The Silver Chalice

by Thomas B. Costain

  Benjie could not keep his feelings under control. “No, no!” he cried aloud. It was so unexpected that his voice seemed to fill the hot chamber.

  James was startled and glanced apprehensively toward the source of the interruption. “There must be order,” he said with an air of affronted dignity.

  Basil suspended work and waited for the effect of the interruption to pass.

  “I have never so forgotten myself before,” whispered Benjie, his face reflecting the shock he felt at his own presumption. “But this would be a fatal mistake. Paul to stand in the Dock of Atonement! The butt of every passer-by—spat upon, reviled, laughed at! What a mark his naked back would offer the daggers of the Zealots! There will be war on the streets of Jerusalem, and that is what Rub Samuel, the leader of the Zealots, wants.”

  There was a quick flurry of discussion among the princes of the church. At the end there was a general nodding of heads in assent.

  Paul sat with bowed head. He neither glanced up nor sought counsel with his followers as speaker after speaker urged the ceremony of atonement. There was humiliation in the arch of his back, bitterness in the line of his jaw.

  “So be it,” he said when the last of the presbyters had spoken. “I have lived by the Law of Moses and I am not conscious of wrongdoing. But if this is necessary to keep peace in my Master’s House, I shall do as you bid. I shall stand in nakedness and shame for sins of which I have not been guilty!”

  2

  On the fourth day of Paul’s atonement, Basil arrived early at the Shushan, the Lily Gate of the Temple, having a little work still to do on the bust he was making of the apostle. He was desirous of finishing it before people came to stare at him and make audible and unfriendly comments as they breathed on the back of his neck. The twenty singers, whose duty it was to swing back the huge bronze doors of the gate (it could not be done with fewer hands), were still at work, and he could hear the agonized “Aiy-waay!” of the head porter as he urged them to greater efforts. He joined in the loud approval of the spectators when the task was completed and the doors, screeching and protesting in a metallic agony of unwillingness, fell back finally to each side, allowing a glimpse of the activities of the great outer court.

  The naked torso and the sternly unemotional face of Paul could be seen at once above the railed-off space near the Court of the Women where Nazarites underwent the ceremony of purification. It had been four days of agony for the apostle. Filled with a sense of humiliation, he had kept his eyes closed and had tried to keep his ears shut as tightly to the exultant remarks of his ill-wishers. Hatred had ringed him about from the first moment, and it may have been that on this fourth day he failed to detect the more sinister note which filled the air. He was thinking of one thing only, that he must remain where he was for three days more, after which his hair would be cut and burned by the priests. On the eighth day he would repair to the Sanctuary of the Temple, taking with him two turtle doves and a lamb as a guilt offering.

  For two days Basil had been striving to catch the spirit of Paul in the malleable clay. The previous evening, when darkness made it necessary to suspend work, he felt that he had achieved a real measure of success. The eyes had seemed to glow with life, the jutting bridge of the nose had become demanding, the mouth was cast in lines of wry eloquence. What remained was to catch the undertones, to give the commanding nose a hint of tolerance and the bitter mouth a shadow of tenderness.

  That morning, as Basil left with his materials in a blue cloth bag over his shoulder, Deborra had met him to ask how the work progressed.

  “Today I shall give it the final touches.”

  “May I come a little later and watch you finish it?”

  He smiled at this. It was becoming an easier matter to smile, and he found himself indulging his feelings that way quite often. “Your presence will stimulate my hands to better efforts,” he said. “You will find me close to the lattice which closes off the terrace of the Hel.”

  He looked about him now but saw no trace of her. Perhaps the extreme heat had influenced her to stay at home. He was so disappointed that he did not get along as well with his work as he had hoped.

