The Silver Chalice

by Thomas B. Costain

  “Tigellinus will win in the end. His is the elementary method. Brute force will always prevail over finesse. But the struggle will be a long one. My advice to you, Basil of Antioch, is this: have none of either party. Plow a straight and narrow furrow. Speak to these others as little as possible. Form your own opinions but do not be free in expressing them. You may succeed that way. Certainly you will live longer.”

  “To what do I owe my summons here?” asked Basil.

  “I know the whole story,” answered Septimus with a self-satisfied wag of the head. “You owe it to a lady. A lady with beautiful, melting eyes and a straight slim back. In other words, to the mysterious Helena who assists Simon the Magician so beguilingly.”

  “That is what I suspected.”

  “She has the ear of a man rather high in the Senate. It was not the best way to reach the favor of Caesar, because he is disposed to look on politics with scorn. But this particular senator is sufficiently loudmouthed to make himself felt. He it was who called the imperial attention to the fact that a promising sculptor had arrived in Rome. Nero listened to him with as much, perhaps, as one half of an ear and decided to give you a trial. A somewhat grudging trial, as you realize. It is because he thinks so ill of politicians that you have been sent to this wing of the palace, the most dilapidated part of the whole shabby establishment. Perhaps it is just as well, however. You don’t belong to either party, and so they may leave you alone.”

  “You speak,” said Basil admiringly, “with all the wisdom of a senator yourself.”

  “I concede that I am clever. I was born to be a politician and a courtier. My chance to climb will come someday, but I prefer to wait until the odds of survival are healthier.”

  The young Roman leaned forward and pointed into the shadows of the garden. “Do you see a glimmer down there? A suggestion of light striking on water?”

  Basil looked in the direction indicated and nodded his head. “I see it.”

  “It is a swimming pool. A small and most exclusive one. It is dedicated, in fact, to the rounded thighs and dimpled hips of one bather only, the lovely Poppaea herself. It is not easy to locate, being well screened with trees and shrubs, but it can be identified by a semicircle of statues on high pedestals that surround it. I point this out to you, not with the idea that you should penetrate into this most sacred spot, but because the pool is the starting point of a long row of trees. Follow the trees and you come to a strategic part of the palace wall. Here the water conduit enters the grounds, and by some fault of engineering, which I chanced to discover one day, the pipe has been sinking and the earth with it. There is now a hole under the wall, one just large enough for a man to crawl through. As far as I know, I am the sole possessor of this valuable piece of information, because the wall at that point is well screened with underbrush.

  “Sometime, my young friend,” he went on, “go out there and find the hole under the wall yourself. It may be a very handy thing to know. If you should climb into the favor of Caesar and then tumble out of it, it would be useful to know of a way of escaping quickly.”

  “Is it impossible to remain permanently in the favor of the Emperor?”

  “As unlikely as to see the sun cross the skies twice in one day. Nero, you see, is mad. His is the most dangerous form of madness; he always turns and destroys the things he has valued most highly. He is like a wild boar, striking first at those nearest him. If you should happen to be near him when he gets into one of his butchering sprees, get out of the palace quickly. Get out at the first hint of red in the imperial eye and the first weaving and clashing of the tusks, and run as fast as your legs will carry you to the hole in the wall.”

  Basil turned over in his mind this advice, which his new friend had given him so freely and generously. He realized that he had listened to an honest picture of conditions at court and that he would be wise to remember every word that had been said.

  “If I come through this ordeal with a whole skin,” he said, “I shall have you to thank for it.”

  “We must be good friends,” declared the young Roman. “I like you. I admired the cut of your jib at the first glance and I said to myself, ‘Here is a fellow after your own heart, Q. Septimus Rullianus. He must not be allowed to go blindly to his ruin for lack of a word from you to set him right.’ Yes, that is what I thought and that is why I have done so much frank talking to a stranger. I knew right away that I could depend on your discretion. And now”—getting to his feet—“there will be just enough time to pay a visit to the great Selech. I think you will find it interesting to see an imperial banquet in the making. I myself find it more edifying to watch the cook who prepares the wonderful dishes than the gluttons who consume them.”

