“The hand of Jehovah beckons Paul back to Jerusalem.”
“It is Paul himself who says so,” declared Adam bitterly. “How can the rest of us be sure that the hand is not motioning him to stay away? Well, he will come; and it will be a black day for all of us when he does.”
With an abruptness which startled his hearers, the caravan captain then jumped to another subject. “Simon the Magician was here last night. He appeared in the market place, and every man in Aleppo was out to see him perform his tricks.”
Luke glanced up with a grave air. “I hear of this Simon everywhere. He gives us much trouble. Did you see him?”
“Of course I saw him.” Adam nodded his head with gusto. “He is the greatest magician in the world and he makes miracles seem easy. Let me tell you this, O Luke: he wins followers wherever he goes and he takes them away from the Nazarene.” He made an expansive gesture. “What can you expect? People believe Jesus to be the Messiah because He performed miracles. Then along comes Simon the Magician, who says to them: ‘See, I can do miracles too. I can do greater miracles than He did.’ So of course people begin to wonder and they say to themselves, ‘It is true. Why, therefore, have we believed in the Nazarene?’ ”
Luke’s manner had become graver with each word spoken. He had listened to Adam with a saddened air as one might take in the thoughtless chatter of a child.
“My son,” he said, “you have not become one of us, and sometimes I fear you never will. You have lived under the influence of your saintly master all the years of your life. You know the apostles and you have heard them speak. It is possible that you saw Jesus when you were very young.”
Adam shook his head. “It was after His death that my master engaged me as a camel driver. I heard then that He had been buried in Joseph’s tomb and that He was supposed to have risen from the dead.”
“It is true that He rose from the dead. Many of His followers saw Him.”
“I am a Jew and I live by the Law of Moses,” declared Adam. He grinned broadly and rapped his head with his knuckles. “My head is hard. Very hard.”
“And, I fear, your heart.”
“As hard,” supplied the caravan man, “as the back of Ah-big, the crocodile.”
Luke sighed deeply. “The comparison is only too accurate. None of us has been able to reach your soul.” He fell into silence for a moment and then resumed speaking with passionate conviction. “You are not a Christian and so you do not understand that a belief in the miracles of Jesus is a very small matter indeed. I was denied the privilege of seeing Him, but it would make no difference to me if He had performed no miracles at all. It is what He taught, Adam ben Asher. He brought us the sublime truth that our God is the God of charity and forgiveness and that we may be redeemed and washed of our sins by the blood that was spilled on Calvary. When you ride on your camel, Adam, it is not the amulet around the animal’s neck that supplies the strength to carry you from Aleppo to Jerusalem. This talk of miracles has no more importance to us than the amulet has to you.”
“Then why do people come out in such crowds to see Simon the Magician? Why are they beginning to say he is the Messiah and not Jesus of Nazareth?”
“The number of deserters is small. No true Christian pays any attention to this trickster, this mountebank.”
“It is not wise to pass him over lightly. There may be more than keshef in what he does. Oh, he is a wise one, that Simon. What do you suppose he did last night to make all the roving eyes of Aleppo pop right out of their sockets? He used a girl as a helper on the platform. Yes, O Luke, in full view of everyone and without even a veil over her face. A beautiful girl, with eyes like the stars and hair as black as midnight. She had a shape which turned the amorous bones of Aleppo to water. At first it seemed there might be a riot because women are not allowed to show their faces in public. But after a few moments it was apparent they were licking their lips and enjoying it.”
“His heart is black with wickedness!” declared Luke. “I am surprised he was not struck down by a thunderbolt from the angry hand of Jehovah.”
“Where do you suppose this man of black heart goes next to display his tricks? To Jerusalem.”
“I cannot believe it!” cried Luke. “Simon is a Samaritan. He would not be allowed to appear publicly in the Holy City.”
“I am not as sure of that as you. His aim is to make light of Jesus of Nazareth, and it may very well be that the high priests will welcome him. I would not be at all surprised if the great men of the Temple allowed him to do his tricks outside the very Gate of the Golden Bars.”
Luke gave his head an anxious shake. “It is fortunate, then,” he said, “that Paul is going to Jerusalem. Something must be done to prove this Simon a trickster and a cheat—this Bad Samaritan!”
That night, after Adam had fallen to snoring like the slow beat of a native fist on a taut drum, Luke said to Basil, who was stretched out beside him: “I shall stop in Antioch on my way to rejoin Paul and give notification to the courts of your release, and the terms. You are freer than is allowed under the Roman laws, but in Antioch, as in other provinces of the empire, they have begun to wink at such relaxations. Then I shall apply under a writ of postliminium to have your citizenship restored to you. I think it will be allowed because there is a general belief in the city that you were infamously treated. They have resented the corrupt methods that Linus used and they have nothing but contempt for him.”
“I thought freedmen were held in scorn,” said Basil.
“In Rome it is so. That city is filled with ex-slaves, and the old Romans resent their wealth and insolence. They still speak angrily of the marriage of Drusilla, a granddaughter of Antony and Cleopatra, to a freedman of Judea named Felix. They mutter a great deal because Nero admits so many freedmen to posts of authority under him. But outside of Rome it is different. Have you ever seen a pileus worn on the head of a freedman in Antioch?”
