The Robe of Caesar
By Charles R. Tanner
During the latter part of the world war (the
first one, not this preset day dog fight), there was a
certain young English lieutenant by the name of Tony
Jefferson. Time has hardened and lined his features and
made of him a rather horsey, Jack-Holtish sort of
individual, and one would no more expect a story of this
king from him than one would expect one of Raphael’s
angels to peddle fish. He’s Colonel Anthony Sykes
Jefferson, K.B., V.C. etc, retired, today: but back in
the days when this adventure happened he was, he assures
me, just young Tony Jefferson.
And at the moment when this story starts, he was
a tired, war-harassed and not particularly pleased Tony
Jefferson.
He was seated on a big stone, along a road that
led from the front lines, and standing in front of him,
with a sneer of contemptuous complacency on his face,
was a big, bearded Austrian Jew, clad in the badly
soiled field uniform of a German sergeant. He had been
captured the day before, and that look had been on his
face almost constantly since his capture.
“Contemptuous complacency!” Jefferson was
saying. “That just exactly describes it. And, by gad,
Fritzie, I wouldn’t mind the complacency, if it wasn’t
for the contempt. Deuces take it, I did save your life,
you know. I may have taken you prisoner, and brought you
back here, but - - why, that’s fortune of war, that’s
all.
And although I don’t demand gratitude
from you for saving your life - - well, after all, it
is customary, old chap. You know, chap saves
another’s life, other one thanks him tears in his eyes,
and that sort of rot, you know - -.”
He finished rather lamely. The other shrugged
silently, and the look never left his face. He seemed
quite uninterested, bored, in fact.
Jefferson, worn with two days of sleeplessness,
was irritated to the limit of endurance. He became
determined to get some sort of contempt out of the
fellow. He went on with his analysis.
“You act as if having your life saved was an
everyday occurrence. You act as if you were tired of
having your life saved. My word, I’m not asking you for
any token of gratitude, but take that supercilious look
off of your face.”
For just a second, it did seem that the look
dropped from eth other’s face. It was replaced by a
curious sort of pity. By tut was just for a second. As
soon as he began to speak, it appeared again. And when
he spoke, it was in a flawless Oxford accent that one
would have hardly believer possible in any but an
Englishman born.
“I suppose I might as well tell you what I have
told so many other unbelieving mortals. It will help
pass away a few moments if nothing else.”
“I am sick and tired of having my life saved, my
friend. People have been saving my life more, lately,
than ever before. And - - it is not appreciated.
My life has been saved more than three thousand times.
For nearly nineteen hundred years, I have been searching
for death and never finding it; for some kind soul has
always saved my life. Is it any wonder that I grow
contemptuous of my many saviors? You will not wonder
when I tell you who I am.
Lieutenant, I am that unfortunate immortal who
legend calls the “Wandering Jew.”
Had this speech been made without the
supercilious, believe-it-or-not air, Jefferson might
have wondered. But the manner in which it was told
almost demanded antipathy. Tony looked at him and his
tired brain swelled with anger.
“You’re a nut, that’s what you are. Don’t come
to me with such a bally tale. Try it on the doctors that
examine you back at the hospital base, but don’t use it
as an excuse for your lack of gratitude”.
He turned disgustedly and sulked. It had been a
hard day, and men who went through the horror of that
war, with its trench fighting and its shell shock, were
not always in perfect control of their emotions. And
because he turned away disgustedly, he failed to notice
a sudden sardonic gleam that appeared in the self-styled
“Wandering Jew’s” eyes. But he did hear him when he
spoke.
“You continue to insist that I show some form of
gratitude, eh?” He turned, opened the duffle bag that he
had persisted in bringing all the long way with him. He
drew out a cloth-covered package.
“I am now, at your insistence, about to show you
some gratitude, lieutenant. And being an Oriental at
heart, I am going to show my gratitude in an Oriental
way. I am going to give you a gift.”
