The Silver Chalice

by Thomas B. Costain

  “To engage in trade a man must go from place to place. Could I afford to fit out a caravan myself? Let me explain the situation to you. The only safe way to transport goods is by caravans of such size that raiders do not dare risk an attack. This puts trade in the hands of a very few men. Joseph of Arimathea was the richest of them all, although your father in Antioch was one to reckon with. A little man, desiring to have his share, must do as I do. I hire myself as a driver and I carry goods secretly from one place to another, trading with merchants of the East who themselves lack the resources of the great caravan owners. They trust me with goods to offer dealers of their own size in Jerusalem and Caesarea and Antioch. I am paid a share of the profits on all sales I make. As I have no difficulty in finding buyers, I do very well.

  “I break a rule of the road in doing this,” he went on. “No camel man is allowed to do any trading on his own account. If Adam knew what I am doing, he would seize everything I have and then he would have me beaten out of the caravan. After that I would be on a list and I would be as much of an outcast as a leper with a bell around his neck.” He indulged in a broad grin of self-congratulation. “Yes, I do very well. Some time ago I decided that, as I was taking such risks anyway, I might as well take more. I buy some goods myself now and take the chance of selling them. My profit on these sales is—well, it is quite colossal.”

  There was a moment of silence and then Basil asked, “Why do you tell me this?”

  Chimham did not answer at once. He held up a square-cut sardonyx of remarkable size and fineness. “The High Priest may have finer stones than this in his Breastplate of Judgment, but still it is a good one. I already have a buyer for it.” A small knife with an ivory handle was next displayed. “Look at this blade. You could cut right through the proud gizzard of a Roman with it. And have you ever seen sweeter jade than this cup, which was carved out of a single block? I bought it, knowing where I could find a buyer for it.” He smacked his lips. “The profit I make will be even sweeter than the jade itself.”

  “At this rate you will become a rich man quickly.”

  The enthusiasm of the illicit trader showed immediate signs of abating. He gave his head a shake. “I am a close buyer. I am a remarkably fine seller. But in spite of everything my savings are small. You could cover them with the napkin in which the single talent was wrapped.” He indulged in a rueful smile that still held some remnant of self-pride. “There is a reason, and I can give it to you in one word. The word is ‘Wives.’ ”

  “Wives?” repeated Basil. He looked at the smooth face of his companion, its lack of lines, the clear and youthful color of the flesh. “You look no more than a few years older than I. How many wives have you?”

  “Four. One in Jerusalem, one in Caesarea, another in Bagdad, and one—the youngest and my favorite, although I love them all—in Antioch. You see, my young friend, I differ from other camel men, who are content to make love to women and then leave them, or who go to the little houses on the walls. When I see a woman who takes my fancy, I want to keep her for my own. I want to marry her. Yes, four times I have been unable to resist this desire. Twice I have been stopped by parental interference.” He drew a deep sigh. “I love them all very much, but there is no denying that they are costly. They keep me poor, particularly my little Irene in Antioch, who has a weakness for presents.” He pointed to the jade cup. “I find it necessary to make many deals as good as this one to keep my four families in comfort.”

  Each statement that his companion made had increased Basil’s astonishment. “How many children have you?” he asked.

  “Eleven,” answered Chimham with open pride. “Seven of them are girls, which is a tragedy. But my four sons are all bright little fellows with sharp tongues and eyes like big black currants from Corinth. They will make fine traders when they grow up. The sons of Chimham will form a partnership and set themselves to gobble up all the trade with the East.”

  “Do each of your wives know about the others?”

  The eyes of the camel man opened wide in horror. “By the earth and my head, no! I love my plump little quails so much that I tell each one she is the only woman in my life. It is the one safe way. You will find that out when you have more wives.”

  A silence followed. Chimham wrapped up his stock in trade and knotted the bundle with strong, sure fingers. “And now I shall answer your question,” he said.

  He looked up at Basil and gave him a knowing wink. “I took you into my confidence because it seemed to me that we might become partners. I know all the twists and quirks of the Eastern trade. I know all the merchants there and along the Mediterranean as well. You own these two fine camels. You are married to a rich wife and might be able to get into the palms of your hands a little meestak. You know what I mean? Meestak, money.

  “Now let us consider how things might work out. We would begin with the two camels, and I would trail along at the rear of the big caravans for a time with one helper. Pretty soon, my friend, we would have four camels and two helpers; then more camels and more cheating rascals of helpers. In time we would have great caravans of our own and men would say, ‘Once there was Joseph of Arimathea and Ignatius of Antioch. Now there is Chimham and his partner, Basil, son of Ignatius.’ When that time comes my eight or ten wives—oh yes, I shall go on marrying, I feel it in my bones—and my droves of handsome children will live in fine white houses with servants to swing fans over them at their meals. And you, by the earth and my head, will be the richest man in the world.”

