrating how tough he was, the old man had ambled down to the uncompleted villa on the easternmost end of the mall in a drenching rain and had taken a severe cold, the effects of which had depleted his not too abundant vitality.

In normal circumstances Tiberius, customarily careful of his health, would have taken no such risk; or, having taken it, would have gone at once to bed, fuming and snorting, to be packed in hot fomentations and doctored with everything that the court physicians could devise.

But on this occasion the Emperor, having renewed his youth--or at least having attained his second childhood--had sat about with Diana in the dampness of the new villa, wet to the skin, after which he had sauntered back to the Jovis pretending to have enjoyed the rain and refusing to permit anyone to aid him, though it was clear enough that he was having a bad chill: he had sneezed violently in the Chamberlain's face while hoarsely protesting that he was sound as a nut.

That the young daughter of Gallus had been innocently but unmistakably responsible for this dangerous imprudence--and many another hazardous folly on the part of the ageing Emperor--was now the unanimous opinion of the household staff.

The beauteous Diana was becoming a problem. For the first few weeks after her arrival, more than a year ago, the entire population of Capri--with the exception of the Empress Julia, whose Jealousy of her was deep and desperate--had rejoiced in the girl's invigorating influence on Tiberius. His infatuation for Diana had done wonders for him. Boyishly eager to please her, he was living more temperately, not only in what he ate and drank, but in what he said and did. Not often now was the Emperor noticeably intoxicated. His notorious tantrums were staged less frequently and with less violence. When annoyed, he still threw things at his ministers, but it had been a long time since he had barked at or bitten anyone. And whereas he had frequently humiliated them all by slogging about the grounds looking like the veriest ragamuffin, now he insisted on being shaved almost every morning and was keenly interested in his costumes.

This had met the enthusiastic approval of everybody whose tenure of office was in any way related to his own--and that included almost everyone on Capri, ministers, minstrels, physicians, dancers, gardeners, vintners, tailors, astrologers, historians, poets, cooks, guards, carpenters, stonemasons, sculptors, priests, and at least three hundred servants, bond and free. The longer they could keep the Emperor alive, the better for their own careers; and the more contented he was, the less arduous their task of caring for him.

It was quite natural, therefore, that Diana should be popular. The poets in residence composed extravagant odes appropriately extolling her beauty, and--with somewhat less warrant--her sweet and gentle disposition, for she was of uncertain temper and not at all reticent about expressing her feelings when displeased.

But, as time went on, it began to be whispered about that the infirm Emperor, in trying to show off for Diana, was wearing himself out. He was at her nimble heels from sunrise to sunset, in all weathers, fiercely gouging the gravelled paths with his cane as they toured the island, and wheezing up and down stairs in her lavish new villa, which seemed almost as far from completion as it had been six months previously, though a hundred skilled workmen had been hard at it every day. Nothing was ever quite fine enough. Mantels had to be taken down and rebuilt, again and again. Mosaic floors and walls were ripped out and reconstructed. One day the old man had testily remarked that he didn't believe the villa would ever be completed, an impromptu forecast which, albeit spoken lightly, turned out to be a sound prediction.

For some time considerable sympathy was felt for Diana. Though no one knew certainly--for she was far too wise to confide fully in anyone connected with this university of gossip, intrigue, and treachery--it was generally believed that the brilliant and beautiful girl was being detained at Capri against her personal wishes. This seemed to be confirmed by the fact that on the occasions of her mother's visits, every few weeks, Diana would weep piteously when the time came for Paula's departure. There might be certain advantages in being the sole object of the Emperor's devotion; but, considered as a permanent occupation, it left a good deal to be desired.

A legend had gradually taken form and size concerning Diana's prospects. The Chamberlain, in his cups, had confided to the Captain of the Guard that the comely daughter of Legate Gallus was in love with the son of Senator Gallio, a probably hopeless attachment, seeing that the young Tribune was sick in the head and had been spirited out of the country. This information was soon common knowledge.

No one was more interested in Diana's aspirations than old Julia, who contrived to inspect every letter she sent and received. And it was believed that Julia relayed copies of all such correspondence to Gaius; for, on each occasion of having spied upon Diana's letters, she had dispatched a scroll to the Prince by special messenger.

During the winter, Gaius had not visited Capri, but, advised of the Emperor's indisposition, he had come in latter April, attended by a foppish retinue, and had spent a week, pretending to be much concerned over the old man's ill-health, but fully enjoying the nightly banquets which Tiberius had ordered.

On these occasions the Emperor--barely able to hold his weary head up--drowsed and roused and grinned like a skull and drowsed again, a ludicrous caricature of imperial power. On his right, but paying no attention to him, reclined old Julia, wigged, painted, ablaze with jewels and shockingly cadaverous, smirking and fawning over Gaius who lounged beside her.

None of the fifty dissolute sycophants who sprawled about the overloaded tables dared risk exchanging a wink or a smile; but it was an amusing pantomime, with the Emperor half-asleep and the Empress disgustingly pawing at the gold-embroidered sleeve of the Prince, while he, disdainfully indifferent to her caresses, leaned far forward to make amorous grimaces at Diana, on the other side of Tiberius, stripping her with his experienced, froglike eyes, while she regarded him with the cool detachment of one reading an epitaph on an ancient monument.

This had been privately enjoyed by almost everybody but Celia, the beautiful but feather-headed wife of Quintus and niece of Sejanus, long-time friend and adviser of Tiberius. Celia was beside herself with an anxiety she could not disguise. She would have been ready to kill Diana had the girl shown Gaius the slightest encouragement, but she was also much annoyed over Diana's frosty disinterest in the Prince's attentions. Who, indeed, did this young Gallus think she was--to be so haughty? She had better mend her manners!

The crazy old man she was leading about--like a dog on a leash-- would be dying one of these fine days--and then where would she be?

It had been a depressing week for Celia. Ever since Quintus had been sent abroad on some state mission of high importance, she had been the centre of interest at the Prince's social functions, serving as hostess and enjoying his candid and clumsy preferment. At first it had been believed that Gaius was showing her special favours to ingratiate himself with old Sejanus, who held a strong hand on the imperial purse-strings. But as time went on, and the Prince's visits at Celia's villa were of daily occurrence, this flattery had gone to her head and she had made the mistake of snubbing many friends who, though they had endured her snobberies for diplomacy's sake, were carefully preparing to avenge themselves when an opportune moment arrived. It had been Celia's hope that the Prince would find further business for her husband in foreign parts, but now it had been announced that Quintus was returning presently. As if that were not dismaying enough, Gaius was giving his full attention to Diana.

On the last day of this visit to the Emperor, Celia had arranged what she thought was a private moment with the Prince (though there were few conversations on Capri which the whole island didn't know by nightfall) and tearfully took him to task for his recent indifference.

'I thought you liked me,' she whimpered.

'Not when your nose is red,' he grumbled. 'You'd better stop making yourself ridiculous.'

'Can't you send Quintus away again?' she wheedled.

'That braying ass?' retorted Gaius. 'We trust him with an ambassadorial errand, and he gets himself slapped all over the campus of a Greek inn by an unarmed slave!'

'I don't believe it!' shrilled Celia. 'It's a story someone invented to discredit him! I thought you were Quintus's friend.'

'Bah! Quintus's only friend is his mirror! Had I cared for your husband, would I have made a cuckold of him?'

Celia had wept hysterically.

'You liked me well enough,' she cried, 'until you came here and noticed the charms of this Gallus girl! And it's plain to see she despises you! What an impudent creature she is!'

'Mind you don't plan to do her some injury!' growled Gaius, clutching her arm roughly. 'You would better forget all about her now, and be contented with your husband when he comes.' He chuckled infuriatingly. 'You and Quintus are admirably suited to each other.'

'You can't treat me like that!' she shouted, reckless with rage. 'Where will you stand with Sejanus when I tell him you have treated me like an ordinary trollop?'

Gaius shrugged.

'Where will YOU stand--when you tell him that?' he sneered.

Whereupon Celia had sought comfort in a call on the Empress, suddenly remembering a social duty which most of the rest forgot in the confusion of departure.

Julia had been surprisingly effusive; and Celia, red-eyed and outraged, was a ready victim to the Empress's sympathetic queries.

'Poor Gaius!' sighed old Julia. 'So impressionable! So lonesome! And so beset with cares! You must make allowances for him, my dear. And he really is in love, I think, with the daughter of Gallus. It would not be a bad alliance. Gallus is a great favourite with the army, at home and abroad. Indeed--Gallus IS the army! And if my son is to succeed to the throne, he needs the good will of our legions. Furthermore, as you have seen for yourself, the Emperor is so foolishly fond of Diana that her marriage with Gaius would practically insure my son's future.'

'But Diana hates him!' cried Celia. 'Anyone can see that!'

'Well, that is because she thinks she is in love with the half- crazy son of Gallio.' Julia's thin lips puckered in an omniscient smile. 'She will get over that. Perhaps, if you would like to square accounts with the luscious Diana, you might give yourself no bother to deny the reports that Marcellus is insane.' And with that, the Empress had kissed Celia and waved her out.

Wiping her lips vigorously, Celia returned to the Villa Jovis where the party was assembling for conveyance down the mountain to the imperial barge. She was still hopeful that Gaius, on the return trip, would repent of his discourtesies and restore her to his favour.

'Where is the Prince?' she inquired, with forced brightness, of her cousin Lavilla Sejanus, as the slave-borne chairs were being filled.

'He isn't going back to the city with us,' Lavilla had had malicious pleasure in replying. 'I daresay he wants to have a quiet visit with Diana.'

'Well, he can have her!' retorted Celia, hotly.

'Don't be too sure of that!' shrilled Minia, Lavilla's younger sister, who was thought to have been wholly occupied with the conversation she was having with Olivia Varus, in the chair beside her.

'Diana is waiting for Marcellus Gallio to come back,' put in Olivia.

'Much good that will do her,' sniffed Celia. 'Marcellus has lost his mind. That's why they sent him away.'

'Nonsense!' scoffed Lavilla. 'The Emperor sent him away to make some sort of investigation--in Athens, or somewhere. Think he would have sent a crazy man?'

'Why not?' giggled Minia.

'Who told you that, Celia?' demanded Olivia.

'The Empress!' declared Celia, impressively. 'I don't think it's a secret.'

'Neither do I,' drawled Lavilla. 'It may have been--but it isn't now.'

'Why should you care?' inquired Minia, languidly.

'Well, I rather like Marcellus,' said Lavilla, 'and Diana, too. It's unfortunate to have such a story spread about. Besides, I don't believe it!'

'But the Empress told me!' snapped Celia, indignantly.

Lavilla arched her brows, pursed her lips and shrugged.

'I wonder why,' she said.

* * * * * *

It was mid-afternoon when the Cleo sighted the island and another hour had passed before she tied up at the wharf. It had been a perfect day. Marcellus had never seen the Bay of Neapolis so blue. Demetrius was left at the docks to oversee the conveyance of their luggage to the Villa Jovis.

Engaging a waiting chair, Marcellus was borne up the long flight of marble steps, and the sinuous path, and more steps, and another path, luxuriating in the ruinously expensive beauty with which the Emperor had surrounded himself. The old man might be crazy, but he was an artist.

Now that they had come up to the plateau, Tiberius's wonder city, dominated by the massive Jovis, gleamed white in the June sunshine. Lean old philosophers and fat old priests lounged in the arbours, and on the gravelled paths that bounded the pools other wise men strolled with their heads bent and their hands clasped behind them. Were all of the Emperor's counsellors old men? Naturally they would be. It aged Marcellus to face the prospect of joining forces with these doddering ancients.

It surprised and gratified him that he had so little explaining to do in accounting for his presence. He spoke his name to the patrol and they passed him without examination. He told the porter who he was and the porter sent another with a message to the Captain of the Guard, who came without delay and led him through the vasty peristyle into the cool, high-ceilinged atrium where, presently, the Chamberlain entered to greet him with much deference.

The Emperor, who was resting, would be made aware of Tribune Marcellus's arrival. Meantime, would the Tribune be pleased to go to the apartment which had been prepared for him?

'I was expected, then?' asked Marcellus.

'Oh, yes, sir,' replied Nevius. 'His Majesty had learned of Tribune Marcellus's arrival in Rome.'

It was a sumptuous suite that they showed him, with a small, exquisitely appointed peristyle of its own, looking out upon a colourful garden. Half a dozen Nubians were preparing his bath. A tall Macedonian slave came with a flagon of wine, followed by another bearing a silver salver filled with choice fruits.

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.

'Rubbish!' grunted Tiberius. 'What do you know about it?'

'This Galilean, sire,' said Marcellus, quietly. 'He will live forever.'

'The man you killed? He will live forever? How do you make that out?'

'The Galilean came to life, sire.'

'Nonsense! You probably bungled the crucifixion. Your father said you were drunk. Did you stay until it was over--or can't you remember?'

Yes, Marcellus had stayed. A Centurion had driven his spear deep into the dead man's heart, to make doubly sure. There was no question about his death. The third day afterwards, he had come to life, and had been seen on many occasions by different groups of people.

'Impossible!' yelled Tiberius. 'Where is he now?'

Marcellus didn't know. But he did know that this Jesus was alive; had eaten breakfast with friends on a lake-shore in Galilee; had appeared in people's houses. Tiberius propped himself up on both elbows and stared, his chin working convulsively.

'Leaves footprints when he walks,' resumed Marcellus. 'Appears unexpectedly. Talks, eats, shows his wounds which--for some curious reason--do not heal. Doesn't bother to open the door when he enters. People have a queer feeling of a presence beside them; they look about, and there he is.'

Tiberius glanced toward the door and clapped his dry old hands. The Chamberlain slipped in noiselessly and instantly, as if, upon being summoned, he hadn't had far to come.

'Lights, stupid one!' shouted the old man, shrilly. He snuggled down, shivered, and drew the covers up over his emaciated shoulder. 'Proceed,' he muttered. 'Doesn't open the door, eh?'

'Two men are walking along the highway, late afternoon, discussing him,' went on Marcellus, relentlessly. 'Presently he falls into step with them. They invite him to supper at an inn, some twelve miles from Jerusalem.'

'Not a ghost, then!' put in Tiberius.

'Not a ghost; but this time he does not eat. Breaks the bread, murmurs thanks to his God, and disappears. Enters a house in Jerusalem, a few minutes later; finds friends at supper--and eats.'

'Might reappear almost anywhere, eh?' speculated Tiberius, adding, half to himself, 'Probably not if the place were well guarded.' And when Marcellus had let this observation pass without hazarding an opinion, the old man growled, 'What do you think?'

'I think it wouldn't make any difference,' ventured Marcellus. 'He will go where he pleases. He opens the eyes of the blind and the ears of the deaf; heals lepers, paralytics, lunatics. I did not believe any of these things, Your Majesty, until it was impossible not to believe them. He can do anything!'

'Why, then, did he let them put him to death?' demanded Tiberius.

'Your Majesty, well versed in the various religions, will remember that among the Jews it is customary to make a blood offering for crimes. It is believed that the Galilean offered himself as an atonement gift.'

'What crimes had HE committed?' asked Tiberius.

'None, sire! He was atoning for the sins of the world.'

'Humph! That's an ingenious idea.' Tiberius pondered it gravely, his eyes on the ceiling. 'All the sins; everybody's sins! And, having attended to that, he comes alive again, and goes about. Well, if he can make atonement for the sins of the whole world, it's presumable that he knows what they are and who has committed them. Cosmic person, eh? Knows all about the whole world, eh? Are you fool enough to believe all that?'

'I believe, Your Majesty'--Marcellus was proceeding carefully, spacing his words--'that this Jesus--can do whatever he wills to do, whenever--wherever--and to whomever he pleases.'

'Including the Emperor of Rome?' Tiberius's tone recommended prudence.

'It is conceivable, sire, that Jesus might visit the Emperor, at any time; but, if he did, it would surely be in kindness. Your Majesty might be greatly comforted.'

There was a long, thoughtful moment before Tiberius wanted more information about the strange appearances and disappearances. 'Quite absurd, making himself visible or invisible at will. What became of him, while invisible? Did he--did he blot himself out?'

'The stars do not blot themselves out, sire,' said Marcellus.

'Your reasoning is, then, that this person might be in the room NOW, and we unable to see him.'

'But Your Majesty would have nothing to fear,' said Marcellus. 'Jesus would have no interest in the Emperor's throne.'

'Well, that's a cool way to put it, young man!' growled Tiberius. 'No interest in the throne, eh? Who does this fellow think he is?'

'He thinks he is the Son of God!' said Marcellus, quietly.

'And you!' Tiberius stared into his eyes. 'What do you think?'

'I think, sire, that he is divine; that he will eventually claim the whole world for his kingdom; and that this kingdom will have no end.'

'Fool! Do you think he will demolish the Roman Empire?' shouted the old man.

'There will be no Roman Empire, Your Majesty, when Jesus takes command. The empires will have destroyed one another--and themselves. He has predicted it. When the world has arrived at complete exhaustion, by wars and slaveries, hatreds and betrayals, he will establish his kingdom of good will.'

'Nonsense!' yelled Tiberius. 'The world can't be ruled by good will!'

'Has it ever been tried, Your Majesty?' asked Marcellus.

'Of course not! You're crazy! And you're too young to be as crazy as all that!' The Emperor forced a laugh. 'Never has so much drivel been spoken in our presence. We are surrounded by wise old fools who spend their days inventing strange tales; but you have outdone them all. We will hear no more of it!'

'Shall I go, then, Your Majesty?' inquired Marcellus, moving to the edge of his chair. The Emperor put out a detaining hand.

'Have you seen the daughter of Gallus?' he asked.

'Yes, Your Majesty.'

'You are aware that she loves you, and has waited these past two years for your return?'

'Yes, Your Majesty.'

'She was deeply grieved when you came back to Rome, a year ago, and were ashamed to see her because of the sickness in your head. But, hopeful of your recovery, she has had eyes for no one else. And now, you return to her polluted with preposterous nonsense! You, who are so infatuated with kindness and good will--what does Diana think of you now? Or have you informed her how cracked you are?'

'We have not talked about the Galilean, sire,' said Marcellus, moodily.

'This young woman's happiness may mean nothing to you--but it means everything to us!' The Emperor's tones were almost tender. 'It is high time, we think, that you take some steps to deal fairly with her. Let there be no more of this folly!'

Marcellus sat with clouded eyes, making no reply when Tiberius paused to search his face.

'We now offer you your choice!' The old voice was shrill with anger. 'You will give up all this Jesus talk, and take your rightful place as a Roman Tribune and the son of an honoured Roman Senator--or you will give up the daughter of Gallus! We will not consent to her marriage with a fool! What say you?'

'Will Your Majesty permit me to consider?' asked Marcellus, in an unsteady voice.

'For how long?' demanded Tiberius.

'Until noon to-morrow.'

'So be it, then! Noon to-morrow! Meanwhile, you are not to see Diana. A woman in love has no mind. You might glibly persuade her to marry you. She would repent of it later. This decision is not for the daughter of Gallus to make. It is all yours, young man! . . . That will do! You may go!'

Stunned by the sudden turn of affairs and the peremptory dismissal, Marcellus rose slowly, bowed, and moved toward the door where the old man testily halted him.

'Stay! You have talked of everything but the haunted robe. Let us hear about that before you go. We may not see you again.'

Returning to his chair, Marcellus deliberately reported his own strange restoration, traceable to the robe; told also of Lydia's marvellous recovery. Having secured the Emperor's attention, he recited tales of other mysterious occurrences in and about Capernaum; spoke of the aged Nathanael Bartholomew; and Tiberius-- with an old man's interest in another old man's story--showed enough curiosity about the storm on the lake to warrant the telling of it--all of it. When they wakened Jesus at the crest of the tempest, Tiberius sat up. When Jesus, wading through the flooded boat, mounted the little deck and stilled the storm as a man soothes a frightened horse--

'That's a lie!' yelled the Emperor, sinking back into his pillows; and when Marcellus had no more to say, the old man snorted: 'Well!-- go on! Go on! It's a lie--but a new lie! We will say that for it! Plenty of gods know how to stir up storms: this one knows how to stop them! . . . By the way, what became of that haunted robe?'

'I still have it, sire.'

'You have it here with you? We would like to see it.'

'I shall send for it, Your Majesty.'

The Chamberlain was instructed to send for Demetrius. In a few moments, he appeared: tall, handsome, grave. Marcellus was proud of him; a bit apprehensive, too, for it was easy to see that the Emperor was instantly interested in him.

'Is this the Greek who slaughters Roman Tribunes with his bare hands?' growled Tiberius. 'Nay, let him answer for himself!' he warned Marcellus, who had begun to stammer a reply.

'I prefer to fight with weapons, Your Majesty,' said Demetrius, soberly.

'And what is your favourite weapon?' barked Tiberius. 'The broadsword? The dagger?'

'The truth, Your Majesty,' replied Demetrius.

The Emperor frowned, grinned, and turned to Marcellus.

'Why, this fellow's as crazy as you are!' he drawled; then, to Demetrius, 'We had thought of keeping you as one of our bodyguard, but--' He chuckled. 'Not a bad idea! The truth, eh? Nobody else on this island knows how to use that weapon. You shall stay!'

Demetrius's expression did not change. Tiberius nodded to Marcellus, who said, 'Go, and fetch the Galilean robe.' Demetrius saluted deeply and made off.

'What manner of miracle will be wrought upon the Emperor, do you think?' inquired Tiberius, with an intimation of dry bravado.

'I do not know, sire,' replied Marcellus, gravely.

'Perhaps you think we would better not experiment with it.' Tiberius's tone made a brave show of indifference, but he cleared his throat huskily after he had spoken.

'I should not presume to advise Your Majesty,' said Marcellus.

'If you were in our place--' Tiberius's voice was troubled.

'I should hesitate,' said Marcellus.

'You're a superstitious fool!' growled the Emperor.

Demetrius was re-entering with the brown robe folded over his arm. Tiberius's sunken eyes narrowed. Marcellus rose; and, taking the robe from Demetrius, offered it to the old man.

The Emperor reached out his hand, tentatively. Then, slowly recoiling, he thrust his hand under the covers. He swallowed noisily.

'Take it away!' he muttered.



Chapter XXI


Many a Roman of high distinction would have been overwhelmed with joy and pride by a summons to have breakfast at the bedside of the Emperor, but Diana's invitation distressed her.

Since late yesterday afternoon she had been dreamily counting the hours until she could keep her early morning engagement with Marcellus. She was so deeply in love with him that nothing else mattered. Now the happy meeting would have to be postponed; perhaps abandoned altogether, if last night's prolonged interview in the imperial bedchamber had turned out badly.

Until after midnight, Diana--disinterestedly jabbing uneven stitches into an embroidery pattern--had listened to every footfall in the corridors, alert for a message. At length she had persuaded herself that Marcellus thought it too late to disturb her. After a restless night, she had welcomed the dawn; had stood at the window, impatient, ecstatic, waiting for the moment when, with any degree of prudence, she might slip out of the Villa Jovis and speed to her enchanted pergola.

And now the message had come from the Emperor. Concealing her disappointment from the servants, Diana made ready to obey the summons. While her maids fluttered about, helping her into the gay colours which usually brightened the old man's dour mood, she tried to imagine what might have happened. Perhaps Tiberius had proposed some project for Marcellus which would amount to his imprisonment on this wretched island. Knowing how anxious she was to leave Capri, Marcellus might have tried to decline such an offer. In that case, Diana, under deep obligation to the Emperor, would be asked to use her influence. Her intuition warned her that this breakfast with Tiberius might be a very unhappy occasion.

Dispatching Acteus to inform Marcellus that she could not keep her engagement, Diana practised a few bright smiles before her mirror; and, resolutely holding on to one of them, marched into the imperial presence.

'How very good of Your Majesty!' she exclaimed. 'I hope I have not kept you waiting. Are you famished?'

'We have had our breakfast,' sulked Tiberius, 'an hour ago.' He jabbed a sharp brown thumbnail into the ribs of the Chamberlain who was fussing with the pillows. 'Pour a goblet of orange juice for the daughter of Gallus--and then get out! All of you!'

'Not feeling so well?' purred Diana.

'Don't try to joke with us, young woman!' snorted the old man. 'That will do now!' he yelled, at the Chamberlain. 'Stop pottering-- and be gone! And close the door!'

'I wish I could do something,' sympathized Diana, when they were alone.

'Well, perhaps you can! That's why we sent for you!'

'I'll do my best, Your Majesty.' Diana held her big goblet in both hands to keep it from trembling.

'We had a long talk with your handsome fool.' Tiberius hoisted his tired bones over to the edge of the big bed, and scowled into Diana's anxious eyes. 'You said that old Dodinius was crazy. Compared to this Marcellus, Dodinius is a ray of light!'

'I'm sorry,' murmured Diana. 'I was with him for an hour, yesterday afternoon, and he talked sensibly enough.'

'Perhaps you did not discuss the one thing that touches him. Do you know he has become convinced that this Jesus is divine, and has intentions to rule the whole world?'

'Oh, no, please!' entreated Diana, suddenly sickened.

'You ask him! You won't have to ask him! You just say, "Jesus"-- and see what happens to you!'

'But, naturally,' stammered Diana, loyally, 'Marcellus would want to tell Your Majesty everything about this poor dead Jew, seeing that's why he was sent abroad.'

'Poor dead Jew, indeed!' shrilled Tiberius. 'This Galilean came to life again! Went about the country! Walked, talked, ate with people! Still going about, they think! Likely to turn up anywhere!'

'Perhaps they didn't kill him,' suggested Diana.

'Of course they killed him!' snarled Tiberius.

'And Marcellus thinks he came to life; did he see him?'

'No, but he believes it. And he has it that this Jesus is a god, who will take command of the world and rule it without armies.'

Diana winced and shook her head.

'I thought he was fully recovered,' she said, dismally. 'This sounds as if he were worse than ever. What are we to do?'

'Well, if there is anything to be done, you will have to do it yourself. May we remind you that our interest in this mad young Tribune is solely on your account? It was for your sake that we brought him back from that fort at Minoa. For your sake, again, we found an errand for him outside the country to give him time to recover his mind. We see now that we sent him to the wrong place-- but it is too late to correct that mistake. He knows that he is under a heavy obligation to you. Besides, he loves you. Perhaps you can prevail upon him to abandon his interest in this Galilean.' The old man paused, shook his head slowly, and added, 'We doubt whether you can do anything. You see, my child, he really believes it!'

'Then, why not let him believe it?' insisted Diana. 'I love him, no matter what he believes about that--or anything! He won't pester me with this crazy idea; not if I tell him I have no interest in it.'

'Ah, but there's more to it than that, young woman!' declared Tiberius, sternly. 'It isn't as if Marcellus, as a casual traveller in Galilee, had happened upon this strange story and had become convinced of its truth. In that case, he might regard it as a seven-day wonder--and let it go at that. As the matter stands, he probably considers himself bound to do something about it. He crucified this Jesus! He has a debt to pay! It's a bigger debt, by far, than the one he owes you!'

'Did he say that, Your Majesty?' asked Diana, deeply hurt.

'No, he did not say that. But your Marcellus, unfortunately, is a young man of strong will and high integrity. This is going to cause him a great deal of trouble--and you, too, we surmise. He will feel obliged to take part in this Jesus movement.'

'Movement?' echoed Diana, mystified.

'Nothing less, and it has in it the seeds of revolution. Already, throughout our Palestinian provinces, thousands are professing that this Jesus is the Christos, the Anointed One, and are calling themselves Christians. The thing is moving rapidly, up through Macedonia, down through Mesopotamia; moving quietly, but gathering strength.'

Diana listened with wide, incredulous eyes.

'You mean--they might try to overthrow the Empire?'

'Not by force. If some foolhardy fellow were to stand up on a cart and yell at these captive people to take up arms against their masters, they would know that was hopeless. But--here comes a man without an army; doesn't want an army; has no political aspirations; doesn't want a throne; has no offices to distribute; never fought a battle; never owned a sword; hasn't a thing to recommend him as a leader, except'--Tiberius lowered his voice to a throaty rumble--'except that he knows how to make blind men see, and cripples walk; and, having been killed for creating so much excitement, returns from the dead, saying, "Follow me--and I will set you free!" Well, why shouldn't they follow him, if they believe all that?' The old man chuckled mirthlessly. 'There's more than one kind of courage, my child,' he soliloquized, 'and the most potent of all is the reckless bravery of people who have nothing to lose.'

