The Silver Chalice

by Thomas B. Costain

  Adam had been keeping an eye on the sinking rim of the sun through the raised curtains at the entrance of the pavilion. He rose at this point and said that the errand of which he had spoken earlier called him away and he must beg the permission of his host to withdraw. A nod of the birdlike head of the old man conveyed his consent, and a twittering summons brought his servant to raise his limp right arm in a gesture of farewell.

  The prince turned back immediately to Luke and the talk between them was renewed. He was returning home, it developed, with many reservations. Jesus had preached charity and peace and yet his teachings had made bad blood among men of his own race and had led to much cruelty in the world. Why was this? Why had the coming of the great preacher Paul led to hate and bloodshed? It was the way of all worship throughout the world for men to sacrifice to the gods, not the gods to men. Why, then, had Jesus, Who was known to be a god, been taken out and crucified?

  “It is a matter of the deepest regret, Most Learned and Illustrious Prince, that Paul is not here to speak with you and clear your mind of such doubts,” said Luke. “He sees the truth with great clarity. I am a very poor substitute, but this much I can do for you: I can tell you everything that is known of Jesus. For over twenty years I have sought information about Him and I have gathered a complete story of His stay on this earth. Would it be of interest to you to hear what I may tell of Him?”

  The prince called, “It grows chill, most unobservant of servants.” The man brought rests of velvet and laid his master’s hands on them before binding them carefully in wrappings of wool. With a sigh of relief the tiny figure sank back against the huge scarlet cushions that had been piled up behind him. His eyes glistened with anticipation in the yellow of his face. “This is what I followed the Pe Lu to hear!” he cried. “Tell me everything about the man Jesus. Leave nothing out, I beseech you.”

  Luke began to speak, choosing his words with great care at first but gradually allowing his feelings to take the reins. His eyes lighted up as he told the story from the first night at Bethlehem when the stars had massed in the heavens to send their light down directly on the manger where the holy child lay. Basil listened with as much eagerness as the little man from the East. He had long desired to hear the story of this new God whose face must be revealed to him before he could complete his mission. He had heard bits of it, mere fragments that had aroused a desire for the whole story. The heads of the three men drew closer together as the vibrant voice of the old physician recited. They seemed to lose all consciousness of time.

  Deborra, sitting patiently under the slope of the canvas wall, watched them intently. Her eyes, naturally enough, rested most often on the face of Basil. It was a good thing that the recital engaged their attention, because otherwise they might have perceived how the sweet gravity of her eyes dissolved into mists of unhappiness. Why, she was asking herself for the hundredth time, had this terrible thing happened to keep them apart? What kind of lure had the magician’s assistant used to disturb his mind? What cure could there be for such an infatuation?

  The sun disappeared and darkness settled down. An hour passed. There was silence outside save for the uneasy rustling of the camels, the occasional unhappy yelp of a dog, or the high laugh of a hyena from the distance. Luke’s voice went on, telling the magic story, his listeners as attentive as at the start. A second hour passed. Deborra realized that Adam ben Asher should have returned before this. Had an accident befallen him? Had he found it impossible to enlist the assistance of his old friend’s sons and was now seeking help elsewhere? She became so anxious, and finally so desperate, that she was not able to follow the concluding stages of Luke’s recital. Her ears strained for every sound, dreading to hear the rush of Mijamin’s men from the cover of the wadi. Every sound from the darkness outside became to her the first indication of an attack.

  Then a high-pitched and vibrant call sounded from a distance. It came unquestionably from a human throat. Luke stopped speaking and turned in the direction from which the cry had come. Basil sprang to his feet and ran to the entrance of the pavilion, from which he looked out anxiously into the blackness of the night. Deborra followed him there.

  “It is the signal,” she said. “Adam is returning. I must let him know that all is well.”

