“What will they do to us?” asked Idbash frantically. “Mistress, kind mistress, do something for me. Tell them I am innocent. Tell them I know nothing.”
“I cannot help you, Idbash. I cannot help myself.” Helena’s voice suggested a fatalistic resignation. “You said once you were ready to die for me. Now you will have part of your wish. You are going to die with me.”
BOOK FOUR
CHAPTER XXXII
1
BASIL ARRIVED in the port of Antioch without a coin in his purse. The money from Joseph of Arimathea had dwindled rapidly in Rome and more slowly during the long sea voyage. Now that it was gone he found it necessary to make his way home on foot and this was not an easy matter, for the Grove of Daphne lay fifteen miles from the waterside. In addition to his clothes and the tools that he carried in the blue cloth, he now had a large and very important bundle in which three life-sized busts were securely packed in straw; the most precious freight ever to travel on a pair of shoulders, he said to himself as he set off, the heads of Jesus, Peter, and John.
It was a trying walk, much of the way uphill, and the sun was beginning to settle behind the trees of the Grove when he came in sight of the house. He stopped and deposited all of his bundles on the ground while he took an ecstatic look at the white walls behind which he would find Deborra; waiting for him, he hoped and believed, with as much love in her heart as he was storing for her in his own.
The air had been filled all afternoon with a fall haze and now it was pleasantly cool. The white walls spelled love and comfort and peace, and the opportunity to begin a new life, a life of united purpose.
“I thank Thee, Lord,” he said in a silent prayer, “for bringing me back safely from so many perils and with a new and clean heart.”
As he stood and gazed so expectantly ahead, a tall old man with a tray of sweetmeats on his head came slowly up the road. Basil was not aware of his approach until he heard him say, “A fair prospect, young sir.”
Basil turned and looked at the speaker with an immediate sense of familiarity. He was certain that he had seen this old man at some previous time.
“Could anything be lovelier,” asked the sweetmeat vendor, raising an arm and pointing westward, “or carry so much promise of peace as that light over the trees?”
Basil said to himself, “I am sure the light in my Deborra’s eyes will be even lovelier.”
“When one becomes older,” continued the vendor, “the autumn days are especially precious. They symbolize the passing of time and the approach of the goal to which one’s weary feet have been climbing so long.”
Basil was now convinced that this was the same vendor of sweetmeats who had paused under the entrance to his father’s house on the Colonnade. “I saw you once,” he said. “It was years ago, but I remember it very well because I saw something at the same time that I was not supposed to see.” He proceeded to tell of the passing of the note, and Hananiah smiled as his own recollection went back to the episode. After a perceptible pause Basil plucked up his courage to say, “Christ has risen.”
Hananiah turned to him so eagerly that the contents of the tray were in momentary peril. “Now I am sure,” he said. “You are Basil, son of Ignatius, about whom I have been told so much. I am happy to see that you are back safely from your travels.”
“It is through Luke that you have heard of me?”
“Yes, my young friend. I have seen Luke many times since his return to Antioch.”
“Is he still here?”
Hananiah nodded his head. “He is still here. I am seeking him now, as I did once before when there was news to be handed on. I did not see you then.”
“Was I here at the time?”
The old man inclined his head. “It was before you left.”
“I was not told of your visit. Nor did I hear the news you brought.”
“My visit was to bring the word that Mijamin had arrived in Antioch. I saw your wife, as well as Luke.”
Basil felt a sense of fear take possession of him. “You say Mijamin reached Antioch before I left? I did not know.” He clutched with sudden anxiety at the sleeve of the old man. “Has there been trouble? Are they all safe—my wife, Luke, my other friends? And what of the Cup?”
“There has been no trouble. I think you were not told about Mijamin because it was feared you would refuse to leave if you knew; and it was in their minds that the completion of the Chalice could not be delayed.”
Basil considered this explanation and then nodded his head. “I am sure that was why. They also knew how necessary it was for me to go to Rome, for reasons other than the finishing of the Chalice.” His voice rose. “My wife is the bravest woman in the world. She let me go and stayed behind to face the danger, and she did not say a word about it.”
“You cannot sing her praises too high. As for Mijamin, his threat came to nothing at the time. The Zealots were being watched very closely and, as he was responsible for some disturbances, he was put in prison.”
“Then the Cup is safe?”
“The Cup is safe.” The sweetmeat vendor lowered his voice. “The trouble seems like to come to a head now. Mijamin will be released from prison in a few days. He is a most determined man, as you have reason to know. We shall have to be on our guard.”
Basil reached down for his bundles and lifted them to his tired shoulders. “We must lose no more time in talk,” he said.
The manservant who came to the door was new. He looked with justifiable suspicion at the dusty, burden-laden figure of Basil and the old man with the sweetmeat tray on his head.
“My mistress is at supper,” he said. “This is no time to ask speech of her.”
“Tell your mistress,” said Basil, “that a tired traveler returning from Rome desires very much to see her at once.”
