The Silver Chalice

by Thomas B. Costain

  Cephas knew enough of his story to understand what he meant. He stopped and smiled. “That is good, my son. You will tell me about it later.” He turned to his companion. “Mark,” he said, “this is the artist from Antioch of whom I have spoken. He is the one who took a lump of clay and in an hour turned it into such a likeness of old Cephas that you might have expected it to open its mouth and speak in the dialect of the Galilee.”

  Basil’s interest had been aroused by the mention of the stranger’s name. “Mark!” he said to himself. “This must be the Mark I have already put into the Chalice.” Luke had given him a description that had seemed adequate.

  The companion of Cephas was a short and powerfully built man of middle years, and there was about him a distinct hint of rusticity. This may have been due to the roundness of his head and face and the shortness of his creased and pugnacious nose. He walked with a slight stoop of the back, and one shoulder was so much higher than the other that Basil recalled something he had been told by Luke, that Mark had been a water carrier.

  Basil said to himself, “There can be no mistake. Now that I see him I can tell what a discerning report of him I had from Luke. But there are things I must change. His face is shorter than I made it, and I gave his beard too much length. I got his nose perfectly, but the eyes, no. I must give him that slight droop of the lid. It is a good face; I could make it from memory.”

  “I sometimes speak of Mark as my son,” said Cephas. “He has been with me much of recent years and I have found him a sturdy staff on which to lean.”

  When they reached the insula Cephas bade farewell to Mark with an affectionate warmth. “God go with you, my son. We shall see each other again soon.”

  After the old man had vanished within, Mark turned a troubled pair of eyes on Basil. It was clear that he felt some apprehension about Cephas and that he wanted to speak of it. If such had been his intention, however, he changed his mind. Giving his peasant-like head a nod that seemed abrupt and almost unfriendly, he turned on his heel and walked briskly down the hill. Basil recalled what Luke had told him of Mark. “He is much as Peter was in his younger years, a fighter with the heart of a lion. But he lacks Peter’s affability and great ease in winning the good will of men.”

  As he turned to follow Cephas inside, Basil found himself wondering about the old man. “He is regarded as a leader. That much is clear enough. Can it be that he is Peter?” He pondered this possibility but finally dismissed it with a shake of the head. “Why would Peter, who is the recognized leader of the Christians and the vicar of Jesus, be staying in this poor inn? Why would he be acting as servant to travelers who come and go? No, it cannot be Peter.” He gave his head another shake. “I promised not to ask questions. But I would like to learn more of this strange old man.”

  The atmosphere inside the lodginghouse carried a slight note of strain when he entered. Sisinnes, eating an enormous supper, was in a grumbling mood.

  “We are headed for more wars,” he declared, laying a slice of warm meat dripping with juice on a piece of bread and crunching it in his strong white teeth. “It will be very upsetting. I am against wars. My opinion is this: let us confine our fighting to its proper place, the Arena.”

  The guests had gathered closely around him. “But, Sisinnes,” said one of them, “the might and power of Rome are based on war. We must go on extending. There are still a few bits of the world that do not belong to us.”

  “Leave them alone!” growled the gladiator. “What happens when we conquer a new country? We bring back more captives. Droves of them. Great hulking beasts with no brains in their heads. We make gladiators out of them. There will be so many of them that the arenas will be glutted.”

  He cut himself another slice of meat with as much heat as though it were the throat of an imported gladiator.

  “What makes it worse,” he declared, nearly emptying his tankard, “is that these captives are always adept at some strange and barbaric kind of fighting. They fight with spears or slings or they take to the jaculum and fight with stinking fish nets. Some of them will be used for chariot fighting, which”—he looked about the circle of his listeners with mounting heat—“is fit only for such mad savages.”

  “But the spectators clamor for chariot fighting,” interjected one of the guests.

  “Spectators!” Sisinnes spoke with heavy scorn. “Spectators have no rights and should hold no opinions. We hate them, these greedy beasts clamoring for blood and turning their thumbs down for brave fellows to be killed.”