He carefully unwrapped the package, and unfolded
what it contained – a huge square of heavy cloth, old
unbleached linen; it seemed with a border of figured
red. It looked for all the world like an ancient Roman
toga, like the toga praetexta that the
higher Roman officers used to wear. He held it out to
Tony.
“There,” he said. “Accept that, as a gift for
saving my life. That it may not be said that I am
lacking in gratitude. And may the gift give you as much
happiness as the life that you saved is likely to bring
me.”
Tony took the cloth and looked at it curiously.
It did have an appearance of age, which, combined with
its appearance, made it seem that maybe it really was
an ancient Roman toga. Of course, linen couldn’t last
that long and still be in such good condition, He raised
his eyes to the prisoner.
“Where’d you get this? He asked. “Some French
museum? It looks deucedly old.”
“It is old.” answered the “Wandering Jew”. “It’s
just what you think it is – and ancient Roman toga. It’s
the toga, in fact, of the imperial Julius Caesar.” (he
pronounced it Yoolyoos Kye-ssahr). “I am giving it to
you because I am grateful. Don’t you appreciate it?”
Tony grunted. “I’d appreciate it more,” he
decided, “if you’d stick to the truth. You surely don’t
expect to pull any of that Julius Caesar stuff on me and
get away with it, do you?”
The “Wandering Jew” actually grew solemn for a
moment.
“It really is the robe of Caesar,” he insisted.
“I have been its guardian during all the ages since the
Empire was divided. For, because of the strange power it
possesses, it was necessary that some one as immortal as
I be its guardian.”
“Oh, now it has a strange power!” Tony’s
petulant anger was turning to contempt. “Fritzie, you’re
balmy, that’s what you are. Balmy as they make “em. I
don’t know whether to take this thing or not. What’s
this strange power it’s got, eh?
He asked this last question in the humoring tone
that one uses when talking to a lunatic or one in a
delirium. The prisoner ignored the tone, however, and
answered the question.
“Because this is the robe of Caesar”, he stated
“none but a Caesar can wear it. Take this gift I offer
you, and in time you will be the greatest man in all
England. And England will go on to greater heights of
glory until she is the greatest country in the
world!”
“What is she now…” Tony began hotly, but the
other waved him to silence.
“Listen! This robe was worn by Constantine.
Charlemagne accepted it as a gift from me, as did
Gustavus Adolphus, the great Swede. I gave it to a
little Corsican, and Napoleon Bonaparte swept over
Europe! Two months ago I took it away from Wilhelm
Hohenzollern, because I decided he wasn’t worthy of it.
And now, in gratitude, I offer it to you”.
Tony looked at him quizzically.
“And I suppose if I wear it, or keep it, or
whatever, I’ll be another Bonaparte, eh? He snorted
derision. “By George, if I can make any headway against
that political line-up back in Blighty now, it’ll be a
deuced miracle, right-o.”
He took the package as he spoke, for he had
determined, after all, to accept it. For it was a fine,
firm piece of old linen, and mother or Aunt Catherine
might jolly well appreciate it. He rose as he took the
package, and beckoning the other to follow he started
down the road.
And so they walked along, and Tony, whose
disposition had been improved by the rest and mellowed
by the feeling that here was a poor fellow worse touched
by war than he was, grew talkative and chatted freely
with his prisoner, telling him of his home in England
and of his life there, and his hopes…
The prisoner’s look softened as he listened.
Once he sighed and shook his head dolefully. After a
while he sighed again. Tony looked curiously at him,
and, of course, misconstrued the meaning of the
sign.
“Don’t take it so hard, old man,” he counseled.
“After all. This war won’t last much longer. I don’t
suppose you’ll be a prisoner very long.”
The other shook his head.
“It wasn’t that. It was just that I was envying
you your youth. And your hopes. After nineteen
centuries, one almost forgets that one was every young.
