The Silver Chalice

by Thomas B. Costain

  “And you will come to see me?”

  He turned and found himself looking at close range into the deep pools of her eyes. “Yes,” he said in a tense whisper. “Yes, I will see you when I am there.”

  She was the first to withdraw her eyes from such close and dangerous contact and, after a moment, she began to speak in a more normal tone of voice. “You are going to be a great artist, Basil. Simon thought well of the work you were doing in Antioch. He knew about you and he went out of his way to examine some of the pieces you made. Simon is more than a magician, he is a very clever and discerning man. He saw the promise of genius in you.” She indulged in a light laugh. “How would it affect his opinion, I wonder, if he knew that the young man who came to have an evil spirit cast out was none other than the dispossessed son of Ignatius?”

  “He has no suspicions?”

  “None at all.” Her manner changed again and became even more matter-of-fact. “I am ambitious, Basil. And so are you. Does it not seem to you that we could be helpful to each other? That we could even—do some of our climbing together? Simon is only a steppingstone to me. I want to go much higher, to climb, climb, climb!”

  She began then to ask questions and to discuss the future in a way that indicated she had been giving much thought to the possibilities of an alliance between them. Did he remember very clearly when she ran away from the house of Ignatius? Had he followed her movements afterward? There seemed to be considerable relief in her manner when he replied that he had tried to get news of her but had failed. There had been a year, she explained then, before she attracted the notice of Simon, and it had been a most difficult time for her. Life had become much easier since meeting him. They had been in Antioch most of the time, and he had both friends and influence there.

  “I was in the courtroom,” she said, “when your case was heard. I did not dare speak to you because Simon would have heard of it, and that would have been most unwise. All I could do was to sit in a back seat and suffer for you. Ah, Basil, Basil, you were so badly treated! I knew from the very first what the verdict would be.”

  “I was unprepared,” he said. “Linus acted so suddenly.”

  “Basil,” she asked, “did you receive a note later, when you had been sold as a slave, warning you of Linus?”

  The question was so unexpected that he studied her for several moments in a surprised silence. “Yes, I received a note,” he said finally. “How is it that you happen to know?”

  “I sent it.”

  “You! Helena, I had no idea it came from you. All I could do was guess, of course, but I was quite sure an old friend in the household had sent it.”

  “Simon knew Linus very well. One night when he was drunk Linus dropped a hint about his feelings toward you. Simon repeated it to me. It was then I sent you the note. I had learned to read and write by that time, being so very ambitious, as I have told you. When I heard a little later that you had left Antioch, I was so happy about it! I wanted to see you, but that, of course, was impossible. I was happy because I knew that the danger you faced there was very great indeed.”

  “If I had not received your note,” declared Basil fervently, “I would never have been able to get away. I shall always be in your debt.”

  They were sitting very close together, and at this point she allowed her head to rest against his arm. “Basil, Basil, need there be any talk of debts between us? I sent you the note because you were in danger. Perhaps you face another danger now; of quite a different kind. You may fail to live the kind of life you should, to climb up where you belong. I might be of help again.” Her head was still pressed against his shoulder, but her voice had become less dreamy and more assured. “Let us talk sensibly about the future. Your future. What do you know about Nero?”

  “All I have heard is that he tries to act and sing in public and that the people of Rome are beginning to think him a fool and a buffoon.”

  Her head moved in a positive shake of dissent. “I have never been in Rome, but I am certain of one thing: the Emperor has a more serious side to him. He may be a buffoon, but he is not a fool; he is dangerous. But what should interest us is that he takes a great interest in all the arts. He looks to Greece and dreams of creating the same glory in Rome. You would be in the best position to win his favor, being neither a poet nor an actor and so not a competitor. You, a maker of beautiful things in gold and silver, might capture Nero’s good will easily. If that should happen, every rich man in Rome would be running to your door. You would become rich yourself and famous.”

  It was an alluring prospect she was holding out. While he kept it in his mind, turning it over and over and liking it more all the time, Helena went on to tell him what she had heard about the court of the Roman Emperor, its magnificence and extravagance, its absurdities, its dangers. “You spoke of repaying me,” she said at the finish. “There will be opportunities in Rome. Go and try your fortune at the court of Nero. At first there could not be any open alliance between us. But later—who knows? I am not talking this way because I have become moon-struck sitting out here with you. I thought of this years ago—when I first saw the little figures you used to make out of wood at your father’s house. That will make you think me a most calculating woman. Perhaps I am. At any rate, I can see that only a man may climb in this world and that a woman’s calculations must be built around a man.”

  They sat in silence then for several moments, looking out over the torn sod of the arena and the ghostly emptiness of the rows of seats. Basil’s mind was in a turmoil. What was happening to him? How far could he commit himself to this bright future she was painting for him? Did he want to continue this relationship, which had begun under such curious circumstances and which threatened now to disturb what had seemed to him his certain future, one of a happier and more serene kind? What disturbed him most was his concern for Deborra. She had been first in his mind, and now Helena seemed certain to usurp a large part of his thoughts.

