Having thus settled the most pressing of their problems to his own complete satisfaction, Adam proceeded to issue orders for the night. It would be necessary for one of them to sleep with the Cup under his pillow, and for this he selected Luke. The rest would take turns at standing watch during the hours of darkness. Basil was given the first turn, with Deborra to follow and Adam to watch last.
“We must set out at break of dawn,” decided Adam briskly. “And now for supper.”
Basil took his station at the head of the stairs. The courtyard had lapsed into a silence broken only by an occasional whimper from one of the camels or the chatter of a hyena on the prowl. He was conscious every moment that the sacred Cup was in the room and that he was guarding it. He had expected it would shine through the wood of the broken chest with the strange glow that had radiated from it in the gloom of his sanctuary in the house of Joseph. Each time he turned to look he was surprised at the darkness. He could see nothing but the white of Deborra’s dress where she lay in a corner. Her breathing was so light that he could not tell whether she was awake or sleeping.
Once he heard the stairs creak and his hand closed on the hilt of his dagger. For several minutes he waited tensely, but the sound was not repeated. Nothing happened; a rat, he decided. He was realizing how deep was his concern for the safety of the Cup. His brow was bathed in perspiration and the palms of his hands were damp.
As time passed he became certain that Deborra was sleeping and he hesitated to rouse her when the time came for her to take his place. She stirred, however, and sat up in the darkness.
“Basil!” she whispered.
“Yes, Deborra?”
“Is it not time for me to begin?”
“Not yet. Go back to sleep again for a while.”
“I have not been able to sleep. I have been lying here and thinking.”
“All the more reason then for getting to sleep now. We have a hard day ahead of us.”
“But you need the rest as much as I do.”
He heard her move. When he turned and looked in her direction, she was already on her feet.
“Where are you?” she whispered.
“Here. At the head of the stairs.”
She crossed the room on naked feet and seated herself beside him on the top step. After a moment she began to speak in a low tone.
“Let us talk for a while. There will never be a better chance. I want to say, Basil, that I begin to see I was wrong in doing this. It is unfair to you to be tied to a wife you do not love.”
“But, Deborra——”
“It is the truth, Basil. There is no need to spare my feelings by protesting. The only excuse I have is the need to help the leaders of the church.” The tone of her voice suggested now that she was drawing a rueful amusement out of the situation in which they were placed. “I have, at any rate, shown how much I trust you. Has it occurred to you that as my husband you could take my inheritance and use it in any way you see fit?”
This aspect had not occurred to him. “No. I have given it no thought.”
“It is true. We are wedded on the terms of Baal and Beulah. To keep the money out of my father’s hands, I have put it into yours.”
“Are you afraid of what I may do?”
“No, Basil. You are good. You are unselfish; too unselfish, perhaps. No, I have no fear at all.” She leaned her head against the wall and sighed deeply. “We must strive to be kind to each other. We must remain friends in spite of everything. I was not kind to you today. I said hard things, and my mind was filled with hard thoughts. There was no reason for me to feel that way, or none that I can see now. You had done nothing wrong. But my pride had been hurt and so I—I found bitterness on my tongue. Such pride is an evil thing, Basil, and I am sure that I have been guilty of much wickedness.”
“If there has been any kind of wickedness, I am the guilty one,” declared Basil.
She indulged in a long and deep sigh. “Do you remember the bargain we made between us? That we would always smile when we were together? And ever since we have done nothing but feel unhappy and draw long faces. I have even lost my pet, my poor, solemn little Habakkuk. Ebenezer is keeping him until I can take him again.”
“Ebenezer will be a kind master to him.”
“As I lay in the dark back there I was thinking about this sad pass to which we have come. I could see how easy it would be for us to become bitter and angry with each other.”
“I am sure I could never be angry with you.”
Basil discovered that his feeling for her had taken on a deep tenderness. The mood of that rare moment when they had paused after their scramble through the valley came back to him. He was acutely aware that she was very close to him in the darkness and that they were man and wife. He thought, “Why should I not take her in my arms as any other husband would do, even those who see their wives for the first time when they raise the veil?” Perhaps love would develop through such abruptness. Perhaps the image of Helena would then pass out of his mind and never return.
There was tensity in the air between them. Deborra had raised her head from its anchorage against the wall and was looking at him in the dark. Had the same thoughts entered her mind? How slender she was in her fine white raiment!
Then came recollection of the way she had looked after he had first spoken of Helena; cold, hurt, eternally aloof, unforgiving. He had agreed to her conditions and he must not attempt to break his promises at the first opportunity. She would feel nothing but contempt for him if he did.
The golden moment passed, if indeed it had been such. He became aware that Deborra’s mood had changed. She drew a deep sigh and then began to sob gently in the dark. “My poor grandfather!” she said. “Please, Basil, I must sit here alone for a time with my grief. I must reconcile myself to living in a world which he has left.”
He went back to his own corner. Adam was snoring vigorously, Luke with dignity and serenity, the servants like a full orchestra of kinnor, shofar, hozazra, and tof. Not a sound came from the courtyard below. Mijamin, no doubt, had left long before this to recruit the Zealots of the Plain. Basil realized suddenly that he was tired from the continuous excitements and the efforts of the day. He fell off quickly to sleep.
