The Silver Chalice

by Thomas B. Costain

  Basil felt his heart sink. The thought of separation was painful to him, particularly as he knew the hazards that a visitor to Rome would face.

  “You have your lives before you,” said the old man, the gravity of his face relaxing. “Your feet are set in the right path. You will see many changes and you will face dangers; but something tells me that you will have a long life together in which the happiness will outweigh the sorrow. You will raise fine sons and daughters and you will play your parts in the building of a great church.” His manner changed and he placed an urgent hand on Basil’s shoulder. “Do not return to Jerusalem. Passions are running high there, and nothing can prevent an outburst against Roman rule soon. It may not be this year, or next, or the year after that. But it is coming. The signs are in the sky, as plain to be seen as a black cloud. Jerusalem is going to suffer as she has done so often in the past. Remain here, my children, where there will be work for you to do.”

  He had brought a large bundle with him, and this he now proceeded to open. “As I must leave so soon,” he said, “I see no reason for delaying any longer the delivery of the prince’s gifts.”

  The eyes of the young couple met. Deborra blushed but did not protest when Basil began to explain. “We feel free to accept them now. It seems that—that the condition has been met.”

  “It becomes very clear,” declared Luke, beaming at them, “that the Lord looks down upon you with great favor.”

  The gifts were so generous that all three fell into a state of astonishment. For Deborra there was a fan of jade and parchment with an emerald in the handle, a dragon ring with rubies serving as eyes, and a half dozen jade cups as delicately shaped as flower petals. For Basil there was a ring with a green cat’s-eye and a belt of heavy leather with plates of bronze set off by myriad small precious stones.

  There were two other gifts, wrapped with great care in doeskin. “For the first-born son,” said Luke, removing the covering.

  One was a suit of heavy black silk with a diminutive pair of trousers and a round black hat with a jaunty peacock’s feather. The other was a hideous mask most ingeniously contrived out of a light material which none of them had ever seen before.

  Deborra put the ring on her finger and admired it and then opened her fan with a flourish of pride. It was not long, however, before she laid her personal gifts aside and fell to examining those for the first-born son. She smoothed the soft material of the suit and then held it up with a delighted smile.

  “How handsome he will be in this,” she said. “He will look very odd but every inch a man! Ah, this lovely feather! I am sure he will be very proud of it and strut when he has it on. And think how he will delight in putting on this dreadful mask and frightening other little boys with it.” She glanced at her husband, her eyes round with pride and expectancy. “I can hardly wait for him to grow big enough!”

  CHAPTER XXXIII

  1

  WE SHALL KNOW very soon where Luke concealed the Cup,” said Basil.

  The cold still gripped the city and there were braziers glowing and hissing in each corner of the room. The three old men who stood with Luke at the other end had come long distances across the city and they looked as though they had been chilled to the bone. They were grouped around one of the braziers, but there was still a suggestion of purple in their faces and they kept their robes wrapped up closely around their necks.

  A table had been placed in the center of the room. At one end was the newly finished silver frame for the sacred Cup, surrounded by the twelve life-sized models from which Basil had worked. At the other end were dishes and knives and spoons, in readiness for the meal that would be served later. The two young guards stood at the door.

  “The secret will be revealed at last,” answered Deborra.

  They were sitting together on a bench pushed back against one of the walls. Deborra was wearing a plum-colored cloak over all the usual clothing, but even this did not serve to keep her warm. Politeness forbade the tucking of her feet under the folds of the cloak, and so, exposed to the heavy coldness of the room, they looked blue and pinched.

  She called his attention to another man who had put in an appearance, brushing past the two guards with a somewhat lordly air. “That is Harhas, the head presbyter of Antioch.” She studied the newcomer closely. “He has the reputation of being very stern and unbending.”

  Harhas was a man of advanced years who wore severity on his face like a badge of merit. He was lame and, as he hobbled across the room with the help of a cane, his eyes darted actively in all directions, seeing everyone, noting the arrangements; clearing his throat the while with a belligerence that hinted at his willingness to batter down and destroy any suggestions that might be laid before him. He paused for a moment at the table to inspect Basil’s handiwork. Without any comment, save a slight tightening of the frowning lines of his brow, he stumped rheumatically to where Luke stood with the other presbyters.

  “It is said,” commented Deborra in a whisper, “that Harhas is very hard to get along with. If he cannot have his own way he gets angry and says, ‘I wash my hands of it.’ Luke said once that he had washed his hands of so many things that he ought to have the whitest pair in the world. Of course,” she added, “he is a very saintly old man.”

  “When it comes to deciding what is to be done with the Chalice, will we be allowed to express our opinions?”

  “Oh no, no.” Deborra looked rather shocked. “Harhas is very strict about things like that. He has told Luke that it is a matter for the presbyters to decide. Even Luke may not be allowed a voice. I am sure we will be expected to leave the room if they discuss it here.” She looked at Basil as though doubtful of the wisdom of telling him anything more. “Luke had difficulty in persuading him that you and I should be allowed in the room at all, even for the placing of the Cup in the frame.”