  He became sufficiently immersed in what he was doing, however, to be impervious to what happened around him. He failed to notice how rapidly the court had filled with men who stood about in silent groups, their eyes fixed on the occupant of the Dock of Atonement. They were not the visitors who had come to Jerusalem for Pentecost and who had departed already, on camelback, on horseback, on foot, revived in their faith but secretly glad to escape from the poverty, the dark moods, and the hint of violence under the surface of life in the Holy City. It was not until someone shouted an order in a high, keening voice that the young artist became aware of anything but his work. He looked up in time to see men from all parts of the court converging with exultant shouts on the Dock where Paul was standing with closed eyes.

  At the same instant dagger blades gleamed in the morning sunlight. There was a sound of splintering wood. Paul, too proud to resist, with blood streaming down his face and over his bare shoulders, was dragged into the Court of the Gentiles, where Zealot dirks could finish the work they had begun.

  Perhaps more observant eyes had sensed what was afoot and had seen to it that precautions were taken; perhaps it was no more than a coincidence. Whatever the reason, a company of Roman soldiers appeared on the scene at this moment. Attracted by the clamor, they marched into the court, scattering the stunned spectators with the arrogance an occupying force always feels for conquered people. They acted with such expedition that the weapons of the Zealots had no chance to complete the purpose to which they had been dedicated. The assassins were driven off with one organized rush. Paul, bewildered and bleeding, found his wrists and ankles manacled with Roman chains in a matter of seconds. He was led away at once as the heavy, cleaver-like swords drove a path through the mob.

  At this point Basil saw Deborra. She was in the front of the mob that surged turbulently in the wake of the marching squad. It was easy to distinguish her, for she was wearing a red handkerchief over her head. Even at the distance it was possible to see that this was not the gentle and obedient Deborra who lived so quietly in her grandfather’s house. Her usually tranquil eyes were blazing passionately.

  He heard her cry, “Are we going to do nothing?”

  Basil dropped the chisel into his kit of tools. This was going to be serious. Plunging vigorously into the crowd, he strove to overtake her before she could be guilty of further indiscretions.

  The red handkerchief kept well ahead of him. He saw it weaving in and out, getting closer all the time to the forefront of the milling people. It was clear that Deborra was very much excited. He saw her raise an arm in the air.

  “Will we let them take him away?” she demanded in a high and angry voice.

  And then she did something that put a fevered determination into his efforts to reach her. She picked up a stone and threw it at the armed squad surrounding the figure of the chained apostle. Although it glanced harmlessly off the breastplate of one of the soldiers, the missile had accomplished its purpose. The voice of the people mounted from a mere hum of excitement to the full-mouthed roar of an angry mob. More stones began to fly. The Romans had to face about and fight off the peering men of Jerusalem with unsparing jabs of their heavy swords.

  Basil was aware that others were forcing their way through the crowd. An authoritative voice said behind him: “Get that girl! She started this.” He moved then in desperation, saying to himself, “The Romans will not spare her if she is caught!”

  He reached her first. Tearing the red handkerchief from her head, he dropped it underfoot.

  “Quick!” he said. “Come with me!”

  Deborra recognized his voice. “Basil? I cannot leave now.”

  He seized one of her arms and dragged her aside. “You must come!” he insisted desperately.

  “Do you think me a coward to run away?”

  “You are
behaving like a fool!” He gave her an angry shake. Then he drew her close and said in her ear: “Do you want to give the Romans an excuse to confiscate everything your grandfather possesses? Do you want him to live his last days in trouble and sorrow? As for you, if they get their hands on you now, the least you can expect is to be sold into slavery.”

  She gave in then and followed him when he made a way through the crowd at one side. The high pillars of Solomon’s Porch loomed ahead of them. He noticed that the dog she had adopted a few days before was following at her heels.

  They passed through the monoliths of white marble. They were now in a section of Mount Moriah that was new to him. He glanced about him in a state of desperate urgency.

  “Where can we go?” he asked.

  “Come,” said Deborra. “I know a way.”