  “If there were no spectators, there would be no bouts,” commented the man Vardish.

  Sisinnes immediately changed his front. “They have their place. I do not deny that.”

  Basil had no appetite. He drank a cup of wine, and then another, without feeling any effect. He rose from the table and strolled out to the street. There was a hint of clouds back of the Pincian Hill.

  “Father,” he said, looking up at the sun, which was sinking behind the Palatine, and at the western sky, which was still shot with streaks of lavender and red, “are you up there and can you still hear me? Do you know what has happened today? I have the statement of Kester of Zanthus and I am going back to Antioch with it at once. It should set things right for both of us. I hope you are listening, Father, and that my news has brought ease of mind to you.”

  Yes, he said to himself, he must find Peter as quickly as possible and then start on his return journey. “Deborra, Deborra!” he thought. “Have you any idea of how well things have gone for me? Have you any way of knowing what is in my mind this minute? Do you know how much I have come to love you?”

  A man in a purple livery came toiling up the slope, followed by two soldiers with the plumed helmets and bright scarves of the Praetorian Guard. They stopped in front of the inn.

  “I seek one Basil,” said the official in the imperial trappings. “He is a worker in gold and silver who comes from Antioch.”

  “I am the one you seek.”

  The official looked him over carefully. “You answer to the description. You are to come with me. Your presence is required in the palace of the Emperor.”

  Basil was both surprised and alarmed. How could his presence in Rome have become known to the officers of the court, and why should he be summoned there? Was Kester of Zanthus responsible? That seemed highly improbable because he had left the contractor no more than a few hours before. It must be due, he decided, to the efforts of Helena.

  Perceiving his hesitation, the imperial messenger said in a reproving tone: “Caesar does not invite. He commands. You are to come with me at once.”

  “I will need to change my attire.”

  “Be speedy about it. You are to bring your belongings with you.” The officer looked about him with the same distaste Crassus had shown. “Faugh! I have no desire to stay longer than is necessary.”

  When Basil re-entered the inn, the opening of the door gave Sisinnes a glimpse of the uniforms outside. He sallied out to investigate. The court officer’s attitude changed at once. He approached the gladiator with deference.

  “I have made wagers on you often,” he said. “And I have always won.”

  “Naturally,” said Sisinnes. He glanced at the two young guards with an eye of scorn that said, How I would enjoy getting these monkeys in the death enclosure with me! “My next appearance may be my last. I wish to retire without a defeat, but also I have no stomach for what is being done nowadays. Soon they will be sending boys with slingshots into the Arena, and cooks with sharp spits, and miserable little apothecaries who will fight by throwing acids in the eyes of proper fighters. I like the old ways.”

  Basil gathered his few clothes and his tools. He carried the clay models of John and Cephas to the kitchen and confided them to the care of the latter. The old man looked startled when told what had happened.

  “There is no way of knowing the reason for this summons,” he said. “It is clear that Nero has become interested in you. Always remember this, ev
en if you bask in the imperial favor: Nero is as changeable as the weather. The thunderbolts of his wrath fall out of a cloudless sky. If you ever find yourself in need of help, bear in mind that there are many Christians at the court. They will be ready to help you.”

  “How would I know who they are?”

  Cephas gave the matter some thought and then mentioned the name of Selech. “He is the head cook and a man of very great influence. He is an imaginative man as well as a brave one. Seek him out as soon as you reach the palace. Tell him of the Cup if you think it advisable. Say to him, ‘Cephas says, “Peace be with you today, for tomorrow the storm cometh.” ’ You will find him a bold and a true friend and always ready to risk his own head for one who is in trouble.”

  CHAPTER XXVII

  1

  THERE WERE CHARIOTS waiting at the foot of the slope. Basil took his stand in one of them, his blue cloth bag over one shoulder, his bundle of belongings at his feet. They set off with much cracking of whips and loud hallooing to the horses and they cut across Subura like cleavers through moldy cheese. The wheels creaked and groaned, the sparks flew. Dogs raced after them, barking madly, and the populace scattered as they went clattering by. They skirted the base of the Capitoline Hill and slowed down to a more sedate pace when the sprawling palace of the Caesars showed above them, a glitter of lights in the darkness of the evening.