'And you think Marcellus is one of these Christians?' queried Diana.

'Of course he is! Makes no bones about it! He had the audacity to tell us, to our face, that the Roman Empire is doomed!'

'Why, what an awful thing to say!' exclaimed Diana.

'Well, at least it's a dangerous thing to say,' mumbled Tiberius; 'and if he is fool enough to blurt that out in the presence of the Emperor, he is not likely to be prudent in his remarks to other people.'

'He might be tried for treason!'

'Yes, but he wouldn't care. That's the trouble with this new Galilean idea. The people who believe it are utterly possessed! This Jesus was tried for treason, and convicted, and crucified. But he rose from the dead, and he will care for all who give up their lives as his followers. They have no fear. Now, you set a thing like that in motion and there'd be no end to it!'

'But what has Marcellus to gain by predicting doom for the Empire?' wondered Diana. 'That's quite absurd, I think.'

'Had you thought the Roman Empire might last forever?' rasped Tiberius.

'I never thought much about it,' admitted Diana.

'No, probably not,' mumbled the old man, absently. He lay for some time staring at the high-vaulted ceiling. 'It might be interesting,' he went on, talking to himself, 'it might be interesting to watch this strange thing develop. If it could go on the way it seems to be going now, nothing could stop it. But it won't go on--not like that. It will come to grief, after a while-- as soon as it gets into a strong position and is able to dictate terms. Then it will squabble over its offices and spoils, and grow heady with power and territory. The Christian afoot is a formidable fellow, but when he becomes prosperous enough to ride a horse--' Tiberius suddenly broke out in a startling guffaw. 'He! he! he! when he gets a horse! Ho! ho! ho! a Christian on horseback will be just like any other man on horseback! This Jesus army will have to travel on foot--if it expects to accomplish anything!'

Diana's eyes widened as she listened, with mingled pity and revulsion, to the mad old Emperor's prattle. He had talked quite rationally for a while. Now he was off again. By experience she knew that his grim amusement would promptly be followed by an unreasonable irascibleness. She moved to the edge of her chair, as to inquire whether she might go now. The old man motioned her back.

'Your Marcellus has another audience with us at noon,' he said, soberly. 'We told him we had no intention of permitting you to throw yourself away by marrying a man who has anything to do with this dangerous Jesus business. If he goes in for it seriously--and we have no doubt he intends to--he will lose his friends, and his life, too. Let him do it if he likes; but he shall not drag you with him! We told him he must choose. We told him if he did not abandon this Christian movement at once, we would give you in marriage to Gaius.'

'Oh, please, no!' begged Diana.

'We admit,' chuckled Tiberius, 'that Gaius has his little faults; but he can make a Princess of you! You may not think it an ideal alliance, but you will be happier as a Princess than as the wife of a crazy man in love with a ghost!'

'What did he say,' Diana whispered, 'when you told him you would give me to Gaius?'

'He wanted until noon to-day, to consider.' The old man raised himself on his elbow to note the effect of this shocking announcement. His grin slowly faded when he saw how painfully she had been wounded.

'He wanted time to consider,' she reflected, brokenly, 'to consider-- whether he would let me be handed over--to Gaius!'

'Yes, and our opinion is that he will let that happen! Regardless of his love for you, my child, he will not give up his Jesus!' Tiberius shook a long bony finger directly in her face. 'That's what we meant when we told you that this Christian movement is no small thing! Men who believe in it will give up everything! With Marcellus, nothing else matters. NOT EVEN YOU!'

'Then perhaps there is no reason why I should talk to him,' said Diana, hopelessly. 'It would only hurt us both.'

'Oh, it's worth a trial. We pledged him not to talk with you until he had come to a decision, but we shall send him word that he is released from his promise. Perhaps you can help him decide.'

Diana rose and moved toward the door.

'Better not confront him with our threat to give you to Gaius,' called the old man. 'You are not supposed to know that!'

* * * * * *

They sat close together on the marble lectus in the sequestered pergola, silently gazing out upon a calm summer sea. It lacked less than half an hour of noon now and Marcellus would have to be going; for he had an urgent appointment with an old man, and old men--whatever their faults--had a high regard for punctuality.

Everything, it seemed, had been said. Diana, emotionally exhausted, leaned her head against Marcellus's shoulder. Sometimes an involuntary sob tore into her breathing, and his arm would tighten about her protectingly.

When they had met there, three hours ago, Diana thought she had reason to hope that their love would solve the problem. Marcellus, strong but tender, had disclosed a depth of passion that had shaken them both. Nothing could tear them apart now; nothing! Diana was ecstatic. There could be no trouble for them now. So long as they had each other, let the world do what it liked. Let the Empire stand or fall. Let this Jesus go about forever doing good and ruling men by good will, or let him fail of it, and the world go on fighting and starving as it had always been fighting and starving; they had each other, and nothing could separate them! She hungrily raised her face to meet his kisses. He felt her heart pounding. They were one!

'Come, now,' Diana had whispered, breathlessly, 'let us sit down, and make some plans.'

They sat, very close together, and very much aware of each other, until Diana drew a little apart and shook her head. Her eyes were radiant, but her lips were trying to be resolute.

'Please, Marcellus!' she murmured, unsteadily. 'Talk to me! Let us decide what we will say to the Emperor. He wants me to be happy, and he knows I love you. Why not ask him to give you something to do in Rome?'

'But he expects you to live here,' Marcellus reminded her.

'Perhaps we can talk him out of that,' hoped Diana. 'My villa is not finished. Ill as he is, Tiberius knows he cannot supervise it. I think it worries him. He may be glad enough to have done with it. Let us tell him we want to go back to Rome, at least for a while, and visit our people, and be married. Maybe he will consent.'

'He might,' agreed Marcellus, from a considerable distance. 'There's no telling what the Emperor will think--about anything.'

'And then,' Diana went on, with girlish enthusiasm, 'you could do all the things you liked to do, and renew your old friendships, and go to the Tribunes' Club--'

Marcellus frowned.

'Well, what's the matter with the Tribunes' Club?' demanded Diana. 'You used to spend half your time there, in the gymnasium and the baths.'

Marcellus leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and stared moodily at his interlaced fingers.

'That was before I knew what it had cost to erect that marble clubhouse,' he said, soberly.

'Oh, my dear, why can't you leave off fretting over things you can't help?' implored Diana. 'It distresses you that the marble was quarried by slaves. Well, and so was this marble we're sitting on--and the marble that went into your villa at home. Let's agree it's too bad that some people are slaves; but what are you going to do about it, all by yourself?'

Marcellus sighed deeply and shook his head. Then, suddenly straightening, he faced her with a surprisingly altered mood, his eyes alight.

'Diana, I am bursting to tell you a story--about a man--about a remarkable man!'

'If he's the man I think you mean'--Diana's face had lost its animation--'I'd really rather you didn't. He has caused you so much unhappiness, and I think it is time you put him out of your mind. I don't believe he has been good for you.'

'Very well,' consented Marcellus, the smile fading from his eyes. 'As you like.' He fell silent.

Impetuously, Diana moved closer to him, repentant.

'I shouldn't have said that,' she whispered. 'Tell me about him.'

Marcellus was well prepared for this opportunity. He had given much thought to what he would say when the time came for him to tell Diana about Jesus. It would not be easy to make her understand. All her instincts would be in revolt. She would be deeply prejudiced against the story. He had carefully planned the speech he would make to her, in which he must explain Jesus as a divine liberator of the world's oppressed. But now, with Diana's warm and supple form snuggled close against him, he decided to abandon this larger appraisal and deal more simply with his story. He began by telling her about Jonathan and the donkey.

'What a shamefully mean thing to do to that little boy!' she exclaimed, when Jonathan sorrowfully gave up his donkey to Thomas.

'It was a severe test,' admitted Marcellus, 'but it made a little man of Jonathan.'

'And why did they want Jonathan to be a little man?' demanded Diana, making it clear that if she were obliged to listen to this Galilean story, she reserved the right to make comments and ask questions. 'I should have thought,' she went on, innocently, 'that Jonathan would have been ever so much more attractive as a little boy.'

Conceding that the phrase, 'little man,' had not been skilfully chosen. Marcellus thought he should tell her how children felt toward Jesus; how, according to Justus, they swarmed about him in his carpenter shop; how, when Jesus went home in the evening, a crowd of little ones accompanied him. And dogs.

'Well, I'm glad about the dogs,' drawled Diana. 'From what I had heard of his goodness, I had supposed that dogs might feel rather embarrassed in his company.' Instantly she realized that this flippancy had stung. Marcellus recoiled as if she had slapped him.

'His goodness was not negative, Diana, and it was not smug, and it was not weak,' declared Marcellus. 'May I reconstruct your picture of him?'

'Please do,' murmured Diana, absently. She caressingly retied the heavy silk cord at the throat of his tunic, and smiled into his sober eyes from under her long lashes, her full lips offering a frank invitation. Marcellus swallowed hard, and gave her a fraternal pat on the cheek. She sighed and shouldered back under his arm.

Then he told her all about Miriam; all about the wedding-feast--and Miriam's voice.

'And she never could sing before?'

'No, she had never wanted to sing before.'

'And you talked with her, and heard her sing? You liked her, I think. Was she pretty?'

'Very!'

'A Jewess?'

'Yes.'

'They are very pretty, sometimes,' conceded Diana. 'It's too bad she was a cripple.'

'She didn't mind being lame. This other gift was so very important.'

'Why didn't Jesus let her walk?'

'Sounds as if you thought he could,' commented Marcellus, encouraged.

'Well,' Diana replied, defensively, 'you think he could, don't you? I'm taking your word for it.'

'Miriam thinks she can do more good to the unfortunate in her town if she, too, has a disability--'

'And yet can sing, in spite of her affliction,' interposed Diana. 'She must be a fine person.'

'She hadn't been a fine person,' said Marcellus, 'not until this strange thing happened to her.'

'Was she in love with Jesus?'

'Yes, everybody was.'

'You know what I mean.'

'No, I don't think she was. Not that way.'

Diana thoughtfully rubbed her cheek against Marcellus's sleeve.

'Wasn't Jesus in love with anyone?' she murmured.

'Everyone,' said Marcellus.

'Perhaps he thought it was wrong, to love just one person, above all others.'

'I think that might have been wrong--for him. You see, Diana, Jesus was not an ordinary person. He had unusual powers, and felt that his life belonged to the people.'

'What other things did he do?' Diana's curiosity seemed to be more serious. 'There was little Jonathan's foot, and Miriam's voice--'

'I must tell you about Lydia.'

But before he went into the story of Lydia's touching the robe, Marcellus thought he should review his own peculiar experiences with it. Diana grew indignant as he relived that tragic night at the Insula in Jerusalem when Paulus had forced him to put on the Galilean's robe.

'This poor Jesus had suffered enough!' she exclaimed. 'They had no right to make a mockery of his clothes! And he had been so brave-- and had done no wrong!'

Heartened by her sympathy, Marcellus had gone on to tell her all about that afternoon in Athens when, desperate over his mental condition, he had decided to destroy himself.

'You may find it hard to understand, dear, how a person could come to a decision to take his own life.'

'Oh, no!' Diana shook her head. 'I can understand that, Marcellus. I could easily come to that decision--in certain circumstances.'

'It is a lonely business--suicide,' muttered Marcellus.

'Perhaps that is why I can understand it,' said Diana. 'I am well acquainted with loneliness.'

Then Marcellus proceeded to tell her about his finding of the robe, and the peculiar effect it had on him. Diana looked up into his face, her eyes swimming with tears.

'There's no use trying to explain,' he went on. 'I gathered up the robe in my hands--and it healed my mind.'

'Maybe that was because you knew it had belonged to another lonely man,' suggested Diana.

'Curiously enough,' said Marcellus, 'that was the sensation I had when I held the robe in my arms. Some strange friendship--a new, invigorating friendship--had come to my rescue. The painful tension was relaxed. Life was again worth living.' He gravely studied her brooding eyes. 'I wonder if you believe what I am saying?'

'Yes, dear, I believe it; and, considering your earlier experience with his robe, I am not very much surprised.' She was silent for a moment, and then said, 'Tell me now about this Lydia.'

It was quite a lengthy story, with many unforeseen excursions. Diana had remarked that it must almost have killed Lydia when she had to force her way into that huge crowd of strangers in the street. And that had led Marcellus to interrupt himself long enough to describe those crowds; how the poor people had dropped their sickles and left their looms and followed for days, sleeping on the ground, going hungry and footsore--if only they might stay close to Jesus.

Diana listened with rapt attention, narrowed eyes, parted lips, as the Galilean story went on, and on, towards its close.

'And you honestly think he is alive, now?' she asked, earnestly.

Marcellus nodded his head, and after a moment continued with an account of the reappearances.

'And you really think Stephanos saw him?' asked Diana, in an awed voice.

'Do you find that so hard to believe, dear, after the other things I have told you?'

'I want to believe what you believe, Marcellus.'

He had drawn her into his arms and kissed her.

'It meant much to me, my darling, to have shared this story with you,' he said, tenderly. 'Knowing how you felt about the supernatural, I hardly expected you to be so understanding.'

'Well, this is different!' Diana suddenly released herself and sat up to face him. 'What I feared was that it might somehow affect your life--and mine, too. It is a beautiful story, Marcellus, a beautiful mystery. Let it remain so. We don't have to understand it. And we don't have to do anything about it, do we? Let us plan to live, each for the other, just as if this hadn't happened.'

She waited a long time for his reply. His face was drawn, and his eyes were transfixed to the far horizon. Diana's slim fingers traced a light pattern on the back of his hand.

'But it HAS affected my life, darling!' said Marcellus, firmly. 'I CAN'T go on as if it hadn't happened.'

'What had you thought of doing?' Diana's voice was unsteady.

'I don't know, yet,' he replied, half to himself. 'But I know I have a duty to perform. It is not clear--what I am to do. But I couldn't go back to living as I did, not even if I tried. I COULDN'T!'

Then, with a depth of earnestness that stilled her breathing, Marcellus poured out his pent-up convictions about this strange thing that had come to pass. It wasn't just a brief phenomenon that had mystified the country people of little Galilee. It was nothing less than a world-shaking event! For thousands of years, the common people of the whole earth had lived without hope of anything better than drudgery, slavery, and starvation. Always the rapacious rulers of some empire were murdering and pillaging the helpless.

'Look at our record!' he exclaimed, with mounting indignation. 'The Roman Empire has enslaved half the population of the world! And we have thought it brave to subdue these little, undefended states! Look at the heroic sculpture and the bronze tablets dedicated to Emperors and Princes, Knights and Prefects, Legates and Tribunes who have butchered thousands whose only crime was their inability to protect themselves and their lands! This, we thought, was a great credit to the Empire; a gallant thing to do! "I sing of men and of arms!" chants old Publius Vergilius. Sounds brave, doesn't it?

'Diana, dear,' he went on, gravely, 'while on the ship coming home I fell to thinking about the Roman splendours, the monuments in the Forum, the marble palaces; and then I remembered that all these beautiful and impressive things have either been stolen from other people of better talents than our own, or built with tribute money extorted from the ragged and hungry! And I hated these things'. And I hated what we had called Heroism!'

'But you can't do anything about that, Marcellus,' protested Diana, weakly.

Marcellus's storm was subsiding to a mutter. With bitter irony he growled: 'Invincible old Rome--that lives in sloth and luxury-- paid for by people up in Aquitania, Anglia, Hispania, Gaul--and down in Crete--and over in Cappadocia, Pontus, and Thrace--where little children cry for food! Ah, yes, our brave ones will sneer, no doubt, at the unarmed Jesus. They will revile him as a weakling, because the only blood he ever shed was his own! But the time will come, my dear, WHEN THIS JESUS WILL HAVE HIS WAY!'

'So, then, what will you do?' Diana asked, with a weary sigh.

'For the present, I'm sure only of what I will NOT do!' declared Marcellus, passionately. 'I shall not be going back to lounge about in the Tribunes' Club, pretending to have forgotten I know a man who can save the world! I am done with this iniquity! I am free of this shame!'

'But, do you mean to cut yourself off from all your old friends-- and--and go about with these poor slaves?' asked Diana.

'It is WE who are the poor slaves, my dear,' deplored Marcellus. 'These ragged ones, who follow the divine Galilean, are on their way to freedom!'

'You mean--they will band together--and revolt?'

'They may still wear chains on their wrists, Diana, but not on their souls!'

'You're not thinking of joining them!' Diana's cheeks were pale.

'I HAVE joined them!' muttered Marcellus.

Impetuously springing to her feet, Diana gave way to a surprising outburst of desperate disappointment.

'Then you can leave me out of it!' she cried. Burying her face in her arms, and weeping inconsolably, she went on, half-incoherently, 'If you're going to ruin yourself--and make an outcast of yourself-- and become an object of ridicule--that's for you to decide--but--'

As impulsively as she had torn away from him, Diana sank down dejectedly on the lectus, and threw her arms tightly around his neck.

'You are dreaming, Marcellus!' she sobbed. 'You are making a new world out of people and things that don't exist! And you know it! IF men would stop fighting--IF men would live as your Jesus wants them to--IF men would be honest and merciful--then there would be a new world! Nobody would be killed! Little children would have enough to eat! Yes--but men are not made that way. Maybe there will come a time when people will stop mistreating one another--and weeds will stop growing--and lions will stop biting--but not in our time! Why shall we make ourselves wretched? Why not accept things as they are? Why throw your life away?' Diana pressed her wet face hard against his shoulder. 'Marcellus,' she moaned piteously, 'don't you know you are breaking my heart? Don't you care?'

'My darling,' said Marcellus, huskily, 'I care--so much--that I would rather die than see you in sorrow. I am not choosing--which way I shall go. I am not permitted a choice.'

There seemed nothing to say, after that. It was nearing noon and Marcellus would have to go to the Emperor. Diana raised her face and glanced at the sundial. Her eyes were heavy with weeping and the tight little curls on her forehead were damp. Marcellus's throat ached in pity as he looked down into her flushed face. She smiled pensively.

'I must be a dreadful sight,' she sighed.

Marcellus kissed her eyes.

'You must not keep him waiting,' she murmured, lifelessly. 'Come back to me--this afternoon--soon as you can--and tell me about it.'

He drew her tightly to him. Her lips trembled as he kissed her.

'Our happiness was too sweet to last, Marcellus. Go, now, dear. I shall try to understand. I know this has been as hard for you as for me. I shall always love you.' Her voice fell to a whisper. 'I hope your Jesus will take care of you.'

'Do you believe what I told you about him?' asked Marcellus, gently.

'Yes, dear, I believe it.'

'Then--I think he will take care of you, too.'

* * * * * *

The Chamberlain was waiting for him in the atrium and led him directly to the imperial suite. Opening the door, he stood aside deferentially, and when Marcellus had passed in, he noiselessly closed the door behind him.

Tiberius, propped up high on his pillows, regarded him with a penetrating scowl as he crossed the room and approached the massive bed.

Marcellus, bowing deeply, came to attention and waited the Emperor's pleasure. For a long time the old man stared silently into his grave face.

'It is plain to see,' he said, soberly, 'that you have decided to cast your lot with your Jesus. We were sure you would take that course.'

Marcellus inclined his head, but made no audible reply.

There was another long, strained silence.

'That will be all, then,' growled Tiberius. 'You may go!'

Marcellus hesitated for a moment.

'Go!' shouted the Emperor. 'You are a fool!' The shrill old voice rose to a scream. 'You are a fool!'

Dazed and speechless in the face of the old man's clamorous anger, Marcellus retreated unsteadily toward the door, which had swung open.

'You are a fool!' shrieked Tiberius. 'You will die for your folly!' The cracked voice deepened to a hoarse bellow. 'YOU ARE A BRAVE, BRAVE FOOL!'

* * * * * *

Stunned by the encounter, Marcellus walked slowly and indecisively into the atrium where the Chamberlain, bowing obsequiously, directed him out toward the high-vaulted peristyle.

'If you are ready, sir,' he said, 'the chair is waiting to take you down to the wharf. Your luggage has preceded you, and is on the barge.'

'I am not ready to go,' declared Marcellus, crisply. 'I have another appointment here before I leave.'

The Chamberlain smiled frostily and shook his head.

'It is His Majesty's command, sir. You are to go--immediately.'

'May I not have a word with my slave?' protested Marcellus. 'Where is he?'

'Your Greek, sir, is temporarily in confinement. He objected so violently to seeing your effects packed and carried off that it was necessary to restrain him.'

'He fought?'

'One of the Nubians, sir, was slow about regaining consciousness. Your slave is rough--very rough. But the Nubians will teach him better manners.' The Chamberlain bowed again, with exaggerated deference, and pointed toward the luxurious chair. Four brawny Thracians stood at attention beside it, waiting for their passenger. He hesitated. A file of palace guards quietly drew up behind him.

'Farewell, sir,' said the Chamberlain. 'A pleasant voyage to you.'



Chapter XXII


Apparently the word had been circulated on the spacious deck that as soon as this belated passenger arrived the barge would put off, for much interest was shown at the rail when the chair drew up beside the gangway. There was some annoyance, too, especially on the patrician faces of a group of Senators unaccustomed to waiting the convenience of a tardy Tribune.

The beautiful barge moved quietly away from the wharf, and the passengers--a score or more--disposed themselves in the luxurious chairs grouped under the gay awning. A light and lazy breeze ruffled the blue bay. The two banks of long oars swung rhythmically, gracefully, to the metallic beat of the boatswain's hammers. Click! Clack! A crimson sail slowly climbed the forward mast; and, after a few indecisive flutters, resolved to aid the slaves below.

Marcellus found a seat quite apart from the others and moodily surveyed the distant wharves of Puteoli, on the mainland. After a while, a dozen sleek and nearly naked Nubians came up from the hold, bearing silver trays high above their shaved brown heads, and spread fanwise among the passengers. The Emperor's midday hospitality was generous, but Marcellus was not hungry.

The Augusta, at her present speed, should be able to reach Rome by late afternoon of the day after to-morrow. For the first time in his life, Marcellus had no desire to go home. There would be endless explanations to make. His father would be disappointed, hurt, exasperated; his mother would resort to tears; Lucia would try to be sympathetic, but it would be sheer pity. He attempted to imagine a conversation with Tullus. They had been very close and confidential. What had they to talk about, were they to meet now? Tullus would inquire, rather gingerly, what on earth he had been doing these past two years. Was there any conceivable answer to that question?

As the afternoon wore on, Marcellus's disinclination to return to Rome was crystallizing to a definite decision, and he began to consider alternatives. At sunset, he sauntered to the Captain's quarters and inquired casually whether the Augusta was calling at any of the coast ports before reaching Ostia, and was advised that she was making no stops; not even at Ostia.

He was hungry at dinner-time. A smart breeze had risen, as the twilight came on, and the deck was abandoned. Marcellus went to his cabin, opened his largest bag, and took out the Galilean robe, folding it as compactly as possible. Wrapping it around his leather wallet, he secured it with a strap. The wallet was heavy.

On the evening he had left home, his father had sent Marcipor down to the galley with a parting gift. Distraught, Marcellus had not opened it until he and Demetrius were on board the Cleo. He was amazed. As if to make amends for his part in their estrangement, the Senator had provided him with a very large sum of money. It was all in gold pieces of high denomination. Marcellus had been touched by his father's lavish generosity; saddened, too, for it was almost as if the Senator had said that his son would now be free to go his own way.

Removing his toga, Marcellus rolled it up and stuffed it into the big bag to replace the robe. Then, having refastened the bag, he stretched out on his berth and waited for the time to pass. Most of his thoughts were about Diana, and his loss of her. Occasionally he glanced at the hourglass on his bedside table. Four times he reversed it. If his computation was correct, the Augusta would round the promontory off Capua about midnight.

There was only one sentry patrolling the afterdeck when Marcellus strolled aimlessly toward the stern with his package buckled to the back of his heavy tunic-sash. The sentry paid him but little attention as he stood by the rail. Doubtless the restless passenger had come out to look at the stars. Perhaps a gratuity might be forthcoming if a little service were offered.

A light blinked in the darkness a mile away.

'That is the lighthouse at Capua, sir,' volunteered the sentry.

'Yes,' said Marcellus, indifferently.

'May I bring you a chair, sir?'

'Yes.'

The water was not uncomfortably cold. Marcellus had let himself into it feet-first, without a splash. It was a gratifying long time before the sentry gave the alarm. Evidently he had made quite a business of finding a comfortable chair for the Tribune. Now there were other shouts. The boatswain had stopped beating on his anvil. The Augusta could not be more than two stadia away, but she was only a row of dim lights, her black hull already blended into the darkness.

Marcellus turned his face toward the shore and proceeded with long, overarm strokes to pull Capua nearer. After a while, flipping over on his back, he looked for the Augusta. Only the lamp at the masthead was visible. Doubtless the barge had resumed her journey.

It was the longest swim that Marcellus had ever undertaken. His clothing weighted him. The packet of gold was heavy. Once he thought seriously of tugging off the heavy silk tunic that dragged at his arms, but the threat of arriving at Capua clad only in trunks and a sheer subucula induced him to struggle on. He tried to unfasten his sandal-straps, but found it impossible. The beacon in the lighthouse seemed to be growing brighter. He hoped he was not imagining this, for he was getting very tired.

At length the choppy waves began to smooth out into long combers. Lower lights shone feebly along the shore. The surf grew rougher. Marcellus could hear it crash against the sea-wall. He shifted his course leftward to avoid the lighthouse escarpment and the huddle of docks. It was hard going, across the rip-tide. His lungs were beginning to hurt. A great wave carried him forward; and, retreating, left him a temporary footing. Bracing against the weight of its undertow, he held his ground until it had run out. All but spent, he staggered toward the beach and flung himself down in the lee of a fishing-dory, his teeth chattering with the cold. It occurred to him that he should feel immensely gratified over the success of his difficult adventure, but he found himself indifferent.

Wringing the water out of his clothes, Marcellus vigorously swung his arms to warm himself, and plodded up wearily through the deepening sand until he found a dry spot that still retained something of its daytime heat. There he spent the rest of the night, sleeping lightly, and anxious for the dawn. When the sun rose, he spread out the robe on the sand. It dried quickly and he put it on over his damp tunic, comforted by its warmth. He was in better spirits now, glad to be alive.

At a fisherman's hut he asked for something to eat, but he was eyed with suspicion by the surly old couple, who told him they had no food. Up farther in the town, at a sailors' inn, he was crudely served with black bread and a greasy pottage. Dishevelled loungers gathered about him to ask questions which he made no effort to answer satisfactorily. When he opened his wallet to pay, they drew in closer about him, eyes wide with avaricious interest; but as he overtopped them all and appeared unalarmed by their curiosity, no one made a move to detain him.

Proceeding through the dirty little town, he turned eastward on a dusty, deserted highway. His sandals were drying now, and felt more comfortable, though they had begun to look quite disreputable. Marcellus was bareheaded, having lost his head-band in the sea. Nobody could have mistaken him for a Tribune.

The expensive leather wallet was inappropriate, and he concealed it in the breast of his tunic. At the first village, three miles inland, he spent a few coppers for a well-worn goatskin bag, of considerable capacity, emptied his wallet into it; and, later, dropped the wallet into an abandoned cistern.

Before reaching the next village, he took off his tunic, wrapped it around the package of gold that had nearly drowned him last night, and bought another off the washline of a vintner's cottage, paying the owner ten sesterces, for which he was so well satisfied that he and his wife chuckled behind Marcellus's back as he moved away. The brown tunic was coarsely woven and had seen hard service, but it was clean.

