The Silver Chalice

by Thomas B. Costain

  “They are Christians,” declared the tall conchar man. “They have faces like sheep. They smell like sheep. That is always the way with these Christians. I am sure they have come to mourn the death of the old man within.” He nodded his head, which was bald and covered with huge yellow freckles. “When is this old moneybags going to give in and die as any decent man would do? I am tired of standing at his door.”

  The neighing of horses reached their ears from a piece of open ground some distance down the street. It was the start of a crevasse that cut its way down into the valley, and it had become overrun with scrub trees and tall weeds. As it had always been used for thievery, dicing, and lust, it had become known as the Bellows of Beelzebub.

  “The old man will die within the hour,” said the short one, paying no attention to the sound of the horses. “It stands to reason that he cannot cheat the angel of death any longer.”

  He proceeded then to order the assembled watchers about with an unnecessary violence. They were compelled to retire to the far side of the open space in front of Joseph’s door and to stand in line. They were told, moreover, that they were not to open their mouths nor to shuffle their feet; that they were not, in fact, to make any noise whatever. They must expect quick and sharp punishment if they did. A pat on the dagger could be construed as a hint at the nature of the punishment that would be meted out to them.

  An interruption occurred almost immediately thereafter. It did not come, however, in the form of a summons from the window of Aaron, as they had expected. It took the form instead of an exodus of people in some numbers from the front door. The two guards forgot everything else and hurried over.

  First came two young men carrying hymeneal lamps above their heads, and this could mean one thing only, that a wedding had taken place. Usually there were friends of the groom who danced ahead of the happy couple and sang songs in praise of the beauty of the bride. That this element was missing did not raise any doubts as to the nature of what was taking place. A young couple followed immediately after, and it was quite clear that they had been standing together under the nuptial canopy. The bride was in white and looked quite as lovely as brides are supposed to, and the bridegroom was in the splendor of an embroidered cloak.

  “A wedding,” said the Mijamin. “Were we told what to do in the case of a wedding?”

  “No,” answered the tall one. “The Mar told us everything else, but he had nothing to say about weddings.”

  The bride was carrying a round vessel in one hand and dipping into it with the other for small coins, which she tossed to the spectators. The vessel, which was not large, was elaborately swathed with white satin. The bride called greetings as she distributed the largess and, whenever she remembered that it was customary for brides to smile, she smiled.

  Mijamin rubbed his jaw with an undecided hand. “Now what are we to do?” he asked. “We have only two pairs of hands and we cannot search all these people. Do you agree that we should order them back into the house and then scatter these watchers and send them home? If they refuse to obey, there will be trouble. We will have to slit throats. I confess to you, Eleazar, that I do not like slitting throats at a wedding.”

  “No,” agreed Eleazar, “I do not mind at a funeral, because there you are dealing with death. I do not think I would mind at a christening, because all the troubles in the world start with births. Too many people are being born. But it is not fitting that there should be slitting of throats at a wedding.” He had been watching the hymeneal procession as he spoke. “This bride has a nice round eye and in other ways she is pleasantly round. But wait, wait! Look at her closely, Mijamin! Is she not the granddaughter of the old man?”

  “What is that?” cried Mijamin. He rushed in closer to the marching celebrants, shoving those nearest him aside in his haste. Then he turned back in a furious concern. “You are right. It is the granddaughter. What strange proceedings are these? Is this all a mummery to throw us off our guard? Eleazar, run to each of the other entrances and tell our men to come here at once. We are going to need all the help we can get. No, have one man left at each gate and bring the rest back with you. This may be a ruse again to draw us away from the other doors. Quick! There is not a moment to be lost!”

