The Silver Chalice

by Thomas B. Costain

  She had been speaking with great earnestness, but now she paused. Leaning her chin on her cupped hands, she watched him with a sudden smile. “We are being very serious, aren’t we? We always seem to be so serious. Do you know that I have never seen you smile?”

  “Am I as glum as that?”

  “No, not glum. I think I would call you grave. And it is not surprising after all you have been through.”

  He studied her face. It was a very young face, with the unclouded eyes and the fresh color of her few years. She looked more appealing at the moment, and prettier, than he had realized before.

  “You do not smile often yourself,” he said.

  She nodded at once in agreement. “I guess I have always been a little solemn. You see, I was a very small girl when Grandfather decided to be less active in trade. Then my mother died, and he has depended on me ever since. I was never allowed to play with toy children,* even when I was very small. I have never had any young friends. I don’t know a girl of my own age. Perhaps that is the reason.”

  “We seem to be a pair of sobersides, don’t we?”

  She had been so serious about her plight that, without any conscious effort, he found himself smiling at her. She returned it with immediate delight. “There!” she cried. “You have! You have actually smiled at me. For the first time. And it was a very nice smile. I liked it.”

  She was realizing that perhaps she had liked it too well. Facing him at the window, she thought: “He has a very fine face. I think it is a beautiful face. It is so sensitive and full of imagination.”

  “I think,” said Basil, “that we should make a compact, you and I. To do a lot more smiling. How often do you think? Once every half hour?”

  “Perhaps that would be right for a start. If we should get to know each other better, we might begin to smile much oftener. We might even laugh.”

  “Yes, we might even laugh.”

  She nodded her head and smiled to such good effect that her whole face lighted up. “I am sure it is going to be very nice,” she said.

  “What a pleasant little scene,” said a voice from the door.

  It was Adam ben Asher, looking dusty and even a little weary, which was most unusual, for his powers of endurance seemed to have no bounds. He walked stiffly into the room, keeping his intense gray eyes fixed on them.

  “One might even think you a quiet little family group, the two of you sitting there with your heads so close together, and Old Gaggle still under the influence of a big supper.” He had crossed the room and was standing above them. “You have been discussing, no doubt, the little piece of work this young genius is doing for the master.”

  “No,” answered Deborra. “It has not been mentioned.”

  “Aiy! Relaxing from his labors. I expected this. They are great relaxers, these Greeks; and always, it seems, in the company of beautiful women.”

  “The bust is finished and ready for casting,” declared Basil angrily.

  “Now that is excellent news.” Adam turned to look at Deborra. “Can you detach your mind sufficiently from what this undernourished Apollo has been saying to you to hear what I have been doing? I have been escorting someone of importance to Jerusalem.”

  “I know,” said Deborra. “It is Paul.”

  “Paul, and none else. The great teacher of the Gentiles. The ardent Jew who is striving so hard to wreck the Law of Moses. He was as fierce of eye and of temper as ever. But somewhat less talkative.

  “I brought him from Caesarea. He had gone there to see Philip, and something had happened to take the edge of loquacity from his tongue.” Adam threw back his head and laughed. “I was even allowed to do some talking myself, which is a strange thing when Paul is around. Naturally he did not listen to anything I said.”

  Although he had laughed as loudly as ever, it was clear that he did not feel any sense of amusement. His eyes kept jumping from one to the other, trying to find the key to the relationship that had developed between them. They were full of anger and disappointment. When they rested on Basil the depth of feeling in them became more intense and they seemed to say, “You have been up to tricks, my young pagan!”

  “Did you bring him here?” asked Deborra.

  Adam ben Asher snorted loudly. “I would as soon bring a pack of hungry lions into this house as Paul,” he declared. “It seems he had plans of his own. He disappeared almost as soon as we came through the gate. A humble-looking fellow fell into step beside the camel the great Paul was riding and they began to talk in whispers. Before I knew what had happened, he had slipped down from the back of the camel and had vanished without a word. All the rest of them disappeared at the same time. It’s well that they did. Within a few minutes they were swarming around us, the underlings from the Temple, and asking questions about him. There was a great deal of curiosity as to the whereabouts of Master Paul. If he had stayed with me, they would have had him trussed and ready for a hearing before the governor.”

  Adam seemed to become conscious for the first time then that the absence of Joseph called for comment. He asked anxiously, “Is my good Master Joseph seriously ill that he could not come to supper?”

  “No,” answered Deborra. “He is not ill at all. He is in bed, but he enjoyed a good supper by himself.”

  Adam gave his thigh a slap and burst into a loud roar of laughter. “That means we have company tonight from the Temple. I should know by this time that our good old man is always indisposed when the great ones come to sup with Aaron. They have not laid an eye on him in ten years. Aiy, he is still the wisest fox of them all.” A still louder laugh attested his pleasure in the successful maneuvering of his employer. “Then I may see him this evening? I have many bits of information for his ear.”

  “He will want to see you, of course.”

  The servant Abraham had returned and was collecting the dishes from the table. He was in a disturbed state of mind; his hands fumbled at their task and he even allowed a cup half full of wine to fall. Deborra gave him an anxious glance and saw that his face was white.