The sun was high now, and Marcellus carried the Galilean robe folded over his arm. He frequently paused to rest in the shade beside the descending stream that grew more and more active as the ascent stiffened toward the foothills of the distant, snow-capped Apennines. He had no plans, but he was not depressed; nor was he lonely. Indeed, he had a curious sense of well-being. The country was beautiful. The trees were in full leaf, the nesting birds were busy and happy, the wild-flowers along the bank of the lively stream were exquisite in their fragile beauty. Marcellus drew deep sighs of contentment, gratified but surprised that he could feel so free of any care. He regarded his own appearance with amusement. He had never looked like this before. He stroked his stubbly jaw and wondered whether a razor could be found in one of the villages. If not, no matter. That night, with the robe for a cover, he slept in the open, remembering, as he drifted off, something Justus had said of Jesus' homelessness: 'The foxes had holes, the birds had nests; but Jesus had no bed, no pillow.' Marcellus drew the robe closer about him. It was not heavy, but it was warm and comforting. He fell asleep thinking of Diana, but not hopelessly. In the morning he rose refreshed, bathed in the cold stream, and breakfasted on wild strawberries.

The stone mileposts had been announcing, with increasing optimism, that travellers on this uphill road were nearing Arpino. Marcellus cudgelled his memory. What did he know about Arpino? Delicious little melons! Arpino melons! And exactly the right time for them, too.

The road was wider now and showed better care. The fences were well-kept. On either side of the highway, vineyards--the plentiful grapes still green--were being cultivated and irrigated. The traffic on the road was increasing. Here were the melon-fields; acres and acres of ripening melons; a procession of high-boxed carts laden with melons; dozens and scores of men, women, and children, scattered through the fields, all bent to the task of gathering melons.

Near a busy open gate, Marcellus sat down on the stone fence and viewed the scene. The little town at the top of the rise seemed to be built on a comparatively level terrain, sheltered on the east by a sheer wall of rock that based one of the loftiest peaks of the range. The village itself--or as much as could be seen of it--was composed of small square cottages crowded closely together. North of this cramped huddle of houses and on slightly higher ground the red-tile roofs of a quite imposing villa shone through the trees surrounding it, doubtless the home of the big man who owned the melon business.

After a while, Marcellus decided to move on up to the village. The swarthy overseer at the open gate, importantly checking the emerging carts on a slate held in the crook of his arm, hailed him. Was he looking for work?

'What kind of work?' Marcellus wanted to know.

The overseer jabbed a thumb toward the melon-field.

'Two sesterces,' he said, gruffly, 'and a cot--and food.'

'But the day is nearly half gone, sir,' said Marcellus. 'Perhaps one sesterce would be sufficient. I have had no experience in picking melons.'

The bewildered overseer rested the heavy slate on his hip, spat thoughtfully, and stared at the newcomer, apparently lacking a formula for dealing with this unprecedented situation. While he deliberated, Marcellus picked up one of the big willow baskets from a heap piled beside the gate and was moving off toward his new occupation.

'Wait, fellow!' called the overseer. 'Can you read and write?'

Marcellus admitted that he could.

'And compute?'

Yes, Marcellus could compute.

'Kaeso has discharged his scrivener.'

'Who is Kaeso?' inquired Marcellus, so unimpressed that the overseer drew himself to full height before declaiming--with a sweep of his arm embracing the fields and the town--that Appius Kaeso owned everything in sight. He pointed toward the villa.

'Go up there,' he said, 'and ask for Kaeso. Tell him Vobiscus sent you. If he does not hire you, come back and work on the melons.'

'I'd much rather work on the melons,' said Marcellus.

The overseer blinked a few times, uncertainly.

'A scrivener is better paid and has better food,' he said, slightly nettled by the traveller's stupidity.

'I suppose so,' nodded Marcellus, adding, with cool obstinacy, 'I should prefer to pick melons.'

'Doesn't it make any difference to you, fellow,' snapped the overseer, 'whether you make two sesterces or ten?'

'Not much,' confessed Marcellus. 'I am not specially interested in money--and it's quite beautiful out here in the open, with that majestic mountain in sight.'

Vobiscus, shielding his eyes, gazed up at the towering peak beyond Arpino, frowned, looked up again, grinned a little, and rubbed his chin.

'You aren't crazy, are you?' he asked, soberly, and when Marcellus had said he didn't think so, the overseer told him to go on up to the villa.

* * * * * *

Kaeso had the traditional arrogance of a short-statured man of wealth and authority. He was of a pugnacious stockiness, fifty, smooth-shaven, expensively dressed, with carefully groomed, grizzled hair and amazingly well-preserved teeth. It was immediately evident that he was accustomed to barking impatient questions and drowning timorous replies in a deluge of belittling sarcasm.

Marcellus had stood quietly waiting while the restless, bumptious fellow marched heavily up and down the length of the cool atrium, shouting his unfavourable opinions of scriveners in general and his most recent one in particular. They were all alike; dishonest, lazy, incompetent. None of them was worth his salt. Every time Kaeso passed the applicant, he paused to glare at him belligerently.

At first, Marcellus had regarded this noisy exhibition with an impassive face, but as it continued, he found himself unable any longer to repress a broad grin. Kaeso stopped in his tracks and scowled. Marcellus chuckled good-humouredly.

'It is to laugh--is it?' snarled Kaeso, jutting his chin.

'Yes,' drawled Marcellus, 'it is to laugh. Maybe it wouldn't be funny if I were hungry--and in dire need of work. I suppose that's the way you talk to everybody who can't afford to talk back.'

Kaeso's mouth hung open and his eyes narrowed with unbelief.

'But carry on.' Marcellus waved a hand negligently. 'Don't mind me: I'll listen. Do you care if I sit down? I've been walking all morning, and I'm tired.' He sat down in a luxurious chair and sighed. Kaeso stalked toward him and stood with feet wide apart.

'Who are you, fellow?' he demanded.

'Well, sir,' replied Marcellus, with a smile, 'your question, asked in that tone, deserves no answer at all, but I am an unemployed wayfarer. Your man Vobiscus insisted that I offer my services as a scrivener. Realizing that this is your busiest season, I thought I might do you a good turn by helping for a few days.'

Kaeso ran his stubby fingers through his greying hair and sat down on the edge of an adjacent lectus.

'And you, sir,' went on Marcellus, 'instead of giving me an opportunity to explain my call, began to hold forth.' His eyes drifted about through the well-appointed atrium. 'If I may venture to say so, you probably do not deserve to live in such a beautiful villa. Your manner of treating strangers doesn't seem to belong here. In these lovely surroundings, there should be nothing but quiet courtesy and good will.'

Kaeso, stunned by the stranger's impudence, had listened with amazement. Now he rose to his feet, his face contorted with anger.

'You can't say things like that to me!' he shouted. 'Who do you think you are? You insult me in my house--yet you look like a common vagrant--a beggar!'

'I am not a beggar, sir,' said Marcellus, quietly.

'Get out!' Kaeso snapped.

Marcellus rose, smiled, bowed, walked slowly toward the open peristyle, and down the broad marble steps, Kaeso following him as far as the portico. Sauntering through the village, he went back to the melon-field, aware that he was being trailed at a little distance by a tall Macedonian. Vobiscus viewed his return with much interest.

'Kaeso didn't want you?' he inquired.

Marcellus shook his head, picked up a basket, and walked through the field until he came to the first little group of labourers. They glanced up with sour curiosity. One old man straightened, with a painful grimace, and looked him over with the utmost frankness.

It was a fine day, observed Marcellus, pleasantly. For a backache, retorted the old man. This drew a sullen chortle from the neighbours, one of whom--a toil-stained girl of twenty--bitterly admonished him that he'd better work awhile, and then tell them how fine a day it was.

Conceding this point so cheerfully that the sulky girl gave him a reluctant but pathetically childish smile, Marcellus doffed his robe--folding it carefully and laying it on the ground beside the goatskin bag--and fell to work with enthusiasm.

'Not so fast, not so fast,' cautioned the old man. 'Kaeso won't pay you any better for killing yourself.'

'And Vobiscus will be bawling at us for shirking,' added a cloddish fellow, up the line a little way.

'These are the finest melons in the world!' remarked Marcellus, stopping to wipe his dripping forehead. 'It's a pleasure to work with the finest--of something. Not many people have a chance to do that. Sunshine, blue sky, beautiful mountains--and the finest--'

'Oh, shut up!' yelled the clod.

'Shut up yourself!' put in the old woman of twenty. 'Let him talk! They ARE good melons!'

For some unknown reason everybody laughed at that, in various keys and tempers, and the mood of the sweating toilers brightened a little. Presently the overseer strolled over from the gate and the melon-pickers applied themselves with ostentatious diligence. He paused beside Marcellus, who looked up inquiringly. Vobiscus jerked his head toward the villa.

'He wants to see you,' he said, gruffly.

Marcellus nodded, picked up his basketful of melons, and poured out a few into the old man's basket. Then he gave some to the worn-out girl, who raised her eyes in a smile that was almost pretty. On up the line of workers, he distributed his melons, emptying the last dozen of them into the basket of the oaf who had derided him. The sullen fellow pulled an embarrassed grin.

'Will you be coming back?' squeaked the old man.

'I hope so, sir,' said Marcellus. 'It is pleasant work--and good company.'

'Oh, it's SIR you are now, old one?' teased the oaf. Much boisterous laughter rewarded this sally. The girl with the scowl did not join in the applause.

'What's paining you, Metella?' yelled the witty one.

She turned on him angrily.

'It's a pity that a stranger can't show us a little decent respect without being cackled at!'

As Marcellus turned to go, he gave her an approving wink that smoothed out the scowl and sent a flush through the tan. A dozen pairs of eyes followed him as he moved away at the side of Vobiscus, who had been an impatient spectator.

'They're not out here to joke--and play,' mumbled Vobiscus.

'You'd get more melons picked,' advised Marcellus. 'People work better when they're happy. Don't you think so?'

'I don't know,' said Vobiscus. 'I never saw anybody working who was happy.' He lengthened his steps. 'You'd better stretch your legs, fellow. Kaeso isn't good at waiting.'

'He's probably as good at waiting as I am at hurrying,' replied Marcellus, dryly.

'You don't know Kaeso,' muttered Vobiscus, with an ominous chuckle. 'He doesn't coddle people; only horses.'

'I can believe that,' said Marcellus. Throwing the old bag over his shoulder, he strolled out to the highway, tarried for another look at the mountain, and sauntered up the hill.

* * * * * *

Kaeso was at his desk when Marcellus was shown in. He was making a showy pretence of being busily engaged and did not glance up. After Marcellus had stood waiting before the desk for what seemed to him a long time, without receiving any attention he turned away and walked over to a window that looked out upon a flower-garden.

'You say you are a scrivener?' called Kaeso, sharply.

'No, sir.' Marcellus slowly retraced his steps. 'Your man asked me if I could read, write, and compute. I can do that--but I am not a scrivener by profession.'

'Humph! How much do you want?'

'You will know, sir, how much my services are worth to you. I shall accept what you think is just.'

'I gave the last man ten sesterces--and his keep.'

'It seems a trifling wage,' observed Marcellus, 'but if you cannot afford to pay more--'

'It's not a question of what I can afford!' retorted Kaeso, pompously. 'It's a question of what you will take!'

'I shouldn't have thought that a proud and successful man like you, sir, would want a stranger to give away part of his time serving you. You called me a beggar, an hour ago, in a tone indicating that you had no respect for beggars. Perhaps I misunderstood you.'

Kaeso pushed his folded arms halfway across the desk and glared up into Marcellus's complacent eyes. He appeared to be contemplating a savage rejoinder; but impulsively changed his tactics.

'I'll give you twenty,' he grumbled, 'and let me tell you something!' His voice was rising to an angry pitch. 'There's to be no shirking, and no mistakes and no--'

'Just a moment!' broke in Marcellus, coolly. 'Let me tell YOU something! You have a bad habit of screaming at people. I can't believe that you get any pleasure out of terrorizing others who can't help themselves. It's just a habit--but, it's a hateful habit--and I don't like it--and you're not to indulge in it when you're addressing ME!'

Kaeso rubbed his jaw with the back of his hand.

'Nobody ever dared to talk to me like that!' he smouldered. 'I don't know why I let you do it.'

'I'll gladly tell you.' Marcellus laid his hands flat on the desk and leaned far forward with a confidential smile. 'You have accumulated a great deal of property and power, but you are not contented. There is something you lack--something you would like to have. You are not sure what it is, but you think _I_ know. That is why you sent for me to come back, Kaeso.'

'I sent for you, fellow'--Kaeso was wagging his head truculently-- 'because I need a scrivener!'

'Well, I'm not a scrivener,' drawled Marcellus, turning away, 'and you're shouting again. If you will excuse me, I'll go back to the melon-field. I found some very companionable people out there.'

'What? Companionable? Those melon-pickers?' rasped Kaeso. 'They're a pack of dirty, lazy thieves!'

'Not naturally, I think,' said Marcellus, judicially. 'But for their extreme poverty and drudgery, they might be quite decent and industrious and honest--just as you, sir, might be a very charming person if you had no opportunity to be a bully.'

'See here, fellow!' snarled Kaeso. 'Are you going out there to gabble with these idlers, and try to make them believe they're unjustly treated?'

'No, any man who works from dawn to dusk at hard labour--for three sesterces--will not need to be told that he's getting bad treatment.'

'So they've been complaining, eh?'

'Not to me, sir. When I left them, I thought they were in quite a merry mood.'

'Humph! What have they got to be merry about?' Kaeso pushed back his chair, rose; and, opening a tall cabinet in the corner, drew out a large sheaf of papyrus sheets and an armful of scrolls. Dumping the correspondence on his desk, he pointed to it significantly.

'Sit down!' he commanded. 'Take up that stylus, and I'll tell you how to reply to these letters. They are orders from markets and great houses in Rome--for melons, and grapes and pears. You will read them to me and I shall tell you what to say. And have a care! I do not read--but I will know what they are saying!'

Disinclined to argue, and alive with curiosity to see what might come of this unfamiliar business, Marcellus sat down and began to read the letters aloud. Kaeso seemed childishly pleased. He was selling melons! Cartloads and cartloads of choice Arpino melons! And getting a top price for them! And advance orders for grapes in August. Presently Marcellus came upon a letter written in Greek, and started to read it in that language.

'Ah, that Greek!' snorted Kaeso. 'I do not understand. What does it say?' And when Marcellus had translated it, he inquired, with something like respect, 'You write Greek, too? That is good.' He rubbed his hands with satisfaction. It would be pleasant to let these great ones know that he could afford to have a scholar for a scrivener. When the letter was ended, he remarked, irrelevantly, 'We will find you a better tunic.'

'I have a better tunic, thank you,' said Marcellus, without looking up.

'Is it that you like flowers?' asked Kaeso, after they had finished for the day; and when Marcellus had nodded, he said, condescendingly, 'The scrivener is permitted to walk in the gardens of the villa. If you like horses, you may visit my stables.'

'Very gracious of you, sir,' said Marcellus, absently.

* * * * * *

Antonia Kaeso was at least a dozen years younger than her husband. But for her tightly pursed mouth and unlighted eyes she might have been considered attractive, for her features were nicely moulded, her figure was shapely, and her tone was refined. Marcellus, encountering her among the roses with garden shears and a basket, had reasons for surmising that she was a victim of repression.

She greeted him casually, unsmilingly, remarking in a flat monotone that she supposed he must be her husband's new scrivener. Marcellus admitted this, adding that he was pleased to find employment in such a pleasant environment, which drew a sidelong, bitter smile from her eyes, a smile in which her lips had no share.

'You mean the flowers--and the mountain,' she said.

'Yes, they are beautiful.' He was for sauntering on, seeing that his permission to walk in the garden had not included the right to a leisurely chat with the mistress of the villa; but the enigmatic wife of Kaeso detained him.

'What is your name, scrivener? My husband did not say.'

'Marcellus Gallio.'

'There is a Senator of that name--Gallio.' She was cutting the half-opened roses with long stems and tossing them at random toward the basket. Marcellus stooped and began arranging them in orderly fashion.

'Yes, that is true,' he said.

'Are you related?' she asked, much occupied with her task.

Marcellus laughed, self-deprecatingly.

'Would a humble scrivener be related to a Senator?' he countered.

'Probably not,' she agreed, coolly. 'But you are not a humble scrivener. You are patrician.' She straightened up and faced him with level eyes. 'It's in your voice, in your face, in your carriage.' The short upper lip showed a row of pretty teeth, as she pointed with her shears. 'Look at your hands! They're not accustomed to work--of any kind! Don't be alarmed,' she went on, with a little shrug. 'I won't give you away, though that silk tunic may. Weren't you rather indiscreet to put it on? I saw you in the other one, this morning, from my window. Wherever did you find it?' She was stooping low, busy with her shears. 'How do you like masquerading as a scrivener, Marcellus Gallio? Are you sure you aren't related to the Senator?'

'He is my father,' said Marcellus.

'I believe that,' she replied, turning her face toward him with an honest smile. 'But why do you tell me?'

'Because you seem to like frankness--and because I prefer to tell you the truth. I have not tried to deceive your husband. He did not ask my name.'

'But I think you would be pleased if he did not know.'

'Yes, I should prefer that he does not know.'

'That is unfortunate,' she said, ironically. 'You are robbing Appius Kaeso of much pleasure. Were he able to say that he had the son of a Senator for his scrivener, he would be unbearably exalted.'

'Perhaps you don't understand Kaeso,' soothed Marcellus.

'_I_ don't understand Kaeso!' she exclaimed. 'By all the gods! That is my occupation--understanding Kaeso!'

'He requires special handling, my friend,' declared Marcellus. 'Kaeso is immensely proud of his power over all these people in Arpino. They obey him because they fear him. He could have even more power over them if they obeyed because they liked him.'

'Imagine Kaeso doing anything to make them like him!' she scoffed.

'I can imagine it,' rejoined Marcellus, quietly. 'And if we can induce him to make the experiment, it will greatly improve the atmosphere of this place. Would you like to co-operate with me?'

'It's much too late,' she objected. 'Kaeso could never win their friendship, no matter what he might do for them. And you must remember that the common labourers of Arpino are a dirty, ignorant lot!'

'They ARE dirty!' agreed Marcellus. 'And you can't expect dirty people to be decent. They antagonize one another because each man despises himself--and no wonder. I was thinking about that, this morning. These people should have bathing facilities. There's not much temptation to get into this ice-cold mountain stream. It should not be much of a task to build a large swimming-pool, and let the hot sun warm the water. There is a quarry hard by. The people could construct the pool themselves in the idle interval between the melons and the grapes--if they had any encouragement.'

'Ah, you don't know the Arpinos!' protested the wife of Kaeso.

'If they are worse than other people, there must be a reason,' said Marcellus. 'I wonder what it is.'

'Why should you care, Marcellus Gallio?'

A handsome youth in his early teens was strolling toward them. There was no question about his identity. His resemblance to his mother was so striking as to bring a smile.

'Your son, I think,' said Marcellus.

'Antony,' she murmured, with an ecstatic little sigh. 'He is my life. He wants to be a sculptor. His father does not approve, and will not consent to his having instruction. He is such a lonely, unhappy child. . . . Come here, Antony, and meet the new scrivener, Marcellus Gallio.'

'Your mother tells me you are fond of modelling,' said Marcellus, when Antony had mumbled an indifferent greeting. 'Would you like to let me see what you are doing?'

Antony screwed up a sensitive mouth.

'Would you know anything about it?' he asked, with his mother's disconcerting candour.

'Enough to make a few suggestions, perhaps.'

* * * * * *

Antony couldn't wait until morning, but went to the scrivener's quarters after dinner, carrying the model he had been working on-- two gladiators poised for action. He put it down on Marcellus's table and backed off from it shyly, murmuring that he knew it wasn't very good.

'It's not at all bad, Antony,' commended Marcellus. 'The composition is good. The man on this side is a foolhardy fellow, though, to take that stance. What are their names?'

Suspecting that he was being teased, Antony grinned and said he hadn't named them.

'To do your best work on them,' said Marcellus, seriously, 'they must have personality. You should consider them as real people, and know all about them. Let us attend to that first, shall we?' He drew up a chair for Antony and they sat, facing the model.

'Now, the man on this side is Cyprius. The legionaries captured him down in Crete, burned his house down, drove off his cattle, murdered his wife and son--a boy about your age--and took him to Rome in a prison-ship. He was an excellent swordsman, so they gave him his choice of duelling in the arena or pulling an oar in a galley. So, he chose the arena, and now he is fighting for his life, hoping to kill this other man whom he never saw before.'

'Oh, you're just making that up,' accused Antony, glumly.

'Yes, but that's the way these duels are staged in the arena, Antony, between men who must kill or be killed. Now, your other man is a Thracian. His name is Galenzo. He had a little farm, and a vineyard, and some goats, and three small children. His wife tried to hide him in the hay when the legionaries came, but they struck her down before the children's eyes and dragged Galenzo away on a chain. He fought so hard that they sold him to a praetor who needed gladiators for the games at the Feast of Isis. Now Cyprius and Galenzo are fighting, so the people may have a chance to lay wagers on which one will kill the other. How were you betting, Antony? I shall risk a hundred sesterces on Galenzo. I don't like the way Cyprius stands.'

'I hadn't thought of betting,' said Antony, dispiritedly. He turned to Marcellus with pouting lips. 'You don't like fighting, do you?'

'Not that kind.'

'Maybe you never fought,' challenged Antony. 'Maybe you would be afraid to fight.'

'Maybe,' rejoined Marcellus, undisturbed by the boy's impudence.

'I'll take that back!' spluttered Antony. 'I don't think you'd be afraid to fight. I'll bet you could. Did you ever?'

'Not in the arena.'

'Did you ever kill anyone, sir?'

Marcellus postponed his reply so long that Antony knew his question could have but one answer. His eyes were bright with anticipation of an exciting story.

'Did he put up a good fight, sir?'

'It is not a pleasant recollection,' said Marcellus. There was an interval of silence. 'I wish you had chosen some other subject for your model, Antony. 'I'm not much interested in this one'--he suddenly looked into Antony's moody eyes--'nor are you, my boy! You're not the type that goes in for slaughter. You don't believe in it; you don't like it; and if you had it to do, it would turn your stomach. Isn't that so?'

Antony explored the inside of his cheek with a defenceless tongue, and slowly nodded his head.

'It's worse than that,' he confessed. 'I would be afraid to fight. Maybe that's why I draw pictures of fighting--and make models of gladiators. Just trying to pretend.' He hung his head, morosely. 'I haven't a scrap of courage,' he went on. 'It makes me ashamed.'

'Well, I'm not so sure about that,' consoled Marcellus. 'There are many different kinds of courage, Antony. You've just shown the best kind there is--the courage to tell the truth! It required much more bravery to say what you've just said than it takes to black another man's eye.'

Antony raised his head, and brightened a little.

'Let's start another model,' he suggested.

'Very well, I shall try to think of something that we both might enjoy. Come back early in the morning. If you will lend me some clay, perhaps I may have a rough sketch to show you when you come.'

* * * * * *

Antony laughed merrily. Marcellus had made a rectangular swimming- pool. Seated on the stone ledge, at intervals, were figures of bathers--men, women and children. One thin old man had an absurdly long beard tossed over his shoulder. A tiny baby on all fours was about to tumble in. Its mother was coming at full gallop. The large feet and bony legs of a diver protruded from the immobile water.

'You didn't do all that this morning!' said Antony.

'No, I worked on it most of the night. It's just a beginning, you see. We need many more people sitting around the pool, and diving and swimming. Would you like to complete it?'

'It would be fun, I think,' said Antony.

'You can give it a lot of detail. Move it to a much larger modelling-board and you will have room to do some landscaping. Remember that big white rock, down by the bridge, where there is a natural basin? You might put in the bridge and the rock and the acacia trees. Then everybody would know where the pool is.'

'I say, sir, it wouldn't be a bad idea to HAVE a pool like that!'

* * * * * *

After a week's acquaintance with his new duties, Marcellus was able to complete his day's work by mid-afternoon. Antony would be loitering in the atrium, restlessly passing and repassing the open door to the library. Kaeso had observed this growing attachment, not without some satisfaction.

'They tell me you are helping to amuse my son,' he remarked. 'Don't feel that you must, if it's a burden. You have plenty of work to do.'

Marcellus had assured him that he enjoyed Antony's company; that the boy had artistic talent; that he needed encouragement; and when Kaeso had derided art as a profession, an argument arose.

'I can't think that a real man would want to waste his time playing with mud,' said Kaeso, scornfully.

'Clay,' corrected Marcellus, unruffled. 'Modelling-clay. There's as much difference between mud and clay as there is between Arpino melons and--ordinary melons. It is not unnatural, sir, a man's desire to create something beautiful. Antony may become an able sculptor.'

'Sculptor!' sneered Kaeso. 'And of what use is a sculptor?'

Marcellus had made no reply to that. He continued putting away his accounts and desk implements, with a private smile that stirred Kaeso's curiosity, and when queried, remarked that Antony probably came by it naturally.

'You, sir,' he explained, 'have created a successful business. Your son can hardly hope to improve upon it. It is complete. He, too, wants to create something. You have bequeathed him this ambition. And now you resent his having a desire that he inherited from you.'

Kaeso, purring with self-satisfaction, twirled his thumbs and grinned for more. Marcellus obliged him. Many sculptors starved to death before they were well enough known to earn a living by their art. Antony would not have to starve. His father was rich, and should take pride in his son's ability. Appius Kaeso had made his name important in commerce. Antony Kaeso might make his name mean as much in the field of art.

'You don't want Antony to be unhappy and unsuccessful when he might easily make you proud of him. Show him a little attention, sir, and you'll discover you have a loyal and affectionate son.'

'Ah, the boy has always been cold and disdainful,' complained Kaeso, 'like his mother.'

'If I may venture to contradict you,' said Marcellus, 'Antony is a very warm-hearted youngster. You could have his love if you wanted it. Why not come along with me now, sir, and have a look at something he is making?'

Grumbling that he had no interest in such nonsense, Kaeso had accompanied him to Antony's room. They stood before the model in silence, Antony visibly nervous and expectant of derision.

Kaeso studied the elaborate scene, rubbed his jaw, chuckled a little, and shook his head. Antony, watching his father with pathetic wistfulness, sighed dejectedly.

'It's in the wrong place,' declared Kaeso. 'When the snow melts, the spring freshets come plunging through that hollow. It would tear your masonry out. You must build it on higher ground.'

With that, Marcellus said he had an errand, if they would excuse him, and left the room. He sauntered down the hall and out through the peristyle, wearing a smile of such dimensions that when he encountered Antonia she insisted on knowing what had happened. Her eyes widened with unbelief as he told her briefly that her husband and her son were conferring about the best place to build a swimming-pool.

'Shall I join them?' she asked, childishly.

'No, not this time,' said Marcellus.

* * * * * *

It was mid-July now. At sunset, every day, Marcellus went down to the nearest melon-field and sat by the gate where the workers from all the fields received their wages. For a while the people merely waved a hand and smiled as they passed him. Then some of them ventured to tarry and talk. The scrivener, they all agreed, was indeed a queer one, but there was something about him that inclined them to him. They had a feeling that he was on their side.

For one thing, there was this rumour that they were to have a swimming-pool. When the last of the melons were harvested, anyone who wished to work on the community pool could do so. Nobody knew how much would be paid for this labour, but they were to be paid. Everybody felt that the scrivener had been responsible for this project. Some of the bolder ones asked him about it, and he professed not to know much of the plan, which, he said, was Appius Kaeso's idea; and they would be told all about it, when the time came.

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 to-morrow 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. To-night, 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.

It was as if the Imperial City had reached out her malevolent arms in all directions to clutch and pollute her victims as they moved into the orbit of her fetid breath; and they, ashamed of their rustic simplicities, had sought to appear urbane by cursing one another. Marcellus, making his way past this ill-tempered cavalcade, wondered whether many people could be found in Rome who would care to hear about the man of Galilee.

Arriving in the good-sized town of Alatri at sundown, Marcellus found the only tavern buzzing with excitement. An agitated crowd jostled in the stableyard. Inside, there was barely standing room. He made his way in and asked the tall man wedged beside him what was going on. The news had just come from Rome that Prince Gaius was dead.

At this juncture, the tavern-keeper stood up on a chair and announced importantly that all who did not wish to be served should get out and make way for his guests. Most of the shabby ones sullenly withdrew. In the centre of the room, three flashily dressed wool-buyers from Rome sat at a table, laving the day's dust with a flagon of wine. Crowded about them was an attentive audience, eager for further details concerning the tragedy. Marcellus pressed close and listened.