  But by the time the tall man returned at a frantic lope, stretching his thin legs like those of a crane, and with three helpers at his heels, it was too late to take any effective action. The watchers, the sheep who had roused the scorn of the two men at the front entrance, had broken their lines and surged forward to join the marchers. Scores of others, men and women who had remained unseen up to this point, now poured out from the narrow entrances of streets and from doorways. From the house came more of the staff, all of the ex-slaves who had not been present at the marriage rites. Raising their voices in a hymn, they fell into line solidly about the bride and bridegroom. It was to be expected that Aaron, whose face appeared suddenly at his window, found it hard to believe his eyes. It was clear he thought that a band of maniacs had collected suddenly at his door. Many of the marchers were now dancing, and all were singing at the tops of their voices.

  The conchar men hovered on the edge of the crowd like angry killer sharks swimming beside a solid school of fish. All they could see to do was to plunge into the crowd and strike right and left with their weapons. Adam ben Asher, finding Mijamin in a furious conference with several of his men, proceeded to make clear the futility of such a course.

  “Half a dozen men cannot make any impression on a crowd as large as this,” he declared, shouting to make himself heard over the din. “Oh, you could kill a few of us, of course. But see! They are well on their way, and you can neither stop them nor drive them back. Would the killing of a few stragglers help the cause to which you are sworn?”

  “By the eighteen benedictions, we have been caught napping,” said Mijamin bitterly. “What will the Mar have to say about this?”

  It was clear that what the Mar might have to say later was a matter of small consequence. The singing, shouting, dancing crowd had already debouched from the square in front of the house of Joseph. They were now close to the open space down the street where the neighing of horses had been heard at the Bellows of Beelzebub.

  Mijamin collected his fellows about him. There was a crestfallen look on all their faces.

  “It has not been our fault,” he declared in a tone of disputation. “How could we know they would have the help of all the Christians in Jerusalem? But since it has happened, we must try to correct the mistake. You, Eleazar, see to it that a man remains at each door and that no one is allowed to enter or leave under any circumstances. You go into the house yourself and tell Aaron the search for the Cup is to be made at once. We must not delay because the old man refuses to die. Make it clear to Adam that the bed of Joseph will be searched if necessary and that the pillow will be dragged from under his head and opened.”

  “It is more likely,” said Eleazar, glancing after the noisy procession, “that they took the Cup with them.”

  “I think it almost certain that they did.” A disturbing thought took possession of Mijamin’s mind. “Did you notice that the bride carried a cup or a basket, covered with white, in her hand? Do you suppose she was flaunting the Cup in our faces?”

  Eleazar did not think so. “They would not carry it openly. Christians lack the daring for that.”

  “They have shown more daring today than I have any stomach for,” grumbled Mijamin. “But I agree, it is more likely that someone carried it out under a cloak.” His manner became peremptory. “You, Amashsai, seek out Rub Samuel and inform him of what has happened. Tell him I shall follow these people and report to him on their movements. Make it clear to the Mar that if they have taken the Cup I will come back with it—or not come back at all.”

  BOOK TWO

  CHAPTER XV

  1

  THEY TRAVELED for six hours, for the most part on narrow roads that sloped continuously upward. The stately camels Adam had provided went
at a slow gait, putting their broad, padded feet down with care. The midday heat was stifling and cruel. The country had taken on some of the aspects of the desert that stretched interminably eastward from the Jordan; it had become brown and yellow; the vines on the straight orderly ledges of the hills were wilted almost to blackness; the fruit trees, having yielded their harvest, were finishing the summer in a state of drooping coma. The flocks of sheep were finding little to crop and they greeted the travelers with bleats of discouragement.

  The first night was spent at a khan within sound of the sluggish ripple of the Jordan. It had looked imposing at a distance, a high huddle of roofs in a wooden wall twenty feet high, but at close range it proved to be an unclean hurly-burly of a place. They rode in under the arched gateway with much jingling of bells and waving of bannerets and feather plumes, much glistening of cowries and sequins. Adam took one look around the crowded courtyard; at the fiercely dignified men in huge turbans, chaffering and debating in noisy groups, watchful of everything that went on, each arrival and departure; at the sun-baked faces of their wives, in robes of the color of raw liver, who were busily engaged at the entrances to the alcoves along the walls in preparing the evening meal with the smallest of copper saucepans over the tiniest of fires; at the little leather tables already set out with dates and dried raisins and coconut strips. He had not expected to find the place so crowded at this season of the year, and he entered into negotiations rather grudgingly for the use of the porter’s lodge over the entrance. The owner of the khan, an Armenian of ancient vintage, decided that the circumstances warranted a demand for a figure higher than usual.