  She placed the fingers of both hands on her neck and tightened them about the vocal cords. The call that issued from her throat was identical with the hail that had reached them from the dark, a high, strained note. Basil knew that the women of Israel used this method of attaining high notes in tribal singing and he watched her curiously. The call was sustained for many seconds and could have been heard for a long distance.

  It became evident almost immediately that Adam was approaching the camp along the upper edge of the wadi. He was not returning alone, for in a very few minutes they could hear the steady tramp of several pairs of feet.

  Basil, looking up at the stars, had forgotten everything but the wondrous story to which he had listened. He was thinking how the stars had guided the Three Wise Men to the manger at Bethlehem. It seemed to him that they were unusually bright again and that a particularly luminous group hovered over the cluster of tents. Was this to show that the most sacred reminder of the life on earth of the man, into whom the child had grown, was hidden here? A sense of expectation took possession of him. He was almost convinced that the footsteps approaching were those of people coming eagerly to gaze on the humble cup.

  Deborra seemed to understand what was passing through his mind. She smiled up at him and laid a hand on his wrist. “Basil,” she whispered, “I think it is Adam returning, but we must be prepared in case I have been mistaken.”

  He still remained under the spell. “Herodotus on the forum in Athens,” he declared fervently, “never told a story to equal what I have heard tonight.”

  3

  Three young men, wearing the rough sheepskin cloak of the shepherd, followed Adam into the circle of tents. They towered over him. They had wide shoulders and necks like marble columns and great, muscular arms. There was nothing arrogant about them in spite of their obvious might; instead they wore gentle smiles, as though they were abashed at being in such company. They were so much alike, moreover, that it was hard to believe that even their parents would be able to tell them apart.

  “These are my good friends, the sons of Catorius,” said Adam by way of introduction. “Their father is a student of Roman history and an ardent admirer of the Gracchii, and so he named them Sempronius, Tiberius, and Gaius. I confess I cannot tell them apart, although I am almost sure that this one beside me is Tiberius.”

  “No,” said the member of the trio thus indicated, speaking in a high and amiable voice. “I am Gaius. The youngest. This is Tiberius beside me. Sempronius is on his other side.”

  “I shall try no more!” exclaimed Adam. “I have been miscalling them all the way down from the Plain. Of this only am I certain, that no one save Samson of immortal memory could prevail against these three mighty men.”

  “I gave orders for a supper to be prepared,” said Deborra. “It is ready in my tent.”

  Three pairs of eyes lighted up in approval as the sons of Catorius wheeled in unison and followed her. The appetites of the trio would, it was clear, be sharply applied to the supper that had been spread out for them. Adam walked behind, dropping an admiring hand on the rippling muscles of the back nearest him.

  “It was on shoulders such as these that the gates of Gaza were carried, Sempronius!” he exclaimed.

  The recipient of the compliment was pleased enough to smile modestly, although he disclaimed the power to equal the feat of the great Samson. “My brothers and I are strong. There is no denying it. But in the Jewish book it is said that no man had the strength of Samson.” After a moment he added, “And I am not Sempronius. I am Tiberius.”

  Lights had been extinguished for an hour. Adam ben Asher sat inside his tent with the men of the camp squatting silently about him. All were armed and in a state of nerv
ous alertness. The moon had broken through the clouds and it was now possible to see the shapes of the tents and the tops of the trees that lined the wadi. Sitting on the edge of the group, Basil found the attentions of the night insects almost unbearable and kept up a continuous beating of his arms to drive them away. The three young shepherds seemingly were impervious to such attacks. They sat together in the open and never moved a muscle. The only sounds came from Adam himself. Fearful that Mijamin was not going to take advantage after all of the opportunity that had been provided for him, he emitted an occasional grumble of discontent.