Basil shook his head. “I do not think so.”
“They must still wear it in Rome.” Luke paused reflectively. “In your case we have a definite advantage, for you were born free and your father was a citizen of Rome. I am sure, my son, that you may sleep easily and in full confidence that you will never have to don the pileus!”
2
Luke left the next day. For a week thereafter Adam ben Asher traded and bought and sold while Basil waited. After the talk to which he had listened between the two older men, Basil did not look forward to the long journey over the hot trails to Jerusalem in the company of Adam, who thought so ill of him.
“I hope you have a stout heart under those skinny ribs of yours,” said Adam as they sat together over what they thought would be their last evening meal in Aleppo. “We will be two weeks at least on the road, and the heat will be enough to fry a lizard on a rock.” He swallowed his last bite of food and wiped his lips with a quick flick of one hand. “We start at dawn.”
But they did not start at dawn. Basil developed a fever during the night, the result, perhaps, of the state of anxiety in which he had existed, but more still of the undernourishment and overwork of two long years. For three days he tossed about in a stupor, his eyes closed, his brow hot and dry. Adam ben Asher, grumbling loudly about the delay and the absence of Luke in this emergency, dosed the sick youth with every medicine he could find. On the morning of the fourth day he detected a trace of moisture on the patient’s forehead.
“Luke could not have done better,” said the caravan captain to himself with a sense of pride in his success. “Was it the black hellebore or the pods of the carob I bought from that old Armenian? Whichever it was, he’s going to live.” Rubbing a hand over his unshaved jaw, he studied the patient with an eye which still lacked friendliness. “If he had stayed sick another day, I would have left him and gone on my way. It would have been necessary for Luke to find another artist, and he might have the good sense this time to pick a man of good round years, a fellow with a fat belly, perhaps, and a bald head. I would be easier
in my mind if I were taking into the house of Joseph a chisel-wielder with a rheumy eye and a sourness of breath instead of this slim young sprig.”
The day following, when the freshness of dawn was in the air, Basil was lifted to the back of a camel that had been fitted out with a musattah, a litter consisting of a small square tent and a comfortable back against which he could lean. He was still weak and ill but grimly determined not to cause the fuming caravan captain any further delay.
Adam watched an assistant tic the pale young artist to the rear cushions with tasseled cords of twisted goat’s hair and grunted an order. The man gave the reins a jerk and said “Khikh!” in a sharp tone. The camel groaned, thrust its head forward, and rose slowly to its knees. Basil felt himself being tilted forward as the animal elevated its rear quarters without moving either foreleg. Lacking the strength to move his arms, he was certain that he was going to slip out of the front of the musattah. In the nick of time, however, one of the forelegs was raised until the foot touched the ground and the whole of the front quarter began to rise in turn. After what seemed a long time, and to the accompaniment of much groaning and grumbling, the front established equilibrium and the sick rider sighed with relief.
“Khikh!” cried the overseer, the leader of the train, who had come up to watch. He was a stout fellow with a bronze face and he looked around at Adam as the camel started off at a slow swinging gait. “Walk?” he asked.
“Walk,” affirmed Adam. “For the next two days. If we try for more than twenty-five miles at first we will have an artist to bury. I would not object myself, but the old man in Jerusalem would not be pleased.”
“There are times,” said the overseer, “when we cannot consider our own pleasure and have to think about the old man in Jerusalem.”
“He has some use for this young bag of bones,” explained Adam.
The long train had swept out from the encampment, which lay under the walls of the city, and was moving slowly down the Jerusalem Road when Adam brought his camel up beside Basil’s. He raised the flap of the tent and squinted in at the patient.
“You look as yellow as a mummy,” he said. “Are you going to be sick again?”
“I think not,” Basil answered without making the effort required to turn his head. “But I need more air.”
“I will raise the canvas on this side where the sun does not strike. Keep your eyes straight ahead and you will get accustomed in time to the camel’s gait.”
He kept pace alongside and after a few moments of silence he began to talk, beginning with a question. “What do you know about Joseph of Arimathea?”
“I know nothing about him.”
“Joseph,” declared Adam with obvious pride, “is a very rich man. Some say he is the richest man in the world, and it may be true. Is it necessary to tell you that the Jews are the greatest people in the world? They are bright and sharp and they have the gift of understanding. Also, they are acquisitive and they make great fortunes, sometimes out of nothing. There was once a Jew named Job and he was so rich that he owned six thousand camels as well as great herds of cattle and flocks of sheep and enough horses to mount a Roman army. But that was a thousand years ago, and trade has grown so much since then that today Joseph of Arimathea is wealthier than half a dozen Jobs rolled into one. His connections are so wide that if he went bankrupt every business roof in Jerusalem would fall in. I am not boasting, young artist. I am trying to give you the truth about this great old man you are going to work for in Jerusalem.
