Spellbinders Collection

by Molly Cochran

  He extolled the boy's virtues to the master potter Elias. Taking a chance, he even showed the potter the carvings he had found.

  "Is this not the work of a genius?" he rhapsodized, though he himself had no idea if the carvings were good or not. "My wife and I had hoped that our son might one day become a fine craftsman like yourself, but alas . . ." At this he shook his head sadly. "We are too poor to give the boy the attention he needs."

  Elias looked at the stone pieces indifferently. "How much do you want for him?" he asked, whereupon the boy's father set to a lively dispute about Aaron's worth.

  He settled for a modest sum, but at least he was rid of the boy. And Elias the potter had a new slave who might, if he lived up to the promise of the childishly crude but interesting sculptures, eventually become a real asset to the potter's business.

  On the day Aaron took the metal cup from the stray dog which had slept with him in Elias's outbuilding for the past year, he had already fulfilled his quota of plain clay bowls and had some time to play. Elias was gone for the day, delivering merchandise to the innkeepers who were his regular customers.

  Aaron examined the object carefully. It was a strange shape, almost a ball, except that the top had been sliced off. Making a bowl from it presented a marvelous challenge. He set a fat wooden block on the wheel and placed the cup on top of it.

  As the wheel spun, Aaron applied wet clay to the metal cup with both hands, covering it evenly. As he approached the inward-curving lip, he first pulled the clay in, following the shape of the sphere, then flared it out and eased it in again so that the final effect was of gently rippling waves growing from a central pedestal.

  It pleased him. When he was finished with the exterior he covered the inside painstakingly, using a stiff brush to apply the almost-liquid clay slip. Then he fired it in the bellows-fed kiln and painted it immediately with a motif of fish swimming through ever-darkening tiers of water.

  As he fired it again to make the designs permanent he realized that it was fully dark outside. In his pleasure at working with a piece on which he was able to employ his talent, he had lost track of the time. Indeed, he thought briefly as he lit the small oil lamp in the workshop, it had not seemed as if time were passing at all.

  The bowl was beautiful. He was admiring it when old Elias came in to see why the kiln was running so late at night.

  He spotted the painted bowl in the boy's hands and took it from him with a scowl.

  "I fired all the bowls," Aaron explained, gesturing toward the pile of plain glazed pottery he had made. For even in his zeal to finish his creation, he knew that Elias would not have permitted him to use the kiln for only one object.

  The potter cast an eye at the new bowls, then returned his gaze to the fluted fish bowl. "And this?" he asked.

  "It was an experiment."

  Elias turned the bowl around in his hands. "What is inside it?"

  "A metal cup I found."

  The old man hefted it from one hand to the other, judging the balance of its weight. "The ware was not clean when you painted it," he said.

  The boy frowned. He did not know what the old man was talking about.

  "For work like this, you have to clean all the nubs and specks of clay off the object before you fire it the first time, so that it will be perfectly smooth. You feel this?" He took the boy's hand and passed it over the side of the bowl. It felt just like all the other bowls he had fired. "Rough."

  "But—"

  "All right for common bowls," the potter said, raising one shoulder in a shrug. "But for a decorative piece . . ."He made a face. "No one would want such a thing."

  He tossed it into the pile of plain bowls. "You've wasted my paint."

  Aaron hung his head. At least old Elias hadn't broken it in a rage. The bowl would be sold as part of a mass shipment.

  "I'm sorry, master," he said.

  The old potter looked at him sternly. "You've missed your supper," he said.

  The boy did not answer.

  "Go to bed. You're using valuable oil." As he left the workshop, Elias said, "Tomorrow I'll teach you how to clean the ware."

  Aaron could not believe what he had just heard. Trembling with joy, he went over to the pile of pottery and picked up his bowl. It was weighted perfectly. Even the master had found no fault with that. The ripple design, too, was good. And, if the truth be told, the fish were quite pretty.

  He laid the bowl back where Elias had put it and blew out the lamp.