  A cohort of the Praetorian Guard was marching down the road ahead of them, destined for the Palatium to take over the duty of protecting the ruler of the world. The chariots were brought to a halt, for the Guard must never be interfered with, and no attempt was made to approach the entrance until the last of the imperial soldiers had disappeared within. Then they drove with due decorum up the steep slope of the winding road.

  They came to a halt under a marble portico, and Basil was both astonished and horrified to find that the attendants who stood on duty there were attached by chains to the stone walls. A brisk young man appeared on the scene. He studied Basil closely and then accorded him a welcoming wave of the hand.

  “I have instructions to look after you and convey to you the orders of Caesar. It is because I speak Greek that I have been selected. My name is Q. Septimus Rullianus. Do I not speak your language well?”

  “I am better acquainted with Koine than the classic tongue,” said Basil.

  “So am I.” The court official, who had spoken in halting classroom Greek, lapsed into the common tongue with relief. “We shall get along well. Now for the orders. First you are to be shown to your room, and then I am to take you where the whole court sits in worshipful adoration at the feet of Caesar. You will not be called to his attention. You are to sit within close range of his almost blinding magnificence and you are to make a model of him, head and shoulders only, in clay. If what you do pleases him, you will be summoned into the Presence later. If not, I expect you will be required to slink away into the darkness, unnoticed, unrewarded, unsung. It is reasonable, is it not? Caesar cannot waste time on mediocrity.”

  “It is both reasonable and fair. Do I begin tonight?”

  “You begin tonight. It is an impatient Caesar under whom we sit.” The curious eyes of the young official took in the details of his attire. “My advice is to go just as you are. Your garb is unobtrusive and will make it easy for you to escape notice in this aviary of gay-plumaged birds.”

  They had been proceeding through lofty halls tenanted by busy people. Now they turned into the fainter illumination of a wing of the palace. A mustiness was easily to be detected on the air. The walls were discolored, the hangings were in tatters, the scanty furnishings were decrepit and unashamedly shabby.

  The friendliness of Q. Septimus Rullianus had been genuine enough to make Basil feel at ease with him. “It has been suggested to me,” he said, “that I make the acquaintance of Selech. Would you take me to see him?”

  “Those who made that suggestion were people of discernment,” declared the court officer. “Selech is one of the great personalities of the court. For the fact that I am an inch thicker around my belly than when I came, I give him my respectful thanks. He is Greek, as you perhaps know.”

  Basil shook his head. “I know nothing at all about him.”

  “I have forgotten his real name, but I know why he decided to call himself Selech when he was put in charge of the tables of Caesar. I shall tell you the story.”

  They had reached the room that had been assigned to the newcomer. It was small and it was quite shabby. The bed had broken down at some stage and had been propped up with blocks of wood. The curtains at the one window were in holes and had been made of flimsy material in the first place and in tawdry colors. The court officer waved an apologetic hand as they stood in the doorway and surveyed this poor domain.

  “The palace of the Caesars is a filthy old barracks,” he said. “When Agrippina decided to make her son Nero an emperor, the first thing she did was to make people think she was economical. She was the wife, the second wife, of her own uncle, the Emperor Claudius, and she would not let anything be spent on the palace. All Rome marveled and said, ‘What a splendid empress is this!’ She won the succession for Nero by shoving aside the Emperor’s own son after serving a dish of mushrooms to old Claudius. Mushrooms, my new friend, have never been served in the palace since, and you will be wise never to use the word. The great Nero has an understandable dislike for it. Now that Agrippina is dead and Caesar has his beloved Poppaea as his empress, the palace will be overhauled one of these days. They have plans between them. I think they would like to get rid of this drafty old ruin and start all over again. Have you seen the Empress?”