Last night there had been a banquet at a palatial home of Tribune Quintus and his wife Celia, the niece of Sejanus, in honour of young Caligula, the son of Germanicus, who had just arrived from Gaul. Prince Gaius had been taken suddenly ill at dinner and had died within the hour.

The wool-merchants, conscious of their attentive auditors, and growing less discreet as they replenished their cups from the second flagon, continued to discuss the event with a knowledgeable air, almost as if they had been present at the fateful banquet. It was evident that they were well informed on court gossip, as indeed anyone in Rome could be if he made friends with servants.

There was little doubt, declared the wool-men, that the Prince had been poisoned. He had been in the best of health. The sickness had been swift and savage. Suspicion had not centred definitely on anyone. Tribune Tullus, who in the afternoon had married the young daughter of Senator Gallio--sister of Tribune Marcellus, the one who drowned himself in the sea, a few weeks ago--had spoken some hot words to the Prince, earlier in the evening; but they had both been so drunk that little importance had been attached to the argument.

Old Sejanus had sat opposite the Prince at dinner, and everybody knew that Sejanus had no use for Gaius. But it was agreed that if the crafty old man had wanted to assassinate the Prince he had too much sense to risk it in such circumstances.

'How does it happen that Quintus can live in a palace and give expensive dinners?' inquired the tavern-keeper, anxious to show that he knew a thing or two about the great ones. 'Old Tuscus, his father, is not rich. What did Quintus ever do to make a fortune? He has led no expeditions.'

The wool-merchants exchanged knowing glances and shrugged superiorly.

'Quintus and the Prince are great friends,' said the fat one who presided over the flagon.

'You mean the Prince and Quintus's wife are great friends,' recklessly chuckled the one with the silver trinkets on his head- band.

'Oh, ho!' divined the tavern-keeper. 'Maybe that's how it happened!'

'Not so fast, wise man,' admonished the eldest of the three, thickly. 'Quintus was not present at the banquet. He had been sent, at the last minute, to Capri.'

'Who did it, then?' persisted the tavern-keeper.

'Well, that's what everybody wants to know,' said the fat one, holding up the empty flagon. 'Here! Fill that up--and don't ask so many questions.' He glanced about over the silent group, his eyes tarrying for a moment as they passed Marcellus. 'We're all talking too freely,' he muttered.

Marcellus turned away, followed by the tavern-keeper, and inquired for a bath and a room for the night. A servant showed him to his cramped and cheerless quarters, and he began tossing off his clothes. So--Diana need not be worried about Gaius's attentions any more. That was a great relief. Who would rule Rome now? Perhaps the Emperor would appoint tight-pursed old Sejanus to the regency for the present.

So Gaius had been poisoned, eh? Perhaps Celia had done it. Maybe Gaius had mistreated her. He couldn't be loyal to anyone; not for very long. But no--Celia wouldn't have done it. More likely that Quintus had left instructions with a servant, and had contrived some urgent business at Capri to provide an alibi. Quintus could dispose of the servant easily enough. Marcellus wondered if Quintus had encountered Demetrius at Capri. Well, if he had, Demetrius could take care of himself very nicely.

So Lucia was married. That was good. She had always been in love with Tullus. Marcellus fell to speculating on the possibility that Lucia might have confided to her husband the story of Gaius's crude attempts to make love to her when she was little more than a child. If she had, and if Tullus were drunk enough to be foolhardy--but no, no--Tullus wouldn't get drunk enough to do a thing like that. Tullus would have used a dagger.

Marcellus reverted to Celia, trying to remember everything he could about her; the restless, sultry eyes; the sly, preoccupied smile that always made her manner seem older than her slim, girlish body. Yes, Celia might have done it. She was a deep one, like her Uncle Sejanus.

Well--whatever had caused the Prince's indigestion, the dangerous reptile was dead. That was a comfort. Perhaps Rome might now hope for a little better government. It was inconceivable that the Empire could acquire a worse ruler than Gaius Drusus Agrippa.



Chapter XXIII


When the hard-riding couriers brought the report to Capri that Gaius was dead, the Emperor--in the firm opinion of old Julia--was much too ill to be confronted with such shocking news. That, of course, was nonsense, as the Empress well knew; for her son had long been Tiberius's favourite aversion, and these tidings, far from doing the sick old man any damage, might have temporarily revived him.

But, assuming that the tragic death of a Prince Regent should be viewed as an event too calamitous to be announced at the bedside of a seriously ailing Emperor, everybody conceded that Julia was within her rights in commanding that no mention be made of it to her enfeebled husband, though it was something of an innovation for the Empress to display so much solicitude in his behalf.

With less mercy, Julia had immediately thrust a letter into the hands of the exhausted Centurion who had brought the bad news, bidding him return to Rome at top speed. The Centurion, resentful at being pushed off the island without so much as an hour's respite and a flagon of wine, had no compunction about showing the address of the Empress's urgent message to his long-time friend the Chamberlain who had accompanied him and his aides to the wharf. The letter was going to Caligula.

'Little Boots,' growled the Centurion, contemptuously.

'Little brat!' muttered the Chamberlain, who had seen something of Germanicus's son when he was ten.

Old Julia, for whom Fate seemed always contriving fortuitous events, was feverish to see her grandson at this critical juncture. She had not felt so urgent a need of him, the day before yesterday, when Quintus had suddenly appeared with the suggestion--phrased as diplomatically as possible--that the Empress immediately invite the youngster to Capri. Julia had laughed almost merrily.

'He's a handful for Gaius, eh?' she snapped. 'Well, let Gaius bear his burden as best he can, for a month or two.'

'The Prince thought Your Majesty would be impatient to see Little Boots,' wheedled Quintus, 'and wanted me to say that he would not detain him in Rome if Your Majesty--'

'We can wait,' chuckled Julia.

But to-day the situation had changed. Julia wanted very much to see Little Boots. How lucky for him that he should have happened to be available at this important hour!

Bearing her bereavement with fortitude, as became a Roman and an Empress, Julia nervously counted the dragging hours; watched and waited at her northern windows; grew almost frantic at the sight of a large deputation of Senators being borne up the hill to the Villa Jovis; and strained her old eyes for a certain black-hulled ferry-- her own ferry--plying across the bay from Puteoli.

Nobody on Capri thought, when young Caligula arrived, that his ambitious grandmother had anything larger in mind for the puny youth than a brief interim regency, probably under the guidance of Sejanus--as a little child might hold the dangling ends of the reins and pretend he was driving. Perhaps Julia herself had not ventured to dream of the amazing thing that came to pass.

Caligula, at sixteen, was wizened and frail. He jerked when he walked. His pasty-white, foxish face was perpetually in motion with involuntary grimaces and his restless fingers were always busily picking and scratching like a monkey. He was no fool, though. Behind the darting, close-set eyes a malicious imagination tirelessly invented ingenious pursuits to compensate for his infirmities.

Because of his child's defects, Germanicus had insisted on having him under his eye, even in the heat of military campaigns. The officers had petted and flattered him until he was abominably impudent and outrageously cruel. His bestial pranks were supposed to be amusing. Someone had made a pair of little boots for him, like those worn by the staff officers, and the legend spread that Germanicus's sick boy frequently waddled out in front of a legion on review and barked shrill orders. The whimsical nickname 'Caligula' ('Little Boots') stuck to him until nobody remembered that he had been named after his Uncle Gaius. As a lad, everything Caligula did was clever, including the most shocking vandalisms and brutalities. By the time he was sixteen, it wasn't thought so amusing when Little Boots would jerkily propel himself up to a Centurion and slap him in the face; and even Germanicus, noting that his heir was becoming an intolerable pest, thought it time he was given another change of scenery. So he was sent back to Rome again to visit his Uncle Gaius, who, it was hoped, would make something of him. What manner of miracle the Prince might have wrought was to remain forever a matter of conjecture. It was rumoured that Germanicus's staff officers, upon learning of the death of Gaius, agreed that he could hardly have timed his departure more opportunely.

Caligula arrived on Capri in the late afternoon and old Julia took him at once (duly instructed as to his behaviour) into the deeply shadowed bedchamber of the Emperor, where a dozen or more Senators stood about in the gloom, obviously waiting for Tiberius to take notice of them.

The old man dazedly roused to find a weeping youth kneeling beside his pillow. In a grieving voice the Empress explained that poor Gaius was dead, and Caligula was inconsolable.

Tiberius pulled his scattered wits together, and feebly patted Caligula on the head.

'Germanicus's boy?' he mumbled, thickly.

Caligula nodded, wept noisily, and gently stroked the emaciated hand.

'Is there anything I can do for you, sire?' he asked, brokenly.

'Yes, my son.' Tiberius's tired old voice was barely audible.

'You mean--the Empire?' demanded Julia, in much agitation.

The attentive Senators moved in closer about the bed.

'Yes, the Empire,' breathed Tiberius, weakly.

'Have you heard that?' Julia's tone was shrill and challenging as she threw back her head to face the stunned group at the bedside. 'Caligula is to be the Emperor! Is it not so, Your Majesty?'

'Yes,' whispered Tiberius.

* * * * * *

It was late in the night. The Emperor lay dying. He had been close to it on several occasions. There was no doubt about it this time.

The learned physicians, having made all their motions, took turns holding the thin wrist. The priests, who had spent the day cooling their heels in the atrium, were admitted to do their solemn exercises. The Senators, who had been invited to withdraw after the incredible announcement had been made at sunset, were permitted to enter, now that it was reasonably sure the old man would have nothing more to say. They were still dazed by the blow he had delivered and were wondering how they would tell the Senate that Germanicus's deficient son was to rule the Empire. Of course the Senate, if it courageously took the bit in its teeth, could annul Tiberius's action; but it was unlikely that the solons would risk offending Germanicus and the army. No, their new Emperor--for good or ill--would be Little Boots.

Diana Gallus had not seen Tiberius for a fortnight. Old Julia had given orders that she was not to be admitted. Every morning and evening Diana had appeared at the door of the imperial bedchamber to inquire, and had been advised that the Emperor was too ill to be disturbed.

Shortly after Demetrius's arrival on Capri, he had been assigned to serve as Diana's bodyguard. Strangely enough, this had been done at the suggestion of Tiberius, who, perhaps with some premonition that he might not long be able to insist upon her adequate security, had felt that Marcellus's intrepid slave would protect her.

As the Emperor grew more frail, and the Empress's influence became more pressing throughout the island, Demetrius's anxiety about Diana's welfare increased; though he was careful not to let her know the full extent of his worry. He began making private plans for her rescue, in case her insecurity should become serious.

At the enforced departure of Marcellus, Diana had become restless, moody, and secluded. There was no one on the island in whom she could confide. Most of her daylight hours were spent in her pergola, reading without interest and indifferently toying with trifles of needlework. Sometimes she would bring one of her maids for company. As often she came alone, with Demetrius trailing her at a respectful distance and always within call. Her admiration for the Greek had always been deep and sincere. Now she began to lean on him as a close and understanding friend.

When the rumour had drifted back to Capri that Marcellus had been drowned, Demetrius knew it wasn't true, and comforted Diana with his reasons. Marcellus had no cause to commit suicide. He had become aware of a new and serious obligation. The story that Marcellus had drowned himself as the Augusta was rounding the promontory off Capua only a mile off shore, amused Demetrius, so confident was he that his master had taken that favourable occasion to disappear. Diana believed this too, but Demetrius had to reassure her again and again when her loneliness was oppressive.

Their conversation became less formal as the days passed. Demetrius would sit on the side steps of the pergola answering Diana's persistent questions about their life in Athens, the House of Eupolis, Theodosia, and the escape after the affair with Quintus, for whom she had a bitter contempt.

'Why don't you go back to Theodosia when you are free?' she asked one day. 'Maybe she is waiting for you. Have you ever heard from her?'

Yes, Demetrius had written and he had heard from her, though not for a long time. One could never tell what might happen. Yes, if he were free, and Marcellus had no need of him, yes, he would go back to Athens.

The afternoons would pass quickly, Diana insatiable with her queries, Demetrius telling his interminable stories of old Benyosef's shop, and Stephanos, and the Galileans who came to talk in low voices about the mysterious carpenter who had come alive to live evermore.

Diana would listen attentively as she bent over her small tapestries and lace medallions. Demetrius's hands would be busy too, twisting and braiding short lengths of hemp that he had picked up on the wharves, and splicing them expertly into long, thick cords. Under the sea side of the pergola floor he had secreted his supplies, much to Diana's amusement.

'You are like a squirrel, Demetrius,' she had remarked, teasingly. 'Why do you hide your things, if they're worth nothing, as you say?' One day she bent over his shoulder and watched him deftly working the twisted hempen cords with his wooden awl. 'Why, you're making a rope!' she exclaimed. 'Whatever are you doing that for?' Following it round to the corner of the pergola, she was amazed to find a huge coil secreted. 'I think this is more than play!' she declared, soberly.

'It keeps my hands employed,' replied Demetrius. 'You have your tapestry. I have my rope.'

After his daily duties had been discharged, and he had seen Diana safely to her suite, it was his custom to take long walks in the night. The sentries on the grounds became acquainted with his strange nocturnal habits, and attached no significance to them. Striding along the winding paths, pausing for a leisurely chat with lonely guards, he would descend the long stairways to the wharves where the boatmen and dock employees came to know him. Sometimes he lent a hand for an hour of two, darning rents in a sailcloth, splicing ropes, and caulking leaks with pitch and tow. Not infrequently, having urged Diana to order more than she wanted for dinner, he would appear at the docks with confections and other delicacies.

'You seem immensely fond of those men down there,' Diana had remarked; and Demetrius had explained that they did not have many good things to eat; and, besides, he enjoyed their friendship.

Every night when he left the docks he would carry off as large a bundle of hemp as could be stowed under his tunic. Nobody cared. He was well liked and could do as he pleased. Sometimes he would take one of the idle dories and row up along the rocky rim of the island for an hour, explaining that he needed exercise. The lazy boatmen thought him peculiar, but were willing to humour him.

Early every morning, a freight barge went across to Puteoli to meet the farmers and fruit-growers and butchers who came with their products for the island. One night when Demetrius appeared at the wharf he found the dock hands especially interested in his arrival. A large consignment of Arpino melons had come over in the forenoon, and one of the melons--if he would believe it--had been sent expressly to Demetrius. They gave it to him, and stood about, wide- eyed with curiosity, as he opened the small, slatted box.

'Know somebody at Arpino?' they inquired.

'He's got a girl in Arpino!' guffawed a boatman.

Demetrius couldn't think of anyone who would be sending him a melon from Arpino--or anywhere else. He turned it over slowly in his hand. On one side there had been lightly scratched with a knife- point a small, crude drawing.

'Somebody's name, is it?' one asked. They all crowded in close to contribute the flavour of garlic to this mystery.

'Probably just a joke,' muttered an old boatman, turning away. 'That silly Umbrian that skippers the barge has been playing a little trick on you.'

Demetrius chuckled and said he'd get even; but he could hardly conceal his excitement. It wasn't a bargeman's hoax. The scrawl on the melon was an irregular, almost unrecognizable outline of a fish! So Marcellus was in the melon business!

Next morning, as they sat chatting in the pergola, Demetrius asked Diana if she had ever heard of Arpino melons, and she promptly remembered how much they had liked them at home.

'Yesterday,' said Demetrius, 'when the freight barge came over from the mainland with melons, there was one sent specially to me.' He rose and handed it to her. Diana inspected it with interest.

'How odd! Do you know anyone there? What is this device? It looks like a fish. Does it mean anything?'

'When the Christians in Judea and Galilee,' explained Demetrius, sauntering back to his seat on the steps, 'wanted to inform one another of their whereabouts, or the road they had taken, they drew a rough picture of a fish, in the sand by the roadside, on a rock at a crossing, or over a doorway. If two strangers met at a tavern table, and one of them wanted to know whether the other was a Christian, he idly traced the figure of a fish with his finger.'

'Why a fish?' inquired Diana.

'The Greek word for fish is made up of initials for the words which mean, "Jesus Christ Son of God Saviour."'

'How interesting!' exclaimed Diana. 'But do you suppose there are any Christians at Arpino?'

Demetrius looked into her eyes and smiled mysteriously.

'There is at least one Christian in Arpino,' he said, 'and I think we both know who he is.'

'Marcellus!' whispered Diana, breathlessly.

* * * * * *

This afternoon, all Capri had been excited over the arrival of young Caligula. Demetrius had caught sight of him, kicking himself along at the side of the Empress as they entered the Villa Jovis. An hour later, the island had fairly rocked with the news that this repulsive youth would presently wear the crown. Coupled with this shocking rumour came the report that the Emperor had sunk into a deep coma from which his emergence was most unlikely.

Now that Tiberius was no longer to be reckoned with, and Julia's insufferable grandson was all but on the throne, the Empress would be capable of any atrocity that her caprice might suggest. She could even be vile enough, thought Demetrius, to insist on Diana's showing favours to Caligula.

By the time twilight fell, that evening, there was a confirmation of these forebodings. Diana had been invited to a quiet dinner with the Empress and her now eminent grandson. Despite the fact that the Emperor was snoring the end of his life away, young Caligula must have some pleasant diversion.

Reluctantly, Diana accepted the invitation, realizing that it was nothing less than a command, Demetrius accompanying her to the Villa Dionysius, where, for two anxious hours, he paced to and fro on the frescoed pavement, waiting for her to reappear. When, at length, she came out through the peristyle into the bright moonlight, it was evident from her manner that something had happened. In an agitated voice she confided that the loathsome Caligula had paid her such impudent attentions that even Julia had muttered a stern word of caution.

'That settles it!' declared Demetrius, firmly. 'You can't stay here! I am going to try to take you off the island--to-night!'

'But it's impossible, Demetrius!' she protested.

'We shall see. It will be dangerous. But it is worth trying.' Briefly he instructed her what to do. Diana shuddered. 'You won't be afraid, will you?' he demanded, searching her eyes.

'Yes!' she confessed. 'Of course I'll be afraid! I don't see how I can do it! But--I'll try! I'd rather drown than have that slimy idiot put his hands on me again.'

'Slip out of the Jovis, then, and go alone to your pergola, an hour before midnight!'

Leaving Diana at her door, Demetrius set out on his usual nightly excursion, going first to the pergola, where he dragged the long rope from its hiding-place, secured one end to a small pine tree, and tossed the length of it down the almost perpendicular precipice. For a moment he stood there looking down over the face of the slightly slanting rock to the dashing surf far below, and winced as he pictured Diana's sensations when she confronted this hazardous adventure. Surely it would demand a great deal of courage. He wouldn't have cared to do it himself.

Returning swiftly to his own quarters, he picked up the compact bundle of clothing he had assembled for Diana--a stonemason's coarse smock and heavy leggings, and a knitted cap such as the wharfmen wore.

Everywhere the inquisitive sentries detained him to chatter about the amazing events of the day, and he was obliged to tarry. Time was precious, but he must not arouse suspicion by an appearance of haste or stress. At the wharf he unchained the best dory available, shipped the oars, waved a hand to the boatmen, and made off slowly in the moonlight. As soon as it was discreet, he began to lengthen his strokes. It was a long, hard pull around the eastern point of the massive island. The waves grew suddenly rougher as he came out into the wind of the open sea.

Demetrius's heart pounded fiercely. It was not only the gruelling exertion, but his fear that Diana might be overtaken. On an ordinary occasion it would have been next to impossible for her to go to her pergola so late at night without being questioned. But nothing was quite normal on Capri to-night. The Emperor was dying. Nobody's behaviour would be scrutinized. People would be scurrying about on unfamiliar errands. Maybe Diana would have no trouble in keeping her engagement; but, even if she were lucky enough to do that, it was a perilous risk she still had to face.

At length he recognized, in the moonlight, the tall cliff and the overhanging eaves of the pergola. Manoeuvring the heavy dory as close as he dared to the foot of the towering rock, Demetrius strained his eyes toward the summit. The boat was almost unmanageable in the insistent swells of a high tide. The agonizing minutes dragged along, as he scanned the ledge a full hundred and fifty feet above the waves.

Now his heart gave a great bound! A little way from the top, a grey-clad figure began slipping down. Diana seemed very small and insecure. Demetrius wished she would take it more slowly. He had cautioned her about that. She would burn her hands; perhaps lose her grip. When a little more than half-way down, she slipped several feet before checking herself by twining her legs more tightly about the rope.

Demetrius's eyes widened at the amazing thing that was happening. Diana's descent had slowed to a stop. Now she was actually moving up! He lifted his eyes to the top of the cliff. Two figures on the ledge above were toiling at the rope. Demetrius dropped the oars and funnelled his hands about his mouth.

'Let go!' he shouted.

There was a tense moment of indecision in which Diana was tugged up another foot.

'Jump, Diana!' called Demetrius.

The uncontrolled dory was carried broadside on a wave that almost dashed it against the rock. Suddenly Diana leaped free of the rope and came hurtling down into a huge comber. Its retreat swept her far out. For a long moment she was not to be seen. Bending to his oars, Demetrius tugged the dory away from the cliff, desperately searching the water. Now her head appeared on the curve of a great swell. Diana was swimming. Demetrius pulled alongside and drew an arm about her. She was badly frightened and her breath was coming in gasps and sobs. He bent far over the side of the boat. Diana put her arms around his neck, and he tugged her in over the rail. She crumpled up in a heap at his feet, drenched and exhausted.

Demetrius dragged the cumbersome dory about, and began the laborious trip around the curve of the island, keeping close in the shadow of the rock. It was hard going. Sometimes they seemed to be making no progress at all. Neither spoke until they were in the quiet water on the bay side. Thoroughly spent, Demetrius pulled the dory into the dark mouth of a grotto, and sank down with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.

'You are a brave girl, Diana!' he said, huskily.

'I don't feel very brave,' she said, in a weak voice, 'but I am terribly cold.'

'There is some dry clothing for you in the locker at the bow.' He took her hand and steadied her as she climbed over his seat. 'Lift up the trap,' he said, 'and you will find it.'

'Is this supposed to be a disguise?' she inquired, presently.

'No, it's intended to keep you warm.'

'Why didn't Acteus and that other guard shoot at me?' asked Diana.

'Because they might have hit you,' said Demetrius. 'You need not be afraid of an arrow. Acteus was told to keep you on the island, not to harm you. Did you know he was following you?'

'Not until I was almost at the pergola. I heard them behind me, and recognized the voice of Acteus when he called. It was an awful feeling when I found myself being drawn up.' Diana shuddered. 'It was hard to let go of that rope.'

'I should think so. Are you getting warm now?' Demetrius was taking up the oars. 'Did you find the cap?'

'Yes, it's dreadful. Where are we going now, Demetrius?'

'Over off the mainland, and up the coast to some open beach.'

'And then what, and where?'

'Hide for the day, and row all night to-morrow, and leave the boat somewhere near Formia. But don't worry. You are off this dangerous island. Nothing else matters.'

Diana was quiet for a long time. Demetrius had settled to his heavy task. The oars swept steadily, powerfully, as the dory drove into a rapidly rising breeze. An occasional wave splashed against the rail and showered them with spray.

'Demetrius!' called Diana. 'How far is it from Formia to Arpino?'

'Fifty miles--north-east,' shouted Demetrius, between strokes.

'Were you ever there? You seem to be acquainted with that country.'

'No--never there---looked it up--on the map.'

'Are we going to Arpino?'

'Want to?'

Diana did not reply. The breeze was growing stronger and Demetrius was labouring hard. A wave broke over the side.

'You'll find--leather baling-bucket--up there,' called Demetrius. 'You aren't frightened--are you?'

'No, not now,' she sang out cheerfully.

'Keep me headed for that row of lights at Puteoli.'

'A little to the right, then. Demetrius, it seems almost as if someone were looking after us to-night.'

'Yes, Diana.'

'Do you believe that--truly?'

'Yes.'

'Think he will take care of us--if a storm blows up?'

Demetrius tugged the unwieldy old tub out of the trough, and for an interval rowed hard. Then he replied, in detached phrases, measured by the sweep of the long oars.

'He has been known--to take care--of his friends--in a storm.'

* * * * * *

So impatient was Caligula to occupy his exalted office that the state funeral of Tiberius (which he did not attend, because of some slight indisposition) was practically eclipsed by lavish preparations for the coronation; and, as for Uncle Gaius's obsequies, not many Princes had been put away with less pomp or at so modest an expense.

Perhaps had Emperor Tiberius been a more popular hero, public sentiment might have demanded greater respect for the old man's departure, but so little had been heard of him for the past dozen years that nobody really cared whether he lived or died. Even in the Senate, where the most eloquent of the Romans were skilled in saying things they did not mean, the orations extolling Tiberius were of an appalling dullness.

There was no decent interval of perfunctory mourning. All night, workmen were busy tearing down the funeral trappings along the Corso and the Via Sacra through which the Emperor had taken his last ride that afternoon. The older patricians were shocked by this irreverence; not that they any longer cared a fig about Tiberius, who, for the Empire's sake, should have had the goodness to die years ago; but it boded ill for Rome, they felt, to be crowning a youth so impudently defiant of the proprieties. But the traditions meant as little to Caligula as the counsel of his dismayed ministers. The stories of his insane egotism, his fits and rages, and his utter irresponsibility, swept through the city like a fire.

The coronation festivities lasted for a week and were conducted with an extravagance that knew no precedent in the experience of any nation's capital. Hundreds of thousands were fed and wined, and welcomed to the games, which for wanton brutality and reckless bloodshed quite surpassed anything that Rome had ever seen. The substantial citizenship of the Empire stood aghast, stunned to silence. As for the habitually empty-bellied rabble, Little Boots was their man. So long as he dished out bread and circuses it was no concern of theirs how or whether the bill was settled. Indeed, Little Boots led them to believe that it was by his personal generosity that they were fed and entertained, and was forthright in his denunciation of the wealthy, who, he shouted, were responsible for the people's poverty.

Old Sejanus, frightened and desperate, came before the Senate to remonstrate and plead for immediate action; but nothing was done, and that night Sejanus was assassinated. Crafty old Julia, who had come to Rome expecting to be glorified as the Empress dowager, was hustled on to the imperial barge without ceremony and shipped back to Capri.

The palace reeked of dissolute parties that continued for days and nights and days. All the common decencies were abandoned. Uninvited hundreds crowded into the banquets. Priceless art objects were overturned and broken on the mosaic floors. Riotous guests slipped and rolled down the slimy marble stairways. Never had so many been so drunk.

Triumphal processions, hastily improvised in celebration of some half-forgotten holiday, would move out unannounced into the avenue, bearing in the foremost golden chariot the garishly arrayed, drunken, dishevelled, grimacing, twitching Emperor, sowing handfuls of sesterces into the hysterical street-crowds from a grain-bag that Quintus held in his arms, while the greedy rabble fought in the filthy gutters like dogs, and the pompous Quintus--Little Boots' favourite--laughed merrily at the sport, his lips still cut and swollen from the brutal slapping he had received from the bejewelled hands of old Julia's whimsical grandson. The patricians kept to their villas, inarticulate and numb with cold anger and despair. There was nothing they could do. They did not protest when Caligula ordered that the heads be knocked off the venerated busts of the great in the Forum, and marble models of his own installed with impressive ceremonies. They did not protest when he fitted up a gold-and-ivory stall in the palace for his horse Incitatus, nor did they protest when he elevated Incitatus to the rank of Consul.

The populace laughed inopportunely when Little Boots announced that Incitatus was divine; and, annoyed that this declaration should have been taken lightly, he brought forth an edict demanding that his distinguished horse must henceforth be worshipped in the temples, to the considerable embarrassment of the priests, whose dignity (by reason of other eccentric orders from the throne) was already somewhat in need of repair.

Almost every day the Emperor savagely inquired of Quintus whether any progress had been made in his search for the haughty and beautiful daughter of Gallus, and would be freshly enraged to learn that no trace of her had been discovered. A guard had been set about the absent Legate Gallus's villa. Paula's movements--if the unhappy woman could be said to move at all--were carefully watched. Her servants were questioned, threatened, tortured. On Capri, the guard Acteus and three wharf attendants had been put to death. And Quintus had been advised that he had better contrive some more favourable news of his far-flung investigation if he knew what was good for him.