  “This old man,” said Basil, “must think he is as important as the High Priest and the King of Jerusalem and Caesar, all combined in one.”

  “Look!” exclaimed Deborra. She was staring at the door with an air of the most intense surprise. “Now what does this mean?”

  Basil turned in that direction, and his astonishment equaled hers when he saw that Hananiah was standing there, dressed in his familiar brown robe (he possessed no other), which had been mended and patched so often that little of the original material remained. From force of habit, no doubt, he was carrying his tray on his head. A pace behind him was a small woman, wrinkled and gray with age, who carried a large bundle of old clothing on a stick across her shoulder. Still another pace behind her was a young man with a pleasant and open countenance, dressed in the plainest and simplest of gray cloth. This trio paused at the doorway and looked about them with some hesitation.

  “Then it is true, and he is going!” exclaimed Deborra. She turned and whispered an explanation to Basil. “The young man is David, their grandson. There has been talk that he would go out as a missionary, but his grandmother did not want him to go so soon. This means that it has been decided. Just think, Basil, their only grandchild!”

  “Where is he being sent?”

  “It was intended to send him to the East. The very far East, perhaps as far as the prince’s country. It will be a life mission. They will never see him again, those two poor, wonderful old people! They may never hear any word from him.”

  Luke had advanced to meet the newcomers. “Hananiah and Dorcas and David!” he said. “Come in, good friends. Come to one of the fires. I am afraid it has been a long walk for you, Dorcas. I told this stiff-necked husband of yours that we would arrange for a conveyance, but he seemed to think there would be something sinful in indulging yourselves to that extent.”

  “He knew my wishes,” answered the old woman, smiling and nodding. Any estimate of her probable age grew with each glimpse of the almost transparent ivory of her face, but her eyes were bright with intelligence and high spirit. “I preferred to walk. This—this is a pilgrimage.”

  Luke took
the bundle from her and placed it with great care on the table. Hananiah had already confided his tray to the custody of one of the servants. On Luke’s insistence the three seated themselves near one of the braziers. Their eyes became fixed at once on what the table held, and they fell into a mood of the deepest absorption.

  Luke looked about him and then, as a matter of form, addressed himself to the head presbyter.

  “When it became necessary to find a sanctuary for the Cup,” he said, “I gave the matter prayerful consideration and decided I could not do better than confide it to the care of Hananiah. It seemed to me entirely fitting that it should be given into the hands of one who has served the Master so splendidly although so very humbly.”

  “And how did Hananiah go about the keeping of this great trust?” asked Harhas in a sharp, demanding voice.

  A wind came howling about the parapets of the house, thrusting down savagely into the inner court and causing the leaves to whirl up from the ground and dance and toss about. Cold came in gusts through the linen which had been stretched across the windows and caused the occupants of the room to shiver more than ever.

  “Tell us, Hananiah,” said Luke.

  The old man seemed very conscious of his unworthiness. “The Cup was handed to us in many swathings of silk. I want you all to know that the coverings have not been removed. No eye has rested on it. No hand has touched it.” He had been keeping his gaze on the floor, but now he looked up and smiled nervously. “I consulted with Luke,” he went on. “Beside the brick oven where Dorcas makes the sweetmeats there is a tin box in which she keeps sugar. I—I took a very great liberty.” His air had become abashed and apologetic. “I placed the Cup in the tin and covered it with the sugar.”

  One of the presbyters asked, “And did not those who came to search look in the tin?”

  There was a moment of silence. “We heard they were searching everywhere, forcing themselves into houses. We waited and prayed. But no one came. It was because of the way we live. They did not think the Cup would be entrusted to such as we.”

  “Trust in the Lord!” cried Harhas, his voice high and exultant. “He stretched forth His hand and the searchers passed by.”

  Luke walked to the center of the room. “Joseph of Arimathea left the Cup in my hands and I shall consider myself responsible for it until it has been placed in the frame which we see. It then becomes the property of the church of our Lord Jesus. Every Christian in the world becomes an owner, and it will be for the princes of the church to decide what is to be done with it. Perhaps they will say that it must no longer be laid away in darkness, its whereabouts a secret from those whose eyes long to behold it. Perhaps they will say, ‘Send it openly to Jerusalem.’ We who will have the privilege today of gazing on the Chalice are not in a position to know what the princes of the church will decide.” He turned and pointed to the bundle on the table. “Dorcas,” he said, “will you remove the coverings?”

  The wife of the vendor stood up. Her husband rose also, placing a hand protectingly on her arm as she walked to the bundle on the table. She stretched out her arms and proceeded to remove the outer wrappings, which consisted of a blanket worn by constant washings as thin as blades of grass. She was still more deliberate in unwinding the lengths of silk, and it was with shaking fingers that she finally reached the end. The Cup looked small when thus revealed to the eyes of the company; very small indeed and plain and, if it might be supposed to have human feelings, very unassuming.

  A silence had settled on the room. Every eye was now fixed on the Cup. The wind had died down for the moment, and the candles that had been brought in and placed on the table burned with a clear and steady light.