  Basil shook his head slowly. “No, my friend. I am not intended by nature to be a trader. I would be of no use to you at all. What has happened has been between you and the men who employed you, and it is no concern of mine. Save for this: I was so indebted to Joseph of Arimathea that I could not profit by anything earned at his expense. On the other hand, my friend Chimham, I am deeply indebted to you. As a token of how conscious I am of my debt, I shall give you these camels when we reach Antioch. My suggestion to you is that you attach yourself to this old prince of Seen and accompany him back to his own land. You could then return with one of the silk trains and bring with you enough rare goods to make the beginnings of an honest fortune.”

  Chimham’s dark eyes lighted up with enthusiasm. “By the earth and my head, you are right! This is the true road to everlasting riches.” A doubt clouded his face. “But will the prince come as far as Antioch? The road to the East turns off at Aleppo.”

  “It was his intention to leave the caravan at Aleppo, but I heard him say he would accompany them to Antioch. He desires so much to learn about Jesus of Nazareth that he clings to the side of Luke and plies him with questions. I will be surprised if he is not converted to full belief before he turns homeward.”

  The illicit dealer in the goods of the East got briskly to his feet. He chirped to the camels, “Come, Bildad, come, Ezer. You have had four hours of rest. Your bellies are filled with good dried beans. All of your stomachs have water in them. Why, then, this sloth? We must be on our way, O Bildad, thou bag of bitter gall, and thou also, O Ezer, thou indolent youth. There is not another moment to be wasted.”

  3

  The first stage of their evening ride proved to be unsatisfactory. The camels grumbled and whined and could not be persuaded to the steady rhythmic pace by which the miles were slowly but surely consumed. Old Bildad screamed continuously to the rising moon in protest.

  “The fear grows on me,” called Basil to Chimham, who rode in the lead, “that we will not arrive in time after all. It is my fault. I have been a drag on you. And now these accursed beasts are going to give us trouble. We will never reach Antioch at the rate they are going.”

  Chimham did not seem much disturbed. “Bildad is in a complaining mood,” he said, “and I cannot find it in my heart to blame him. We have driven them hard and they are tired. They think they are entitled to a full night’s rest.”

  “It is true they have done well so far. But we might as well be camping as loafing on th
e road like this. Chimham, my friend, I am serious about this. I am deadly afraid we are not going to get there in time. This afternoon as we slept I dreamed of the ship. I do a great deal of dreaming. No sooner do I close my eyes than strange fancies come to me. This ship was sailing into the harbor with the wind at its back, its large square sail stretched tight. Aaron was standing on the deck with a smirk of triumph on his face. We were somewhere back on the trail, and so I knew we had lost.” He gave his head a despairing shake. “Is there nothing we can do?”

  His companion took a fatalistic view of the situation. “If we lose, it will be because it is not the Lord’s will that we get there first. We have done our best. We are four days ahead of the rest. Can flesh and blood do better than that? You are as thin as a fasting priest, and the hollows around your eyes give you a close resemblance to that ill-disposed beast you are riding. No blame can be laid on us, so why repine?”

  “It will be a great tragedy!” cried Basil. “I am not thinking of the fortune my wife may lose. It would be a serious matter, but, after all, other fortunes can be made. There is another reason that you know nothing about.”

  “Do not be too sure. There is always much talk around the campfires at night; and Adam ben Asher, though a man of great gifts, has a tongue that wags at both ends.”

  “Perhaps, then, you know why we must make every effort. Will they start to run if we beat them?”

  “Beat them as much as you like. It will not help in the least. But if we had a camel singer with us, it would make a great difference.”

  Basil stared at his companion with a puzzled frown. “A camel singer? Do you mean they can be encouraged by music?”

  Chimham’s white turban nodded in the gloom ahead. “It is one of their most curious traits. Certain voices please their ears so much that they fall into a charmed state; like snakes attracted by playing on the flute or the strings. Their feet begin to move in perfect rhythm, and they keep it up as long as the singer can go on with his songs.”

  “Why, then, are you not singing? You have a fine voice.”

  “It is true that I have a fine voice,” agreed Chimham. “I have always been proud of it. When songs are sung around the campfire at night I am called on first. Women have been known to swoon with delight when I sing of love by the light of the moon. I won two of my wives that way. But not camels! My voice does not please them at all. As soon as I start they raise their heads and shake them peevishly. It is as though they were saying, ‘Why does this noisy laglag whose voice is like that of a jackdaw with a frog in its throat disturb our peace?’ You do not believe? I shall give you the proof.”

  He began to sing in a high and melodious voice. It seemed to Basil a pleasant performance, but it was apparent at once that the camels did not agree with him. Ezer stopped in his tracks, planting his feet down stiffly in the sand. His attitude said, “I will not take another step as long as we must endure this unseemly uproar.” Bildad emitted a whine that carried with it a note of derision.

  The singer suspended his efforts and said in an exasperated tone: “You have seen. There are singers they do not like, and I am one of them. I am sure you agree that the stupid brutes show bad taste.” He was silent for a moment and then asked in a tone of voice that made it clear that the idea had occurred to him for the first time: “Why do you not try it? Who knows? You may be the one to set them jogging again.”

  “I am not a singer,” protested Basil.

  “It is worth a trial. There is this to be considered. They are accustomed to the Aramaic and they might not take to your poetic Greek and the wild notes of your music. Do you know any Jewish songs?”