But Quintus's failure to find Diana was due to no lack of personal interest in this quest. For one thing, when they found Diana they would probably find Demetrius too. He had a score to settle there. It fretted him that he had not been told of the Greek's presence on the island when he had visited the Empress, at Gaius's behest, to implore her to take Caligula off his hands.

Of course it was possible that Diana and Demetrius might have been drowned. Their dory had been found adrift. The weather had been stormy. Nobody along the coast, all the way up from Formia to Capua had seen anything of the fugitives.

Little Boots fumed and shouted. Diana was the only person he knew who had regarded him with undisguised contempt. Moreover, according to the story of her escape from Capri, she had plenty of courage. It would be a pleasure to break her, he muttered. Quintus's mobile lips still smiled obsequiously, but his brows contracted in a cautioning frown.

'The slave, Demetrius, Your Majesty, who contrived her flight, should be disposed of before the daughter of Gallus is taken.'

'Why?' barked Caligula. 'Is the slave in love with her? You said she was in love with that mad Tribune who crucified the Jew, and lost his head over thinking he had killed a god.'

Quintus's eyes had lighted with surprise that Little Boots remembered what he had told him about the Galilean, and the large following he had attracted. Caligula had been so very drunk, and had seemed to pay no attention. Apparently the story had impressed him.

'True, Your Majesty,' said Quintus. 'This Demetrius was the slave of Marcellus, the son of old Gallio. Doubtless he has sworn to protect Diana.'

'If he can!' sneered Caligula.

'If he cannot, sire, and Diana is captured, this Greek would not hesitate to risk his life in avenging her.'

'Pouf! What could he do? You are a timid fool, Quintus! Do you think this slave would force a violent entrance into our presence?'

'The Greek is a dangerous man, Your Majesty,' warned Quintus. 'He was once reckless enough to attack a Tribune with his bare hands!'

'And lived?' shouted Caligula.

'Quite openly! And became a member of the Emperor's guard at the Villa Jovis!'

'Did Tiberius know of the slave's crime?'

'Doubtless. The Empress knew--for I told her.'

'Who was the Tribune that the Greek attacked?'

Quintus fidgeted, and Caligula, eyeing him sharply, burst into laughter. Quintus flushed, and grinned sheepishly.

'Emperor Tiberius never liked me, sire,' he mumbled.

'Perhaps the old man appointed the slave a member of his guard to reward him,' chuckled Caligula. 'Well, here is your chance to settle with this savage. Find him--and run him through!' he advised, with an appropriate gesture.

Quintus pursed his lips and slowly elevated a prudent shoulder.

'I should not enjoy fighting a duel with a slave, Your Majesty.'

Little Boots rocked with laughter.

'Not with this one, in any case!' He suddenly sobered and scowled. 'You make haste to find that Greek! If you are afraid to meet him, let a braver man attend to it! We do not like the idea of his being at large. But tell me more of this Marcellus, who threw himself into the sea. He became a follower of the Jew, eh? Does the daughter of Gallus entertain such notions?'

Quintus said he didn't know, but that he had reason to believe the Greek slave was a Christian, as he had consorted with these people in Jerusalem.

'But he fights, eh?' commented Caligula. 'It was our understanding that this crazy Jesus-cult does not permit fighting.'

'Well, that may be so, Your Majesty,' conceded Quintus, 'but if this Greek is enraged, he will not ask anybody's permission to fight. He is a wild animal.'

Little Boots nervously picked at his pimples.

'What do you think of the strength of our palace guard, Quintus?'

'They are awake, sire, and loyal.'

'It would be quite impossible for an assassin to enter our bedchamber, eh?'

'From without, yes, Your Majesty. But if the Greek decided to kill the Emperor, he might not try to enter the palace. He would probably leap up over the Emperor's chariot-wheel with a dagger.'

'And be instantly bludgeoned to death by the people,' declared Caligula, his chin working convulsively.

'Of course, Your Majesty,' assented Quintus, not displeased to note Little Boots's agitation. 'But the bludgeoning might come too late to be of service to the Emperor. As for the Greek, if he decided upon revenge, he would not haggle at the price.'

Caligula held up a shaky goblet and Quintus made haste to replenish it.

'Hereafter, there must be better protection of our person when we are before the people. There must be a strong double guard marching on either side of the imperial chariot, Quintus. You shall see to it!'

'Your Majesty's order will be obeyed. But if I may venture to say so, this danger could be avoided, sire. Let the daughter of Gallus-- if she still lives--go her way unmolested. The Emperor would have no comfort with her; and to keep her in chains might provoke much unrest in the army where Legate Gallus is held in high esteem.'

Little Boots drank deeply, and hiccoughed with a surly grin.

'When we need your advice, Quintus, we will ask for it. The Emperor of the Roman Empire does not inquire whether his decisions are approved by every legionary in the army.' Little Boots's voice rose shrilly. 'Nor are we concerned over the mutterings of the fat old men in the Senate! We have the people with us!'

Quintus smiled obediently, but offered no comment.

'Speak up, fool!' screamed Little Boots. 'The people are with us!'

'As long as they are fed, Your Majesty,' ventured Quintus.

'We shall feed them when we like,' snarled Little Boots, thickly.

Quintus did not reply to that. Observing that the large silver goblet was empty again, he refilled it.

'And when we stop feeding them, what then?' challenged Little Boots, truculently. 'Is there to be disorder--and do we have to lash them back to their kennels?'

'Hungry people, sire,' said Quintus, quietly, 'can make themselves very annoying.'

'By petty pillaging? Let them steal! The owners of the markets are rich. Why should we concern our self about that? But we will tolerate no mobs, no meetings!'

'It is not difficult, Your Majesty, to deal with mobs,' remarked Quintus. 'They can be quickly dispersed after the spokesmen are apprehended. It is not so easy to break up the secret meetings.'

Caligula set down his goblet, and scowled darkly.

'What kind of people are they who dare to hold secret meetings?'

Quintus deliberated a reply, frowning thoughtfully.

'I have not mentioned this to Your Majesty, because the Emperor is already burdened with cares; but it is believed that there are many followers of this new Galilean cult.'

'Ah, the people who are forbidden to fight. Let them meet! Let them whisper! How many are there?'

'Nobody knows, sire. But we have word that the party is growing. Several houses, where numbers of men were seen to enter nightly, have been watched. In a few cases the patrol has entered, finding no disorder, no arms, and apparently no heated talk. In each instance, no more meetings were held in the house that had been investigated. That probably means they resolved to meet elsewhere. Prince Gaius had been investigating them for months, but without much success.'

'It's a small matter,' mumbled Caligula, drowsily. 'Let them meet and prattle. If they want to think their dead Jew is divine, what of it? Incitatus is divine'--he giggled, drunkenly--'but nobody cares much.'

'But these Christians claim that the Galilean is not dead, sire,' rejoined Quintus. 'According to their belief, he has been seen on many occasions since his crucifixion. They consider him their King.'

'King!' Little Boots suddenly stirred from his torpor. 'We will see to that! Let them believe what else they please about this Jew, but we will have no nonsense about his kingship! Arrest these fools, wherever you find them, and we will break this thing up before it starts!'

'It has started, Your Majesty,' said Quintus, soberly. 'All Palestine is full of it. Recently the party has become strong enough to come out openly in Corinth, Athens, and other Grecian cities.'

'Where are the authorities?' demanded Caligula. 'Are they asleep?'

'No, Your Majesty. The leaders have been imprisoned and some have been put to death; but these people are fanatically brave. They think that if they die for this cause they shall live again.'

'Bah!' shouted Caligula. 'Not many will be found believing in such rubbish! And the few who do believe it will be helpless nobodies!'

Quintus sat silently for a while with his eyes averted.

'Cornelius Capito is anxious about it, sire. He estimates that there are more than four thousand of these Christians in Rome at the present hour.'

'And what is he doing about this treason?' demanded Caligula.

Quintus shook his head.

'It is a strange movement, sire. It has only one weapon--its belief that there is no death. Cornelius Capito is not equipped to crush something that refuses to die when it is killed.'

'You are talking like a fool, Quintus!' mumbled Caligula. 'Command this cowardly old dotard to come here to-morrow, and give an account of himself! And see you to it that the Greek slave is arrested before many days have passed. Bring him here alive, if possible.' The imperial voice was becoming incoherent. 'Call the Chamberlain. We would retire.'

* * * * * *

If, on his far-away travels, some chance acquaintance had asked Marcellus Gallio whether he knew his way about in Rome, he would have replied that he surely ought to know Rome, seeing he had lived there all his life.

He was now discovering that it was one thing to know Rome from the comfortable altitude of a wealthy young Tribune, son of an influential Senator, and quite another thing to form one's estimates of Rome from the viewpoint of an unemployed, humbly dressed wayfarer, with temporary lodgings at a drovers' tavern hard by the public markets that crawled up the bank of the busy Tiber to front a cobbled, crowded, littered street, a street that clamoured and quarrelled and stank--all day and all night.

It had not yet been disclosed to Marcellus why he had felt impelled to return to Rome. He had been here ten days now, jostled by the street crowds, amazed and disgusted by the shameless greed, filth, and downright indecency of the unprivileged thousands who lived no better than the rats that overran the wharf district. The Arpinos had been poor and dirty, too, and ragged and rude; but they were promptly responsive to opportunities for improvement. Surely these underdogs of Rome were not of a different species? Marcellus tried to analyse the problem. Perhaps this general degradation was the result of too much crowding, too little privacy, too much noise. You couldn't be decent if you weren't intelligent; you couldn't be intelligent if you couldn't think--and who could think in all this racket? Add the stench to the confusion of cramped quarters, and who could be self-respecting? Marcellus felt himself deteriorating; hadn't shaved for three days. He had a good excuse. The facilities of Apuleius's tavern were not conducive to keeping oneself fit. Nobody shaved; nobody was clean; nobody cared.

On the day of the Emperor's funeral, Marcellus was in the sweating, highly flavoured throng that packed the plaza in front of the Forum Julium as the solemn procession arrived for the ceremonies. He was shocked to see how his father had aged in these recent weeks. Of course he had had much to worry about. There was a haunted expression on the faces of all these eminent men, and no wonder; for the Empire was in a shameful plight indeed! Marcellus winced at the sight of Senator Gallio, who had ever borne himself with such stately dignity, and had now surrendered to despair. It made his heart ache.

Day after day, for another fortnight, he wandered about the streets, pausing now and then to listen to a hot dispute, or ask a friendly question of a neighbour; but usually men turned away when he tried to engage them in conversation. By his tone and manner, he was not their sort, and they distrusted him. And always the memory of his father's melancholy face and feeble step haunted him.

One evening, intolerably depressed, he dispatched a message to Marcipor, stating briefly where he was living, and requesting a private interview at such a time and place as Marcipor might suggest; preferably not at the tavern of Apuleius. Two hours later the messenger returned with a letter directing Marcellus to go out, the next day, along the Via Appia, until he came to the old Jewish cemetery. Marcipor would meet him there about mid-afternoon.

Marcellus remembered the place. There was an interesting story about it. Two centuries ago, when Antiochus had conquered Palestine, life had been made so wretched for the Jews that thousands of them had migrated, and Rome had got more than her share. Alarmed by the volume of this immigration, laws were passed to restrict the liberties of these refugees. They were banished to the wrong side of the Tiber, limited as to the occupations they might pursue, denied Roman citizenship, and--as the animosity against them increased--ruthlessly persecuted.

Traditionally respectful to their dead, the Jews were greatly distressed when Rome assigned them a burial ground far south of the city where only a shallow deposit of soil covered a massive tufa rock fully a hundred feet deep. Passionate patriots made it a practice to go out there by night and desecrate the graves.

At a prodigious cost of labour, the afflicted Jews proceeded to carve an oblique tunnel into the solid stone. On the lower level, they made long, labyrinthine corridors, in the walls of which they dug crypts for their dead, and rooms where hard-pressed fugitives might hide.

As time passed, the persecutions eased. Many wealthy Jews, having contributed generously to the erection of state buildings and monuments, were admitted to citizenship; and by their influence the burdens laid upon their less lucky kindred were lightened. The old burial ground fell into disuse. Few persons visited 'The Catacombs' now except students of antiquities. Marcellus wondered why Marcipor, who was getting to be an old man, had selected this place for their meeting. It was a long walk.

He arrived somewhat earlier than the appointed time, but Marcipor was already there, waiting for him in the cypress grove that extended from the busy highway a full quarter-mile to the abandoned subterranean tombs.

Marcipor, who had been sitting on the ground, scrambled to his feet and hurried forward with outstretched hands, his deep-lined face contorted with emotion. Deeply moved by the old servitor's attitude, Marcellus grasped his hands hungrily. He was not a Tribune now. Time swung backwards for both of them. The little boy, who had so often come running to the calm and resourceful Corinthian when there was a cut finger or a broken toy, now put his arms around the old man, and held him close.

'We feared you were dead,' said Marcipor, brokenly. 'The family has mourned for you. Tell me'--he held Marcellus at arm's length and studied his face--'why did you afflict them so? It was not like you to do that, my son. . . . Come, let us sit down. I am very weary.'

'Good Marcipor, I was forced to an unhappy choice of afflictions for my family. If they thought me dead, they would grieve; but they would remember me with affection. Had I come home, sworn to spend my life in the service of a cause which demands the complete breathing away from the manner of life expected of Senator Gallio's son, I should have caused them all a greater sorrow. As it stands, they are bereaved; but not humiliated.'

'And why have you told ME?' asked Marcipor. 'This is indeed a weighty secret to confide to one who would be loyal to his master.'

'I saw my father on the day of the Emperor's funeral, Marcipor. His handsome face was haggard, his eyes were dulled with despair, his shoulders slumped, the proud, statesmanlike bearing was gone. The light was out. I tried to forget that harrowing glimpse of my father, but it tortured me. That is why I have sought your counsel. Shall I return? Is there anything I can do?'

With bowed head and downcast eyes, Marcipor meditated a reply.

'Of course you will say,' continued Marcellus, 'that I should renounce the work I have undertaken and resume my former place in my father's house. I cannot expect you to understand the obligation that is laid on me, for you have had no opportunity to--'

'No, my son!' broke in Marcipor. 'You could not renounce your new calling; not even if you tried! I am not as ignorant of this matter as you think. Once a man has become convinced that Jesus is the living Son of God, who is here to set up a kingdom of justice and good will for all people, he does not surrender that faith! If, for any reason, he turns away from it, that means he never had it!'

Marcellus leaned forward to listen, with widening eyes.

'Marcipor!' he exclaimed. 'You are a Christian?'

'When you were at home, the last time, Demetrius thought I should tell you of my belief, and my association with the other Christians in Rome--'

'Other Christians?' repeated Marcellus, amazed.

'Yes, my son, and they are in grave danger. I knew that if you were told of a growing Christian party in Rome, you would join it. These men, for the most part obscure, can assemble secretly, in small groups, without attracting much attention. A Tribune could not do that. I thought it more prudent that you keep away from these meetings. Now, in the past few days, the new Emperor has published an edict threatening death to anyone found in an assembly of Christians. What will happen to our cause in Rome remains to be seen. Young Caligula is cruel and headstrong, they say.'

'Young Caligula is insane!' muttered Marcellus.

'It would seem so,' went on Marcipor, calmly, 'but he is bright enough to carry out his design for slaughter. I knew, when you wrote me you were here, that you would presently locate some Christians and associate with them. You should think twice before you take that risk. We who are unimportant can hide. You cannot; not for long. The Emperor would welcome the opportunity to make an example of you!'

'But you would not counsel me to run away!' challenged Marcellus.

'No one who knows you as well as I do, my son, would use those words. But your life is valuable. While this threat is active, there is little you can do for frightened people in hiding. If you leave the city, until the Emperor's diseased mind turns toward some other cruel pastime, you could return--and be of service. There's no use throwing your life away!'

Marcellus reached out a hand and affectionately patted the old man's knee.

'Marcipor,' he said, gently, 'you have been speaking as my father's trusted servant, concerned for the welfare of his son. For that I am grateful. But this is not the kind of advice that one Christian gives another. Has Demetrius--or anyone--told you of Jesus' last journey to Jerusalem, when his disciples, knowing how dangerous it would be for him to appear there during the Passover, tried to dissuade him from going? They pointed out that his life was precious; that it mustn't be wasted; that he must be saved for service to the people.'

'What did he say?' wondered Marcipor.

'He told them it was poor advice; told them that no man should caution his friend against going into danger for duty's sake; told them that sometimes a man had to lose his life to save it, and that those who tried to save themselves would surely lose themselves. No, you mean it well enough, Marcipor; but I'm remaining in Rome! Can't you realize that our cause might be lost if we who believe in it are frugal of our blood?'

Marcipor slowly nodded his head, and laboriously rose to his feet.

'Come, then,' he said. 'Let us go--and join them.'

'Where?' asked Marcellus.

'In the tombs,' said Marcipor, pointing through the trees. 'About thirty men are meeting there to seek counsel about future plans.'

'Are there so many as thirty Christians in Rome?' Marcellus was surprised and pleased.

'My son,' said Marcipor, 'there are nearly four thousand Christians in Rome! These men are their appointed leaders.'

Marcellus stood speechless for a long moment, pondering this almost incredible announcement. At length he found his voice.

'His kingdom is coming, Marcipor! It is gaining strength, faster than I had thought!'

'Patience, my son!' murmured Marcipor, as he led the way toward the tombs. 'It has still a long, hard road to travel.'

The narrow, uneven steps down into the tunnel were dark as night. As they reached the lower level, a feeble glow outlined the entrance to a corridor on the left. Marcipor proceeded into it with the confidence of one who knew his way. A tall man, in a labourer's tunic, stepped forward and, holding a dim lantern above his head, peered into Marcellus's face.

'Who is this, Marcipor?' he demanded.

'Tribune Marcellus Gallio. He is one of us, Laeto.'

'And what have we to do with Tribunes?' asked Laeto, gruffly.

'Marcellus has given up much for his faith, Laeto,' said Marcipor, gently. 'He knows more about the Galilean than any of us--save one.'

'Very well,' consented Laeto, reluctantly, 'if you vouch for him.'

They proceeded through the long corridor, groping their way, Marcellus wondering at its vast extent. Marcipor lagged and took his arm.

'Laeto views our new cause as a banding together of the poor,' he confided, softly. 'You will find a good deal of that sentiment among the Christians. They can't be blamed much, for they have been long oppressed. But it would be unfortunate if Jesus' kingdom turned out to be a poor man's exclusive haven.'

'Perhaps it would have been better if my identity had remained a secret,' said Marcellus.

'No, it will be good for the Christians in Rome to know that a man with a few coins in his purse can be a worthy follower. We have been hearing too much about the virtues of poverty.'

They turned an abrupt corner to the right and faced another narrower passage that continued on and on, the walls studded with stone slabs bearing names and dates of Jews long dead. A small light flickered, revealing a heavy wooden door at the end of the corridor. Another sentinel moved out of the shadows and confronted them. Marcipor again explained Marcellus. The sentinel pointed with his torch to a small drawing on the lintel.

'Do you know what that sign means?' he inquired.

'It is the Christian's secret symbol, sir,' replied Marcellus.

'Did someone tell you that, or have you seen it before?'

'I have seen it in many places--in Galilee, and Jerusalem.'

'Let me ask you then,' said the sentinel, 'why is the symbol a fish? Is there anything sacred about a fish?'

Marcellus explained respectfully. The sentinel listened with keen attention.

'You may enter,' he said, stepping aside.

It was a large rectangular room with accommodation for many more people than sat in the semi-circular rows in the far corner, huddled closely about a huge, bearded man who was talking to them in a deep guttural tone.

They moved quietly forward, in the dim light, Marcipor leading, until the speaker's earnest voice became plainly audible. Marcellus recognized it, and plucked at the good old Corinthian's sleeve.

'Know him?' whispered Marcipor, with a pleased smile.

'Of course!' said Marcellus, excitedly.

It was The Big Fisherman!



Chapter XXIV


It was early morning but already promising to be another hot day. The swarthy overseer of the vineyard, temporarily at ease, lounged against the gatepost and yawningly watched the labourers--four score or more of men, women, and grown-up children--as they cut the huge purple clusters; carefully, for this fruit was going to a select market.

Some distance down the highway a little wisp of dust was rising from the lazy feet of a shaggy grey donkey attached to a decrepit high-wheeled cart filled with hay. A slim youth walked ahead, impatiently tugging at a long lead-strap. At intervals the donkey stopped and the tall boy in the knitted cap would brace his feet and pull with all his weight, his manner suggesting complete exasperation.

Vobiscus, the overseer, watched and grinned. The young fellow didn't know much about donkeys or he would walk alongside with a stout thornbush in hand. Who was he? Vobiscus was acquainted with all the donkeys, carts, and farmer-boys likely to be plodding along the road in the vicinity of Arpino, but this forlorn equipage lacked identification. He studied it with increasing interest as it crept forward. Nobody would be hauling hay to market in such a cart, and this youngster hadn't come from a hayfield. He wore a long, coarse tunic and the sort of leggings that quarrymen used for protection against flying chips of stone. The bulging old cap might have belonged to a boatman. It was much too heavy for this weather. Vobiscus wondered why he didn't take it off.

Directly in front of the open gate, the donkey took root again, and the slim youth--without a glance at Vobiscus, who was sauntering out into the road--jerked so furiously at the lead-strap that the old bridle broke. Finding himself at liberty, the donkey ambled off to the roadside and began nibbling at the grass, while the angry boy trailed along, pausing to pick up the dragging bridle, which he examined with distaste. Then he threw it down and scrubbed his dusty hands up and down on the skirt of his ill- fitting tunic. They were delicate hands, with long, tapering fingers. He glanced about now, gave the overseer a brief and not very cordial inspection, and walked with short, clipped steps to the donkey's head.

Vobiscus, thoughtfully stroking his jaw, made a thorough, item by item, head to foot appraisal of the unhappy young stranger. Then his cheek began to bulge with a surmising tongue and an informed smile wrinkled his face. He picked up the brittle old harness and unbuckled the broken straps.

'I thought you were a boy,' he said, kindly. 'I'll fix the bridle for you, daughter. Go over there and sit down in the shade--and help yourself to some grapes from that basket. You look worn out.'

The tall girl gave him a long, cool stare. Then her lips parted in a smile that made Vobiscus's heart skip a beat. She rubbed her forehead wearily, and tugged off the outlandish old woollen cap, releasing a cascade of blue-black hair that came tumbling down over her shoulders. Vobiscus laughed discreetly, appreciatively. The girl laughed too, a tired little whimpering laugh that was almost crying.

'You are kind,' she murmured. 'I will do that. I am so hot and thirsty.'

The intolerable donkey had now jammed a wheel against the stone fence and was straining to free himself. Vobiscus went around to the tail of the cart for an armful of hay to entertain him until the bridle was put in order.

'Oh, no, please!' called the girl, sharply. 'He mustn't have any of the hay. It--it isn't good for him!' Her eyes were frightened.

Vobiscus turned his head toward her and scowled.

'What have you in this cart, young woman?' he demanded, roughly, thrusting his arm deep into the hay.

'Please! it's my brother! He is ill! Don't disturb him!'

'Your brother is ill, eh?' scoffed Vobiscus. 'So you load him into a cart and cover him up with hay! A likely tale!' He began tossing the hay out on to the road. 'Ah, so you're the sick brother!'

The girl came swiftly to Vobiscus's side and laid her hand on his arm as Demetrius sat up, frowning darkly.

'We are in trouble,' she confided. 'We came here hoping to find a man named Marcellus Gallio, knowing he would aid us.'

'Marcellus has been gone for a week.' The scowl on Vobiscus's face relaxed a little. 'Are you friends of his?'

They both nodded. Vobiscus looked from one to the other, suspiciously.

'You are a slave, fellow!' he said, pointing at Demetrius's ear. A sudden illumination widened his eyes. 'Ah-ha!' he exclaimed. 'I have it! You're wanted! Both of you! Only yesterday legionaries from Capri were at the villa searching for the daughter of Gallus and a Greek slave who were thought to be on the way to Rome.'

'You are right, sir,' confessed Demetrius. 'This young woman is the daughter of Legate Gallus, and engaged to marry Marcellus Gallio, who is my master. My name is Demetrius.' Voices started.

'That sounds like the name,' he mumbled to himself. 'Tell me, did Marcellus send you a message, some weeks ago?'

'Yes, sir, a small melon, in a box.'

'Any writing?'

'A picture--of a fish.'

Demetrius gazed anxiously up and down the road and stepped out of the cart. Deep in the vineyard a lumbering load of fruit was slowly moving toward the gate.

'Before this fellow sees you,' cautioned Vobiscus, 'busy yourself with that donkey, and keep out of sight. You had better stay here for the present.' He turned to Diana. 'You will be safe, I think, to go up to the villa. Don't hurry. Inquire for Antonia, the wife of Appius Kaeso. Tell her who you are. You two must not be seen together. Everybody in Arpino knows about the search for you.'

'Perhaps they will be afraid to give me shelter,' said Diana.

'Well, they will tell you, if they are,' replied Vobiscus. 'You can't stay here! That's sure!'

* * * * * *

The tall Macedonian by the villa gate gave her a disapproving look.

'And why do you want to see the wife of Kaeso?' he demanded, sharply. 'Perhaps you had better talk to Appius Kaeso, young fellow.'

'No, his wife,' insisted Diana. 'But I am not a beggar,' she added.

The Macedonian cocked his head thoughtfully and grinned.

'Come with me,' he said, in the soft voice of a conspirator. Leading the way to the garden, and sighting his mistress, he signed to the newcomer to proceed, and turned back toward the gate.

Antonia, girlishly pretty in gay colours and a broad-brimmed reed hat, was supervising a slave as he wielded a pruning-knife in the rose arbour. Hearing footsteps, she glanced about and studied the approaching stranger.

'You may go!' she said to the slave. He turned to stare at the visitor. 'At once!' commanded Antonia.

'Please forgive my intrusion,' began Diana, 'and my dreadful appearance. It has been necessary for me to look like a boy.'

Antonia showed a row of pretty teeth.

'Well, maybe it has been necessary,' she laughed--'but you don't look like a boy.'

'I've tried to,' insisted Diana. 'What is it that gives me away?'

'Everything,' murmured Antonia. She drifted to the stone lectus beside the path. 'Come, sit down, and tell me what this is all about. They are hunting for you: is that not so?'

Briefly but clearly, the words tumbling over one another, Diana poured out her story with a feeling of confidence that she would not be betrayed.

'I mustn't get you into trouble,' she went on, 'but oh--if I might bathe--if you would hide me away until I had a night's sleep--I could go on.' Diana's weary eyes were swimming.

'We can take some chances for anyone who loves Marcellus,' said Antonia. 'Come, let us go into the house.' She led the way to the atrium where they encountered Kaeso emerging from his library. He stopped and blinked a few times, incredulously. Antonia said, 'Appius, this is the daughter of Legate Gallus whom the soldiers were inquiring about. . . . Diana, this is my husband.'

'I shall go away, sir, if you wish.' Diana's voice was plaintive.

'What have you done, that they want to arrest you?' inquired Kaeso, facing her soberly.

'She ran away from Capri,' volunteered Antonia, 'because she was afraid of the boy Emperor. Now he is determined to find her.'

'Ugh!' growled Kaeso. 'Little Boots! LITTLE SKUNK!'

'Hush!' warned Antonia. 'You'll have us all in prison yet! Now what shall we do with Diana? Appius, she is engaged to marry Marcellus!'

Kaeso exclaimed joyfully and grasped her hands.

'You're going to stay here with us,' he declared. 'Whoever takes you away will have to fight! Are you alone? The legionaries said they were looking also for a Greek slave who had escaped with you.'

'He is down at the vineyard with Vobiscus,' said Antonia. 'And you'd better do something about it, Appius.'

'How about the servants? How much do they know?'

'Let us not try to make a secret of it,' suggested Antonia. 'We will tell them the truth. When they know that Diana is to marry Marcellus, and that the Greek is his slave, there is no one in Arpino who would--'

'Don't be too sure of that!' said Kaeso. 'There's a reward posted, you know.' He pointed toward the peristyle. 'That Macedonian out there could have quite a merry fling with a thousand sesterces. I shall tell him--and all of them--that if anyone gives out information he will be flogged! Or worse!'