  “Hananiah,” said Luke, breaking the silence, “will you now place the Cup in the frame which has been prepared for it?”

  The vendor of sweetmeats was taken completely by surprise. “No, no!” he exclaimed. “Not I. I am not worthy to touch it with as much as the tip of a finger.”

  “I am sure that I speak for the presbyters and all the members of the church,” declared Luke, “when I say that no one has done more for the faith than Hananiah and his wife, Dorcas. I can think of no one more worthy of being chosen.”

  The old man kept his head bent and his eyes fixed on the floor. “You compel me to tell you that I adopted this mode of living in expiation of a great sin I had committed.” He stretched out his hands. “These are not clean. They must not touch the Cup. I cannot hope to be declared free of my sin until the time comes for me to die.” His manner changed, becoming more calm. He looked down at his wife beside him and smiled. “Dorcas, who shares my punishment without a word of complaint, has no sin on her conscience. Her hands are clean.”

  “Dorcas shall act in your stead.”

  The wife of Hananiah hesitated. Then, with fingers that trembled violently, she raised the Cup. Carrying it to the head of the table, she held it suspended for a moment over the silver receptacle. With great care she lowered it into the close embrace of the exquisitely molded frame. The Chalice was complete.

  The wind selected this moment to blow against the linen coverings of the windows so violently that they were torn loose. It swept through the room. The candles flickered and went out. As the evening was now well advanced, the company found themselves in darkness.

  The boy David, who was standing immediately behind Luke, drew in his breath. “I can see the Cup!” he said in a tense whisper.

  Luke turned and laid a cautioning hand on his arm. “Yes, my son,” he whispered. “To those who see with the eyes of fullest faith the Cup is never hidden. But say nothing of it here. There are some in the room who are lacking in faith to that degree, and for them the Cup does not shine.”

  2

  For a week after that the house was filled with visitors. The Chalice had been placed openly on view and the Christians of Antioch came in great numbers to see it, quiet men and women who arrived with expectant faces and went away with a satisfied glow in their eyes. Harhas had been overruled by his fellow presbyters and had washed his hands of the proceedings; and so the two guards stood at the head of the stairs and all who entered the room to see the Chalice passed between drawn swords.

  It was necessary, because of the menace hanging over them, to observe many precautions. The presbyters took turns at the entrance to scrutinize the visitors and determine when the doors might be swung open. No more than three were allowed in at a time.

  It was apparent from the first that the house was being subjected to a hostile surveillance. On one occasion a blind beggar followed a group of visitors up the sloping road, feeling his way cautiously with a long stick and calling out at intervals: “I have no eyes! Pity me and make way!” Basil happened to be at the entrance and he noticed that the feet of the beggar, in an unguarded moment, were careful to avoid a rough spot on the road. He walked out and laid a brusque hand on the man’s shoulder.

  “You are here for no good purpose, my friend,” he said. “I suggest that you do not bother to use that stick in departing, for it is quite certain that you can see. If you wanted to deceive us, you should have learned how the blind use their feet in walking.”

  “Take your hands off me!” snarled the supposed blind man. His hand went furiously to his belt and produced a dagger. “Yes, my bold one, I have eyes and I came here to use them. If you do not have a care, I shall use them to select a mark for this little toy of mine, perhaps in the small of your back.”

  He turned and retreated down the road, muttering more threats and stopping at intervals to study the line of the house over his shoulder.

  A second attempt to spy out the land was more successful. A supply of fish had been delivered at the back gate in the wall. The cook, carrying the basket in to the kitchens, was conscious that she was being followed, but when she turned her head the vendor had disappeared. He was located on the back stairs, which led up to the part of the house where the Chalice was on display. The cook was a stout woman with muscular arms and it s
o happened that the intruder was small. She took him by the shoulders and dragged him back to the yard. Here, possessing herself of one of the fish, she gave him a vigorous smack in the face with it.

  “Sneak and spy!” she hissed at him. “Do not dare come back or I will turn you over to those who will know what to do with you.”

  The man laughed at her and said, “I will be back and I will repay you then for filling my eyes with scales.”

  The wall was six feet high, but he placed a hand on the top and vaulted over with the greatest ease. “I will come back over this wall just as easily, O woman with rough hands,” he called from the other side.

  Basil saw little of what was going on, being immersed in legal matters. As soon as the Chalice was completed he had sought out a man who had the reputation of being the most learned and versatile of all exponents of the law in Antioch. This was a very shrewd and resourceful Jew named Jehoahaz. To this lawyer he proceeded to tell the story of his experiences at the court of Nero and finished by asking a question, “Would it be safe to apply for another hearing of the case concerning my father’s estate when by so doing I might bring myself to the attention of the ministers of the Emperor?”

  Jehoahaz gave the matter long and serious thought. “Know this first,” he said finally. “We are a long way from Rome. In the imperial city they hear nothing more than the faintest echoes of what goes on here. They regard us as people living on the frontier and take no interest in us. It is almost certain that nothing would be heard in Rome of the case beyond the report that would be forwarded to be filed in a department on the Capitoline Hill.