  The next stop for the cup, now disguised as a drinking bowl, was an inn in Jerusalem, where three years later it was placed on a long table where thirteen men gathered together for the last time.

  The innkeeper set the fluted fish bowl—his own personal favorite— before the leader of the group, because although the man was only a carpenter by trade, he had achieved some prominence lately as a prophet and teacher. Some even claimed that the fellow had performed miracles, including turning water into wine and bringing a dead man back to life. Of course, those tales were undoubtedly false, but who knew? A man who could inspire such stories might well become rich. If an innkeeper were to prosper, he had to pay attention to things like this.

  Although the innkeeper was disappointed that his famous guest had declined to eat that evening, he brought the group the best wine he had to offer when they asked for it and loitered near their table as the man called Jesus of Nazareth performed a strange ritual.

  He poured the wine into the beautiful rippled bowl, then passed it around to the other men at the table, even though they had wine of their own.

  "Drink," he said in a gentle voice. "Do this in remembrance of me."

  And as the innkeeper watched Jesus pass the bowl with his long, expressive hands, he was suddenly filled with a terrible sense of desolation. For there was something in the man's calm eyes that bespoke an utter resignation and a sadness beyond knowing.

  This man would never become rich.

  Jesus looked up at him. The innkeeper bobbed his head and withdrew.

  He was glad he had given him the fluted fish bowl.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Saladin had almost despaired of ever finding the cup again when he heard about a Jew in Jerusalem who had risen from the dead after some kind of ceremony involving a cup.

  The Jew had apparently been a politician of some sort. He had promised the gift of eternal life to thousands and, as an example, had already brought at least one dead man back to life, before he was arrested and crucified for his wild talk.

  Saladin could only shake his head at the news. This was exactly the sort of person who should never have possession of the cup. For what if the authorities had believed him? Its priceless magic would have passed into the hands of some dictator, who would keep his position for countless ages. As Saladin himself would not feel the urge to rule for several centuries to come, he viewed this possibility as a disaster of great proportions. Politicians were bad enough; immortal politicians would be a catastrophe beyond contemplation.

  At least the loose-lipped fellow seemed to have learned his lesson. According to the talk around Rome, Jesus of Nazareth had been quietly buried after his execution. Then, after three days, his body had disappeared from the vault where he had lain. Now, God knew, he might be anywhere.

  Still, it was the first inkling Saladin had had concerning the whereabouts of the cup in ten years, and he had to follow it. Feeling less than hopeful, he packed a few things and made plans to travel to Judea.

  He had been working as a physician in Rome. During his wanderings in the Arab world, he had pursued the healing arts, which he had begun to learn from Kanna. In the growing civilization of Assyria and Babylonia, he learned much about the workings of the human body, about which the Romans, for all their political sophistication, were still ignorant. Despite his ostensibly young age—still a teenager—the doctors in the city soon came to respect the knowledge of the mysterious youth from the East and often sent their own patients to him.

 
; Of course, since the physicians only referred to Saladin those cases which they themselves could neither diagnose nor treat, a good number of Saladin's patients died. Before long, he became known as a healer of last resort, and was even referred to, behind his back, as "Doctor Death."

  Saladin did not mind the reputation. His practice brought him a good income without many social obligations, as the foreign doctor of the moribund was not considered sprightly company in fashionable circles. As he grew older, he took to wearing black, which set off his now-imposing height as well as his melancholy air. In his way, he had been accepted into Roman society. It was the first time in some twenty-five centuries that he was considered a respectable man.

  As he boarded the ship sailing eastward, he actually felt a twinge of indecision about leaving. Was it necessary, he mused, to live forever? If he remained in Rome, he would have a reasonably good life. He had already lived for nearly three millennia. Perhaps it would not be unpleasant to grow old. The last ten years of aging like a normal human being had not been troublesome to him, and he had met many men well beyond their middle years who spoke of their "long" lives with affectionate memory.