  Basil gave the point some thought. “When I was a boy in the Ward of the Trades,” he said, “there were some Jewish children who sang a great deal. I remember one of their songs, which they called Little Issachar. One of them would stand in the center and the rest would join hands and dance around him. There was no end to the verses.”

  “I know that one. We used to sing it when I was a boy, up in the hills around Galilee. I know all the verses. Try it, my young friend. It may be that you were designed by nature to charm camels with your voice.”

  Basil was doubtful of the result, but he decided to make the venture. Raising his voice, he sang the first of the verses that he remembered.

  “Simple Little Issachar, son of Lot,

  The demons will get you when the winds blow hot:

  And when they do, you will wish they had not,

  Simple Little Issachar, son of Lot.”

  The two riders were equally surprised at the result. The camels fell into a steady gait at once, raising their heads and emitting low grunts of satisfaction.

  “Your voice is as thin as a reed,” said Chimham. “But they like it! By the earth and my head, you are a born camel singer. If you can sing all night, we shall be in Antioch before you know it. Keep on! And that smirk you saw in your dream on the face of Aaron will turn into a scowl of defeat.”

  So Basil went on singing. He sang for hours, or so it seemed to him. The stars came out and the moon climbed up high into the heavens. His voice grew hoarse. When he ran out of verses his companion prompted him. The camels made it clear that they wanted nothing else. As long as he regaled their ears with the adventures of Issachar, they continued to forge ahead with a long easy lope that consumed the miles as surely as hungry men empty the evening kettles. The shells on their harness jingled and the bells kept up a steady accompaniment to the music.

  As he sang, Basil’s thoughts took a more optimistic turn. Perhaps they would be in time, after all, and Deborra would be able to claim her inheritance. It would be, or so he had been told, a very great fortune; so great that there would be plenty of gold to send the preachers of Christ’s word out to new and strange lands. He took a great satisfaction in the thought that he was being helpful in bringing to all the people of the world that magic story he had heard himself from the inspired lips of Luke. It would be carried to the Far East, to Bagdad and Samarkand and the Indies, even in time to Seen, that distant and fabulous land. It would travel also in the other direction, to the colder countries of the West, to Gaul and Spain and beyond the Pillars of Hercules, even across the narrow strait to the island of the white cliffs and the singing barbarians.

  Wherever it was told people would come to see the light and to believe in Jesus. This vision took such hold of his imagination that new strength came into his throat and he sang on, knowing that if he stopped, the smooth pacing of Bildad and Ezer, those severe critics, would cease also, and the chance to spread the gospel might be hindered.

  Finally he could sing no longer. Such weariness overtook him that he fell asleep in his saddle. It has been noted before that there was a lifelike quality to the visions that occupied his mind in slumber. He could see those who came into his dreams as clearly as though they were real. Voices were distinct and everything that was done and said seemed natural and believable. Two such visions came to him as he lay sprawled between the camel’s hump and the pommel of his saddle.

  In the first his father paid him another visit. Ignatius looked a little sad, which was natural enough because he found it necessary to explain that he was still being detained in the House of Suspended Judgment. There did not seem to be any disposition to press his case, however, and he had even been given certain duties to perform. In company with large numbers of other souls—the number ran into the thousands, he was inclined to think—he was employed in tending the gold bindings of the Great Books of Record. It was, he explained in a discouraged voice, rather menial work for a man who had been such a prominent figure on earth, but, after all, what was to be expected? It was not certain yet that the final decision in his case would be a favorable one.

  The House of Suspended Judgment was so large that no one there had any conception of its limits. Those who inhabited it seemed no different from human beings. They were of all shapes and sizes and they wore normal clothes, being allowed complete latitude in that res
pect. All the colors known on earth were to be seen, and rumors had reached his ears that in the regions beyond, about which there was continual awe-struck speculation, there were other wonderful colors on which human eyes had never rested, glorious shades that would blind any mortal.

  But, declared Ignatius, one was conscious always of great forces, of strange and wonderful regions that might be reached later, of the grinding about them of the mills of fate. There was, in particular, the Wing of the Future, in which no denizen of the House of Suspended Judgment was allowed. He himself, by an error that had been corrected almost immediately, had been permitted to get inside. His stay had been for no more than the time consumed in the winking of an eye, but he had seen this much: a huge panorama of space through which gray clouds raced. On the face of the moving clouds the scroll of the future was being shown. There had been a multitude of souls, whose duty called them there, studying the pictures with intent eyes.

  This brought Ignatius to the reason for his second entry into the dreamworld of his adopted son. He, Basil, was behaving with neither good sense nor sound judgment. He had a wife with all the best virtues and who, moreover, loved him as a wife should. Was it his purpose to throw away a second fortune? There was still time for him to redeem himself and settle down to a normal and happy life. Whatever he did, he must make his home in Antioch and under no circumstances was he to return to Jerusalem.

  At this point Ignatius began to draw on what he had seen during the winking of an eye while he stood in the Wing of the Future. He became incoherent. Words poured from his lips: blood, fire, struggle, death. If the words seemed to lack form, they left one impression, that he had glimpsed on the racing clouds a picture of war and destruction in the city of David.