  Basil’s thoughts were still on the story of Jesus and His sojourn on earth. He no longer had any doubts that the gentle man of Nazareth was the Son of this one God to Whom the people of Israel prayed, and that someday He would return to the earth. This conviction was one of the mind rather than of the spirit, for it had not brought him any of the exaltation he had seen among the brave and humble people whose greeting to each other was, “Christ has risen.” That might come later. In the meantime he was happy to be able to accept the story without any reservations. The words of Luke had brought into his mind the picture of a slender figure moving among the people who came out in such multitudes to see Him. He had seen the ill rise from their beds and walk at a quiet word of command and the lame throw away their crutches. He had seen the form of the Great Teacher ride into Jerusalem for the last time; he had observed again that touching scene in the upper chamber of the house at the Wall of David. There had been one disappointment for him, however; the face of Jesus had always been turned away from him.

  “Listen!” said Adam suddenly.

  The group around him stiffened to attention. At first they could hear nothing, then slowly it became apparent to all of them that there were sounds on the night air that could only be man-made, the pressure of an indiscreet sandal on the pebbly earth, a stealthy breathing close at hand.

  “Wait!” whispered Adam, sensing a tendency on the part of those about him to get hastily to their feet.

  And then a voice came out of the darkness, a loud and commanding voice. “Adam ben Asher!”

  When there was no response, the summons was repeated in a still louder tone. Once again: “Adam ben Asher!”

  Adam rose then to his feet. He walked to the entrance of his tent. “Who is it?” he demanded. “And what do you want of me?”

  “An attentive ear, first of all,” said a voice which was that of Mijamin. “Understand this, Adam, my friend. I have men surrounding your camp. I prefer to finish what I have come to do without trouble or bloodshed. But if any attempt is made to interfere, my men will not hesitate to kill. I give you warning now not to make a move of any kind. Stay where you are, Adam ben Asher. Your people must remain in their tents. Is that clear?”

  “It is clear.”

  “They must not obstruct my men in any way. They must make no commotion and they must not speak. Is that also clear?”

  “That also is clear.”

  “My men are coming in now. Remember, all of you, what I have said. I want you to realize that you will pay ten times over for any hurt that may come to them.”

  Adam began to laugh at this point. “Yes, Mijamin,” he called. “Come in, you and your men. I have been expecting you.”

  The men about him rose silently to their feet. Weapons were raised in readiness.

  “Remember, my brothers,” said Sempronius. “I am the eldest and so I speak for our good father. The Lord has said, ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ I lay this command on you, Tiberius, and on you, Gaius. Do not strike with all your strength. We must drive these intruders away, but also we must show them compassion.”

  4

  Basil followed one of the three brothers—he did not know which—into action, marveling at the size of the club the latter carried. He said to himself, “It is more dangerous than the jawbone of an ass.” It was light enough to see that the invaders on this side of the camp were numerous and well armed. Fortunately it was light enough for the followers of Mijamin to make a discovery themselves. A voice from their midst cried out, “It is one of the Giants of Slador!” The effect of this discovery was to discourage any effort to charge in for the easy success that had been promised them. They hung back and waited to be attacked. The son of Catorius obliged them by going into action at once. He called in his high voice, “Follow me!” and then proceeded to cut a wide swath with his club. The invaders had so little stomach for this kind of fighting that his flailing blows fell, for the most part, on empty space. The Zealots fell back with such willingness, in fact, that in a matter of very few minutes the struggle had come to an end.

  Basil had no opportunity to share in the exultant chase that followed. Someone sprang at him from a clump of underbrush and he found himself involved in a furious tussle. His opponent fought like a wildcat, and Basil would have been worsted quickly if he had not been lucky enough to drive a knee into the man’s groin. The Zealot sank to the ground with a gasp, and Basil took advantage of his momentary helplessness to plant himself squarely on his back and pinion his arms. Lacking the strength to force his prisoner into camp, he did the next best thing; he retained his position and waited until it would be possible to summon assistance.