Basil, waiting at the entrance, heard the patter of Deborra’s sandals in the aula. She was walking quickly, but as she came nearer the speed of her footfalls diminished. She appeared to hesitate and, on reaching the threshold, she came to a halt and regarded him with grave and questioning eyes.
For the first time in his knowledge she was wearing the instita, the band around the bottom of the robe which women donned on being married. But this had not made her seem any older. “She does not look like a matron,” thought the returned husband. “She looks like a little girl who has dressed herself for the part.”
His mind was full of the things he wanted to say, but he did not say any of them. Words seemed not only unnecessary but impossible. Without being aware that he had changed his position, he found that she was in his arms, that he was holding her tightly and caressing her hair with one hand, and that her head was on his shoulder. She was weeping quietly, but he knew that her tears were the tears of happiness.
They stood thus for a long time, longer than they realized, for they were conscious of nothing but themselves. Basil placed a hand, then, under her chin and raised it so that he could look into her eyes, reading there a full confirmation of all his hopes. The tears had been like the briefest of showers and she was now smiling.
“I have so much to tell you,” he whispered.
“Are you going to tell me all the things I said you must before—before we could put our misunderstandings behind us?” The small spat of rain was over completely; her eyes were bright and wide with content. “It is no longer necessary. You have told me everything I wanted to know. And without saying a word.”
“But I have so many words!” he cried. “It will take days and weeks and years to say them all. And they will be very much alike. I will be saying the same things over and over again. That I love you, love you, love you. That you are the most beautiful and bravest woman in the world. That I treasure the little white lobe of your ear and the tip of your nose, which has such a pretty curl to it, and the light in your eyes. Nothing else will ever matter. I shall go on telling you these things as long as I live.”
“You will have a willing listener,” she whispered. “Oh, Ba
sil, I shall be such a greedy listener! I am sure you will never say enough words like that to satisfy me.”
Luke had followed her out from the supper table at a discreet distance and was standing in the shadows of the court. Sensing his presence, Deborra stepped back from her husband’s embraces.
“Basil is back,” she called to him. “And he is very brown and strong from his journeyings. He has not had a chance yet to tell me his news, but there is something in his eyes that makes me believe he has succeeded in everything he set out to do.”
Luke came forward then. It was apparent at once that he had been existing under a heavy load of anxiety, for he looked older and very tired. His face seemed to carry as many fine lines as the palm of the hand.
“My son,” he said, “I too suspect that the large bundle at your feet is filled with sheaves of your garnering. But as I stood back there in the court I could not help seeing something that pleased me quite as much. May I now rest content in my belief that you and my precious Deborra are—are as much in accord as your attitudes suggested?”
They said “Yes!” to that simultaneously and then smiled at each other. Deborra placed a hand under Basil’s arm and pressed her head against his shoulder. “I think we are in a rather perfect accord, Father Luke,” she said.
“There is much to be told about my visit to Rome,” declared Basil. “It is true that I succeeded in doing all the things that took me there. But there are other things to tell you. The situation is very serious.”
“The serious news must wait until you have had your supper,” said Luke. He smiled at them with deep affection. “Bless you, my two children. You look so very happy together.” He would have said more, but he had become aware of the sweetmeat vendor standing outside the door with the tray still on his head. “Why is Hananiah here?” he asked. “Has he come with information?”
The old man advanced a pace within the door. “You have, it is clear, much more pleasant things to discuss than the information I bring. Perhaps you will allow me, Luke, to speak a few words in your ear and then take my departure.”
“I have been very neglectful,” said Deborra. She ran a hand quickly over her dark locks to restore them to order. “Will you forgive me, Hananiah, for not seeing you there? It is an occasion when a husband comes back from a very long journey, and that must be my excuse. Come, we will all go in to supper.”
“I have little appetite,” said the old vendor, hesitating in the doorway.
He allowed himself, nevertheless, to be relieved of his tray. After he and Basil had bathed their faces and hands they went in to the table, where several leaders of the Antioch church were sitting.
“My husband has returned!” cried Deborra. “I am afraid I shall be an inattentive hostess for the rest of the evening. I want to sit beside him and listen to him and be very happy that he has come back safely and well.” She added after a moment in a gay tone, “And now that I have made my apologies in advance, I hope you will forgive me and make yourselves at home.”
There was an immediate demand for the news from Rome, and so Basil proceeded with his story, holding back one part only, his visit to Kester of Zanthus. Deborra, sitting close beside him, watched his face in the intensity of her interest, but she lowered her eyes when he began to speak about Simon the Magician and Helena, as though she did not want to spy on his thoughts. Her head came up with a startled abruptness when he told of the manner in which they had died.
“I did not see anything that happened that day,” said Basil. “It was necessary for me to remain in hiding. I left the day after, and all Rome was filled with the story.” His manner became subdued and he lowered his voice. “I was told that she died bravely. As bravely as the little dancer for whose death she had been responsible.”
Deborra, pale and shaken with the story, whispered in his ear, “I am feeling very sorry for her.” He nodded back. “Yes, I too had deep regrets. I warned her to leave, but she had become very antagonistic to me at that time and paid no attention.”