  They began to run, the dog prancing excitedly after them. They were closed in now by the homes of the pedagogues, which clustered thick about the Temple. As there was a limited amount of space on the Mount and an ever-increasing population, the houses had been drawn closer together and mounted high into the sky. It was said in other parts of the city that Moriah averaged one philosopher to each room and that the only commodity of which there was never any scarcity was erudition. This was quite true. The clay bins in the houses might lack cheese and honey and bread, and the limestone cisterns in the cellars might be dry, but the tongues of the household heads never failed to supply pearls of wisdom.

  It was inevitable in a section such as this that the streets had not been cut straight through but had been allowed to follow the formation of the high ground, with the result that they were as crooked as the horns which the priests used in the Temple. This was fortunate, for it promised to make their escape easier.

  “We must get down into the valley,” said Deborra, breathing hard. “I know my way through it.”

  They were in a winding street that seemed as capable as a hoop snake of biting its own tail. Coming to a place where a low stone wall marked the edge of the cheesemakers’ domain, Deborra slowed her steps. The clamor of pursuit could be heard behind them, but none of the pursuers was yet in sight. There was a narrow gate in the wall, and behind this a woman was standing.

  “Christ is risen,” whispered Deborra to the woman.

  The latter seemed startled but answered quickly, “He sits on the right hand of God.”

  “There has been trouble and we must get down into the valley.”

  Without pausing to ask questions, the woman beckoned them to enter and closed the gate after them.

  Deborra reached down and took the dog into her arms. “No barking now!” she commanded. “You must not give your mistress away.”

  They found themselves on the flat roof of a small stone house, the topmost of a succession that climbed in humility up the steep slope. A trap door admitted them to its single room below. The woman reached under a pile of clothing and drew out a knotted rope.

  “Quick!” she said, dropping one end out of the window. “God go with you.”

  A man with a wasted face roused himself from a straw pallet on the roof of the house below. “Christ has risen,” whispered Deborra. He gave the customary answer and motioned to a rope dangling over the parapet. They climbed down in desperate haste, for they could now hear voices at the gate in the stone wall above. Basil had taken the dog under one arm, which made his climbing slow and laborious.

  The same course was followed at each house in their downward climb. Deborra would say, “We are being followed and must get into the valley.” Help was given willingly and cheerfully in every case. No one hesitated; there was no tendency to count the cost, to consider what punishment might be their lot if they gave help. They ran instead to open trap doors for the fugitives and then to bar them against the oncoming officers, to get out the knotted ropes; always with earnest good will and a parting, “God go with you.”

  When they reached the last of the houses and came out on the level into a poor little garden where lizards basked on the wall and a fig tree endeavored in disconsolate solitude to provide shelter for the door, Basil asked, “Are all the cheesemakers Christians?”

  “Nearly all.”

  “Is that the reason they are so poor?”

  “Perhaps.” She spoke with sudden gravity. “Such things do not matter. A Christian thinks of the life after death, and so poverty in this life is borne without complaining. They are all happy, even those who are so poor they have their homes on the slopes.”

  “Do they know they may be punished for this?”

  They ran as they talked. “Christians live always on the threshold of punishment. None of them fear it. There is danger at all times. Right now, because the Zealots hate us so much, it is worse than ever. They attack us in the streets and sometimes they go about the city looking for victims. One night not long ago they went to many Christian homes and destroyed everything in them. Then they took the men and bound their arms and put crowns of thorns on their heads, and led them about the city, scourging them as they went. Two of the men died.”

  They could now hear their pursuers climbing down laboriously from above. Deborra plunged into a dark alley, running at top speed. The dog, as though sensing trouble, followed her silently. She was so fleet of foot that Basil found it hard to keep up with her.

  “Now you are involved in this as deep as I am,” she said over her shoulder. “I am sorry, Basil. I acted without thinking. And there will be trouble for many people.” A moment later she turned her head again to ask, “Did you do this to protect Grandfather?”

  “I did it for you,” he protested.

