The Silver Chalice

by Thomas B. Costain

  When they reached the open air he raised it to a level with his eyes and immediately felt his spirits bound out of control. He wanted to shout aloud in delight and surprise. His hands had not betrayed him a second time. Laboring on of their own accord, they had achieved more than they might have done if his will had been directing them. The accurate modeling that he had begun consciously had been carried on to a finish, even to the matter of details, the lines so deeply marked on the forehead and about the somber eyes, the sunken contour of the cheeks, the sensitive lips. It was, he realized, a finished effort; to go on with it further would be to strain for something beyond perfection.

  “A spirit took possession of me today,” he thought exultantly. “But it was not an evil one.”

  The men and women who had been sitting at the feet of John were not lingering or standing about in groups to exchange opinions and experiences as they would have done under any other circumstances. With quiet resolution they were setting off for their homes. Never more than two went together, and they were scattering to different roads as quickly as possible.

  Raguel was staring with astonishment at the clay head in his companion’s hands. “You made that?” he asked in an incredulous whisper. “You made it while we were inside? It is hard to believe, and yet there is the proof of it.” He gave his head an emphatic nod. “Now I no longer have any doubts. The story you told me was true. The Cup is safe. Someday your efforts will make for it a frame of fitting beauty. I am happy that I trusted you and brought you with me today.”

  CHAPTER XXIV

  1

  IT WAS LATE in the evening, but a stifling heat still gripped the city on the Tiber. One of the travelers, who had come on the same ship from Ephesus and who had a house near the Fabricius Bridge, had agreed to show Basil the way to the small inn where he was to stay. They had been much in each other’s company, and the young Roman had finally divulged that he was a Christian.

  “It will be so dark that we will see little,” said the Roman, whose name was Crassus. “That is a pity. One should see Rome first in the middle of the day, when it is the most exciting spectacle in the world. It passes all belief then.” He indulged in a sigh that was only faintly regretful. “It is the most wicked of all cities, but you cannot help loving it. Life seems empty when you are away.”

  “Were you born here?” asked Basil.

  The other nodded. “I was born in the house where I now live. I took over the house and the trade in Eastern goods when my father died. I am different from most of the Christians in Rome. I am patrician. Although I do not believe in squandering money”—this was easy to understand, for he had been the one to suggest that they make their way through the city on foot—“I am a rather rich man. I do not give the church all my profits, but I give a large share.”

  They passed the Aventine Hill and the tufa quarries. There was nothing here of the glory of Rome at midday. The streets were dark and empty. They skirted the Circus Maximus and came rather wearily, for the grades had been steep, into the Forum Romanorum. The young patrician said proudly, “We now stand in the exact center of the world.”

  The Forum was crowded and noisy even at this hour. They stopped in front of the Temple of Janus, and Crassus pointed out that the bronze door was open. “It is never closed when Rome is at war,” he said. “Indeed, one might say it is never closed.”

  Most of the people in the Forum were sight-seers, staring at the monuments and looking in the clear moonlight at the temples that hedged the square in on all sides. All of them had been drinking freely, for Rome was a convivial city. Their voices were shrill and loud.

  An occasional train of chariots would come galloping down from the Palatium, where Nero and his court feasted and roistered, or directly from the Capitol, where affairs of state kept the imperial officers in uninterrupted bondage. They invariably slowed down to an easy clopping gait through the Forum and then wheeled in various directions, to go clattering with furious haste through the streets that radiated from it. The people scattered to get out of their way and then stopped to jeer angrily after them.

  “There seems to be much freedom here,” commented Basil. “I see no signs of a police watch.”

  His companion went into an explanation. “There are fire guards. They will pass back and forth through the Forum several times in the course of a night. But the city has no police. The Praetorian Guards are supposed to keep peace in the city, but they are never seen around at night. There are always companies of the Guards at the Palatium, of course, and up on Capitoline Hill.”

  “Can it be,” asked Basil, “that the people are given a free hand so they will forget their poverty and the political freedom that has been taken away from them?”

  It was clear that Crassus did not allow his religious beliefs to affect his political views. He looked at Basil with a critical air. “Many think there is too much political freedom in Rome,” he said.

  Knowing that there were thieves everywhere, they never let their hands get far away from the dagger hilts under their tunics. This constant threat led Basil to ask a question, “What kind of an establishment is this I am going to?”

  Crassus did not seem to think well of it. “It is called an inn, but it is really a boarding home, an insula, kept by an elderly fellow who is called Old Hannibal. The place is well known because Old Hannibal has a son who is a famous gladiator.”

  Basil indulged in a puzzled frown. “It seems a strange place for them to have picked out for me.”

  “Not at all,” said Crassus. “There are no Christians in the place and so it is the safest for you.” He proceeded to demonstrate that, for a Christian, his interests went far afield. “The son is called Sisinnes the Unbeaten. I never lay wagers now, but when I was younger I made money all the time by betting on Sisinnes. He is a Samnite; that means he fights in the Arena with the traditional sword and shield of Rome. That makes him popular with the people and they come out roaring for action whenever he is matched. He has never lost a fight. They say he has made himself a fortune by placing wagers on himself. He could have retired long ago but he prefers to go on fighting to add to his wealth.”