  “Such fine camels!” he cried. “Such leather! Such tassels of gold! Is it that Joseph of Arimathea is dead and has left you a great fortune?”

  “Joseph of Arimathea is dead,” answered Adam, “but I have no expectation that he has left me anything. These camels are my own. They have been selected with great care and I have paid for them out of my savings, which, by all the benedictions, are small. I am in no mood to be robbed, Hasoud.”

  The argument went on so long that Deborra said “Kharr!” in a weary voice. When the camel obeyed the command by sinking to one knee, she stepped down stiffly from the canvas cover of the tola under which she had been riding. Because of the haste of their departure from Jerusalem, she was still wearing her white wedding dress, which looked rather rumpled and dusty. She glanced about her and saw that Luke, looking old and very tired, was following her example. Basil had already dismounted and was rambling about the courtyard, a conspicuous note of color in the midst of the general brown shoddiness.

  The bitter contest over price came to a conclusion, and Deborra followed Adam up a twisting and insecure flight of wooden stairs to the single room over the entrance. It was not large and was as hot as an oven; but it was comparatively clean and would suffice for the whole party with the exception of the camel men, who would curl up in the courtyard close to their charges. Deborra was relieved by this arrangement, which delayed the need for an explanation. She seated herself near one of the windows on a rug spread for her by Sarah, her maid. Adam came over and squatted himself down tailor-fashion beside her.

  “Our little bride is tired,” he said. Like one who cannot resist probing at a sore spot, he proceeded to speak of the wedding. “Such a beautiful bride, such a faithful little Rachel, glad to give her hand to her eager Jacob! But the Jacob in this case has not been compelled to labor seven years for his bride.” When Deborra made no response, he went on: “Is it not an ideal match? And here the bridegroom cometh, this luckiest of men. How well favored he is! How handsomely he is attired! Could any maiden resist that blue cloak?”

  Basil crossed the room to where they were sitting. He wore an uneasy look.

  “There is a man in the crowd below who stood outside the house of Joseph today,” he said.

  Adam looked up quickly. “How can you be sure?”

  “He was standing at one side when we came out of the house. There was another man talking to him with a dagger in his hands. I looked at them with some care, being sure they had been there on guard.”

  “Is he tall or short?”

  “Short. There was a mark at one corner of his mouth. A scar, perhaps.”

  Adam nodded his head. “Mijamin. One of Rub Samuel’s men. He would cut all our throats with ease and thoroughness and eat a hearty supper immediately after. He will try to get his hands on this Cup.” When Deborra and Basil regarded him with startled looks, he indulged in a scornful snort. “Did you think I did not know about it? I have a good pair of ears and a useful pair of eyes. There is very little that I miss. I was certain you would have it with you, and I am not surprised that our handsome and alert bridegroom catches a glimpse of the dreaded Mijamin below. We shall have the men of Rub Samuel on our heels the whole distance, and their daggers, perhaps, in our backs.” He glanced at their anxious faces and indulged in another snort. “Where is it now?”

  A small interior window looked out over the courtyard. Deborra walked to it and from this point of vantage scanned the scene below. The crowd seemed to have become louder and noisier. Caravan men, with faces the color of cocoa and eyes that were never still, were arguing in groups. Traders with shrewd eyes, slatternly servants, emaciated beggars who had been forced out to the edges like flotsam in a whirlpool; everyone talking at once, every eye on fire, every hand in action.