  The victory was as quick and complete in the other areas, an equal reluctance being shown on each flank to stand up to the furious onslaught of the Giants of Slador. Although the initial clash was accompanied by an uproar of clanging metal and an angry babel of voices, this soon subsided into sounds of retreating feet and the triumphant shouts of the defenders.

  As soon as the outcome of the struggle was assured and the enemy had betaken themselves off down the course of the wadi with much more speed than they had shown in their approach, lights flared up in the camp. Strutting in high triumph, Adam went from tent to tent and saw to it that torches were lighted and placed on high poles. He said to everyone he met: “It is all my doing! I trapped them. I brought them here. I had the blow ready that turned their blood to water and their bones to flabbiness. I, Adam ben Asher.”

  The illumination of the camp revealed a number of things. Deborra, dagger in hand, had seated herself on the broken chest, which had been placed in her tent, prepared quite apparently to defend to the last the precious object contained therein. Luke had improvised a platform for the care of the wounded by spreading blankets over a mound of tamarisk boughs. The Chinese prince had issued out from his pavilion with attendants on each side to support his forearms. He had been hastily muffled up in warm woolen garments and was demanding to know in a querulous squeak, “Are you engaged, honorable sirs, in one of your disputes over points of belief?”

  Basil called urgently from the shadows, “I have a prisoner here and need help to bring him in.”

  There was general jubilation when it was discovered that the prisoner was none other than the organizer of the attack.

  “Heu-heu!” said Adam, planting himself in front of the captive Mijamin with a gleam of delight in his eyes. “This is most fortunate. This makes my triumph complete. Now we shall be able to make sure, Brother Mijamin, that you cause us no more little inconveniences of this kind.” With obvious reluctance he added, “It seems we must give some credit also to our worthy bridegroom.”

  When the three brothers came back into camp, wearing cheerful but modest smiles, Adam pointed to the figure of Mijamin seated in chagrin on the ground with his arms trussed behind him. “What are we to do with this fellow?” he asked.

  One of the three scratched his head with a bloodstained finger. “I am Sempronius and so I speak for our father. This wicked man has earned death, but our father has taught us to look on violence as sinful. Our wish is that you do not slit his throat, as he deserves, but find some other way of preventing him from harming you further.”

  “Then tell me, Sempronius, is there in the hills where you tend your flocks some place to keep this troublemaker until we have passed on and can be sure of reaching our destination safely?”

  T
he oldest brother had a deep cut on his forehead and blood had been flowing freely over his face. This had robbed him of his habitual mildness of expression and had given him instead a villainous scowl. His voice, however, was as gentle as ever. “There is a place in the hills where we could hold him for as long as you desire. It is a cave and it is dry and more comfortable than this bad man deserves. I am sure our father would agree to keeping him there.”

  “A week will be long enough,” declared Adam, savoring his victory with a hearty smacking of lips. “By that time we will be so far along that we cannot be overtaken. But I am compelled to mention another point. Is it right to drag you further into our quarrels? If the Zealots of the Plain know that you are holding this fellow a prisoner, will they not try to get him away from you?”

  “No,” said Sempronius. He glanced at each of his brothers and received from them in turn a nod of the head and an answering “No.” “It is this way, O Adam ben Asher,” he went on. “We live quietly and we keep to ourselves. No one comes near us, and so they will not know that we hold this man of blood our prisoner.”

  “But after he is released? Will they not then seek to revenge themselves on you?”

  Sempronius gave his head another shake. “No,” he affirmed in his high, quiet voice. “We are very much feared. All they ask of us is to leave them alone. Oh no, Brother Adam. They will not make war on us of their own accord.”

  “Then it is settled!” exclaimed Adam. “You will, if you please, take this adder, this devil in the guise of a man, and keep him in that fine dry cave of which you speak. You will, I am sure, treat him more kindly than he deserves. But if he attempts to run away, I trust you will break every bone in his troublemaking body.”

  The oldest brother nodded. “Kindness should never be carried too far. The time comes when soft words must be replaced by the breaking of bones.”