“Joseph has one fault,” he went on. “He is a Christian. He became one in the earliest days—when there was real danger in it. Joseph was sure his business would suffer if it was known and so he didn’t go about beating his breast and singing hymns. It was not,” emphatically, “because he was afraid. After the crucifixion, he went to Pontius Pilate, that weak man, and asked for the body. He placed the body in his own tomb and rolled the stone over the entrance; and as to what happened after, I offer no opinion.”
Basil was listening intently, but it would not have mattered if he had turned his head away: Adam had started to tell the story and nothing could stop him.
“Joseph has lived a long life. For over thirty years he has been the financial mainstay of the Christians. The Lord performs miracles, they say, but He does not cause the shekels to multiply in the purses of His people. There are others to help, but when it is said that ‘Paul has been called into Macedonia’ or ‘Peter has decided to go to Rome,’ it is Joseph of Arimathea they come to for help. He never refuses.”
Adam paused, to catch his breath and to heave a deep sigh of regret. “He cannot live much longer, that fine old man. And when he dies his only son Aaron, the father of Deborra, will take his place. Things will be different then. Bismillah, what a difference there will be!
“How could it come about that a man like Joseph, who has glowed warmly all his life like a ball of fire in the sky, could sire a dried-up pod of seeds like Aaron? It was not necessary for Aaron to learn his arithmetic, he came into the world knowing how to add and multiply. If all the words spoken by the children of Israel over the ages had been written down and counted and put into columns, it would be found that our helpful, generous Aaron has said ‘no’ oftener than all the others put together. Have you ever camped on a high plain of a winter night and felt the cold turning you into a solid cake of ice? The heart of Aaron is colder than that, because you can always start a fire on the plains, but you cannot burn camel dung inside him to relieve the chill. When Joseph dies, the Christians will not get as much as one half shekel out of that man of small and shriveled soul.” It was clear that he did not fear the possible consequences of speaking with such freedom. “Why do I tell you this about the man who will sit over me someday? I will tell you, young artist. It is because I do not care. I have said all this before, and to Aaron’s own face.”
He continued to talk about the household of the great merchant in Jerusalem, but Basil had ceased to listen. The fever had resumed its hold and his mind had lost itself in strange and disjointed dreams.
3
The fever did not leave him finally until after ten days of continuous travel. They had progressed by that time beyond the lower tip of the Sea of Galilee and had camped by the ford of the Wadi Farah, which meanders slowly across the plain to join the fast-flowing waters of the Jordan. Basil had slept well and wakened with a clear head and a new feeling of energy in his veins. He gazed with wonder at the high hills to the west in which nestled, he had been told, the fruitful valleys of Samaria. It was pleasant in the cool of dawn, the air filled with the songs of birds in the palm trees and the mulberries, the sky shot across with brilliant streamers of color.
“What is the name of that highest peak?” he asked.
“Mount Ebal,” answered Adam shortly. “Ask me no more questions about the land of the cursed Cutheans. Listen! They are stirring back there on the other side of the ford. In a moment there will be something worth your notice.”
The night before a large party had come to the ford and had camped on the other side. “They are nearly through with their prayers,” said Adam in a whisper of the deepest respect. “The Standing Man is ready to begin.”
He had barely finished speaking when a voice was raised on the other side of the water, crying, “Arise ye! And let us go up to Zion and to Jehovah, our God!”
The rest of the company obeyed the summons by getting to their feet and beginning a chant, “I was glad when they said unto me, Let us go into the house of Jehovah.”
This was a familiar spectacle to Adam. At this season of the year each of the twenty-four districts into which Palestine had been divided sent parties to Jerusalem, in charge of an official who was called the Standing Man, taking with them the First Fruits to be offered to God. It was the custom of the farmers to select the best of everything, the finest heads of grain, the largest and ripest grapes, the most succulent bunches of dates, and to place them in wicker baskets as white as snow or even in con
tainers of gold or silver in which they would be carried to the Temple. But to Basil it was all strange and he watched with the greatest interest.
The company was now approaching the ford with the sound of flutes to set the pace of the march. They were beginning to chant the first of the Songs of Ascents.
Adam was filled with pride in this demonstration of the abiding faith of his people. He gave Basil a vigorous buffet on the shoulder and pointed to the files of earnest men marching down to the water.
“Look at them!” he said. “They all live by the Law of Moses. It was thus they came down behind Joshua for the Passover. These men slept in the open last night to avoid defilement, and some of them kept watch over the First Fruits. Now they will tread the long roads to the Holy City, singing as they go. Does it not stir your blood to see how faithfully they keep all the customs of their fathers? Listen to the words they are singing.”
The pilgrims had reached the third of the Songs of Degrees and were reverently intoning the words:
They that trust in the Lord shall be as Mount Zion
Which cannot be removed but abideth forever.
As the mountains are round about Jerusalem,
So the Lord is round about his people,
From henceforth, even forever.
Adam’s eyes were gleaming happily. “When they come within sight of the hill on which the Temple stands,” he said, “the priests and Levites will come out to bid them welcome, and as they climb the steps they will continue to sing songs of praise to Jehovah. And this they do each year.”
The overseer had seen to it that the laborious packing for the day’s journey had been done early. Basil climbed into his musattah briskly, calling to Adam, “I feel well enough to do fifty miles today.”
The Silver Chalice Page 7