  Their tired feet had led them toward the foot of the eastern cliff where the grim Mamertine Prison stood under the Capitoline Hill. Crassus did not like this neighborhood, and his steps picked up speed in his haste to get away.

  “There are underground cells,” he whispered, “where all people condemned to death are kept. There are always some Christians in them. The Emperor hates us. He is willing to see a Christian sentenced to death on the flimsiest grounds, even on suspicion. No one knows why, but it is true that he would like to get rid of all the Christians in Rome.” He indulged in a shudder. “It may be that friends of mine are down there now. Waiting—waiting to be beheaded or crucified. Perhaps they are sitting in those damp horrible cells this very minute, knowing that they will die at dawn. It makes my stomach turn over to think of it.”

  Basil was saying to himself that it would be a relief when he had seen the last of his companion. On board ship Crassus had been a pleasant fellow traveler, but since setting foot in Rome his attitude had changed. He had become superior, rather supercilious, and very conscious of his status as a patrician. Luke had said often that wealth and Christianity did not go well together. “Joseph of Arimathea was one of the few exceptions,” he pointed out. “Both Peter and Paul have found it necessary to stop visiting Christians of high social rank.”

  They came shortly after to a part of the city that lay between the converging Quirinal and the Esquiline hills like the smear of a greasy finger on fair parchment. It was called the Subura, a narrow region of vice and poverty, where the shops bulged so far out into the streets that passers-by had to walk through them, where the goods offered for sale were cheap and tawdry and had the stamp of suspicion on them, where sellers of illicit and stolen articles flourished and the sly individuals who catered to ignorance and superstition and greed. Thieves and escaped slaves existed in the
dark recesses of Subura and ventured out only at night. As the edict forbidding the entry of vehicles into the city by day was being strictly enforced, all conveying of food supplies had to be done during the hours of darkness, and the streets of Subura already rumbled with the gritting wheels of country carts loaded with provender and squealing pigs and clacking geese, and the air was filled with the bicker of trade.

  Beyond this belt of infamy and suffering and tears the hill rose sharply, and in a small triangle of sloping ground there was an oasis of comparative peace. Here were dwelling houses of mean size, crammed in as tightly as hens in a huckster’s crate, the homes of small incomes and mediocrity.

  Crassus led the way up into this triangle, his nose wrinkling with disapproval, although it was likely that he had a business interest in some of the questionable enterprises of the malodorous belt; all Roman citizens of wealth drew much of their revenue from Subura. There was the hint of a sniff in his voice as he entered on an explanation. “You have just passed through the worst part of Rome. It is said that Julius Caesar had a house here once, but that was a long time ago. One cannot conceive of the fastidious Caesar existing in such a pigsty.”

  As the long walk over the paved roads of the city had stolen the resiliency from their leg muscles, they went at a plodding gait.

  “Here it is,” said Crassus finally. “This is the inn of Old Hannibal. I will leave you here, my friend. Forget everything you know about me now that you are in Rome. I have no desire to find myself in the Mamertine; and I recommend caution to you for your own well-being.” He raised a hand in a gesture of farewell. “May your affairs in Rome prosper so that you may quickly return to your beautiful wife.”

  The inn was a small structure of stucco in bad repair. The stillness was so intense that Basil was afraid the knock he gave would be heard all over the neighborhood. It was not heard inside the house, however, and he had to repeat it. The door opened then and a man peered out at him.

  “You knock late,” he said in a kindly tone. “What is it you want?”

  He spoke in Aramaic, which was a relief to Basil, whose ears had been assailed from the moment he entered the city with a babel of unfamiliar talk.

  “I desire accommodation for the night,” Basil answered, depositing his bundle of belongings at his feet. “I have a letter to the keeper of this inn.” “Then I will rouse him.”

  Basil could hear him fumbling in the darkness of the interior, and in a few moments he emerged with a lighted lamp in one hand. By the light thus afforded he was seen to be a man of quite advanced years who yet retained some hint of energy. His thick, unruly hair and beard were white.

  “Come in, stranger,” he said. “You journeyed to Rome by sea?”

  Basil nodded. “I came from Antioch. By way of Ephesus.”

  He found that he was standing in the common room of the inn. It contained a long table with benches on each side and a collection of dishes at one end. The room had about it all the commonplaceness of poverty. The table was plain and cheap, the benches would creak with little weight, the lamp in the old man’s hands was of the everyday kind that could be found along desert trails and on city dump heaps.

  “If you will give me the letter,” said the old man, “I will take it to him.”

  He was gone for a few minutes and then returned with a man who was very old and very small, with something birdlike in the brightness of his eye and the high, thin tones of his voice. He held the letter open in one hand.

  He spoke first to the other old man, who was standing outside the circle of light cast by the tiny lamp in his hand. “Cephas,” he said, “the letter is from Luke.”

  “From Luke? That makes it different. We may take it for granted that the young man is to be trusted.”

  “I thought so from the first.”

  “Where is Luke?”