  “Are you ill?” she asked.

  The servant straightened up and began to collect the remains of the supper with more care. “No, mistress, I am not ill.” Then he replaced the jug of mulsum on the table and asked in an angry voice: “Is it right that a Samaritan should be admitted to this house? One of the cursed Cutheans? Is it right that the master’s son should tell me to place a chair for him at the table? One would think he was a great man and not mud under our feet!”

  Adam walked over to the table. “A Samaritan? Abraham, who is it?”

  Abraham answered in a reluctant voice, as though unwilling to reveal the full infamy of the situation. “Simon the Magician. He was not here for supper. He came later, and they said he was to be taken in to them. They are all down there now, talking and whispering with their heads close together.”

  “And the High Priest himself is there?”

  The servant nodded his head. “He is sitting there in his jeweled ippudah, the closest of all to this Cuthean.” His voice sank to a husky note of fear. “All the fiends and the wicked spirits came into the house with him. I could feel them in the air.”

  “I think I know what those old men of iron down there are plotting with Simon the Magician,” muttered Adam. “I hope Moses hears them. He will not approve!”

  *A term used for dolls.

  CHAPTER VI

  1

  SEATED at one of his windows, Basil waited the next morning for the summons from Joseph of Arimathea. From here he could look across the bridge that spanned the Cheesemakers’ Valley and ran straight as an arrow flight to the Temple. The bridge was a magnificent structure, as great in its way as the Temple itself; a span of white stone nearly four hundred feet long and wide enough to allow the passage of five chariots driving abreast. He had crossed it many times in his morning rambles and was finding that he fell naturally into the custom of keeping his eyes on the grandeur of marble and gold massed above and allowing hi
s feet to take care of themselves. One aspect had kept him in a somewhat unhappy frame of mind, however: the squalor of the valley two hundred feet below. There was no reason, he realized, for him to carry any such burden of worry: the people of Jerusalem, even the humble workers themselves who lived in that hot and malodorous depression, seemed to give no thought to the contrast between the magnificence of the heights and the poverty of the depths. Or did they reserve their discontent for the meetings in the cellars of Fish Street that Benjie the Asker frequented?

  As he watched the bridge this morning, Basil became aware of three men in particular. They had, quite apparently, visited the Temple and were now crossing back to the city. They walked abreast, and the one in the center was shorter than his two companions, a slight figure with bowed legs showing beneath his knee-length tunic. He was monopolizing the conversation, for even at that distance Basil could see the emphatic nod of his head, the frequent lift of his hand for emphasis. His fellow walkers paced along beside him in absorbed silence, their attention given to every word he uttered.

  Basil’s attention, nevertheless, was given mostly to the member of the trio who walked on the right. There was a familiarity about this figure that did not lead to an identification until some peculiarity about the man’s gait solved the problem. It was Luke, a jaded and somewhat disheveled Luke, weary from his travels and walking with the suggestion of a limp. Basil got to his feet and leaned out of the window in order to see better. He was realizing how much he had missed this kindliest of men since they had parted at Aleppo.

  A man crossing the bridge in the opposite direction stopped as the three passed him. He remained motionless for a few moments, his eyes fixed intently on their backs. Then he turned and began to follow. A few moments later another pedestrian did the same. Before the watcher in the window was fully aware of what was happening there were half a dozen people tramping in the wake of the small man with the bowed legs; and before the head of the procession had reached the end of the bridge there were at least twoscore. It was now possible to distinguish voices, and Basil could hear repeated one word time and again, “Paul—Paul—Paul.”

  The small man, then, was the fiery evangelist whose preaching to the Gentiles had gone so far to split the Christians into two camps and whose presence in Jerusalem was expected to lead to much trouble. Basil strove to recall the day when he had heard Paul preach at Ceratium; but time, he found, had now blurred that episode in his mind.

  His interest was deeply engaged and he watched the small man with the most intense curiosity. Paul, it was clear, was fully aware of the excitement he was creating and of the steady growth of the following that trailed after him like the tail of a comet. His voice could be heard, deep and resonant and emphatic. He was no longer carrying on a part in a conversation but was delivering an oration that those behind him could hear. His gestures had become studied and occasionally he shot a quick glance back over his shoulder as though to estimate the effect of what he was saying.

  When the slow procession reached the end of the bridge and poured onto the paved open space before the door of Joseph it was joined by members of the household. Basil was surprised to see the diminutive figure of Benjie the Asker among the newcomers. From a window to his right he perceived the bald head of Aaron peering out with a caution that suggested he did not want to be seen himself.

  Luke whispered in Paul’s ear. The latter listened intently and then nodded in agreement. Raising a hand above his head, he spoke directly to those who had followed him.