  Even death, from his experience with his patients, was not so terrible. During his life, he had endured pain far worse than death. Had he not been tied to posts and left to die in the desert sands after the death of the Pharaoh Ikhnaton? Had he not, immediately before his arrival in Rome, been tossed into a burning funeral pyre by a mob of barbaric Macedonians?

  No, death was not so fearful. And yet he had tasted life. Endless life, such as only one other being before him had known. The white-skinned half-beast Kanna had had no appreciation for it; indeed, at the moment of his death, the old creature had seemed almost relieved. But Kanna had done nothing with the timeless ages that had been his. He had stayed on his mountaintop scratching for roots while mankind was leaping up all around him, performing wonderful feats. He had seen nothing of the world, learned nothing, achieved nothing. Saladin had used the cup as it should have been used. He savored life. And always, he wanted more.

  His moment of indecision had passed by the time the ship set sail. He would find the cup again. He would find another life. He would never let go.

  Once in Jerusalem, Saladin went straight to the tomb which had been vacated by the allegedly immortal Jew. It was not difficult to find. Since the bogus death, the place had been surrounded by superstitious peasants, many of them lame and sick, seeking a cure for their ailments in the stone where the "miracle" had taken place. Most, Saladin saw, were more in need of simple medical care than miracles. If he'd had the inclination, he could have set up a practice on the spot that would have kept him busy for years to come. But these were poor people who would not know how to appreciate a physician's skill even if they saw it in practice; whatever he did would be attributed to the miracles of the vanished charlatan anyway. Besides, he did not have the time.

  He pushed himself through toward the senior officer among a small group of Roman soldiers guarding the tomb from the mob. In their zeal, Saladin supposed, the wretches who'd come seeking miracles might set up a shrine right in the tomb. Saladin did not involve himself much in politics, but it was common knowledge that the Jews were an unruly lot who had never taken well to Roman rule. Unlike the Britons, who openly fought the occupying Roman forces, the Jews talked meekly and officially submitted. Then they just went on doing whatever they wanted.

  Converting them to the Roman religion was out of the question, at least for the moment. They would never give up their vengeful, solitary god in favor of the convenient pantheon of Roman deities. It was the only point the Jews were really adamant about, so Rome, in her wisdom, let it go. As they became more civilized, it was thought, the Jews would eventually abandon their strict religious code and come around to a less demanding mode of worship.

  But the "miracle" cults were a problem. Not only were the Jews themselves annoyed with them, but the disruption these radicals caused made the administration of the province hellish. It seemed to Saladin that the Nazarene who had escaped the tomb had inadvertently created yet another troublesome cult.

  "Who was he?" Saladin asked pleasantly.

  The soldier looked him over, noticing Saladin's fine Roman clothes and perfect speech. "A nobody," he answered with a smirk, pushing back a woman who was keening like a harpy. The woman had long red hair and a face that in a bedchamber might have seemed wanton. She seemed to be oblivious to the soldiers' barrier, throwing herself again and again at them in an attempt to enter the tomb.

  "I don't envy you your job," Saladin said.

  The soldier smiled grimly. "I've had better postings, that's sure."

  The woman flung herself at him once more. In exasperation, the soldier swatted her across the face with the back of his hand. "They're like lunatics," he muttered, massaging his knuckles. "This is the worst, but they're crawling all over the city, following the blackguard's footsteps. They're camped up on the execution grounds like ravens. I've heard the cross itself has been torn to pieces." He shook his head. "By Jupiter, even the tavern where the poor devil took his last drink is overrun."

  This time the woman threw herself at Saladin, clutching the sleeve of his black robe with her spindly fingers.

  "Do not listen to the Roman!" she exhorted, her eyes glassy. Apparently she took Saladin to be one of her own people. "Jesus is the Christ—the anointed one sent by God. The Romans killed him, but he lives again. I have seen him with my own eyes . . ."

  Her words tumbled out in a wild rush while the soldier methodically loosened her grip on the tall stranger.

  "Where have you seen him?" Saladin asked, but the soldier had pushed her away and drawn his sword.