2
Since dawn they had been passing the high circle of hills that was called Samaria and was marked on the south by Mount Gerizim and on the north by Mount Ebal. The country of the Samaritans had looked cool and inviting; the slopes were green and there was a promise of sweet content and abundance in the valleys lying between the tree-fringed peaks. Adam could not keep his eyes away from this fortunate land where so much of the history of his race had been made. He kept up a continuous tirade in audible tones.
“Why is it,” he demanded of the world at large and even perhaps of the Jehovah who had been responsible for the way things had fallen out, “that the cursed Cutheans have this most favored land for their own? Why do we, the children of Israel, who have been chosen by the one and only God, have to subsist on slopes of bare limestone or on desert lands where men faint of the heat in midday? Why must we raise our crops on baking plains? Perhaps,” with a grumbling acquiescence, “it is done as a test. As we must live harder, we have become keen and practical and as bright as burnished metal. We are tempered in the heat of the sun, and the blood runs passionately in our veins. If we had these green hills for our own, we might in time become as soft and worthless as the Samaritans.” He concluded with a sigh, “But it would be pleasant to live in such ease and comfort.”
It was late in the afternoon, and the peak of Mount Ebal had receded so far into the distance that the traditional cursing from its slopes could never have reached them even if relayed by a thousand trumpets. The steady pace of Adam’s carefully selected camels brought them abreast of a much smaller party. A wrinkled face peered out at them from the curtains of a curiously shaped conveyance that had curtains of the brightest scarlet embroidered with dragons. In a high and thin voice that suggested the
twittering of birds at the first dawn, the owner of the wrinkled face said, “Peace be with you, honored sirs, and may abounding prosperity be your lot.”
“Peace be with you,” responded Luke, who rode on the right wing of the cavalcade.
“Like the barnacles that cling to the tail of a sea leviathan,” said the ancient traveler, “we shall, with your beneficent compliance, follow in your dust for the rest of the day.”
“If it is security you seek, honorable friend,” said Adam, who was riding with no cover from the blaze of the sun, “my advice would be to avoid us as you would a band of lepers. We ride in the shadow of constant danger.”
“May you raise a large family of sons with the same honesty,” declared the stranger. “But the dangers which surround you cannot be greater than the unknown terrors that threaten the solitary traveler. I have been much on the trails in my day, and this lesson I have learned, that there is safety only in company.”
Adam nodded his head. “That is true. For our part, O friend from the East, we are glad to welcome you. We are happy for any increase in our ranks.”
“We are men of peace,” warned the ancient traveler.
“I had already judged you to be such. But your presence swells the size of our caravan and gives a hint of great strength. Go you to Aleppo?”
The weazened head peering out from the dragon ambush nodded in response. “To Aleppo, honored captain. Then we turn on to the Bagdad trail. I come from Seen, and it is to that land of countless blessings that we return.”
“Seen!” cried Adam. “It is the land of enchantments and of the dreams of all men with restless heels. All my life I have longed to go there, to test its wonders with my own eyes.” With a sense of pride he added, “I have been as far as Samarkand.”
“Samarkand is a city of much honor. A busy city where even the teeth of the keenest traders are in constant jeopardy. Will I seem to boast if I say that the traders of Samarkand have been sitting for ages at the feet of men from Seen?”
Adam asked with an almost wistful interest, “Does Seen lie far beyond Samarkand?”
“Men follow the Pe Lu for many changes of the moon between Samarkand and Seen, my son. There are thirty days of travel in sight of the Snowy Mountains, and after that the Wall and the great plains and the winding course of the mighty river.” The enumeration of such distances gave a hint of weariness to the nodding of the ancient head. “I am a prince of the royal house and my name is P’ing-li. It has been a trial to everyone, and most particularly to myself, that I possess those restless heels to which you have referred. We have, no doubt, much in common, honored captain, and many tales to repeat back and forth. I shall be forever honored if you and such of your company as you deem meet will join me for the evening repast. I shall be proud to lay before you foods of Seen of which you have never heard.”
“To sup with you, Illustrious Prince, will be an honor of which my grandsons will boast,” declared Adam. “It is certain, however, that the dangers of which I spoke will take me early from the delights of your table.”
The old man nodded in acceptance of the condition. “You and those you bring to my tent may sup with daggers loosed in the belt and eyes turned back over the shoulder. It is my earnest hope that the flavor of the foods I shall set before you will for a brief moment seduce you from the contemplation of danger.”
The site Adam chose for his camp was on a flat piece of ground well above the valley in which En-Gannim nestled, its flat white roofs like eggs in the nest of some monster bird. It was exposed on all sides except the north, where a shallow wadi wound its way down from the hills. “We are open to attack,” said Adam to Luke, grinning with pleasure in his own astuteness. “Let us hope that Mijamin is already aware of the full extent of our folly.”