  2

  “The moment has arrived to test the new brewing of garum,” announced Selech, the Archimagirus of the imperial household. He looked down at Demetrius, the Obsonator, who sat on a platform several feet below him. “Will you have them bring in the cask? I confess, Demetrius, that I am anxious about it. It is an experiment this time.”

  The Obsonator assumed a worried air at once. He was in a state of jangled nerves to begin with, having been up at dawn to visit the markets at the Treminga Gate, where he had found it hard to bid in the supplies he needed. This had been followed by a contentious morning spent along the Subura Way, buying capons and ducks and country sausage and peacocks’ eggs. There had been a particularly bitter bout with the only provision merchant in Rome who had thrushes fed on crushed figs and who knew the full value of his merchandise. He had been fidgeting about and biting his nails and wondering if he had neglected any of the thousand details that filled the daily life of the head buyer for the imperial table.

  He looked up at Selech on his imposing platform and frowned. “An experiment, master? I do not understand.”

  “I have allowed no one to know. Not even you, Demetrius,” declared the head cook. “I thought it would be unfair to make you share my anxiety. I decided to use”—he paused a moment for effect—“nothing but the liver of the red mullet this time. Will it have the flavor I expected? That has lost me some sleep. All the usual flavorings were put in, of course—the Falernian, the vinegar, the garlic, the sweet herbs. I have kept it now a full week beyond the two months to be sure it would ferment down to pure liquid. Well, we shall now know the result. The cask, Demetrius.”

  The vessel, carried in by a slave a few minutes later, was of well-seasoned wood and capable of holding five or six gallons. Unwilling to have hands less skilled than his own perform the task, Selech took a bit and drove it into the wood of the side. A pungent odor assailed their nostrils as a dark brown liquid began to bubble out of the small hole thus made. The head cook sniffed nervously and then dipped a spoon into the liquid that was being caught in a small dish. At the first sip an ecstatic smile took possession of his face.

  “It is perfect!” he announced. “Never, Demetrius, has there been anything to equal it. With such a seasoner as this, all meals will be banquets.”

  Selech settled back into his chair and allowed his eyes to roam over the domain where he ruled supreme. He saw that the huge brass caldrons in the exact center of the kitchens were steaming and bubbling with promise of plenty of hot water for all purposes. A dozen slaves hovered about the caldrons, their faces red from the steam, their white caps already limp. This part of the scene was repeated wherever he looked: hot and harried slaves who went about their work with the constant fear that something would go wrong and they would be blamed and punished. There were literally hundreds of men and women at work under the vigilant eye of the Archimagirus: pastry cooks, seasoners, bakers and basters, and the less skilled workers who made fires and carried burdens, who picked the poultry and toiled in the treadmills and turned the spits.

  His eyes kept turning back to the long table where the pastry cooks were sifting flour through Spanish sieves of linen thread. This, a difficult operation at all times, was particularly important tonight. The Emperor had sent down
word that he wanted oublies, and the flour used for this delicacy had to be as minutely fine as the unseen dust that blows between the worlds. Other cooks were macerating honey to be mixed with the flour, which would then be twisted into spirals and dropped into deep fat. The Emperor had been known to eat a dozen oublies at one meal, dipping them in wine with his own hands and shaking sugar over them from a gold cruet; but they had to be just exactly as he liked them or the royal temper would flare.

  Q. Septimus Rullianus led Basil through the kitchens and up to the platform where the Archimagirus sat. “A new guest of Caesar’s, O Selech,” he said. “His name is Basil; he comes from Antioch and he desires a moment of private conversation with you.”

  Having made this explanation, the young Roman retreated down the steps to the platform where Demetrius was still shifting his feet about nervously and running his hands through his hair. “A young Greek,” he whispered. “He is a sculptor.”