  Basil shook his head. The court officer pursed his lips while seeking words that might do justice to her. “Have you ever studied the lovely pinkish red of a peach that has ripened on a marble wall and has become soft and warm to the touch? That is Poppaea.” He returned then to his starting point. “About Selech. What I am going to say will probably offend you. Take all the great men of Greece, Solon, Pericles, Phidias, Socrates, Demosthenes. Roll them all into one, add all their reputations together, and the total will fall a long way short of the greatness of the original Selech. Hail, Selech, greatest of human benefactors!”

  “I think you are making fun of me,” said Basil. “Who was this man you praise with so much exaggeration?”

  “The original Selech was a Phoenician and probably a cook. He was a man of no known attainments and certainly of no fame. But one day this humble maker of soups and baker of meats placed some salt on the tip of his tongue and said to himself, ‘Would it not be a good idea to put salt into all foods that are being prepared?’ He tried it and knew at once that he had stumbled on a great discovery. All cooked foods had been flat and insipid on the tongue, but from that time forward man began to enjoy his food. The secret of seasoning had been revealed. It was, therefore, entirely fitting that this man should assume the name of Selech when elevated to the post of head cook in the palace of the Caesars.”

  Septimus waggled a thumb over his shoulder, and the servant who had carried Basil’s scanty belongings to the room turned on his heel and left. The young Roman motioned Basil to follow him to the window.

  “There is time for a talk,” he said in a confidential tone. “I want to give you some advice before you become embroiled in this madhouse that is called the court of Nero. It is not only your chance for success that is at stake but perhaps your life as well. I am young, but I have kept my eyes and ears open. I am rather shrewd. I am shrewd enough for this: I shall never try to climb while Nero is Emperor. It is too dangerous. It is safer to bide one’s time. Nero will not live long; a quick ending to this madness is written in the stars. Perhaps under the man who succeeds him there will be opportunities to get ahead without putting your head in jeopardy.”

  They seated themselves on chairs before the window. It was a sultry evening, and the young Roman wriggled his limbs free of the folds of his outer garments and gave a sigh of gratification. The moon had no
t yet appeared, and the palace gardens were wrapped in blackness. Bats swirled and circled on silent wings, and the sounds of cautious wild life in the thickets reached their ears.

  “This is the situation,” began the young Roman. “There are two parties bitterly opposed to each other, each bent on ousting and extinguishing the other. The first is the party of Tigellinus, who was once nothing but a riding master but is now captain of the Praetorian Guard and the director of police. Tigellinus is no more complex than a butcher’s thumb. He is a toady and a killer combined. He tells Nero that he is a god, that everything he does is right and perfect. Tigellinus knows only one way to succeed, to kill off competition. He lies about them first and weaves webs of false evidence about them. He strikes suddenly and ferociously. He is a stabber in the back, a worker in darkness, a foul and angry bird of prey.

  “The other lot,” went on Septimus, stretching out his legs in the rare luxury of coolness, “are a party of sophisticates headed by one Petronius. They are men and women of refinement. Their minds are subtle. They approach Nero from the other extreme. They do not praise everything he does; in fact, they are more likely to criticize him. They tell him he possesses genius but has not yet reached his full power of creation. When they do praise him, they use such engaging reasons and speak with so much discernment that Caesar appreciates it more than the fulsomeness of Tigellinus. He expands with gratification and prances with joy, like a faun who has been patted on the back by a visiting god. This is very clever. So far, it seems, they have had the better of it.”

  “Has the Emperor any real gift?” asked Basil.

  Septimus nodded his head emphatically. “Actually he has a touch of genius in him. It is not great and it is hidden away in the rock of his follies like a precious stone in a matrix. But it is there. He is a strange combination. He’s interested in nothing but art. The details of administration drive him into screaming fits. But,” he added, “another word about the party of Petronius. They do not believe in force as a weapon. They would not use a dagger from behind, but they are not above dropping poison in a wine cup. But they prefer to kill with ridicule, to triumph with their minds rather than their muscles.