  Deborra’s servants stood in an aloof group. The women had dropped veils over their faces, but in spite of this precaution they were being watched with an avid curiosity. They were standing closely about an elaborately carved chest that had been painted a warm carnelian shade. The rest of the party’s belongings had been heaped up in a careless pile with a very old and plain chest as the base.

  Her eyes did no more than dart across the servants guarding the ornate chest and then came to rest on the dilapidated specimen under the rugs and assorted utensils of travel. She gave a sigh of relief when she saw that Luke had stationed himself close thereby and was watching with zealous eyes.

  She turned back from the window and said to Adam, “The Cup is being carefully guarded.”

  The latter took his turn at the window. After a moment’s scrutiny of the noisy scene he clapped his hands and shouted an order to his men below. In a matter of seconds all of the belongings of the party had been carried up and deposited in a corner. Luke followed in the wake of the old chest.

  “Everything we own will be stolen if we give those thieves below a chance to set their clever fingers to work,” Adam said. “And now, if you three innocents will listen to me carefully, I shall endeavor to make clear to you the nature of the troubles which lie ahead of us.”

  He walked to each window in turn, glancing out to make sure they could not be reached from below. Then he visited the head of the stairs and listened carefully.

  “Throw a potsherd through any village in Palestine and you will hit at least three Zealots,” he said. “Open your mouth with an opinion in any public place and a Zealot will answer you, probably with a blow. In other words, my three unworldlings, the men of Rub Samuel are to be found everywhere, and Mijamin can summon them to his aid at any time and in any place. He will wait until he thinks the circumstances most favorable and then he will strike. Our best plan will be to provide him with the opportunity—and have a warm reception planned. I think I begin to see my way clearly.”

  He seemed reluctant to reveal the nature of the plan he had evolved, glancing anxiously at Luke and suspiciously at Basil. Realizing, however, that they must be taken into his confidence, he continued with his explanation. “Tonight I shall circulate below—where I know most of them and where, of course, they all know me—and I shall let it be known that tomorrow we will progress as far as En-Gannim and pitch our tents outside the town. The mention of En-Gannim will set the mind of Mijamin to work at once. As you all know, it lies in a shallow valley at the southern tip of the Plain of Esdraelon. Now it happens that Mijamin was born and
raised on the Plain, and he knows that the Zealots are strong in all the towns there. All he will have to do is to start ahead of us—I expect he will steal away from here in the middle of the night—and gather about him the men he will need. I shall let it be known that, to save time, we intend to raise our tents on the crest of the valley. Mijamin will rub his hands and whistle through his teeth with delight when he hears this, for the crest of the valley does not afford any cover for defense and there is, for good measure, a wadi running along it in which an attacking force may approach without being seen. He will think that Adam has become as blind as a bat in daylight when he hears where I shall pitch the tents.

  “It so happens,” he went on, with open relish of his own craft, “that En-Gannim has an advantage for us of which he knows nothing. Just above it, in a green spot scooped out from the Plain, lives a very good friend of mine. His name is Catorius, and he is a Roman. He was serving in this country when his term ran out and he was allowed to remain here, having married a woman of Emek-Keziz, a fine big woman with thick limbs and a heart as warm as the sun-baked town where she was born. They took land on the Plain and there they have been successful in raising two commodities: sheep, which have made them prosperous, and sons who are the bulwark of their old age. When we have pitched our tents outside En-Gannim and darkness has fallen, I shall steal over to the house of Catorius in the little dip in the hills and beg the aid of these three sons of his.”

  “Are they Christians?” asked Luke.

  “Christians?” cried Adam. “No, Luke the Physician, they are as simple and natural as the sheep they tend, and as pagan as Astarte.”

  “Is it then right to involve them in our troubles? Moreover, can we put full trust in them?”

  Adam burst into a roar of delighted laughter. “If your gentle heart, O Luke, must overflow with compassion for someone, save it for the unsuspecting men Mijamin will bring against us and who will find themselves confronted by these Sons of Anak from the Plain! They are sometimes called the Giants of Slador.”