  “Caesar has never been satisfied with the sculptors who come to him,” said the head buyer, looking more disturbed than before. “I trust this one will be better than the others. If not, the Divine One is certain to complain about the food. It is his way.”

  Selech had turned his head no more than an inch to look at his visitor. “What do you wish of me?” he asked. His voice was precise and rather severe.

  “I have been staying at the inn of Old Hannibal,” said Basil. “When the summons from the palace came, Cephas advised me to seek you out as soon as I arrived.”

  The expression on the face of the chief cook did not change. “Cephas?” he said, raising his eyebrows. “Cephas? Oh yes, I recall now. The old man who works at the lodginghouse.” His eyes had gone back to their scrutiny of the busy scene beneath him. “Is it curiosity about the imperial kitchens which brings you to me, young sir?”

  “No, it is not curiosity,” said Basil. The lack of cordiality he was encountering caused him to hesitate about going any farther. “I came to Rome with a letter from Luke. That may make things clearer to you.”

  At this the attitude of Selech changed. He looked directly at Basil for the first time, and there was friendliness in his previously austere eyes. He rubbed a hand along his high-bridged nose, which would have been a truly majestic feature if it had not been slightly pinched. After a moment he smiled.

  “A letter from Luke!” he said. “You have seen Luke, then? With your own eyes?” The tone he used would have been fitting if he had asked, Have you ridden across the sky with Phoebus Apollo?

  “I have seen much of Luke. He is my benefactor, and I owe everything worth while in life to him.” Basil paused before adding, “Cephas sent a message for you, ‘Peace be with you today, for tomorrow the storm cometh.’ ”

  A troubled look took possession of the head cook’s eyes. “How wise of Cephas to warn us of the dangers ahead. It is so easy to forget, to fall into relaxed ways of living and thinking, with no thought for the bitternesses of the morrow.” He indulged in a deep sigh. “Will you be a guest of Caesar’s for long?”

  “I do not know. I am to make a model of the Emperor’s head in clay. Septimus Rullianus says the length of my stay will depend on how much favor my work finds.”

  The head cook allowed the severity of his face to relax into a welcoming smile. “You will forgive me, I hope, for my caution at the first. We have to be so very careful. I think it was in the mind of Cephas that you might find yourself in need of advice, perhaps of help. You know, do you not, that there are some of us here who are always willing to do what we can? Do not hesitate to call on me if the need arises. But remember, I beg of you, to use the utmost care. There are eyes everywhere, and ears, and minds filled with malice. The Emperor himself has a continual fear of conspiracies, and someone has distilled poison into his mind about Christians and the teachings of Jesus.”

  There was an interruption at this point. Selech’s eyes had focused on something at a distant table. He called down to the buyer of food: “Demetrius, betake yourself to the capon table. Warn them most solemnly about the stuffing. There must be plenty of ginger and a somewhat less heavy hand with the pepper and allisander. Our master complained about the stuffing last night. He thinks us deficient in such niceties.”

  Demetrius turned almost purple with resentment. He walked up beside Selech and said in his ear: “He thinks us deficient in the niceties of seasoning, does he? What does he know about such things, except perhaps”—his voice fell almost to nothing—“the niceties of seasoning mushrooms!”

  Selech turned back then to Basil. “I have not been as fortunate as you. I have never seen Peter. He is in Rome, as you doubtless know, and I have heard from him, but never have my eyes rested on that divine old man. Someday, I trust, it will be my privilege to see him and talk with him. You, my young friend, have been highly privileged. You have seen Luke.”

  “When I was in Jerusalem I saw Paul and James and Jude. On the way here from Antioch I stopped at Ephesus and heard John preach.”

  Excitement grew beneath the calm surface of Selech’s eyes. “You have seen Paul and James and Jude! Young man, young man, how great your privileges have been. And you have heard John preach! Was it like seeing the heavens roll back and hearing a great voice come to you from beyond the stars?”