  Helena sighed. She pressed his arm and looked up into his eyes with a final smile before dropping the veil over her face. She rose to her feet. “Simon may have discovered I have left the house. Or that snooping clerk who makes my blood run cold.” She raised a hand in warning. “No, you cannot go with me. I shall return as I came and I must return alone. Stay here until I have had time to cross the square. And, Basil, remember everything I have said.”

  She began to make her way back along the echoing emptiness of the seats, her dark robe drawn closely about her slender figure. A whisper came back to him:

  “We will meet in Rome.”

  CHAPTER XI

  1

  AARON WORE A DEEP FURROW of preoccupation between his eyes when he arrived at the house of Ananias. Compared to the great palace of Joseph, the home of the High Priest seemed small, a white structure of two stories. He was too concerned with his thoughts to notice that two men standing near the entrance nodded to each other as he passed.

  The house might seem small, but it had taken on distinction since the induction of Ananias into the high office. A servant with a deep band of blue on his robe motioned Aaron toward the stairs. Above him as he climbed was the life-sized figure of a golden angel on the landing wall. Another servant with the identical blue band stood outside the door of the room where the High Priest received his visitors. Back as far as the memories of men went, this room had been maintained in a traditional austerity, as sparsely furnished as a prison cell and dedicated to the hard labors of Temple administration. Ananias had been a sybarite in his earlier years, before unlimited indulgence had coarsened him, and this stage was reflected in the artistic appointments with which he had surrounded himself. There were fine old tapestries on the walls and in a corner a cabinet containing many beautiful figurines in Parian marble. There was much brown leather and gold leaf on the table and a beautiful pen with a jeweled handle.

  “You are prompt,” said Ananias, looking up with a quick and not too cordial nod.

  “I came as soon as y
our messenger conveyed your invitation.”

  The High Priest was a sensual figure, his stomach grossly rounded, his face harsh and cruel. He was, it was clear, a vain man. Not content with the plain blue tunic of everyday wear, he had donned the ephod, an elaborately embroidered robe that was generally reserved for ceremonial use. The ephod was rarely seen except with the priestly breastplate on which Urim and Thummin and the accompanying precious stones were mounted, but his vanity had not led him to this breach of established custom. On his fingers, white and cruel, were many rings.

  “It is reported,” said Ananias, “that your father is in a seriously weakened condition.”

  “The physicians gave him a few hours to live on their last visit,” answered Aaron. “That was three days ago. He is still alive. It begins to verge on the miraculous.”

  “We are not sentimentalists, you and I,” said the High Priest, his close-set eyes studying the face of his visitor. “And we are alone. May I speak, then, with full candor and say that it will be a good thing for all of us when the venerable Joseph is laid away in the grave of his fathers?”

  A glimpse into the cold recesses of Aaron’s mind would have made it clear that he shared this view. The passing of the years had raised an ever-increasing impatience for the day when he would have full control over the great trade empire his father had created. It was not in his nature, however, to meet such a challenge as this with equal frankness.

  “I must reconcile myself,” he said, “to the separation that faces us.”

  The thick lips of Ananias parted in a scornful smile. “It seems I assumed too much,” he said. The disease that had fastened itself on his bloated body had thinned his beard. He began to run his fingers through the unhealthy gray scraggle that was left and his eyes twinkled maliciously. “We have some decisions to make that call for frankness of approach, but in deference to the hypocrisy that so often obscures the relationship between father and son—and of which you seem to have a full share—we shall choose our words with regard to these little niceties and reservations.”

  He lifted a bell and shook it. A soft and silvery note was given forth, in keeping with the sacred nature of the duties performed in this room.

  Aaron had watched Ananias in the Sanhedrin several days before when Paul had been brought in by a guard of Roman soldiers for a hearing before that stern tribunal. It had been with a sense of shock that he had observed the violence of the High Priest’s methods. As soon as the apostle had started to speak with his accustomed vigor, Ananias had ordered a guard to strike him in the face. With blood streaming down his cheeks, Paul had retorted with a verbal blast that had chilled and frightened the members of the Sanhedrin because addressed to the head of the Temple. They had been carried away later, however, by the eloquence of the plea he had proceeded to make. They had wrangled for hours, in fact, after he was taken back to Castle Antonia, although it had been clear to all of them that the fate of the outspoken apostle no longer lay with them but would have to be decided in Rome.

  A sense of dissatisfaction with the High Priest now filled Aaron’s mind. “A man like this,” he said to himself, “does more to drive people to the Christian faith than all the gold my father has wasted on it.”

  In answer to the summons of the bell a servant brought in the clay head of Paul that Basil had left in the Court of the Gentiles. It was deposited on a corner of the table at which Ananias sat, and by chance it faced him with the same air of defiance that the original had displayed before the Sanhedrin. The High Priest reached out and turned it around with a flourish. He was proud of his hands and used them always with a certain ostentation, as though anxious to demonstrate that some part of him retained a degree of fleshly elegance.

  “You sat with us when this man,” motioning toward the head, “was brought in for a hearing.”

  Aaron nodded. “Yes, rabbani.”