  “I left him in Antioch,” said Basil. “He was in good health. He was expecting to be bidden to Jerusalem.”

  “It is written in this letter,” said the inn owner, “that you come on an errand in which we will be glad to assist. Nothing more is said, save this: that the nature of the errand is such that you will be slow to disclose it.”

  Cephas indulged in a laugh at this point. It was a vigorous laugh to issue from a frame so much bent with the years. There were both courage and optimism in it.

  “I think the cautious Luke was putting in a hint for the guidance of the young man,” he said.

  “He read me the letter,” declared Basil, smiling. “And he looked at me most solemnly when he came to those last words.”

  The proprietor seated himself at the head of the table and motioned to Basil to take a place on one of the benches.

  “We will ask no questions,” he said. “Do you agree, Cephas?”

  “We will wait,” said Cephas, “until our young friend feels that the time has come when the nature of his errand may safely be disclosed.”

  “He will ask none of us.”

  Basil nodded with a smile. “None.”

  “It will be difficult to give you a room by yourself.” Old Hannibal considered the problem with a frown. “Let me see. There is the east room above. I could move the Armenian out and put him in with the brothers from Bithynia. But what could I do with the trader from Syracuse who shares it with him?”

  “Put the trader from Syracuse out with me,” suggested Cephas.

  “He might refuse to pay me my full fee if I did that to him.”

  Cephas smiled, as though he understood his weakness fully and was amused by it. “You like to have your full fee, Hannibal. Perhaps it is well that you do. I judge it is not an easy matter to run an inn like this and keep things on an even keel.”

  Old Hannibal sighed. “It is not at all easy.” He pondered his problem with many nervous nods of his head. “He must have the east room. I will get him food, Cephas, while you see that the chamber is made ready for him.”

  While the proprietor set food on the table Basil turned over in his mind what he would tell them. He decided at once that any reference to Simon the Magician or Helena would be a mistake. He would make every effort to see the latter, having promised his wife so solemnly that he would do so, but he would ask no aid in finding them nor display any interest in what they were doing. When a platter with cheese and bread had been placed in front of him and a cup of rather thin wine, he realized that he was hungry. Hannibal, watching him with quick dartings of his eyes, became friendly and confidential.

  “I can be of help to you, young man,” he said. “Because I have had this house for so many years and because of my son, I am well known in Rome. Many people come here—to see my son, it is true, but then they talk to me. I hear things. There are people you would like to see? I could tell you where to find them.”

  “Yes,” said Basil. “I was going to ask your help.”

  Cephas returned and seated himself at the table although he did not help himself to the food. “The room is yours,” he said, smiling. “They grumbled a little, but they gave it up.”

  “There is a matter of personal business to which I must give immediate attention,” said Basil. “I must see an army contractor who is called Kester of Zanthus. Perhaps you can tell me how I should go about finding him.”

  Old Hannibal gave his head a pleased nod. “My son will tell you what to do. He knows all the great men in Rome. He will send you to the right place. He, my son, is great himself.” His eyes sought those of Cephas with a hint of appeal in them. “It is hard to accept what—what he is. My son, young man, is a gladiator. He fights in the Arena and kills other men. He has never been beaten. He”—he hesitated and then added with a kind of fascinated pride—“he has killed thirty-seven men.”

  Cephas said in a quiet tone: “The world is full of great men. Of men who are great in one thing. Hannibal’s son is one of these. He is supreme in his trade. He is the greatest killer of other men.”

  “My son will know this Kester. I am sure he will. I am sure he will be able t
o tell the young man all about him. We will speak of it in the morning.”

  Basil’s spirits rose. One hurdle had been passed, he felt. A more difficult one remained. He pondered the matter and decided he should give them some intimation of his main purpose in coming to Rome.

  “I must see Peter,” he said, letting his voice fall. “I know it is going to be hard to find him. He is here in Rome, but he is in constant peril and he must have buried himself away among the Christian families.” His eyes traveled from one to the other. “I know that you are to be trusted, else Luke would not have directed me here.”

  The two old men had looked at each other at the first mention of Peter’s name. They seemed startled and afraid. He could read in the quick meeting of their eyes that they had acquired a slight suspicion of him that they had not held before.

  “I am certain,” said Cephas after a moment, “that it will be possible to take you to Peter. But, my young friend, you will have to abide yourself in patience. You must not expect to waken in the morning and find Peter seated by your bedside. It will be necessary first for you to confide in us in the matter of the duties that take you to him.” He smiled across the board at the newcomer. “We cannot expect you to do so at once. There must be a mutual confidence established between us. And now you are tired. I can see weariness in your eyes. I am sure you are ready to seek the couch that I have emptied, with some difficulty, for your use. Come, I will show the way.”

  2

  Basil was up early the next morning. It was soon after dawn, in fact, when he wakened from his heavy slumbers in the east room. After such ablutions as the facilities of the inn made possible, he put in an appearance in the common room, expecting to find it unoccupied at such an hour. To his surprise he found Cephas preparing the table for the first meal of the day. Old Hannibal’s twittering voice could be heard in the kitchen, where, obviously, the food was being prepared.