The part of his story that won the closest attention from the serious group around the table was Peter’s prediction of the persecution of the Christians in Rome and of the great impetus it would supply to the spread of Christ’s teachings throughout the world. They discussed it with grave faces and in tones that expressed the fears it had aroused.
After the guests had gone, Deborra went to her room and returned quickly in a dark blue coat that was padded and tufted and most beautifully embroidered with gold thread. Her eyes showed signs of tears.
Basil was so dismayed at this seeming proof of a changed mood that he took her face in his hands and looked into her eyes with a puzzled frown. “Tears?” he said. “Have you been weeping, my love? Are you not happy?”
“Oh, Basil, yes!” she cried. “I am so happy that I cannot make up my mind which to do, whether to laugh or cry. So I do both. But the tears you see in my eyes now are for those two poor women who were killed in such cruel ways—and for all the women in Rome who are going to die.” Then she blinked her eyes free and smiled. “I have bundled myself up warmly so that we can go out into the gardens. Do you remember, my husband, that at supper on the night when you left I sat at a table all by myself and that you came over and seated yourself beside me? We went into the garden later and you kissed me; and I knew that you were coming to love me after all. I have seen to it that the servants have not moved the chairs in which we sat. Everything is just as it was—like a shrine—and no one else has been allowed to sit there. Let us go out now and take the same chairs; and talk and talk and talk until the hunger that I have to hear your voice has been satisfied a little.”
There was a chill in the air when they reached the court, and Deborra shuddered. She snuggled her chin down into the warm wrap.
“This is a gift,” she said. “From that sweet old prince. He gave it to me before he left. You do not know that he died on reaching Bagdad and they took his body back to his own country to be buried. Chimham brought us the news when he returned.”
“I am sorry he came to such a sudden end. His death must have upset all of Chimham’s plans.”
“Not seriously.” Deborra began to laugh. “He amuses me so much, that funny Chimham. I don’t think it possible to upset him seriously. He bought goods in Bagdad and loaded the two camels you gave him, and then he sold everything here in Antioch at a very good profit. You need never worry about him; he is going to be a rich man. The last time I saw him he was preparing to start back for the East with an extra camel and two helpers. He looked prosperous and rather fat, and very, very pompous. He brought back something else from Bagdad. Can you guess?”
“Another wife?” cried Basil.
Deborra laughed delightedly. “You have guessed it. Another wife. A very fat and cute little woman who giggles a great deal and rolls when she walks. She comes from a country much farther east and speaks a strange language. They cannot exchange a word and have to depend on signs still. When Chimham wants to tell her he is pleased, he kisses her. When he is annoyed, he boxes her ears. When he wants her to go anywhere, he points and gives her a pat on—well, on whatever part of her happens to be nearest. The last time I saw them together, he showed signs of being rather tired of all this—this pantomime.”
“I am fond of Chimham,” said Basil, “but I cannot understand why he is so determined to set himself up as another Solomon and fill houses with his wives.”
Deborra laid a hand on his arm when they reached the arched enclosure. “We must take the same chairs,” she said. “I have planted a shrub out in the garden at the exact spot where you kissed me. I water it every day and it is growing beautifully.”
“Every evening at the same time I will lead you out there and kiss you again. It will be a ritual we will never forget.”
Deborra cried excitedly: “How strange that you thought of saying that! It was what I was going to suggest. But I am so happy that you thought of it—and said it first!”
Basil took down De
borra’s kinnor, which was hanging on the wall back of them, and began to strum on it. “There was a sailor on the ship coming back who was from the south of Gaul,” he said. “It is a warm and gentle land and this man had a fine voice. He sang many songs of his country. This is one of them. I am playing it because the words went something like this: ‘Envy the sailor, because he sees only the green waters and the scudding winds and the deep blue of the sky. Envy the maker of gems, because he gazes constantly into the beautiful souls that have been caught and preserved in transparent stone. Envy me, because I come home to my little house at the edge of the woods and find Thee.’ ”
Deborra had tucked her feet under her skirt to keep warm and had muffled her hands in the ample sleeves of the oriental robe. “It is a lovely song,” she said happily.
“I am going to write verses of my own to sing to the air,” he declared. “The first will begin, “Envy me, because I have come home and seen Thee, my Deborra, with new eyes.’ There will be a hundred verses to tell you what I see with these observant new eyes of mine. There will be one to the wave in your hair above your forehead, and one to the bold curl in front of your ear, and one to the shy curl that hides behind it. There will be verses to the sweetness of your smile and the smallness of your feet and the dimple in your elbow, which I would be happy to kiss this instant if you did not have your arms tucked so comfortably into your sleeves.”
“I hope you will never stop writing new verses,” said Deborra, stretching out her arm to him.
“I shall be writing them all through eternity.”
When they retired finally into the house, she took him to his rooms on the floor above and pointed out where his bundles had been placed. “You need new clothes very badly,” she said with a stern shake of her head. “You are quite shabby. It will be the first duty of your wife to see that you are made to look less like a beggar at the city gates.”
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