And as for hope – Perhaps, I was pitying you, too.
Look!”
He stopped suddenly and took a card out of his
pocket. Some searching through his pockets disclosed a
pencil, too; and, lifting a leg, he scribbled something
on the card, using his thigh as a desk. He took the
package of linen from Tony and tucked the card into
it.
“There, he said. “That’s my address. Perhaps I
have been too severe with you. So I offer an escape from
the fate I have given you. If ever you tire of the robe
of Caesar, you can return it to me.”
Tony could make little sense out of this, so he
made no comment on it. In fact, it was beginning to be
plain to him that, no matter how you talked, the theme
came back to this fellow’s “Wandering Jew” mania, so he
decided to keep still entirely.
And so, at last, they reached the place toward
which they were walking.
The days that followed Tony’s capture of the
“Wandering Jew” were busy one’s. Tony’s company was sent
back to a rest camp, only to be immediately returned to
the front line. The great Hindenburg line was broken at
last and the German Army was in full retreat. The war
was drawing to a close. Tony marched his men nine miles
one day, twelve the next, and seventeen the next.
And then, one day, they caught up with Fritzie. On both
sides of the regiment the British had drawn ahead.
Fritzie’s flight was stopped by a river and he found
himself unable to turn to the right or left. Cornered,
he turned on Tony’s regiment and struck, swiftly and
hopelessly. There was a brief but fierce little
engagement, and when it was over, Tony’s captain and
senior lieutenant were dead and Tony was in charge of
his company.
He was aching captain for a little over a week
when his promotion to captain was confirmed. He was
grateful, of course, but he was surprised at the
promptness of the confirmation. Some officers he knew
had been waiting months for the confirmation of their
promotions.
Came the last week of the war. Came also an
astonishing message from headquarters. For some reason
or other, vague even in the papers, Captain Anthony
Sykes Jefferson was promoted to major. Tony never did
understand what error, covered by miles of red tape,
brought about that second promotion. But he accepted the
promotion and turned, unprepared as he was, to the study
of his new duties. Had anyone been especially interested
in Major Jefferson at that time, they would have noticed
that he had acquired a remarkable insight into field
tactics and the handling of bodies of men. But no one
noticed it, and in the excitement of attending to his
new duties, even Tony failed to notice that he was
carrying on surprisingly well.
And then - - the war was over, and everybody was
looking forward to a return to Blighty, and wondering
how soon it would be.
Tony was due for another surprise. He had no
reason to expect that he would not be returned to
England as soon as any of the other officers in his
regiment. But, strangely, he was transferred to Paris,
and some weeks later received orders to report to a
certain Brigadier-General Blessington. He found himself
appointed to a commission that was going to Bavaria to
supervise the return of German prisoners.
This was tantamount to a transfer to the
diplomatic branch of the army and Major Jefferson was
again pleased to receive the envious congratulations of
his fellow officers. He was pleased, of course, but he
was uneasy. For it seemed certain that his rapid
promotion was not due to accident. Somebody, back
there in London, must be pulling strings. At least, that
was how it appeared to Tony, at the time. And he
worried, because he hadn’t the remotest idea who that
somebody could be.
Nevertheless, he accepted what the gods (the
little tin gods of politics) offered, and went his way
to Munich, as a soldier should.
And, once in the German city, he found further
honor and promotion. There were five men on the
commission, and Tony was the youngest and most
inexperienced of the lot, when he first arrived. But
General Blessington, one of those doddering old Haw-by-Joves
that had been jerked out of retirement by the war, took
an especial liking to the young man and before long the
two were together constantly. Blessington had the
typical on-track mind of the professional soldier, and
he could talk of nothing but the commission and its
duties. Jefferson learned fast, he soon saw not only the
side that Blessington presented, but, with that new
keenness that was constantly surprising him, he was also
able to see just how Blessington as fumbling in the
carrying out of the commission’s business.