'Do as you think best, dear,' consented Antonia, gently. 'But I believe that trusting them will be safer than threatening them. I think that would be Marcellus's advice if he were here.'

'Marcellus is always giving people credit for being bigger than they are,' remembered Kaeso. He gave Diana an inquiring smile. 'Are you one of these Christians too?'

'I'm afraid not,' sighed Diana. 'It's too hard for me to understand. . . . Did he'--she glanced toward Antonia--'did he talk much about it while he was here?'

'Turned the village upside-down with it!' chuckled Kaeso. 'Antonia will tell you. She has gone Christian too!'

'Marcellus was good for us all,' murmured Antonia. She gave Appius a sidelong smile, and added, 'including the master of Arpino.'

* * * * * *

Young Antony had been so absorbed in his modelling that he had remained in his studio all day, unaware that they were housing a fugitive. Bursting into the dining-room, that evening, spluttering apologies for his tardiness, he stopped suddenly just inside the doorway, and looked into the smiling eyes of the most beautiful creature he had ever seen, wearing the most beautiful pink silk stola he had ever seen, failing to recognize it as his mother's.

On three different occasions, Antony had gone with his parents to Rome for a few days' attendance at great national festivals. There had been fleeting glimpses of lovely patrician girls in their gay litters and, at a distance, in their boxes at the circus; but never before had he been so close to a young woman of Diana's social caste. He faced her now with such spontaneous and unreserved admiration that Kaeso, glancing up over his shoulder, chuckled softly.

'Our son, Antony,' said his mother, tenderly. 'Our guest is Diana, dear, the daughter of Legate Gallus.'

'Oh!' Antony swallowed hard. 'They are after you!' He eased into his seat across from her, still gazing intently into her face. 'How did you get there?'

'Diana hoped to find Marcellus,' explained Antonia.

'Do you know Marcellus?' asked Antony, happily.

'She is his girl,' announced the elder Kaeso, adding, in the little silence that followed, 'And he is a lucky fellow!'

'Y-e-s,' agreed Antony, so fervently that his parents laughed.

Diana smiled appreciatively into Antony's enraptured eyes, but refused to be merry over his honest adoration. It was no joke.

'I am glad you all like Marcellus so well,' she said, softly. 'He must have had a good time here. You are a sculptor; aren't you? Your mother told me.' And when Antony had hitched about, protesting that he hadn't done anything very important, she said, 'Perhaps you will let me see.' Her voice was unusually deep-toned for a girl, he thought.

Girls were always screaming what they had to say. Diana's throaty voice made you feel that you had known her a long time. Antony nodded, with a defensive smile and a little shrug that hoped she wouldn't be expecting to see something really good.

'Marcellus taught him about all he knows,' Antonia remarked, gratefully, as if Diana should be thanked too for this favour.

'He should have been a sculptor,' said Diana, 'instead of a soldier.'

'Right!' declared Antony. 'He detests fighting!'

'But not because he doesn't know how to fight,' Diana hastened to say. 'Marcellus is known to be one of the most expert swordsmen in Rome.'

'Indeed!' exclaimed Kaeso. 'I wouldn't have thought he had any interest in dangerous sports. He never discussed such things with us.'

'Once I asked him if he had ever killed anybody,' put in Antony, 'and it made him awfully unhappy. He said he didn't want to talk about it.'

Diana's face had suddenly lost its animation, and Antony knew he had blundered upon a painful subject. His embarrassment increased when his father said to her, 'Perhaps you know.'

Without raising her eyes, Diana nodded and gave a little sigh.

'Do you like horses?' asked Kaeso, sensing the need of a new topic.

'Yes, sir,' replied Diana, obviously preoccupied. Glancing from one to another, she went on, 'Perhaps we should not leave it--just that way. It wouldn't be quite fair to Marcellus. A couple of years ago he was ordered to put a man to death--and it turned out that the man was innocent of any crime, and had been held in high esteem by many people. He has grieved over it.'

'He would!' sympathized Antonia. 'There never was a more gentle or generous person; always trying to do things for other people.'

Appius Kaeso, eager to lift Diana's depression, seemed anxious to talk about Marcellus's popularity in Arpino. Soon he was pleased to observe that she was listening attentively, her eyes misty as he elaborated on the many kindnesses Marcellus had done, even giving him full credit for the new swimming-pool.

'He was a crafty fellow,' chuckled Kaeso. 'He would trap you into doing things like that, and then pretend it was your own idea. Of course, that was to make you feel good, so you would want to do something else for the people--on your own account.'

Antony, amazed by his father's admissions, covertly sought the surprised eyes of his pretty mother, and gave her a slow wink that tightened her lips in a warning not to risk a comment.

'Marcellus certainly was an unusual fellow,' continued Kaeso. 'It was easy to see that he had had every advantage and had lived well, but he used to go down into the melon-fields and work alongside those people as if they were his own sort: and how they loved it! Every evening, out here on the green, they would gather about him and he would tell them stories about this man Jesus--from up in the Jews' country somewhere--who went about performing all manner of strange miracles. But he must have told you about this man, Diana.'

'Yes,' she nodded, soberly. 'He told me.'

'They put him to death,' said Antonia.

'And Marcellus insists he came to life again,' said Kaeso, 'though I'm sure there was some mistake about that.'

Antony, who had dropped out of the conversation, and apparently wasn't hearing a word of it--to judge from his wide-eyed, vacant stare--had attracted his mother's attention. Kaeso and Diana instinctively followed her perplexed eyes.

'What are you thinking about, boy?' Kaeso wanted his question to sound playful.

Ignoring his father's inquiry, Antony turned to Diana.

'Do you know who crucified that Galilean?' he asked, earnestly.

'Yes,' admitted Diana.

'Do I know?'

Diana nodded, and Antony brought his fist down hard on the table.

'Now it all makes sense!' he declared. 'Marcellus killed this man who had spent his life doing kind things for needy people--and the only way he can square up for it is to spend HIS life that way!' Antony's voice was unsteady. 'He can't help himself! He has to make things right with this Jesus!'

Appius and Antonia speechlessly regarded their son with a new interest.

'Yes, but that isn't quite all, Antony,' said Diana. 'Marcellus thinks this man is to remain in the world forever; believes there is to be a new government ruled by men of good will; no more fighting; no more stealing--'

'That's a noble thought, Diana,' interposed Kaeso. 'Who doesn't long for peace? Who wouldn't be glad to see good men rule? Nothing new about that wish. Indeed, any kind of government would be better than ours! But it's absurd to hope for such a thing, and a man as bright as Marcellus ought to know it! He is throwing his life away!'

'Maybe not!' protested Antony. 'Maybe this Jesus didn't throw his life away! If we're ever to have a better world--well--it has to begin SOMETIME, SOMEWHERE, hasn't it? Maybe it has begun now! What do you think, Diana?'

'I--don't--know, Antony.' Diana put both hands over her eyes and shook her head. 'All I know is, I wish it hadn't happened.'

* * * * * *

When three weeks had passed uneventfully, Diana began to wonder whether it might not now be safe for her to proceed to Rome. Perhaps the young Emperor had forgotten his grievance and had given up searching for her. Kaeso was not so optimistic.

'Little Boots has been much occupied,' he said. 'What with the funeral of old Tiberius, his own coronation, and the festal week, he hasn't had much time to think about anything else. Moreover, his legionaries have all been on duty in the processions and at the games. But he will not forget you. Better wait a little while longer.'

Antonia had slipped an arm around Diana affectionately.

'You can see that Appius wants to keep you here, dear, as long as possible--and so do Antony and I.'

Diana knew that. Their hospitality had been boundless. She had come to love Antonia, and young Antony's attitude toward her had been but little short of worship.

'You have all been so kind,' she said. 'But my mother will be dreadfully worried. Naturally they would go first to her seeking information about me. All she knows is that I escaped from Capri in a little boat. I can't even send her a message, for the guards would trace it back to Arpino.'

Sometimes in the evening Demetrius, who was working in the vineyard and lodging with Vobiscus, would come to inquire. Diana would tell him to be patient, but she knew he was consumed with restlessness and anxious to rejoin Marcellus.

One night at dinner, Kaeso had seemed so preoccupied that Diana felt something had happened. When they returned to the atrium, Vobiscus was found waiting with a note for her. It had been hastily written--in Greek. Demetrius was just leaving for Rome, hoping to find his master.

'My presence here only adds to your danger,' he wrote. 'Kaeso approves my going. He has been most generous. Follow his advice. Do not try to communicate with your home. I shall see your mother if possible.'

Vobiscus had tarried near the open doorway to the peristyle, and Diana went to him. Had Demetrius left on foot, or was he driving the donkey?

'He rode one of the master's fast horses,' said Vobiscus, 'and wore an outfit of the master's clothing.'

Diana rejoined the family seated about the fountain. Their voices were low. She felt they had been discussing her problem.

'You were very kind to Demetrius,' she said, softly. 'I hope you know how deeply I appreciate what you have done for him--and for me-- and Marcellus.'

Kaeso made a negligent gesture, but his eyes were troubled.

'The Greek was not safe here,' he said, soberly. 'Indeed, nobody is any longer safe anywhere! Two of our carters returned this afternoon, from Rome. The city is in disorder. Drunken mobs of vandals have been looting the shops and assaulting respectable citizens. The Emperor pretends to believe that the Christians have a hand in it, and they are being thrown into prison and whipped.'

The colour left Diana's cheeks.

'I wonder how Marcellus is faring,' she said. 'He would do so little to protect himself.'

'Our men say that the search for your Greek has become active again,' said Kaeso, 'and for you too, Diana. It appears that Demetrius is wanted on an old charge of having assaulted a Tribune. He is to be taken, dead or alive. As for you, the Emperor pretends to be concerned about your safety. The rumour is that the Greek slave made off with you, and Caligula wants you to be found.'

'Poor Demetrius!' murmured Diana. 'What chance will he have, with so many looking for him?'

'Well, he knows his life is worth nothing if they catch him,' said Kaeso, grimly. 'He will make them earn their reward: you may be sure of that!'

'Was he armed?' wondered Diana.

'Nothing but a dagger,' said Kaeso.

'Appius is posting sentries at elevated points on our two highways,' said Antonia. 'The sight of legionaries approaching will be their signal to speed back here and report.'

'When they were here before,' said Kaeso, 'they searched the villa thoroughly, but never so much as turned their heads to inquire among the labourers. They would not expect to find the daughter of Legate Gallus working in a vineyard.'

'Why, that is just the place for me, then!' exclaimed Diana.

Antonia and Appius exchanged glances.

'Appius hesitated to suggest it,' said Antonia.

'It might be fun,' said Diana.

'Early in the morning, then,' said Kaeso, relieved. 'Antonia will find you suitable clothing. I wish there were some other way to hide you, Diana--but you are not safe here in the villa. It is possible that if they found you they might treat you with every consideration, but it's the Emperor's doing--and everything he does is evil!'

* * * * * *

About two hours after midnight, old Lentius--dead asleep on his pallet of straw in the corner of a vacant box-stall--came suddenly awake and raised himself on both elbows to listen. Bambo, who always slept beside him, was listening sharply too, and growling ominously.

From outside in the stable-yard came the sound of sandals and hoofs.

Someone was leading a horse. Lentius took down his dim lantern from its peg and unfastened the door. Bambo scurried out with savage threats, but in an instant was barking joyfully. Lentius trudged after him, holding the lantern high.

'No, no, Bambo!' came a weary voice. 'Make him shut up, Lentius. He'll rouse the house.'

'Demetrius!' The bent old man peered up into a haggard face. 'Rub this horse down, Lentius. I've abused him. Careful about the water. He's very hot.' Demetrius patted the sagging head sympathetically.

'Bring him in here.' Lentius led the way into his bedchamber. 'They've been hunting you!' he said, in a husky whisper, as he closed the door. 'See here! This horse has been hurt! There's blood all over his shoulder and down his leg!'

'That's mine,' mumbled Demetrius, stripping his shoulder bare. 'I was being pursued by three cavalrymen--out on the Via Appia, about five miles. I outdistanced two of them, but one overtook me, and nicked me with his sword while I was dragging him out of his saddle. Find me some water, Lentius, and a bandage.'

The old slave examined the deep cut and drew a hissing breath through his lips.

'That's a bad one!' he muttered. 'You've lost a lot of blood. Your tunic is soaked. Look at your sandal! You'd better lie down over there!'

'I think I will,' said Demetrius, weakly, tumbling down on the pallet. Lentius was hovering over him with a basin of water and a sponge. Bambo sniffed inquisitively and turned away to lick the horse's foreleg. 'Lentius, has Tribune Marcellus been here lately?'

Lentius stopped laving the wound, and stared.

'The Tribune! Hadn't you heard? He's been dead--these three months or more! Drowned himself in the sea--poor young master.'

'Lentius, you were fond of the young master, and he liked you. I'm going to trust you with a secret. Now, you're not to repeat this to anybody! Understand? The Tribune is alive--here in Rome.'

'No!' exulted the old man. 'Why doesn't he come home?'

'He will, some day. Lentius, I wonder if you could wake up Marcipor without tearing the house down.'

'It would be easier to waken Decimus. He is on the first floor.'

'I don't want Decimus. Here, let me get up. I'll go myself.' Demetrius made an effort to rise, but sank down again. 'I'm weaker than I thought,' he admitted. 'See if you can get Marcipor. Throw something into his room, and when he comes to the window tell him you want him. Don't speak my name. And ask him to bring some bandages. This isn't going to do any good. Give that horse another drink of water now. Go away, Bambo!'

Marcipor arrived presently, much excited and out of breath, followed by old Lentius.

'You're badly hurt, my son!' he murmured. 'We must send for the physician.'

'No, Marcipor,' objected Demetrius. 'I'd rather take my chances with this sword-wound than risk having my head cut off. . . . Lentius, if you have another vacant stall, take this friendly horse away and clean him up. And you might take the dog too. Marcipor will look after me.'

Reluctantly, old Lentius led out the tired horse, Bambo following dutifully. Marcipor fastened the door and knelt down in the straw close to Demetrius. He began bandaging the cut.

'You're in danger!' he said, in a trembling voice.

'Not for the moment. Tell me, Marcipor, what's the news? Have you seen anything of Marcellus?'

'He is in the Catacombs.'

'Weird place to hide!'

'Not so bad as you'd think. The Christians have been stocking it with provisions for months. More than a hundred men down there now; the ones who have been identified and are being hunted.'

'They'll be caught like hares in a trap--when the patrols discover where they are.'

'No, it won't be so easy as that,' said Marcipor. 'There are miles of confusing tunnels in that old hide-out. The legionaries will not be anxious to go down single-file into that dark hole. They know the old stories about searching parties who went into the Catacombs to hunt fugitive Jews--and never found their way out. . . . How does it feel, Demetrius? Is that too tight?'

There was no answer. Marcipor laid his ear against Demetrius's bared chest, listened, shook him gently, called him in a frightened voice, splashed water in his face; but without response. For an instant he stood irresolute, desperate; then ran panting toward the house, wondering whom he should call for help. Gallio, in his nightclothes, was descending the stairs as Marcipor rushed through the atrium.

'What is the commotion about, Marcipor?' he demanded.

'It's Demetrius, sir!' cried Marcipor. 'He is wounded--dying--out here in the stable!'

'Have you sent for the physician?' asked Gallio, leading the way with long strides.

'No, sir, he did not want a physician. He is in hiding.'

'Put one of the servants on a horse--instantly--and summon Sarpedon. And find help to carry Demetrius into the house. He shall not die in a stable--like a dog!'

Lentius was holding up the lantern for him as Gallio hurried into the stall. 'Demetrius!' he called. 'Demetrius!'

The sunken eyes slowly opened and Demetrius sighed painfully.

'At--your--service, sir.' His white lips moved clumsily.

'Attention!' barked Gallio, surveying the wide-eyed group that had crowded about the door. 'Take him up carefully and bring him to the house. Put him in Marcellus's room, Marcipor. Get him out of these soiled garments and wrap him in heated blankets.'

There was a little excitement in the stable-yard as one of the younger slaves made off at a gallop for Sarpedon. A half-dozen grooms and gardeners gathered about the straw pallet and raised it gently.

'You should have called me at once, Marcipor!' said Gallio, sternly, as they followed toward the house. 'Am I then known among you to be so heartless that I must not be told when a loyal servant is sick unto death?'

'It was difficult to know what to do,' stammered Marcipor. 'He is being hunted down. He would not have come here, sir, but he wanted to inquire about his master.'

'Meaning me?' Gallio halted abruptly in Marcipor's path.

'Meaning Marcellus, sir.'

'But--had he had not heard?'

'He thinks Marcellus is still alive, sir.' Marcipor's voice was weak. 'Demetrius believes that his master is here--in Rome.' They moved past the slaves, shuffling along with their burden, and mounted the steps.

'You told him the truth?' asked Gallio, dejectedly.

'That is the truth, sir,' confessed Marcipor. He put out a hand to steady Gallio, whose face was working convulsively.

'Why have I not been told this?' he demanded, hoarsely.

'Marcellus is a Christian, sir. They are being closely watched. He did not want to endanger the family by coming home.'

'Where is he, Marcipor?' Gallio was climbing the stairs, slowly, a very old man clutching at the balustrade.

'In the Catacombs, sir,' whispered Marcipor.

'What? My son? Down in those old caves with a rabble of brawlers and looters?'

'Not rabble, sir!' disputed Marcipor, recklessly. 'Not brawlers! Not looters! They are honest men of peace, hiding from a cruel idiot who calls himself an Emperor!'

'Quiet, Marcipor!' commanded Gallio, in a husky whisper, as they passed the apartment of Lucia--at home for a few days while Tullus was on special duty. 'How can we get word to my son?'

'It will jeopardize the household, sir, if Marcellus is traced here.'

'Never mind that! Send for him!'

The slaves had deposited Demetrius on his bed now and were filing out of the room.

'Hold your tongues--about this!' Marcipor said warningly. He was closing the door on them when Tertia appeared, much frightened.

'What has happened, Marcipor?' She glanced into the room, gave a smothered cry, and dashed through the doorway, throwing herself down on her knees beside the bed. 'Oh, what have they done to you?' she moaned. 'Demetrius!'

Marcipor laid his hand on her shoulder.

'Come,' he said, gently. 'You must help. Go and find more blankets, and heat them.'

'I cannot send for Marcellus, sir.' Marcipor was tugging off his friend's blood-soaked tunic. 'There is no one in this house-- except myself--who would be admitted to the Catacombs.'

'And why should they admit YOU?' challenged Gallio sharply. 'You are not one of them, are you?'

Marcipor nodded gravely and busied himself unstrapping Demetrius's sandals.

'Then, saddle a couple of horses--and go!' commanded Gallio. 'Here! let me do that!' He turned back his sleeves and attacked the stiffened sandal-straps.

Presently Tertia returned with additional blankets, followed by Lucia with a cup of mulled wine. Gallio took the spoon from her hand and poured a few drops of the hot stimulant between Demetrius's parted lips. He swallowed unconsciously. Gallio raised him up a little and put the cup to his mouth, but he did not respond to it. Tertia was sobbing. Lucia gave her a gentle push and pointed to the door.

'Your brother is alive!' said Gallio, when they were alone.

Lucia started, put both hands to her face, and gaped with surprise, but no words came. She clutched at her father's sleeve.

'Marcipor has gone for him,' murmured Gallio, continuing to administer the hot wine with the spoon. 'I hope he gets here--in time.'

'Marcellus, alive!' whispered Lucia, incredulously. 'Where is he?'

Gallio frowned darkly.

'In the Catacombs!' he muttered.

'Oh--but he can't be!' exclaimed Lucia. 'He mustn't! Those people are all to be killed! Father!' she moaned. 'That's where Tullus is! He has been ordered to raid the Catacombs!'

Gallio passed his hand over his forehead as to rub away the stunning blow. Tertia pushed the door open to admit Sarpedon, who walked to the bed without speaking, and pushed up Demetrius's eyelids with a practised thumb. He pressed the back of his hand against the feeble beating in the throat, shook his head, laid his palm against his patient's heart.

'Hot water,' he ordered. 'Fomentations. It may be useless, but-- we can try.'

* * * * * *

No explanations were needed to account for Diana's employment in the vineyard. Everybody in Arpino knew her story; had known it and discussed it for nearly three weeks. The villa had not tried to make a secret of her presence there; and the villagers, pleased at being trusted, had felt a partnership in her protection.

Kaeso was proud of his town. It was no small thing, he thought, for all Arpino to hold its tongue in the face of the reward offered for information leading to Diana's discovery. There were, however, a couple of good reasons for this unanimous fidelity.

In the first place, a reward promised by the Emperor was a doubtful claim, even if you had earned it honourably. When had the officials ever kept their promises to the people? In the opinion of Arpino, the fewer dealings you had with the Government, the better you were off. It was crammed with deceit and subterfuge, all the way from the Emperor and the other great ones, down to the lazy drunkard who rode over from Alatri once a year to collect the poll-tax. The Arpinos hadn't a scrap of respect for the Government, either local or national, believing it to be operated by fools and rascals. Even if you were mean enough to disclose the whereabouts of Marcellus's girl, you could be sure that whoever got the reward it wouldn't be you. So reasoned the younger men, lounging of an evening on the green, after arguing idly for an hour on what one might do with a thousand sesterces.

But--according to Antonia--there was a better reason than that why Arpino had kept its secret. Marcellus was gratefully remembered for the many benefits he had contrived. He was already in a fair way to become a legendary character. They had never known anyone like him. It was generally believed--for Arpino was amenable to superstitions--that Marcellus was under the special protectorate of this new Galilean god, who, albeit devoted to peace and good will, had been known to enter people's houses without knocking; and you didn't care to risk having him appear at your bedside, some dark night, to shake you awake, and inquire why you had sold his friend Marcellus's promised bride to Caligula.

Early in the morning of Diana's first day in the vineyard, Vobiscus halted a few of the older men and women as they entered, informing them that she would presently arrive for work--and why. They were to spread the word among the others that the daughter of Legate Gallus was to be treated as they treated one another. She was not to be favoured or questioned or stared at; nor was she to be shunned. If the legionaries should appear in the vineyard, everyone was to attend to his own business and make no effort to protect Diana, which might only draw attention to her.

When Metella came in, Vobiscus detained her at the gate, explaining that she was to wait until Diana arrived. Then she was to conduct her to a section of the vineyard farthest from the highway, and show her what to do.

'She needn't really work, you know,' grinned Vobiscus, 'but she ought to know how, in case--'

'I don't see why you picked on me,' complained Metella. 'Shall I be expected to carry her basket, so she won't soil her lily-white hands?'

'She will not impose on you,' said Vobiscus. 'I should think you would like to make friends with someone of her sort. You liked Marcellus, didn't you?'

'Make friends, eh?' sniffed Metella. 'I can just see her wanting to know anybody like me!'

'Don't be so touchy!' said Vobiscus. 'Here she comes now. Take her with you. Don't be embarrassed. Treat her as if she was--a nobody.'

'A nobody, like me, eh?' commented Metella, bitterly.

'Here I am, Vobiscus,' announced Diana. 'Tell me where I am to go, please.'

'Metella will look after you.' Vobiscus pointed his thumb at the girl, who stood by, scowling. She handed Diana a basket and stiffly led the way, Diana quickly coming abreast of her.

'I hope I'm not going to be a nuisance, Metella. Maybe, if you show me how you do it--'

'You won't need any showing,' said Metella, crisply, staring straight ahead as they passed between rows of curious eyes. 'You'll be just pretending to work.'

'Oh, I shall want to do better than that,' protested Diana, in the low voice that made everything she said sound like a secret.

'It will spoil your hands,' said Metella, sourly, after a long delay.

'Come, now!' coaxed Diana. 'If you'll tell me what I'm doing or saying that makes me seem a snob, I'll try to stop it.'

Metella gave a slow, reluctant smile that lighted her face a little. Then the scowl returned, as she plodded along doggedly.

'You had decided you weren't going to like me,' said Diana, 'and I don't think that's fair. That isn't the way one girl should treat another.'

'But we aren't just two girls together,' objected Metella. 'You're somebody, and I'm nobody.'

'That's partly true,' agreed Diana, soberly. 'I AM somebody--and I thought you were, too. You certainly don't look like a nobody, but you ought to know.'

Metella gave her a quick glance out of the tail of her eye, shrugged and grinned.

'You're funny,' she said, half to herself.

'I don't feel very funny,' confided Diana. 'I'm frightened, and I want to go home to my mother.'

Metella's steps slowed, and she regarded Diana with an almost sympathetic interest.

'They will not look for you in the vineyard,' she said. 'But they might find you in the night, at the villa.'

'I have thought of that,' said Diana, 'but there's nowhere else where I can sleep.'

Metella mumbled 'That's so,' and put down her basket. She handed Diana a pair of short, heavy shears. 'All you have to do,' she demonstrated, 'is to clip off the bunch close to the branch, and be careful not to bruise it.' For some time they worked side by side in silence.

'Have you any room to spare in your house, Metella?' asked Diana.

'I'm sorry,' said Metella. 'It's only a little house, with two small bedrooms. One for my father and mother.' There was a long pause. 'You wouldn't want to share my kennel.'

'Why not?' said Diana. 'Would you let me?'

'It would make me very happy,' said Metella, wistfully.

'I would pay you, of course.'

'Please!' murmured Metella. 'Don't spoil it'

Diana laid her hand gently on the girl's thin shoulder, and looked squarely into her face.

'You told me you were a nobody,' she murmured. 'Aren't you ashamed?'

Metella gave an embarrassed little chuckle and rubbed the corner of her eye with a tanned finger.

'You're funny, Diana,' she whispered.

* * * * * *

Marcipor rode swiftly, for his errand was urgent. The night air was chilly. The horses were lively, especially the Senator's black gelding, capering alongside. Old Marcipor, who in recent years was not often in the saddle, wished he had chosen to ride Gallio's mount. He could have controlled him better.

Crossing the river on the imposing stone bridge that Julius had built to serve the Via Appia, Marcipor left the celebrated highway and turned off to the right on a rutted road that angled southerly toward the extensive tufa quarries.

It was altogether too hazardous an adventure, he felt, to approach the Catacombs by the usual entrance. If the tunnel in the cypress grove were being watched, even from a distance, a man with two horses in charge would most certainly be challenged.

He had never used the secret entrance when alone, and was far from sure that he would be able to find it, for it was skilfully concealed in one of the long-abandoned quarries. He knew he would recognize the quarry, when he came to it, for it was the next one beyond an old tool-house beside the road. Arriving there, he tied the horses and made his way slowly down the precipitous slope to the floor of the quarry. Feeling his way carefully along the wall in the feeble light of a quarter-moon, the old man came upon a shallow pool, and remembered having waded through it. Beyond the pool there was a cleft in the jutting rock. He entered the narrow aperture and was moving cautiously into its deeper darkness when a gruff voice halted him. Marcipor gave his name, and the sentry, whom he recognized, told him to proceed.

'I came for Marcellus Gallio,' he said. 'His Greek slave, also one of us, lies dying of wounds. It is a hard trip for an old man, Thrason. Will you go and find Marcellus, giving him this message?'

'If you will stand guard, Marcipor.'

It seemed a long time, waiting in the stifling darkness, hearing no sound but the dull thump of his own ageing heart. He strained to listen for the scrape of sandals on the rough tufa. At length he saw the frail glow of a taper, far down the slanting tunnel. As it approached, Marcipor saw that two men were following Thrason; Marcellus first, and--The Big Fisherman!

There was a brief, low-voiced colloquy. It was agreed that Marcellus and Peter were to take the horses. Marcipor would spend the night in the Catacombs.

'You told my father I was out here?' asked Marcellus.

'Yes, but he is so rejoiced to know you are alive, sir, that he was not disturbed by your being with the Christians. You may be sure he will keep your secret. Go now, sir. Demetrius has not long to live!'

* * * * * *

Lentius led the hot horses away. Lucia, waiting on the portico, ran down the steps and threw herself into her brother's arms, weeping softly and clutching his sleeves in her trembling fingers.