  “It is not meet that we linger here before the door of a brave and good man in whose debt we stand,” he began. Basil, sitting high up in his window, could hear every word clearly, for Paul’s voice had a remarkable carrying quality. “Disperse now to your homes or to the occupations by which you earn your daily bread. There will be opportunities within the next few days for us to gather together so that ye may hear what I have to tell of my stewardship. I do not know when or where it will be. The hand of hostility is being raised against us and we must exercise caution. Go then: watch and wait for the time when it will be possible for us to meet.” The apostle paused and glanced about him at the attentive faces. “Then you will hear a wondrous story, the story of a world yearning for the truth, a field ripe for the sickle.”

  2

  Basil had expected to be summoned at ten o’clock. It was nearly twelve when Luke came to his room. The weariness that had been perceptible at a distance was unmistakable at close range. The physician’s large and eloquent eyes had a gaunt look in them and he moved stiffly. It was with a return of animation, however, that he came into the room and placed a hand on each of Basil’s shoulders.

  “My boy,” he said, his face lighting up with a smile, “I have received the best reports of you. Joseph is well content with what you have done—and equally with you. The small Deborra is convinced you are the greatest artist in the world. Even Aaron, whose capacity for enthusiasm is small, has no criticism to offer. I need not tell you how happy this makes me.”

  “I have missed you very much,” said Basil.

  “Have you, my son?” The smile grew in warmth. “I have been many places and seen many strange things since we parted company. Often I said to myself that I wished you were there. Truly the Lord Jehovah rode with us and watched over us; and the scroll of history was being filled by the winds that brought our ship to Caesarea. Someday I shall sit me down and tell on parchment all the things that befell us; and I think, my son, that the world will hearken to the strange and wondrous story.” His mood changed then and he shook his head with a hint of depression. “We have scattered since we arrived, and stay in the humblest of houses. Even Paul is for the moment reconciled to remaining in seclusion. But he keeps saying that the Lord did not summon him to Jerusalem to skulk in the Cheesemakers’ Valley, and I am afraid he will soon issue forth and cry out his message for all the city to hear.” The tired head nodded slowly. “What will happen? What will the next few days bring forth?”

  “I saw from my window that Paul came with you,” said Basil. “Is he still here?”

  Luke nodded. “He has been with Joseph of Arimathea for two hours. The advice of our splendid old friend is always sound and welcome. Even Paul feels the need of it in this crisis. I betook myself away for a few moments in order to see you, my son, but now I must return. You will be sent for soon, I think.” He had been on the point of leaving, but at this he checked his steps. “I have spoken to Joseph about the little child in Antioch. He agrees she should be bought out of slavery and will see that it is done.”

  Basil felt a warm flood of gratitude for both old men, his own benefactor who had not forgotten to intercede for Agnes and the generous one who had promised his aid. “I give you my thanks!” he said fervently. The eyes with which he smiled at Luke were partly filled with tears. “I fall more into your debt all the time. Will I ever be able to repay you?”

  “Yes,” said Luke. “And very soon, I think.”

  Shortly after Luke left, Deborra appeared for the second time in the doorway. The usual domestics were behind her, the same ring of keys was in her hand, the same apologetic smile on her lips. There was one difference: a thin mongrel pup stood apologetically at her heels.

  She explained about the dog first, speaking in a low voice for his ears only. “I want to be gay, to laugh more, to—to have a good time. So I thought it would help to have a pet. Benjie the Asker found this one for me. He was a poor stray in the Bellows of Beelzebub. Now that he has a home he is very grateful. Of course he is not the kind I wanted. What I wanted was a—a very busy little dog who played and barked a great deal. This poor fellow is a mournful kind of dog.”

  Basil studied the sad eyes and drooping tail of the mongrel. “I am afraid he has seen much sorrow,” he said.

  “I think so too. Perhaps I should name him after one of the old prophets, the ones who always found life so black and full of sin—Jeremiah or Zephaniah or Habakkuk. A name like that would suit him. Bu
t I don’t care.” She leaned down and patted the animal’s head. “I like him already. I am going to keep him.”

  She then proceeded with the errand that had brought her to his door. “Paul is with my grandfather. He has been there all morning.”

  “I was told he seeks advice of your grandfather.”

  Deborra could not refrain from smiling. “Perhaps that was his intention. But in truth Grandfather has had no chance yet to give advice. Paul has done all the talking.” She hastened then to correct what she feared was a wrong intention. “It has been quite wonderful. I was allowed to stay in the room and listen. I was carried away by the things he was telling.” The smile struggled to regain possession of her face. “But it goes on and on, and I think there has been enough of it now. I can see that Grandfather is becoming very tired. And you, Basil, must be impatient with so much delay.”

  “A little,” he acknowledged.

  “I am impatient too. I have no idea what Grandfather is going to say to you. I questioned him last night and again this morning. He was quite stubborn about it. He just smiled and said it was a secret. I was angry with him, but it had no effect at all.”

  “We will have to wait a little longer, Deborra. It won’t be hard.”

  She had turned to leave, but at this she came back, to stand in the doorway with her head leaning against the frame.

  “Did you know that you called me by my name? You made it sound very nice. Perhaps Greek voices are more melodious than ours.”

  “Perhaps the reason is that the name is a very nice one.”

  Deborra hesitated. “I should not tell you, but—I know a little. Enough to be sure that what Grandfather has to say will please you.”