Basil watched the servants of the Chinese traveler erect a fabulous pavilion for his use. First they brought forth a pole three feet in length and from inside it produced length after length of diminishing circumference, each length having been contained inside a larger one, until they had a center pole of full fifteen feet. Rods were attached to the top and stretched out to carry the first layer of the cloth cover. Side panels fell from there to the ground and were firmly anchored with metal pegs. All this was accomplished with quick and deft movements and took a surprisingly few minutes to finish.
Then miracles began to happen inside. A gorgeous carpet was spread on the sand, and on it rugs and cushions were heaped. Small sections of gilded wood became an elaborate chair with carved back and arms. A tiny ivory taboret sprouted up beside it as though by magic. Drinking cups appeared seemingly out of the air. The head servant, who had directed the work, glanced about him with a critical eye and said: “It is well enough. Now, O sons of sloth, the cooking tent.”
On entering the pavilion, which was as vividly carmine as the setting sun, the four guests found that a space in the rear had been closed off behind a heavy curtain. A yellow hand swung it back almost immediately and their host emerged, revealing himself to their eyes as a small and bent figure in a gorgeous blue-and-black robe with a silk skullcap fitted down closely over his bald old head. Two servants teetered along on each side of him, holding cushions on which his forearms rested. The reason for this became apparent when they had seated themselves on the carpet about a low table. The fingernails of the prince were so long that they were held in guards of gold. The guards were three inches long and curved at the ends to allow for the tendency of the nails to curl under. As the nails lengthened with the years, these gold casings were worn lower all the time, and had now reached the stage where they threatened to lose all contact with the flesh. They were elaborately decorated with precious stones.
He kept his hands in front of him on the table and at intervals studied them with conscious pride.
“I am deeply honored by the presence of such illustrious guests,” he said, bowing to each in turn.
Deborra had remained standing in the background, knowing that custom forbade her to be seated. The prince chirped to the servant who stood behind him, and the latter set up a small table under the slope of the side. “It is our wish,” said the old man, “that daughter of honorable guest be seated in our presence and partake of food at seemly distance.” This concession gave much pleasure to all of them, for it meant that she would share their dishes while they were still warm and would, more over, be able to listen to their discourse.
The servant then handed around tiny cups containing a delightfully delicate and hot liquid.
“I beg you will overlook the sad deficiencies imposed on your much-honored host by the difficulties of travel,” said the old man, who had not moved his hands. He gave a second chirp, and the servant raised the host’s cup and placed it in his right hand. The prince curled his fingers around it and raised it to his lips with a gratified sigh. Deborra turned her eyes away, for it made her think of the talons of a bird of prey gripping the white-plumed neck of some feathered victim.
“I am the grandson of an emperor,” explained the prince. “He was much given to marriage, and there were two hundred and forty-eight known grandchildren. The honor, though still great, was, as you see, somewhat diluted.” He added after a moment: “I was not allowed to use my hands, and my nails have never been pared. For as long back as my memory goes, I have never been able to pick anything up with my fingers. My servants are my hands.” He indulged in a reminiscent sigh. “This conceit of my class made me rebellious as a youth. I conceived a desire to employ my hands in the painting of pictures. It was sternly forbidden me to do so, and for the entertaining of such thoughts I was severely disciplined.”
The main dish proved to be a hot and succulent one. It was composed (no other word could describe the preparing of such an ambrosial dish) with shreds of coconut, an assortment of curious nuts and hot spiced sauces nestling in snow-white rice. There were other dishes, including transparent bean curds and cold slices of pork that had been cooked with ginger.
Their host ate little and tal
ked much. He had come this great distance west—yea, here to the very rim of the world—because of rumors that had reached his country of the teachings of one Jesus. Being of a race that counted peace the greatest of boons, he had found that this hint of a wonderful new philosophy had plucked at his heart like the fingers of a harpist. (What a musician had been lost, he interrupted himself to say, when the gold coverings had been attached to his fingertips!) So concerned had he become by the whispers that reached his ears that he had even learned the language of the far west, this Aramaic of strange sounds that warred with his tongue. An Arab scholar had been found to act as his tutor, and in due course he had set forth to visit the lands where the man Jesus had lived and preached and died. He had been a month in Jerusalem. He had talked to the priests of the Temple, including the High Priest, whose appearance and manners had astounded him, and the pedagogues with their minds as sharp as gimlets. He had visited as well the leaders of those who professed to believe in Jesus; and now he was returning to his home, hopeful of reaching his palace in the City of the Thousand Bridges before his eyes closed in the long sleep.
Luke listened with so much interest that the food before him remained almost untouched.
“Do you care to tell us, Most Illustrious Prince P’ing-li, what conclusions you carry back with you?” he asked. Thinking an explanation necessary, he informed the royal visitor that he himself was a Greek.
“We have heard in Seen of your Grecian culture,” said the old man with a kindly nod of the head.
Luke went on to say that he had been a Christian for many years and it had been his great privilege to accompany the apostle of Jesus, who was known as Paul of Tarsus, on most of his travels.
“I heard much talk of Paul, but it was not permitted me to speak to him in his prison cell. It was a matter of much regret to this insignificant seeker after the truth who has heard that the tongue of the apostle is like a blade of the sharpest edge.”
The Silver Chalice Page 27