Several times, therefore, he made minor
suggestions and was pleased to see Blessington accept
them, although, before the commission and the Germans,
the old fellow unblushingly produced them as his
won.
And then—General Blessington was down with
Spanish influenza!
And so was Malcolm MacDonald, his second in
command. MacDonald lasted five days; the old General,
whom one would have expected to succumb at once,
lingered on for twelve. Two days before he died, he sent
for Tony.
“Major,” he wheezed. “I don’t think I’m going to
last it out, this time, by Gad. Number’s up, I’m afraid.
Dashed inconvenience, I’m sure, but unavoidable. They’ve
told me of poor Mac’s death. And those others - -
technically, they’re your superiors, but - - stuffed
shirts, lad, stuffed shirts. Deuced civilians,
politicians that don’t know—dash it, they don’t know
anything. You mark my words, lad, they’ll leave it up to
you. So listen…”
He proceeded, slowly, as well as his weakness
would allow, to convey to Tony all the business of the
commission, just as he had planned it, And, two days
later, he was dead.
Blessington had not been deceived in the
character of the two remaining associates. They were
just as he had pictured them, and they quickly relegated
their power to Tony. And he, to his surprise, found
himself quite capable of carrying on. So, presently,
came a wire from London, appointing him as official head
of the commission and instructing him to carry the
business to a close.
Now, Tony Jefferson really began to wonder. It
dawned on him suddenly, one day, that no amount of pull,
back home, could have arranged the deaths of Blessington
and Malcolm MacDonald. True enough, those deaths had
been natural; there was an epidemic of flu, that
winter, and one could hardly call it strange that his
superiors had died from it. Not one single event in all
the series that had caused his rise had been in the
least bit miraculous - - in itself.
But - - the succession of coincidences was
miraculous. And so Tony Jefferson was worried. He had
liked the old general, in spite of his pomposity, and he
had no desire to feel that he had been responsible,
directly or indirectly, for the old fellow’s death.
Nevertheless, the rapid rise for lieutenant to major - -
no, it was colonel now, the commission had come with his
authorization as head of the group in Munich - - the
rapid rise had made him uneasy, and he began, for the
first time since he was given it, of the so-called “robe
of Caesar”.
And the, one day, when the work of the
commission had been closed and he was preparing to
return home, he ran across the toga in a drawer in his
room at the hotel.
This was odd. He had been absolutely certain
that he had sent it to his mother before he left Paris.
He remembered distinctly wrapping it up-- well, he was
almost certain that he had. His memory was a
little vague on that score, but - -
He sighed. Very probably he hadn’t sent it back
at all. Very probably, seeing it was right here.
It was just a well. He didn’t want to seem a
superstitious ass, but that robe, and the sequences of
promotions, when combined, made him go crawly, all over.
He determined to get rid of the thing. The, if the
promotions stopped, well and good, by George. And if
they continued -- well, he’d have the satisfaction of
knowing that the “robe of Caesar” wasn’t responsible,
anyway.
So he wrapped the thing up in a newspaper, took
it out with him that evening, and very deliberately and
positively dropped in into the middle of the Danube
River. And that was that.
At least, he thought that was that, until he got
home. He went up to his room and had no more than
entered it when he saw it lying on his table - - in the
precise middle, in fact - - still dripping, the paper
wrapping in a soggy mess - -
The robe of Caesar!
That settled it with Tony. It was the
veritable robe of Caesar, now, as far as he was
concerned. It was the infernal fetish that was bringing
him all his luck, that had caused the death, most
likely, of his old captain, and of Blessington, and
MacDonald- - -
Tony was fed up. And not a little
panic-stricken. He didn’t mind the idea of there being a
robe of Caesar; he didn’t mind some deuced old nitwit of
a King owning it and getting to be a jolly old Caesar,
if he wanted to, -- but Tony didn’t want any of that in
his. And yet, his attempt to get rid of the robe hadn’t
been very successful. He decided on a more certain
method. He re-wrapped the toga, took it down to the
hotel basement and threw the damned thing into the
furnace! Then, with a lighter heart, he started back to
his room.