'Is Demetrius still alive?' asked Marcellus urgently.

'He is still breathing,' said Lucia, 'but Sarpedon says he is losing ground very fast and can't live more than another hour.'

Marcellus turned and beckoned to his companion.

'This is Simon Peter, Lucia. He is lately come from Galilee. He, too, knows Demetrius.'

The huge, heavily bearded outlander bowed to her.

'Your servant, my sister!' he said, in a rich, deep voice.

'Welcome,' said Lucia, tearfully. 'Come--let us lose no time.'

Gallio, aged and weary, met them at the top of the stairs, embracing his son in silence. Cornelia, much shaken by the night's events, swayed weakly into his arms, whimpering incoherent endearments. Peter stood waiting on the stairway. The Senator turned toward him with a challenging stare. Lucia indifferently supplied the introduction.

'A friend of Marcellus,' she said. 'What is your name, please?'

'Peter,' he said, in his deep guttural voice.

The Senator nodded coolly, his attitude signifying that the ungroomed stranger was out of his proper environment. But now Peter, who had grown impatient over the delay, had a surprise for Senator Gallio. Advancing, the huge Galilean confronted his haughty Roman host with the authoritative air of one accustomed to giving commands.

'Take me to Demetrius!' he demanded.

At the sound of this strange, insistent voice, Cornelia released Marcellus and gazed at the big foreigner with open-mouthed curiosity. Gallio, dwarfed by the towering figure, obediently led the way to Demetrius's room. They all followed, and ranged themselves about the bedside, Marcellus laying his hand gently on the tousled head. At a sign from Gallio, who was obviously impressed by the determined manner of their mysterious guest, Sarpedon rose from his chair by the bed and made way for the newcomer. With calm self-assurance, Peter took up Demetrius's limp hands in his great, brown fists and shook them.

'Demetrius!' he called, as if he were shouting to him at a vast distance; as if the dying Greek were miles and leagues away. There was no response; not so much as the flicker of an eyelid. Peter called again, in a booming voice that could easily have been heard over on the avenue, 'DEMETRIUS! RETURN!'

Nobody breathed. The company about the bed stood statuesque, waiting. Suddenly Peter straightened to his full height and faced them with extended arms and dismissing hands.

'Go!' he commanded. 'Leave us--alone together!'

They silently obeyed, filing out into the corridor; all but Marcellus, who lingered to ask if he should go too. Peter nodded. He was stripping off his homespun robe as Marcellus closed the door. They all drifted along the corridor to the head of the stairway where, for some time, they stood silently listening for further loud calls from the big Galilean who had taken possession of their house. Marcellus expected to hear some whispers of protest, but no one spoke. A tense silence prevailed. No sound came from Demetrius's room.

After a while the Senator broke the tension by turning toward the stairs. With the cautious tread of a frail old man he slowly descended. Sarpedon sullenly followed, and lowered himself into a chair in the atrium. Cornelia took Marcellus by the arm and led him into her bedchamber, Lucia following. No one was left in the corridor now but Tertia, who tiptoed back to Demetrius's door. Crouching beside it, she waited and listened, hearing nothing but her own stifled sobs.

A half-hour later, Marcellus came out of his mother's room, and questioned Tertia with a whisper. She shook her head sadly. He went down to the library and found his father seated at his desk, with no occupation. The haggard old Senator pointed to a chair. After a long moment, he cleared his throat and spoke with a cynical smile.

'Does your unkempt friend think he is a miracle-worker?'

'Peter is strangely gifted, sir,' said Marcellus, feeling himself at a serious disadvantage.

'Very unusual procedure, I must say! He takes command of the case, discharges our physician, dismisses us from the room. Do you expect him to perform some supernatural feat up there?'

'It would not surprise me,' said Marcellus. 'I admit, sir, Peter has no polish, but he is thoroughly honest. Perhaps we should withhold judgment until we see what happens.'

'Well, the thing that will happen is the death of Demetrius,' said Gallio. 'However, it would have happened, in any event. I should have protested against this nonsense, if there had been the shadow of a hope that Demetrius might recover with proper treatment. I wonder how long we will have to wait for this Jew to finish his incantations--or whatever he is doing.'

'I don't know, sir,' confessed Marcellus. After a considerable pause, he asked, 'Have you learned any particulars of Demetrius's injuries?'

Gallio shook his head.

'You will have heard, of course, that he helped Diana escape from Capri? It is said that he is wanted on an old charge of assaulting a Tribune.'

Marcellus rose to his feet and leaned over his father's desk.

'She escaped! I haven't heard a word of it. Where is she now?'

'No one seems to know. She is not at home. The Emperor pretends to be much concerned about her welfare, and has had search parties looking for her.'

'And why is HE so interested?' asked Marcellus, indignantly; and when his father made no reply, he added, 'Perhaps Demetrius knows where she is. Maybe he got into trouble on her account.'

Gallio made a weary, hopeless gesture.

'If Demetrius knows,' he said, 'he will take his secret along with him, my son.'

Restless and distraught, Marcellus returned to his mother's room and found her sleeping. Lucia was curled up on a couch. He sat down beside her and held her hand. The grey-blue light of dawn had begun to invade the dark corners.

'Is that man still in there?' whispered Lucia.

Marcellus nodded dejectedly, walked to the door, opened it and looked down the corridor. Tertia had left her post. He closed the door, and resumed his seat on the couch beside his sister.

* * * * * *

Tertia started at the sound of the door-latch. The bearded face of the massive Galilean peered out into the corridor.

'Go quietly,' whispered Peter, 'and prepare some hot broth.'

'Oh, is he going to live?' breathed Tertia.

Peter closed the door softly, without replying. Sensing that the family was not yet to be summoned, Tertia slipped down the rear stairway. When she returned, she tapped gently on the door and Peter opened it only far enough to admit her, and closed it again. Demetrius, very white, was propped up in the pillows, awake, but seemingly dazed. He regarded her with a listless glance.

'Do not talk to him yet,' advised Peter, kindly. 'He has come a long way, and is still bewildered.' He took up his robe and put it on. 'You may feed him with the broth, as much or as little as he wants. You remain with him. Do not call his master until he asks for him. Admit no others until he is stronger. I am going now.'

'But, sir,' protested Tertia, 'are you leaving without seeing the family? They will want to thank you.'

'I do not want to answer questions,' said Peter, huskily; and Tertia could see that the big man was fatigued. 'I do not want to talk. I am spent.'

At the door, he turned to look again at Demetrius.

'Courage!' he said, in a low tone of command. 'Remember the promise I have made--for you to keep! You are to return to your own countrymen, and testify for our Christos who has made you whole!'

Demetrius's white forehead wrinkled a little, but he made no reply.

After the door had closed, Tertia held a spoonful of the hot broth to his lips. He took it apathetically, studying her face for recognition. She gave him more broth and smiled into his perplexed eyes.

'Know me now?' she whispered, wistfully.

'Tertia,' he answered, with an effort; then, 'Call Marcellus.'

She put down the cup and hastened to find the Tribune. The others crowded about her, asking insistent questions, but she was resolute that only his master might see him now. Marcellus went swiftly, his heart beating hard. He took Demetrius's hand.

'Peter has brought you back!' he said, in an awed voice.

Demetrius moistened his lips with a sluggish tongue.

'A long journey,' he mumbled.

'Do you remember anything?'

'A little.'

'See anyone?'

'Not clearly, but there were many voices.'

'Did you want to return?'

Demetrius sighed and shook his head.

'Where is Peter?' asked Marcellus.

'Gone,' said Demetrius.

Tertia, suspecting that his laconic replies meant he wished to talk to Marcellus privately, slipped out of the room. Demetrius brightened perceptibly.

'Diana is at Arpino--at the villa of Kaeso--in good hands--but--you had better go to her. The Emperor wants her. She is in danger.'

'Are you well enough, Demetrius,' asked Marcellus, nervously, 'to let me go--at once?'

'Yes, sir. I shall be leaving, too. Peter made a vow. I am to return to Greece.'

'For the new Kingdom!' Marcellus regarded him with an expression of deference. 'You have been given a great responsibility, full of danger. I shall make out your certificate of manumission--to-day.'

'I shall be sorry to leave you, sir,' sighed Demetrius.

'Nor do I want you to go,' declared Marcellus. 'But if your life has been saved with a vow, you must fulfil it--at any cost!'

Tertia had opened the door a little way, her anxious frown hinting that there had been enough talk. Marcellus nodded for her to come in. She brought the bowl of broth to the bedside. Demetrius took it hungrily.

'That's good!' said Marcellus. 'You're gaining fast.'

Feeling that the other members of the family should be notified without further delay, he went to his mother's room, finding them all there. He blurted out the news that Demetrius had recovered and was having his breakfast.

'Impossible!' said Gallio, starting toward the door.

Marcellus intercepted him.

'Wait a little, sir,' he advised. 'He's not very strong yet. It is an effort for him to talk.'

'But I want to speak to this Galilean!' said Gallio. 'This is no small thing that has happened. Demetrius was dying! Sarpedon said so!'

'Peter has left, sir. Tertia says he was very weary and didn't want to see anyone.'

'How do you think he did all this?' inquired Cornelia.

'He is a Christian,' replied Marcellus. 'Some of these men who lived close to Jesus have developed peculiar powers. It was no great surprise to me, mother, that Demetrius recovered. He, too, is a Christian. He says that Peter made a vow for him to keep. He is to go back to Greece and work among his own countrymen--'

'What kind of work?' Lucia wanted to know.

'Enlisting people to support the new Kingdom,' said her brother.

'Won't he get into trouble--talking about a new Kingdom?' she asked.

'Doubtless,' agreed Marcellus. 'But Demetrius will not let that restrain him.'

'Perhaps he may be glad to return to Greece,' said Lucia. 'Didn't you tell me he was fond of a girl in Athens? What was her name-- Theodosia?'

The Senator said he was going down to have his breakfast in the library, and asked Marcellus to join him. Cornelia said she was going back to sleep.

Lucia went to her suite, and, a few minutes later, tapped softly on Demetrius's door. Tertia admitted her, and left the room.

'We are so glad you are better,' said Lucia. 'Marcellus says you are going home to Greece.' She laid a ring in his hand. 'I have kept it safely for you. Now you should have it back.'

Demetrius regarded the ring with brooding eyes, and rubbed it caressingly between his palms. Lucia gave him a sly smile.

'Perhaps you will give it to Theodosia,' she said.

He smiled, but sobered instantly.

'She may find it a costly gift,' he said. 'It might not be fair-- to ask Theodosia to share my dangers.'

Sarpedon came in now and stood at the foot of the bed, silently viewing his patient with baffled eyes. It was plain to see that Demetrius was surprised to see him.

'The physician,' said Lucia. 'Do you remember his being here in the night?'

'No,' said Demetrius. 'I don't remember.'

'What did he do--that big fellow from Galilee?' queried Sarpedon, moving around to the other side of the bed.

'He prayed,' said Demetrius.

'What god does he pray to?' asked Sarpedon.

'There is only one,' replied Demetrius.

'A Jewish god?'

'No, not Jewish. God is the father of all men--everywhere. Anyone may pray to him in the name of Jesus, who has come to establish a Kingdom of justice and peace.'

'Ah, this new Christian heresy!' said Sarpedon. 'Is your friend from Palestine aware that he can be arrested for pretending to heal diseases by such practices?'

'Pretending?' exclaimed Lucia. 'He wasn't pretending when he healed Demetrius.'

'He should be reported to the authorities,' said Sarpedon, walking stiffly to the door.

'One would think that a physician would rejoice to see his patient get well,' remarked Lucia, 'no matter how he was healed.'

Sarpedon made no comment. Closing the door emphatically, he proceeded downstairs and entered the library where the Senator and Marcellus were at breakfast. Abandoning his customary suavity, he voiced an indignant protest.

'Come, Sarpedon, sit down,' said the Senator, amiably, 'and have breakfast with us. We do not blame you for feeling as you do. But this is an unusual occurrence. You did the best you could. Doubtless you are pleased that the Greek is recovering, even if the treatment was--what shall we say?--irregular?'

Sarpedon refused the fruit that Decimus obsequiously offered him, and remained standing, flushed with anger.

'It might be unfortunate,' he said, frostily, 'if it were known that Senator Gallio had called in one of the Christian seditionists to treat an illness in his household.'

Marcellus leaped from his chair and confronted Sarpedon, face to face.

'You--and your Hippocratic oath!' he shouted. 'You are supposed to be interested in healing! Has it come to pass that your profession is so jealous--and wretched of heart--that it is enraged when a man's life is restored by some other means than your futile remedies?'

Sarpedon backed toward the door.

'You will regret that speech, Tribune Marcellus!' he declared, as he stamped out of the room.

For a few minutes, neither the Senator nor Marcellus spoke, as they resumed their places at the table.

'I had hoped we might conciliate him,' said Gallio. 'His pride has been wounded. He can cause us much trouble. If he lets it be known that we are harbouring Demetrius--'

'True--we must get Demetrius out of here!'

'Will he be able to travel--to-day?'

'He must! I am riding to Arpino. He shall go with me.'

'Nonsense!' scoffed the Senator. 'He cannot sit a horse to-day! I have it! We will send him in a carriage to Pescara. They will hardly be looking for him at an Adrian port.' He rose and paced the room. 'I shall go with him. My presence in the carriage may help him to evade too close scrutiny. Besides, I may be of some service in securing his passage. If there is no ship sailing at once, I may be able to charter one that would see him as far as Brundisium. He should have no difficulty finding a ship there, bound for Corinth.'

'This is most generous of you, sir,' declared Marcellus. 'If every man treated his slaves--'

'Well, as for that'--the Senator chuckled a little--'it has not been my custom to turn out my carriage and personally escort my slaves when they embark for foreign lands. Demetrius's case is different. He has had his life handed back to him in an extraordinary manner, and he must keep the pledge that was made for him. Otherwise--he has no right to live!'

'You would make a good Christian, sir,' said Marcellus, realizing at once--by his father's sudden scowl--that the remark was untimely.

'Honourable men were keeping their word, my son, long before this Christian religion was thought of. . . . Come, let us arrange to be on our way. This is not a bad day for it. Rome will not be looking for fugitives this morning. The Ludi Romani will be the city's only concern. Tell Lentius to get out the carriage.'



Chapter XXV


Skirting the rim of the city by a circuitous route, and avoiding the congested highways until they were a dozen miles to the east, the carriage, and the horseman who followed at a little distance, had proceeded without being challenged. Sometimes they had been detained at intersections by the heavy traffic pouring in from the country, but no one had questioned them.

The Senator's belief that this might be safely accomplished had proved correct. If a man wished to leave Rome inconspicuously, this was the day for it. The Ludi Romani--most venerable and popular of all the festivals--was at hand. Though still three days in the offing, the annual celebration in honour of Jupiter was casting a pleasant shadow before it.

Already the populace was in a carnival mood, the streets crowded with riotous merrymakers. Residents were decorating their houses with gay banners and bunting. Their guests were arriving from afar. The noise and confusion increased hourly as every avenue of approach to the capital was jammed with tourists, home-comers, minstrels, magicians, hawkers, dancers, acrobats, pickpockets, and travelling menageries of screeching monkeys and trained bears.

Everyone had caught the contagion of hilarity. All serious work had been abandoned, all discipline relaxed. The word had spread that this year's Ludi Romani would be notable for its gaiety. The new Emperor was not stingy. Glum old Tiberius, who frowned on amusements, was dead and buried. Tight-pursed old Sejanus, who had doled out the sesterces--a few at a time--to Prince Gaius, was also dead. So was Gaius--and good riddance it was, too. This season's Ludi Romani would be worth attending! Little Boots would see to it that everybody had a good time. Even the harried Christians could count upon a ten-day respite from persecution, for the authorities would be too drunk to bother with them.

At Avezzano, the Senator's carriage halted in the shade near a fork in the road. Marcellus, reining up alongside, dismounted to bid farewell to the occupants, for their ways parted here. Thrusting his arm through the open windows, he shook hands with his father, assuring him that they would meet soon; and then with Demetrius, who, still weak, was much moved by their parting. Marcellus tried bravely to keep his own voice under control.

'Safe journey, Demetrius!' he said. 'And success to all your undertakings! It may be a long time before we meet--'

'Perhaps not, sir,' murmured Demetrius, smiling wanly.

'Well, be the time long or short, my friend, we shall meet! You believe that, don't you?'

'With all my heart!'

Remounting the mettlesome Ishtar, Marcellus galloped away, waving a hand as he turned south on the road to Arpino. Here the traffic was lighter and better time could be made. As the road grew steep, Ishtar's enthusiasm cooled somewhat, and she settled to an easy canter.

Now that he had seen Demetrius safely started on his journey, Marcellus found his spirits reviving. He was on the way to Diana! Nothing else mattered now. At Alatri, he fed Ishtar in the stable- yard of the inn, while a slave, to whom he had tossed a few coppers, rubbed her down. Leaving the town, Marcellus led the mare for a mile, then, remounting, pressed on. The peaks of the Apennines glistened in the afternoon sunshine.

It was deep in the night when he reached Arpino and was recognized by the guard at the villa gate.

'Do not rouse anyone,' he said. 'I shall stable the mare and find some place to sleep.'

Not content to trust even Kaeso's competent hostlers with the care of Ishtar, Marcellus supervised her drinking, talking to her all the while in a fraternal tone that made the stable-boys laugh. Learning that his former quarters were unoccupied, he went to bed utterly exhausted by his experiences during the past twenty-four hours.

* * * * * *

Appius Kaeso had felt it an unnecessary precaution for Diana to work in the vineyard through these days immediately preceding and during the Ludi Romani which, he knew, would be occupying the full attention of all who were interested in taking her to the Emperor.

Last night they had brought her back to the villa; and as this was the first morning, for some time, that Diana could feel comparatively safe and at leisure, Antonia had insisted upon her sleeping undisturbed until she was thoroughly rested.

Coming out to the stables shortly after dawn, Kaeso learned of Marcellus's arrival and went to his room, finding him awake. In the ensuing half-hour of serious talk, they informed each other of everything that had occurred since they parted. Kaeso, Marcellus observed, had lost much of his impetuous bluster, but could still be identified by his willingness to offer prompt advice.

'Why don't you marry Diana at once?' asked Kaeso. 'As you are supposed to be dead, Caligula thinks he has a right to pretend an interest in her welfare. When she becomes your wife, he has no further justification for concerning himself about her.'

Marcellus, sitting half-dressed on the edge of his bed, seemed so lost in meditation that Kaeso added, impatiently, 'You two are in love with each other, aren't you?'

'Yes, but the fact is, Kaeso,' said Marcellus, disconsolately, 'Diana is not at all sure that she wants to marry me.'

'Isn't sure?' retorted Kaeso. 'Of course she's sure! Why else would she say she was engaged to you?'

'Did she say that?' Marcellus sat up attentively.

'Nothing less! Isn't it true?'

'Last time I saw her, Kaeso, she insisted that our marriage would be a mistake, because of my being a Christian.'

'Pouf! Diana is as good a Christian as you are! If being a Christian means showing sympathy and friendliness for people who are beneath you, Diana is entitled to a prize! You should have seen her in the vineyard! For a week or more she has been living in a small cottage, rooming it with the girl Metella, to whom she has become much attached; and, as for Metella, it has transformed her into another kind of person! You wouldn't know her!'

'I'm glad,' said Marcellus. 'I'm glad Diana has had this experience.' His eyes clouded. 'But there is a great deal of difference between Diana's willingness to practise Christian principles and my own obligation to associate myself with a movement that the Government has outlawed--and spend my time with men whose lives are in constant danger. That is what Diana objects to.'

'Well, you can't blame her for that!' snorted Kaeso.

'Nor me,' declared Marcellus. 'I have no choice in this matter.'

* * * * * *

They met alone in the cool atrium. Antonia, who had been seated beside him, suddenly broke off in the midst of what she was saying, and sped away. Diana was slowly descending the marble stairway. Rising quickly to his feet, Marcellus crossed the room to meet her. She hesitated for a moment at first sight of him; then, with an ecstatic smile, threw herself into his arms.

'My beloved!' murmured Marcellus, holding her tightly to him. For a long moment they stood locked in each other's arms, hungrily sharing the kiss she had offered him. With closed eyes, and tiny breaths like a child's sobs, Diana relaxed in his embrace.

'You came for me,' she whispered.

'I wish I could have you--always--darling.'

She nodded slowly, without opening her eyes.

'It was meant to be,' she breathed, softly.

'Diana!' He laid his cheek against hers, gently. 'Do you mean that? Are you mine, in spite of everything?'

Reaching up both arms, she clasped them tightly around his neck and gave him her lips passionately.

'To-day?' whispered Marcellus, deeply stirred.

She drew back to face him with wide eyes, bright with tears.

'Why not?' she murmured. Slipping out of his arms, she took him by the hand. 'Come!' she said, happily. 'Let us tell them!' Her voice was tender. 'Marcellus, they have been so very good to me. This will please our friends.'

Antonia had joined Appius in the garden. Their faces beamed as Marcellus and Diana came down the path, arm in arm, and they rose to meet them. Antonia surprised Marcellus with a kiss that was by no means a mere performance of a social duty, and Diana kissed Appius, to his intense gratification. Then she hugged Antonia, joyfully.

'Appius,' she said, 'as the master of Arpino, you can marry us. Is that not so?'

'It's the very best thing I do!' boasted Appius, thumping his chest.

'To-day?' asked Marcellus.

'Of course!' assured Appius.

'Let us sit down,' suggested Antonia, 'and make some plans. Now we can have a quiet little wedding in the atrium, with nobody but the family--By the way, where is Antony?'

'Not up yet,' said Marcellus. 'I've inquired for him.'

'Or, better still,' went on Antonia, 'we can invite everybody! These people in Arpino love you both. It would be wonderful for them if--'

'Let's have it out on the green,' urged Diana.

'Where Marcellus used to talk to them,' said Appius.

'At sunset,' said Antonia.

'If we are agreed on that,' said Appius, 'I shall send word to Vobiscus that they are to have a holiday. It will give them a chance to clean up, and be presentable.'

'That's very kind,' said Marcellus.

'Here comes Antony now--the sluggard,' said his mother, tenderly. Antony was sauntering along with his head bent, apparently in a profound study. Presently he glanced up, paused momentarily, and then came running. Marcellus embraced him affectionately.

'Why hasn't someone called me?' complained Antony. 'How long can you stay with us, Marcellus?'

'We are going to keep them as long as we can, dear,' said his mother. 'Diana and Marcellus are to be married--to-night.'

Antony, stunned a little by the announcement, solemnly offered Marcellus his hand. Then he turned to Diana, hardly knowing how to felicitate her.

'She's supposed to be kissed,' advised his father.

Antony flushed and appeared at a great disadvantage until Diana came to his rescue with a kiss so frankly given that his composure was restored.

Saying that he must dispatch a servant to the vineyard, Kaeso turned away. Antonia announced that if they were to have a party to-night, she would have to do something about it without delay. Antony, surmising that he too was expected to contrive an errand, remembered that he hadn't had his breakfast. Marcellus and Diana sat down on the lectus, their fingers intertwined.

'Now you must tell me how Demetrius found you,' said Diana.

It was a long story, a moving story that brought the tears to her eyes. Poor Demetrius--so loyal and so brave! And his restoration-- so mysterious! How happy to be free, and going home! And back to Theodosia!

'He hasn't much to offer her,' said Marcellus. 'The life of an active Christian, my dear, is lightly held. Demetrius is not a man to shun danger. However, Theodosia will love him no less on that account. If he goes to her, she will take him for good or ill.'

'I think you meant a little of that for me,' murmured Diana. 'Very well, Marcellus, I shall accept you that way.'

He drew her close and kissed her.

'Kaeso believes,' he said, after a long silence, 'and I agree with him, that it may be fairly safe now for me to take you home to your mother. There is no charge against you. There will be no point to Caligula's pretence of rescuing you, after we are married.'

'But how about you, dear?' asked Diana, anxiously. 'There will be much talk about your return, after you were thought to be drowned. Will it come to the Emperor's ears that you are a Christian?'

'Very likely, but we must take that risk. Caligula is erratic. His attention may be diverted from the Christians. The fact that my father is an influential Senator might make the youngster think twice before arresting me. In any case, you can't remain in seclusion indefinitely. Let's have done with it--and see what comes of it.'

'When shall we go?'

'The Kaesos will be hurt if we rush away. Let us wait until the day after to-morrow. The Ludi Romani will have begun. Perhaps we can make the trip safely.'

'Without any attempt to avoid the patrols?'

'Yes, darling. If we were to disguise ourselves--and be apprehended--we would have thrown our case away.'

Diana snuggled into his arms.

'I shall not be afraid,' she murmured, 'if you are with me.'

* * * * * *

All afternoon the men of Arpino raked the grass on the village green. Vobiscus superintended the building of a little arbour which the girls decorated with ferns and flowers. All day long, the kitchens of the villa were busy. The ovens turned out honey cakes. The air was heavy with the appetizing aroma of lambs and ducks roasting on spits before hot charcoal fires. Kaeso's vintner thought his master had gone mad when he learned that wine was to be served to all Arpino!

The hum of voices on the green was hushed when the wedding-party appeared at the villa gate. Then there arose a concerted shout! Cheers for Diana! Cheers for Marcellus! Cheers, too, for the Kaesos!

They took their places under the little, impromptu portico, and a silence fell as Kaeso--never so dignified--joined their hands and demanded them to say that they wished to be husband and wife. In orotund tones, he announced their marriage.

The wedded pair turned about to face the Arpinos. Another happy shout went up! The Kaeso family offered affectionate wishes and caresses. For a moment, the village wasn't sure what to do. An old man ventured to come forward and take their hands, bobbing his head violently. Vobiscus came, strutting a little, as became the overseer, followed by his wife, who wore the gayest shawl present. More women came up, trailed by their husbands who shouldered themselves along, grinning awkwardly and scratching an ear. Marcellus knew most of them by name. Diana hugged Metella, and Metella cried. She was going to put Marcellus off with a stiff little curtsy, but he caught her to him and kissed her, which was by far the most noteworthy incident of the occasion. There were cheers for Metella, who was so embarrassed she didn't know where to go or what to do when she got there. Presently Appius Kaeso signalled Vobiscus that he wanted to make an announcement, and Vobiscus gave a stentorian growl that produced a profound silence. The master, he declaimed, had something to say. Kaeso bade them to the feast. Already the villa slaves were coming out through the gate in an imposing procession, weighted by their pleasant burdens.

'Well,' said Kaeso, 'shall we return to the villa?'

'Oh, please, no!' said Diana. 'Let us have our dinner here--with them.'

'You surely are a precious darling!' murmured Marcellus.

'But we have ices!' protested Kaeso.

Diana slipped her arm through his, affectionately.

'They can wait,' she whispered.

Kaeso smiled down into her eyes, and nodded indulgently.

'Will you look at Antony?' laughed his mother. Antony, behind a table, wearing an apron, was slicing lamb for the common people of Arpino.

* * * * * *

Sarpedon told. With his professional pride deeply wounded, and nothing left to lose in the regard of the Gallio household, he decided to make good his threat to Marcellus.

But it was something more than an impulsive desire to avenge his humiliation that led the physician to betray the family whose lucrative patronage he had inherited from his noted father.

Had the unhappy incident occurred a few weeks earlier, Sarpedon would have pocketed his indignation; but times had changed. Nothing was now to be had by currying favour with the conservatives. Indeed, under the present dynasty one had far better cut loose from such dead weight and not risk going down with it. Young Caligula had no patience with the elder statesmen who believed in national economy; who viewed his reckless extravagances with stern disapproval. It was common knowledge that Little Boots intended to break the grey-haired obstructionists at the earliest opportunity.

Sarpedon knew Quintus, though he had seen nothing of him since his sudden elevation to a place of prominence in Caligula's court. Fortunately for himself, old Tuscus had died in the spring; and Sarpedon, who had ministered to the aged poet-statesman's infirmities, had had no occasion to see anything more of their household. He did not know whether he was to be retained as the family physician, now that the old man was gone. Doubtless it would be greatly to his advantage if he could show Quintus which side he was on in the struggle between Little Boots and the Senate.