  The pursuit had reached the floor of the valley and was spreading out in all directions. They sought escape in a maze of dark streets, in which Deborra seemed completely at home, and the sounds grew fainter. Basil, feeling like a heavy-footed mortal in the company of a wood nymph, had scarcely enough breath to ask, “Didn’t you realize that Paul was safest in the hands of the Romans?”

  She made it clear that she did not understand. “They had taken him prisoner,” she said. “They were leading him away.”

  “They were protecting him from the daggers of the Zealots.”

  They were traversing a street so narrow that housewives could exchange articles across it from the rooftops. Deborra spoke without looking back. “Then I was helping the Zealots when I threw that stone.”

  “Yes, I am afraid you were.”

  She stopped and faced him. “You called me a fool, and I see now that you were right. This has been a great folly.”

  Basil reached out and touched her hand. “A folly, Deborra, but a brave one. Now that you are safe, I find myself admiring you for what you did.”

  Their safety seemed less assured a moment later, for the dog raised his head and barked loudly in his anxiety to see them start again.

  “Habby, Habby!” said Deborra. “You will lead them to us!” She reached down and took him up in her arms, holding a hand over his muzzle.

  Finally they came to a low stone arch behind which there seemed no light at all. She reached back her free hand to take his, saying, “We must not get separated here.” A man, naked to the waist and with eyes that seemed distended in the gloom, emerged from the depths, shaking a grimy fist at them and crying, “Tooh! Tooh!” Disregarding his demand that they betake themselves elsewhere, they plunged deeper into the shadows.

  They floundered through families of pigs and goats, they felt their way carefully by wooden troughs filled with warm milk, they breathed an atmosphere acrid with rennet, they encountered more strange figures with shrill voices repeating “Tooh!” Finally they came out at another stone arch and ahead of them saw bright sunshine and the walls of the market place. They had reached the upper end of the valley.

  All sounds of pursuit had died away. “We are quite safe now,” said Deborra. She became aware that they were still holding hands and withdrew hers hastily. She dropped the dog at her feet.

  They climbed the slope on the oth
er side and progressed along the crest, passing the great Yard of the Doves, where Benaiah, son of Bimbal, sold the gentle birds by the hundreds each week for sacrifice in the Temple. Finally they came to the entrance of the house of Joseph and here, without a word being spoken, they paused. The noon sun was causing a shimmer so that even the outlines of the buildings seemed to move. The row of palm trees under which they stood were wilting, giving them only the poorest kind of shelter. The wood of their sandals was hot under the soles of their feet. Even the white splendor of the Temple looked sultry against the burnished glow of the sky.

  Their glances met and held. At first it was with a consciousness of pleasure in a shared adventure that had come to a safe ending. Then their awareness of each other’s thoughts took on a deeper meaning. It became clear to each of them that the baked soil on which they stood might prove to be the threshold of the land of enchantment. Each looked into the depths of the other’s eyes so long that they lost all track of time. Finally, with an undeclared assent, they smiled.

  Deborra sighed. “It was very exciting,” she said.

  “I shall always remember everything about it,” declared Basil. “Everything we did and said.”

  Her mood became more serious. “But it has been a very great folly. Many people will suffer because of it. You, perhaps, and Grandfather. The people who followed my example and threw stones at the soldiers. The good Christians who helped us escape into the valley. Some of them may be punished. Why did I throw that stone!”

  “You did it on an impulse.”

  Her mood underwent another change. Her eyes began to flame with the same passion he had seen in them when she urged the crowd to attempt the rescue of Paul. Gone was the quiet lady of the house with a jingling ring of keys on her wrist, the patient companion of the aged merchant. Here was the Deborra for whom she had been named, the Deborra who roused the people of Israel against Sisera and the hosts of Canaan many centuries before in the days of Shamgar. “I would do it again! Did you see them come marching in, those lords of creation? They were saying to themselves, ‘We are Romans. Out of our way, Jewish scum!’ Did you see the arrogance of their eyes? And the brutal way they cut through the crowds with their swords? I could not stand it. Yes, I would do the same thing!”