Even before he reached the door, he smelled
paint burning. It didn’t register just at first; but
before he opened the door, he knew what it was. He
opened the door slowly, the hair rising on his neck, and
queer chills running up and down this back. There was a
big cherry desk that stood in the room, and the top of
it was all scorched and smoking, and right on top of it
was that infernal robe of Caesar, still red-hot from the
furnace!
One never knows just what reaction will take
place when one is faced with the incredible. Tony never
had expected a situation such as this to confront him
and so he was totally unprepared for it. Yet, so strange
are the twisting and turnings of the human minds that
Ton’s actions, unexplainable as they are, are
understandable. He - - grew calm.
Very deliberately, he picked up the smoldering
robe in a pair of tong, took it to the bathroom and
doused it with water. He unwrapped it for the first
time, impelled, no doubt, by some subconscious memory -
- land out fell the addressed card of the ‘”Wandering
Jew.”
He stared at the charred bit of pasteboard for a
full minute. The whole conversation with that strange
character came back to him. What was it the fellow had
said? “I offer you an escape from the fate I have given
you. If ever you tire of the robe of Caesar you can
return it to me.” Well, by George, he was tired of it,
now. Fed up. Deuced fed up. He picked up the
card and read it.
And found, to his surprise, that the Jew‘s
address was right here in Munich!
Tony felt a wave of relief sweep over him. He
wrung out the toga, wrapped it up again, and scratched
an address on the wrapping paper. Then he hurried down
to the hotel desk.
“I want a messenger,” he told the clerk at the
desk. “I want a man who can deliver a package. It’s
important.”
The clerk looked pained.
“I regret, Herr Colonel,” he said,
putting on a pained look to show how much he regretted.
“There is no one right now available your package to
deliver. Could you perhaps another half hour wait?”
You can imagine how much Tony wanted to wait
another half hour. Why, perhaps even now events were
shaping up to kill some general so that he might take
his place. He became insistent. Presently the clerk’s
face cleared.
“There are many out on the street, mein
colonel, who would gladly earn a few marks. They are
returned soldiers. The city is full of them, most of
them jobless and some even hungry. One will be glad to
serve you.”
Tony turned at once to the door. The clerk,
anxious to make aments for the lack of service, followed
him. At the door, the clerk stood for a moment and then
whistled and signaled to a passing soldier. He addressed
him familiarly; evidently he had some slight
acquaintance with the fellow.
“The Herr Colonel wishes you an errand to
run. A package to deliver. Ten marks, ja?”
The soldier, a doleful looking fellow with sad,
insolent eyes and a droopy moustache, answered quickly.
But certainly he would the package deliver. He extended
eager hands, studied the address, pocketed Tony’s ten
mark note and was off. Tony watched him go, and then had
sudden feelings of misgiving. He turned to the clerk.
“
Do you think he‘ll deliver it?” he asked. “Do
you suppose he’s honest?”
“Oh, but yes, mein colonel.” That worthy
assured him. “I know him fairly well. I do not think
there is any chance of him stealing your package. He is
a queer fellow, but honest. Ja, honest.”
Tony had a sort of feeling that the fellow
insisted on the soldier’s honestly more to assure
himself than Tony. He spoke again.
“You say you know him? Maybe you’d better let me
have his name and address. Then, if the package isn’t
delivered, I can look him up. Do you know his name and
address?”
The clerk nodded, positively.
“Surely, mein colonel. Here, copy it down
on this piece of paper.” He spoke each syllable of the
name slowly, allowing Tony time to write it down.
“Cor-po-ral A-dolf - - Hit-ler. 22la - -
Ot-ter-bein - - Stras-se.”
THE END