  “It was indeed like hearing the voice of Jehovah. It was clear to us who heard him that he had talked with God.”

  “And what word have you of Paul?”

  “He is still in prison. The last word we received was that he had appealed to Caesar.”

  A strained look appeared on Selech’s face. “This means that sooner or later he will be sent here. There is no fault in Paul, but he will be condemned to death if he is tried in Rome. Public opinion is being stirred up against us.” After a moment given to anxious thought he said: “They seem to be drawn here, the leaders of the church, by an influence and a force that may be that of God. I very much fear they come here to die.” He lowered his voice to a cautious whisper. “There are many hundred Christians in the palace. More than half of my people belong. You see, they are slaves, and the teachings of Christ give them hope and a life everlasting to look forward to. But a word of advice, young man: never let it be known that you are one of us. There are perhaps three men in the palace whose discretion could be counted upon. I will tell you who they are; have no confidences with anyone else. People talk, even the kindest and the best-intentioned.”

  On a table just below the raised platform of supreme authority the wine-drawers were preparing to open a leather bottle of such extreme antiquity that it seemed capable of falling to pieces at the touch of a careless finger. Selech found it necessary to give them all his attention. His fine high forehead gathered itself up into a nervous and somewhat irritable frown.

  “Have a care!” he cried. “You are not handling a pig’s bladder filled with mashed pompion. That bottle has been lying in the cellar for two hundred years, waiting for the moment when the voice of a Caesar would demand it.” He indulged in a fretful sigh and said for Basil’s ear alone: “They will find in it nothing but a residue as thick as honey. This will have to be taken out with the greatest care and then thinned slowly in water. There must be the smallest conceivable tincture of rose in the water, no more than a single leaf to a quart. The water must be heated just so much and no more. If it should be allowed to come to a boil, that priceless wine would be ruined. It is a gift to us from ages past, and we must treat it with due reverence. When it comes to straining the wine, I shall do it with my own hands.”

  “Will this old wine be very potent?”

  Selech shook his head. “There will be about it a richness and a delicacy. When Caesar touches this ambrosial wine to his lips, he will know that all the refinements, all the gathered wisdom and light of two centuries have come to him in a single sip.”

  Selech seemed too concerned with his responsibilities for further talk, so Basil got to his feet. The head cook nodded his approval. “See, they are getting ready to take up the firs
t course,” he said. “If you are to sup with Caesar, you had better make your way at once to the banqueting hall and find yourself a place. You will not want to miss anything of this.” He nodded with pride. “It will be a spectacle worth seeing. And I promise you it is a feast you will remember until you are laid out in cerements.”

  A procession was forming on one side of the room. In the van were the musicians, robed in gold and red and with bay leaves in their hair. There were players on the lyre, the cithara, the trigonon. Some had their ninereeded pipes of Pan ready at their lips, some were prepared with the double clarionet, some had trumpets of Galatian bronze slung over their shoulders, their lungs filled for the first triumphant blast. The cymbal players had their half globes strapped to their wrists, the drummers had their sticks poised for the first rumbling beat on the gut stretched tautly across the tympanon.

  Behind the musicians there was a long train of servants in immaculate white with trays on their heads. On each tray was a saucepan of Corinthian brass, smoke seeping out from the false bottoms that held fires to keep the foods warm. These saucepans held the amazing variety of dishes that made up the first course: the dormice prepared with poppy juice; the many varieties of sea food, encircled with damson plums and sprinkled with cummin and benzoin root; sausages made with eggs and breast of pheasant; eggs made of paste and colored blue and filled with the yolks in which nestled a fine fat little ortolan roasted to a turn; grasshoppers fried to a light golden brown and sweetened with honey; lettuce and large black olives; pomegranates cut open and garnished with rosebuds.

  Selech, his chin raised high and his finely chiseled features tense, rose to his feet. He raised a baton in the air, and his eyes went up and down the procession to make sure that no detail had been neglected. He waved the baton once and then brought it down.