  "Get the woman away before I have her flogged!" he commanded. The crowd screeched in protest.

  "Where have you seen him?" Saladin repeated, shouting.

  It was no use. He could hardly hear his own voice above the noise. Craning his neck to see over the heads of the people, he watched someone take hold of her and lead her, sobbing, out of the crowd.

  "See what I mean?" The soldier put his sword away. "Lunatics."

  Saladin pushed his way toward where he had spotted the woman. "Wait!" he called. But when he finally freed himself from the press of bodies, she was gone.

  He questioned the others at the tomb, but none could identify the woman he described. Nor had any of them seen the vanished Jesus of Nazareth. Several, though, were able to give him the location of the inn where Jesus had last been seen publicly before his execution.

  It was probably a waste of time, Saladin thought as he walked the dusty road into town. The people here were feebleminded. They would believe anything. Had such a thing happened in Rome, he would have found a dozen men within a half hour who would tell him the man's location for a price. But what could one expect in this backwater, where the buildings were constructed of mud and even the roads were unpaved?

  The inn was at least a start. People there might have known the man and where he was living. He groaned inwardly as he approached the place. It was overrun with noisy people, clamoring at the door for a peek inside. Once again Saladin had to muscle his way through the crowd.

  It was jammed inside with tables—some of them nothing more than crates or blocks of stone—pushed so tightly together that he wondered how anyone could move among them. The innkeeper, a rotund man who sweated profusely, shouted orders at his help. When Saladin tapped him on the shoulder, he turned irritably, then softened as he appraised the tall stranger's moneyed appearance.

  "Yes, sir. In one moment we'll have a table for you and a meal like you have never tasted!"

  "I'd like to have some information about the man they call Jesus of Nazareth," Saladin said.

  "Yes, yes, of course. This is where he took his last meal. Lamb, it was. The finest, prepared with leek. It is the specialty of the house. Shall I order some for you? It will be ready by the time you're seated."

  Saladin leaned close to the
man. "Were you a friend of his?"

  The innkeeper looked up, startled. "No, sir!" he pronounced vehemently, shaking his head so vigorously that his jowls trembled. "I am an honest tradesman. How was I to know he was a criminal?"

  At this, Saladin was somewhat taken aback. "I only meant—"

  "I knew nothing of him," the fat man insisted, sweeping his stubby hands in front of him as if to erase all doubt as he backed away. "Or his friends. They have not been back." He turned, but Saladin grabbed his arm. He could feel the man tense.

  "I mean you no harm," he snapped. "I am a stranger here and wish only to learn his whereabouts."

  "His whereabouts?" The innkeeper looked at him askance. "He is dead, sir." The frown left his face. "You did not know?"

  "I heard his tomb was empty," Saladin said cautiously. If the man knew anything, this was the time to negotiate the price of his knowledge. "I understand he was a great teacher. I would be willing to pay a considerable sum to see him . . . or one of his followers."

  The innkeeper sighed. "I'm afraid it's too late for that," he said. "They've all been arrested, or gone into hiding. As for the man himself . . ." He spread his arms in an elaborate shrug. "They say he rose from the dead. What can I tell you? Now, if you'll just be patient a few minutes more, I'm sure I'll be able to find a table." He was anxious to be about his business.

  "You heard no discussion when he was here?"

  "No, sir, except for the ritual of the cup."

  "What?"

  The innkeeper suddenly beamed. "Ah, you have not heard about that? It was in this very room that he passed his wine bowl to all at his table, asking them to remember him. It was as if he had a premonition of his own death, you see. I heard that with my own ears," he said proudly. "Would you care to see it?"

  "I . . . All right." At least it would give him a moment to talk with the man privately. He may have heard more than he remembered.

  "Splendid. Wait in the storeroom around the corner. I'll be with you in a moment." He shouted for someone to bring wine to the table. "The fee for viewing it is small . . . only three shekels." He smiled ingratiatingly and bustled back into the dining room.