Hot and eager though he was, Sarpedon had too much sense to go plunging into Quintus's august presence with his betrayal of the Gallios. With dignity he asked for an appointment, and restlessly waited the three days which elapsed before the high and mighty Quintus could give him an audience. This delay, however, had enabled Sarpedon to improve his story; for, in the meantime, his butler had learned from Decimus that the Senator and Marcellus had made off with the convalescent Greek on some secret journey.

Having fought his way through the swirling crowds, and arriving at the Imperial Palace dishevelled and perspiring, Sarpedon was left standing (for there was no place to sit down) in the great gold and marble and ivory foyer swarming with provincial potentates waiting their turn for favours. Though it was still early in the forenoon, the garishly arrayed dignitaries represented every known state of intoxication, ranging from rude clownishness to repulsively noisy nausea.

At length the physician was permitted a brief interview with Quintus, who was prepared to make short work of him until he said he had information about Gallio's Greek slave Demetrius. At that, Quintus gave attention. A Jewish Christian had been invited into the Gallio villa to perform mummeries over the Greek, who had been slightly wounded. Tribune Marcellus, far from dead, had brought the Christian quack to the villa, and had made it plain enough that he too was thoroughly in sympathy with these Christian revolutionists. The Senator and Marcellus had spirited the Greek out of the house and set off with him, doubtless to hide him somewhere.

Quintus was deeply interested, but all the thanks Sarpedon received was a savage denunciation for waiting so long before bringing the news.

'You always were a bungler, Sarpedon!' yelled Quintus. 'Had you not been the son of your wise father, no one would trust you to purge a dog of his worms!'

Having thus learned where he stood in the esteem of the Emperor's favourite, Sarpedon bowed deeply and backed himself out of the room and into the stinking foyer. One hardly knew, these days, how to conduct oneself with any hope of favour at Caligula's hands. One thing was sure, the Empire was on the way toward ruin; but, long before Caligula crashed, he would have seen to it that everybody who believed in any decencies at all was battered into silent submission.

Quintus did not immediately notify Little Boots of Sarpedon's disclosures, thinking it better to capture his quarry. Perhaps he might learn something that would please the Emperor. Marcellus was alive. Without question, he would know the whereabouts of Diana.

A small contingent of seasoned Palace Guards was detailed to put the Gallio villa under surveillance and report all movements there.

Next day they brought back word that the Senator had returned alone in his carriage; but so great was the confusion at the Palace that Quintus decided to wait a more convenient season for action. The court festivities were at such a pitch that there was no room for anything more. The Senator's case would have to wait. Meantime, he told the guards, they should continue their watch at the villa. If Tribune Marcellus showed his face, they were to place him under arrest.

This affair was likely to cause the haughty Tullus some embarrassment before they had done with it; but (Quintus shrugged) let Tullus take his medicine, and like it. He had no more use for Tullus than he had for Marcellus. It pleased him now to reflect that he had suggested Tullus for the dirty job of cleaning the Christians out of the Catacombs. Quintus chuckled. It would be droll, indeed, if Tullus found himself obliged to arrest his long- time friend: his brother-in-law, too!

* * * * * *

Late in the night of the third day of the Ludi Romani, the news was brought to Quintus that Diana had just arrived at her mother's home, accompanied by Marcellus.

Little Boots, who had been drinking heavily all day, was in a truculent mood, cursing and slapping his attendants as they tried to get him to bed. Ordinarily, after a whole day's drunkenness, His Majesty could be put away quietly; but such was the infernal din on the streets below and throughout the Palace that the Emperor was wide awake with a bursting head.

Even Quintus was coming in for his share of abuse. He found himself responsible for the noise of the celebrants and the shocking condition of the palace. Furthermore, declared the thick- tongued Emperor, the ceremonies to-day in the Forum Julium had been a disgrace; and whose fault was that, if not Quintus's? Never had there been anything so tiresome as that interminable Ode to Jupiter! Never had there been anything so dull as those solemn choruses!

'Yes--but, Your Majesty, were we not obliged to follow the ancient ritual?' Quintus had asked in honeyed tones. Immediately he repented of having tried to defend himself. It was the wrong time to answer Little Boots with a 'yes--but,' no matter what justification warranted it. His Majesty went into a shrieking, slobbering rage! He was aweary of being served by fools. High time, he felt, to give some better man a chance to do his bidding. In nothing--in NOTHING had Quintus proved himself an able minister!

At that point, Quintus, needing to improve his standing in the Emperor's regard, had motioned them all out of the imperial bedchamber.

'The daughter of Gallus has been found, Your Majesty,' he announced.

'Ha!' shouted Little Boots. 'So--at last--your snails caught up with her, eh? And where did they find this beautiful icicle?'

'At home, sire. She arrived there but an hour ago.'

'Did your favourite Greek bring her back?'

'No, sire, the Greek has been hidden by Senator Gallio. Diana was brought back by Tribune Marcellus, who was thought to have drowned himself.'

'Oh? so he turned up, eh? The lover! And what has he been doing since he was supposed to have been drowned?'

'In seclusion somewhere, sire. It is reported that he is a Christian.'

'What?' screamed Little Boots. 'A Christian! And why should a Tribune consort with such rabble? Does the fool think he can lead a revolution? Let him be arrested for sedition! Bring him here at once! Now!'

'It is very late, Your Majesty, and to-morrow is a crowded day.'

'We are weary unto death, Quintus, with these tiresome ceremonies. What manner of torture does old Jupiter inflict on us to-morrow?'

'Your Majesty attends the games in the forenoon. Then there is the reception to the Praetorian Guard and the Senate, followed by the banquet for them--and their women.'

'Speeches, no doubt,' groaned Little Boots.

'It is the custom, sire, and after the banquet there is a procession to the Temple of Jupiter where the Senate does its homage at twilight.'

'A dull occasion, Quintus. Has it occurred to you that this banquet for the sullen old dotards might be enlivened with something besides oratory?'

'Your Majesty will have diverting company at table--the daughter of Herod Antipas, sire, who is the Tetrarch of Galilee and Peraea.'

'That scrawny, jingling wench, Salome?' yelled Little Boots. 'We have seen quite enough of her!'

'But I thought Your Majesty had found her very entertaining,' said Quintus, risking a sly smile. 'Was she not eager to please Your Majesty?'

Little Boots made a wry face. Suddenly his heavy eyes lighted.

'Invite the daughter of Gallus! Let her be seated at our right, and Salome at our left. We will encourage Salome to repeat some of her best stories.' He laughed painfully, holding his head.

'Would not Legate Gallus consider that a grave offence to his daughter, sire?'

'It will serve her right,' mumbled Little Boots, 'for bestowing her precious smiles upon a Tribune who hopes to see another government. Send for him without delay, and let him be confined in the Palace prison!'

Quintus made a fluttering gesture of protest.

'Imprisoned--as a Tribune--of course,' Little Boots hastened to add. 'Make him comfortable. And let Diana be bidden to this banquet. You, personally, may extend the invitation, Quintus, early to-morrow. If she is reluctant to accept, suggest that the Emperor might be more disposed to deal leniently with her Christian friend should she be pleased to honour this occasion with her presence.'

'But I thought Your Majesty had been attracted to Diana, and had hoped to win her favour. Would it serve Your Majesty best to threaten her? Perhaps--if she were made much of by the Emperor, the daughter of Gallus might forget her fondness for Marcellus.'

'No!' barked Little Boots. 'What that haughty creature needs is not flattery, but a flick of the whip! And as for her lover'--he cocked his head and grinned bitterly--'we have other plans for him.'

'He is the son of Senator Gallio, sire!' said Quintus.

'All the worse for him!' shouted Little Boots. 'We'll give the old man a lesson too--and the Senate can draw its own conclusions!'

* * * * * *

No less a personage than Quintus himself, attended by a handsomely uniformed contingent of Equestrian Knights, delivered the banquet invitation to Diana. Summoned early from her rooms, she met him in the atrium. She was pale and her eyes were swollen with weeping, but she bore herself proudly. Paula, dazed and frightened, stood by her side.

Quintus deferentially handed her the ornate scroll; and while Diana helplessly fumbled with the gaudy seals, he thought to save a little precious time, for the forenoon was well advanced and the day was loaded with duties. He explained the message. Diana gasped involuntarily.

'Will you say to His Majesty,' spoke up Paula, trying to steady her trembling voice, 'that the daughter of Legate Gallus is far too heartsick to be a suitable dinner companion for the Emperor?'

'Madame'--Quintus bowed stiffly--'this imperial summons is not addressed to the wife of the Legate Gallus, but to his daughter. As she is present, she shall answer for herself.'

'My mother has spoken the truth, sir,' said Diana, weakly. 'Please tell the Emperor that I must be excused. I am too ill.'

'Perhaps you should be told,' said Quintus, coldly, 'that your friend Tribune Marcellus, now resting in a dungeon at the Palace, will be arraigned to-morrow on a charge of sedition. The Emperor's judgment in this case may be tempered somewhat if the daughter of the Legate Gallus is disposed to be gracious to His Majesty.'

'Very well.' Diana's voice was barely audible. 'I shall come.'

'If my husband were here,' announced Paula, throwing all prudence aside, 'some blood would flow before this cruel thing came to pass!'

'Madame--you are overwrought,' observed Quintus. 'May I suggest that it is not to your advantage to make such statements? I shall not report this to His Majesty--but I advise you to be more discreet.' Bowing deeply, he turned and marched out through the peristyle, followed stiffly by his retinue.

* * * * * *

Marcellus was surprised at the consideration he was shown by the Palace Guards who arrested him and the officials at the prison. Perhaps it was due to his rank. Roused from a deep sleep, at the Gallus villa, he had gone down to the atrium to face a Centurion attended by a deputation of twenty legionaries.

Aware that it was useless to resist so formidable a party, he had asked permission to return to his room for his personal belongings, and the request was courteously granted. It was a sorry parting. Diana clung to him, weeping piteously.

'Be brave, darling,' he had entreated. 'Perhaps this is only to humiliate me. The Emperor will probably rebuke me--and set me free, with an admonition. Let us not despair.'

Tearing himself away, he had obediently followed the Centurion. They had offered him a horse; had put him in the midst of them; no one of the drunken merrymakers on the streets could have suspected that he was under arrest.

At the Palace he was taken to the prison. It was subterranean, but well lighted and ventilated, and the room they gave him was comfortably furnished. The Centurion informed him that he was free to notify his friends of his whereabouts; his messages would be dispatched forthwith, and any visitors would be admitted.

Marcellus sat down at once before the desk and wrote a letter.

'Marcipor: I am in the Palace prison, held on a charge of treason. Inform my family. You will be permitted to visit me, but perhaps it would be better if the Senator does not subject himself to such a painful errand. I am well treated. Bring me the Robe.-- Marcellus.'

Shortly after dawn, Marcipor appeared. He bore himself with the gravity and weariness of a very old man. The guards retired after admitting him, their demeanour indicating that no effort would be made to listen to their conversation. Marcipor's hands were cold and shaky. His eyes were full of trouble.

'I would rather die, my son,' he quavered, 'than see you subjected to this grievous persecution.'

'Marcipor, it has sometimes been found necessary for a man to give up his life in defence of a great cause. I am sorely troubled, but not for myself. I sorrow for those who love me.'

'Let me send for Peter!' entreated Marcipor. 'He has great power. He might even be able to deliver you from prison.'

Marcellus shook his head.

'No, Marcipor; Peter's life is too valuable to be put in jeopardy.'

'But the Christos! Might he not come to your rescue--and Peter's?' asked the old man, tearfully.

'It is not right to put the Christos to a test, Marcipor.'

'Here is the robe, sir.' Marcipor unlaced his tunic and drew out the seamless garment.

Marcellus held it in his arms.

'Let not your heart be troubled, Marcipor,' he said, gently, laying his hand on the old slave's bowed shoulder. 'Come again, to- morrow. There may be better tidings.'

* * * * * *

What hurt Diana most, as she sat at the high table beside the drunken Emperor, was the baffled look of disappointment in Senator Gallio's eyes. He had come alone to the banquet, and only because he must. They had seated him at a distant table, but he and Diana had exchanged glances, and it was plain to see that he believed she had forsaken his son in his hour of peril. She longed to go to him and explain her predicament, but it was quite impossible. Their situation was already much too precarious.

Caligula was giving most of his attention to Salome. He had tried, without success, to have her repeat some of her ribald stories; but Salome, suspecting that she was being used as a catspaw, had assumed an air of virtue. Little Boots, not having seen her in this rôle, was at a loss to know what to do with her. His plan for his entertainment at this tedious banquet was getting quite out of hand. With Diana on his right, coldly dignified and taciturn, and Salome on his left, refusing to conspire with him for Diana's discomfiture, the Emperor--who had arrived at the surly stage of his drunkenness--decided to better his position.

Turning to Salome, he remarked, with intention that Diana should overhear:

'We have captured one of these Christians who seem bent on overturning the government. His case is of special interest because he is a Tribune. Would it amuse you, sweet Salome, to see a Christian Tribune recant--in the presence of the Praetorian Guard and the Senate?'

Salome gave him an enigmatic smile, over her shoulder.

'Unless the Emperor means to see it through,' she drawled, 'it is risky. These Christians do not recant, Your Majesty. My father once undertook to humiliate a Christian before our court; and the fellow, instead of recanting, delivered an address that practically ruined the reputation of the whole family! Me--especially! You should have heard the things he said about me! It was intolerable! We had to punish him.'

Caligula's malicious little close-set eyes sparkled.

'Whip him?' he asked--making sure Diana heard.

'We beheaded him!' rasped Salome.

'Well!' responded Caligula. 'You DID punish him; didn't you? What do you do to people, up there in Galilee, when they say something FALSE about you?' He laughed loudly, punching Salome in the ribs with his elbow. Then he turned about to see how Diana was liking the conversation. She was deathly white.

Quintus, acting as Praetor, arose to announce Cornelius Capito, who proceeded to make the worst speech of his life; for it was inevitable that it should be a eulogy of Caligula, and old Capito was an honest man. A chorus choir filed in and sang an ode. An Egyptian Prince delivered an address which all but put Caligula to sleep. He beckoned to Quintus, and Quintus whispered to an aide.

'Now,' said Little Boots to Salome, 'we will look into the loyalty of our Christian Tribune. They have gone to fetch him.'

'Remember what I said, sire! These people have no fear.'

'Would you like to lay a little wager?'

'Anything you say, Your Majesty,' she shrugged.

Caligula unclasped an emerald bracelet from his wrist and laid it on the table.

Salome unfastened a gold locket from the chain about her neck and opened it.

'Humph!' grunted Caligula. 'What is it--a lock of hair, eh?'

'From the head of the only honest man I ever met,' declared Salome. 'He was also the bravest.'

Caligula struggled to his feet and the entire assembly of Roman dignitaries rose and bowed. With a benevolent sweep of his arm, he bade them resume their seats. He was moved, he said, by the many expressions of fidelity to the Crown. It was apparent, he went on, thickly, that the Praetorian Guard and the Senate appreciated the value of a united loyalty to the Emperor and the Empire. They cheered him, briefly.

It had lately come to the Emperor's notice, he said, that a secret party of seditionists, calling themselves Christians, had been giving themselves to vain talk about a King--one Jesus, a Jewish brawler--who for treason and disturbance of the peace had been put to death in Jerusalem. His disciples, a small company of ignorant and superstitious fishermen, had spread the word that their dead chieftain had come to life and intended to set up a Kingdom.

'This foolishness,' continued Caligula, 'would hardly deserve our recognition were it confined to the feeble-minded fanatics and the brawlers who fan the flame of such superstitions in hope of gain. But it now comes to our attention that one of our Tribunes, Marcellus Gallio--'

Slowly the eyes of the banquet guests moved toward Senator Gallio. He did not change countenance; but sat staring, grey-faced, at Caligula, his mouth firm-set, his deep eyes steady.

'We are reluctant to believe,' went on Caligula, 'that these reports concerning Tribune Marcellus are true. It is his right, under our law, to stand up before you--and make his defence!'

* * * * * *

Diana was elated; her heart swelled with pride as Marcellus marched, head erect, in the hollow square of Palace Guards as they stalked into the banquet-hall and came to a halt before the Emperor's high table. The guards were all fine specimens of manhood, in their late twenties and early thirties; athletes, square-jawed, broad-shouldered, bronzed; yet--in every way, Marcellus, thought Diana, was the fittest of them all; and if ever this Jesus, whose own heroism had inspired her beloved Marcellus to endure this trial--if ever this Jesus was to have a champion worthy of him, surely he could ask for none more perfect than her Marcellus!

She had been so afraid he might not understand her being here beside this sick and drunk and loathsome little wretch, with the pasty skin and beady eyes and cruel mouth. But no--but no!-- Marcellus understood. Their eyes met, his lighting up in an endearing smile. His lips pantomimed a kiss! Diana's heart beat hard--and her eyes were swimming.

Marcellus was asked to stand forth, and he stepped forward to face the Emperor. Everybody stood. The silence in the hall was oppressive. Outside in the Palace plaza the procession was forming that would convey Rome's lawgivers to the Temple of Jupiter. The triumphal music was blaring discordantly from a dozen gaudily decorated equipages in the waiting cavalcade, and the sweating crowds that had massed in the avenue were shouting drunkenly; but, within the spacious banquet-hall, the silence was tense.

'Tribune Marcellus Gallio,' began Caligula, with attempted dignity, 'you have been accused of consorting with a party of revolutionists known as Christians. It is said that these promoters of sedition-- for the most part slaves and vandals--have proclaimed the kingship of one Jesus, a Palestinian Jew, who was put to death for treason, blasphemy, and disturbances of the public peace. What have you to say?'

Diana searched her beloved's impassive face. There was not a trace of fear. Indeed, to judge by his demeanour, the Emperor might have been bestowing an honour. How handsome he was in his Tribune's uniform! What was that brown garment that he held tightly in his folded arms? Diana's throat tightened as she identified the Robe. A hot tear rolled down her cheek. Oh, please, Christos! Marcellus is carrying your Robe! Please, Christos--Marcellus loves you so! He has given up so much for you! He is trying so hard to atone for what he did to you! Please, Christos! Do something for my Marcellus!

'It is true, Your Majesty,' Marcellus was replying, in a steady voice that could be heard through the banquet-hall, 'I am a Christian. But I am not a seditionist. I am not engaged in a plot to overthrow the Government. This Jesus, whom _I_ put to death on a cross, is indeed a King; but his Kingdom is not of this world. He does not seek an earthly throne. His Kingdom is a state of mind and heart that strives for peace and justice and good will among all men.'

'You say YOU put this Jew to death?' barked Caligula. 'Why, then, are you risking your life to serve as his ambassador?'

'It is a fair question, sire. This Jesus was innocent of any crime. At his trial, the Procurator, who sat in judgment, entreated the prosecutors to release him. He had gone about among the country people advising them to be kind to one another, to be honest and truthful, merciful and forbearing. He had healed their sick, opened the eyes of the blind, and had spoken simple words of consolation to the distressed. They followed him--thousands of them--from place to place--day by day--hanging on his words and crowding close to him for comfort. They forsook their synagogues, where their priests had been interested in them only for their tithes and lambs, and banded themselves together to barter only with men who weighed with honest scales.' Marcellus paused, in his lengthy speech.

'Proceed!' commanded the Emperor. 'You are an able advocate!' He smiled contemptuously. 'You are almost persuading us to be a Christian.'

'Your Majesty,' went on Marcellus, in a remorseful tone, 'I was ordered to conduct the execution. The trial had been held in a language I did not understand; and not until my crime had been committed did I realize the enormity of it.'

'Crime, you say?' shouted Caligula, truculently. 'And was it a crime, then, to obey the command of the Empire?'

'The Empire, Your Majesty, is composed of fallible men who sometimes make mistakes. And this, sire, was the greatest mistake that was ever made!'

'So! the Empire makes mistakes, then!' growled Caligula. 'Perhaps you will be foolhardy enough to say that the Emperor himself might make a mistake!'

'It is I, Your Majesty, who am on trial; not the Emperor,' said Marcellus, bowing.

Caligula was not quite prepared to deal with that comment. He flushed darkly. A throaty little chuckle came up from Salome's direction, spurring his anger.

'What is that brown thing you have clutched in your arms?' he demanded, pointing his finger.

'It is his Robe, Your Majesty.' Marcellus held it up for inspection. 'He wore it to the cross.'

'And you have the impudence to bring it along to your trial, eh? Hand it to the Commander of the Guard.'

Marcellus obeyed. The Centurion reached out a hand, rather reluctantly, and in effecting the transfer, the robe fell to the floor. The Centurion haughtily waited for the prisoner to pick it up, but Marcellus made no move to do so.

'Hand that garment to the Commander!' ordered Caligula. Marcellus stooped, picked up the robe, and offered it to the Commander who motioned to the guard beside him to receive it. The guard took it-- and dropped it. All breathing was suspended in the banquet-hall.

'Bring that thing here!' shouted Caligula, with bravado. He extended his hand with fingers outspread. Marcellus moved to obey. Salome glanced up suddenly, caught Caligula's eye, and ventured a warning frown. 'Hand it to the daughter of Legate Gallus,' he commanded. 'She will keep it for you--as a memento.'

It was a most impressive moment. Marcellus reached up and handed the robe to Diana, who leaned forward eagerly to receive it. They exchanged an intimate, lingering smile just as if they were alone together. Marcellus stepped back to his place beside the Commander, and all eyes were fixed on Diana's enraptured face as she gathered the robe to her bosom, regarding it with a tenderness that was almost maternal.

Little Boots was not easily embarrassed, but it was plain to see that the situation was becoming somewhat complicated. He had intended it as a drama to impress the Senate. These great ones needed to learn that their new Emperor expected unqualified loyalty and obedience, and plenty of it, whether the subject be a penniless nobody or a person of high rank. The play hadn't gone well. The other actors were neglecting to furnish cues for the imperial speeches. His face was twisted with a mounting rage. He glared at Marcellus.

'You seem to attach a great deal of significance to this old coat!'

'Yes, Your Majesty,' replied Marcellus, quietly.

'Are you fool enough to believe that there is some magic in it?'

'It does possess a peculiar power, Your Majesty, for those who believe that it was worn by the Son of God.'

There was a concerted stir throughout the great room; sound of a quick, involuntary intake of breath; throaty sound of incredulous murmurs; metallic sound of sidearms suddenly jostled in their scabbards as men turned about to dart inquiring glances at their neighbours.

'Blasphemer!' bellowed Caligula. 'Have you the effrontery to stand there--at this sacred feast in honour of Jupiter--and calmly announce that your crucified Jew is divine?'

'It is not in disrespect to Jupiter, Your Majesty. Many generations of our people have said their prayers to Jupiter, and My King is not jealous of that homage. He has compassion upon every man's longing to abide under the shadow of some sheltering wing. Jesus did not come into the world to denounce that aspiration, but to invite all who love truth and mercy to listen to his voice--and walk in his way.'

Diana was so proud--so very proud of Marcellus! Really--it wasn't Marcellus who was on trial! Everybody in the great room was on trial--all but Marcellus! Caligula was storming--but he had no case! Oh, she thought, what an Emperor Marcellus would have made! She wanted to shout, 'Senators! Give Marcellus the crown! Let him make our Empire great!'

The stirring music from the plaza was growing in volume. The shouts of the multitude were strident, impatient. It was time for the procession to start.

'Tribune Marcellus Gallio,' said Caligula, sternly, 'it is not our wish to condemn you to death in the presence of your aged father and the honourable men who, with him, serve the Empire in the Senate. Deliberate well, therefore, when you reply to this final question: Do you now recant, and forever renounce, your misguided allegiance to this Galilean Jew--who called himself a King?'

Again a portentous hush fell over the banquet-hall. Salome was observed to glance up with an arch smile and a little shrug, as she picked up the Emperor's emerald bracelet and clasped it on her arm.

'Your Majesty,' replied Marcellus, 'if the Empire desires peace and justice and good will among all men, my King will be on the side of the Empire and her Emperor. If the Empire and the Emperor desire to pursue the slavery and slaughter that has brought agony and terror and despair to the world'--Marcellus's voice had risen to a clarion tone--'if there is then nothing further for men to hope for but chains and hunger at the hands of our Empire--my King will march forward to right this wrong! Not to-morrow, sire! Your Majesty may not be so fortunate as to witness the establishment of this Kingdom. But it will surely come!'

'And that is your final word?' asked Caligula.

'Yes, Your Majesty,' said Marcellus.

Caligula drew himself up erectly.

'Tribune Marcellus Gallio,' he announced, 'it is our decree that you be taken immediately to the Palace Archery Field and put to death--for high treason.'

Even while the sentence was being passed, a fresh sensation stirred the audience. Diana had left her place at the Emperor's table and was walking proudly, confidently, down the steps of the dais, to take her stand beside Marcellus. He slipped his arm about her, tenderly.

'No, darling, no!' he entreated, as if no one heard. 'Listen to me, my sweetheart! You mustn't do this! I am willing to die--but there is no reason why you should risk your life! Bid me farewell-- and leave me!'

Diana smiled into his eyes, and faced the Emperor. When she spoke, her voice was uncommonly deep, for a girl, but clearly audible to the silent spectators of this strange drama.

'Your Majesty,' she said, calmly, 'I, too, am a Christian. Marcellus is my husband. May I go with him?'

There was an inarticulate murmur of protest through the banquet- hall. Caligula nervously fumbled with his fingers and shook his head.

'The daughter of Gallus is brave,' he said, patronizingly. 'But we have no charge against her. Nor have we any wish to punish her. You love your husband, but your love will do him no good--when he is dead.'

'It will, sire, if I go with him,' persisted Diana, 'for then we will never part. And we will live together--always--in a Kingdom of love--and peace.'

'In a Kingdom, eh?' chuckled Caligula, bitterly. 'So you too believe in this nonsense about a Kingdom. Well'--he added with a negligent gesture--'you may stand aside. You are not being tried. There is no indictment.'

'If it please Your Majesty,' said Diana, boldly, 'may I then provide evidence to warrant a conviction? I have no wish to live another hour in an Empire so far along on the road to ruin that it would consent to be governed by one who has no interest in the welfare of his people.'

There was a spontaneous gasp from the audience. Caligula, stunned to speechlessness, listened with his mouth open.

'I think I speak the thoughts of everyone present, sire,' went on Diana, firmly. 'These wise men all know that the Empire is headed for destruction--and they know why! As for me, I have another King-- and I desire to go with my husband--into that Kingdom!'

Little Boots's face was livid.

'By the gods, you shall!' he screamed. 'Go--both of you--into your Kingdom!'

He gestured violently to the Commander of the Guards. There was an order barked. A bugle sounded a strident blast. The drums rattled a prolonged roll. The tall soldiers, marking time, waited the crisp command. The word was given. Marcellus and Diana, hand in hand, marched in the hollow square, as it moved down the broad aisle toward the imposing archway. Old Gallio, trembling, pushed forward through the crowd, but was detained by friendly hands and warning murmurs.

As the procession of guards, and the condemned, disappeared through the great marble arch, the audience was startled by the harsh, drunken laughter of Little Boots.

Amid loud, hysterical guffaws, he shrieked, 'They are going into a better Kingdoom! Ha! ha! They are going now to meet their King!'

But nobody, except Little Boots, thought it was an occasion for derisive laughter. There was not a smile on any face. All stood, grim and silent. And when Little Boots observed that his merriment was not shared, he suddenly grew surly, and without a dismissing word, stumbled toward the steps of the dais, where Quintus took his arm. Outside, the metallic music blared for Jupiter.

Hand in hand, Diana and Marcellus kept step with the Guards. Both were pale, but smiling. With measured tread the procession marched briskly the length of the corridor, and down the marble steps into the congested plaza. The massed multitude, not knowing what was afoot, but assuming that this was the first contingent of the notables who would join the gaudy parade to the Temple of Jupiter, raised a mighty shout.

Old Marcipor strode forward from the edge of the crowd, tears streaming down his face. Marcellus whispered something into Diana's ear. She smiled, and nodded.

Slipping between two of the guards, she tossed the Robe into the old man's arms.

'For the Big Fisherman!' she said.

THE END

End of this Meredy.com E-book The Robe by Lloyd C. Douglas