  The High Priest glowered reminiscently. “You heard him call me ‘a whited wall.’ I have been called more scurrilous things, but nothing has ever been said of me that sits more ill on my stomach. I shall never forgive Saul of Tarsus. My enmity will follow him to the end of his days.” Then he nodded briskly. “But I did not bring you here, Aaron ben Joseph, to talk about this persistent advocate of heresy. I want to speak instead of the talented artist who made this. You are aware, of course, that it was this artist who rescued the girl after she threw a stone at the Romans.”

  “I have heard it said.”

  “You must be aware that it is the same man who was brought from Antioch by your father.”

  Aaron, not to be caught in any such trap, answered warily, “I doubt if it is the same man. There are many artists and silversmiths in Jerusalem.”

  “But only one capable of doing such fine work. You are aware, of course, that this man continues to live under your father’s roof?”

  Aaron was caught off guard. “I am certain,” he exclaimed, “that the young artist left our roof some time ago, having completed what he came to do.”

  “Apparently I am better informed than you are of what goes on in that great warren of stone your father calls his house. I can even tell you in what well-concealed corner of the house the young man is lodged.” He had been keeping his eyes fixed on his hands, but now he looked up suddenly and stared hard at Aaron. “I can even tell you the nature of the work on which he is now engaged.”

  “I shall have him routed out!” cried Aaron with an air of outrage.

  “The time has not come for that,” said the High Priest. “This is something that must be kept from the ears of the Romans. Much as I might like to humble the pride of Joseph of Arimathea, I do not want it done at a high cost. The Romans would take any excuse to step in and confiscate all his property—and I assure you that I desire that almost as little as you. We must be sensible and bury away the incident of the riot and never stir it up again. In any event, I do not want this young man disturbed. There is a touch of genius in him. I am almost disposed to think that the spirit of Scopas has come back and is expressing itself through the tips of his fingers. Do you understand much of Scopas and his work?”

  Aaron shook his head in denial of such knowledge. It was clear he considered the matter of small importance.

  “Scopas,” explained the High Priest, “was the first artist to inject human emotions into the sheer perfection of Grecian sculpture. The men and women he created in everlasting marble were filled with loves and hates and fears. He did it in unmistakable ways. The heavy overhang of the brows lent emotional strength, even though the eyes were deeply shadowed. The flare of the nostrils lent excitement. He was a little rough and rugged and perhaps lacking in the perfection of those who went before him. But he brought a new note into the most enduring of all forms of art.” He was beginning to wheeze from so much talking and found it necessary to pause in order to catch his breath. “I am getting as long-winded as that strutting little jackass Jorim who directs the cantillation of the prayers in the Temple, Jehovah forbid! But I must point out that there is much of the Scopas touch in this remarkable head of Paul. I do not want this young man treated roughly in any way. I want him to go on creating things as fine as this.

  “But, Aaron, this artist is being made an instrument in a very dangerous plan,” he went on. “I said before that the time has come for frankness between us. I shall keep nothing back. A member of your household staff has been in my pay for some time. Last night he brought me word that a certain cup is concealed in your father’s house. It is plain and it is cheap, but any Christian would be willing to die for the privilege of touching it. It is the cup the Nazarene used when He broke bread for the last time with His followers. Your father has employed this young Greek to fashion a silver frame for it.”

  “I assure you I had no knowledge of this.”

  “That I know. Your father kept his possession of the Cup a secret, and it was not until recently that he shared his knowledge with anyone. That such a cup was in existence has been known to us for many years,
and we have realized the importance of it. We have searched for it high and low.” His hands drew so tightly together that they seemed an expression of the ruthlessness of their owner. “I shall not know a moment’s peace of mind until it has been brought to me and I have seen it broken into pieces and ground to dust before my own eyes! I lay this command on you, Aaron ben Joseph, that you find this Cup at once, today, and bring it to me.”

  This demand created an unexpected change in the son of Joseph of Arimathea. His thin face flushed with resentment.

  “My father is dying,” he said. “Do you think me so lacking in feeling that I would disturb his last moments?”

  “Let me explain the situation,” said Ananias. “The preaching of Paul is splitting the Christian ranks. All Jews, even those who believe in the Nazarene, resent his insistence that Gentiles be admitted on an equality. They feel so strongly that from this time forward it will be among the Gentiles that new recruits will be won. And now we have this pestilential magician, this rancid Samaritan, stirring doubts in all minds by the miracles he is performing,” A flush of excitement mounted to the brow of the High Priest. “With two such potent weapons in our hands, we may succeed in stamping out this dangerous heresy for all time! Can you not see how inconvenient it might be to let their leaders produce the Cup at this moment and use it as a new rallying point?”

  “How long has my father been in possession of the Cup?”

  “For some years——”

  “Then”—with a satisfied wave of the hand—“a few days more will not hurt.”

  “A few days!” cried the High Priest. “Even a few hours may prove our undoing. Do you not realize, Aaron ben Joseph, that I have the power to compel your obedience?”

  But Aaron had taken his stand and he was of too set a turn of mind to be easily dissuaded. “You are the High Priest,” he said, “and so you have great power. You have the power of the Temple, the allegiance of the priests and Levites, of the sons of Zadok, of the singers and porters. It may be that the daggers of the Zealots are at your command.”