The Silver Chalice (12 page)

The food on which the servants subsisted was in ample quantity; there was always something left over, at any rate. As soon as they had filed out of the room, the doors would be opened and beggars who had gathered at the rear door in readiness would be brought in to finish it. They were always an unclean and gluttonous lot, eating with a savage relish and disputing bitterly over the filling of the wine cups.

Basil spent his mornings in rambles about the city, finding himself involved in the busiest phase of life in the Holy City. It was crowded with visitors who had come for Pentecost. They filled the streets at all hours of the day and far into the night. Every house was filled to overflowing and tents had been set up outside the walls for the accommodation of the earnest men and women from all parts of the Diaspora
^*
who asked no more than two things: to watch the paschal moon rise over Jerusalem and to bow their heads in reverence in the Temple. It was difficult for him under these circumstances to pursue his quest for information about Kester of Zanthus, but he did not allow himself to become discouraged.

His first jaunt carried him down into the Cheesemakers’ Valley to a gate in the southern wall of the city; surely the busiest of all the gates, he thought, for its iron-plated doors were swung far back to permit the crowds to stream through. For the most part, those who used it were farmers bringing leban to the city, the thickened milk which did not sour quickly and which, therefore, was used instead of sweet milk. They were a hairy-chested, black-skinned lot, unfriendly in manner and loud of tongue.

The first vendor of leban to whom Basil put his inquiry regarded him with a slight hint of good nature. “Kester of Zanthus?” he said. “No, I have not heard of such a one. What is his occupation?”

“He is concerned with supplies for the Roman army.”

The tolerance of the native turned at once to scoffing. “A contractor!
Aiy, aiy!
Have you lost your wits? Even a Greek should know that the
Dung Gate is not the place to seek word of an army contractor.” The farmer pointed with his elbow toward the northwest. “Go and ask your questions there. Go to that insult in stone which Herod the Accursed raised to flout the children of Israel.”

So Basil went to Castle Antonia standing on a great stone escarpment, its four towers frowning high above the city. As he climbed the graded approach he could hear the sharp call of military orders and the tramp of feet in unison from the walled-in courtyard. A sentry stopped him at the gate.

“You seek word of an army contractor?” said the latter. “It is lucky for you, my foolhardy youth, that I am a man of kindly heart. Anyone who comes here seeking information about army matters is like to be carried within and treated to a questioning that is not pleasant at all and that a sliver of flesh like you might not survive. Get you gone!”

He had no better luck in the vicinity of the Temple. Penetrating into the Court of the Gentiles, from which he could see as far inside as the narrow terrace of the Hel, he found himself face to face with a forbidding notice, which read:

The colonnade about the Temple was thronged at all times, mostly with Jews who never seemed to walk alone but in argumentative pairs or groups. Their eyes would be fixed straight ahead, their tongues clicking in rapid controversy; and they would brush by him as though saying, “Make way, young Greek, for those whose thoughts are far above your comprehension.” His question unanswered, he would be forced to the side of the street by the brusque passage of the men of Jerusalem. The region surrounding the Temple was devoted to the priesthood and the work of the schools of philosophy and it was a hive of activity at all hours of the day, but only on rare occasions was he able to corner anyone to ask his unvarying query. The result was always the same. “Kester of Zanthus?” the impatient passer-by would say. “A Greek? No knowledge have I of Greeks and no concern in them.” Or perhaps the reply would be
more straight to the point. “Betake yourself and your quest for foreigners out of sight of the House of the One God!”

He went up and down the Streets of the Glassblowers, the Waterskin Makers, the Meat Sellers, the Goldsmiths, the Spice Dealers. He haunted the neighborhood of the great palace of Herod; he went to the Gate of Ephraim, through which flowed most of the northern traffic; he patrolled the market on the floor of the valley, asking his question of anyone who could be persuaded to halt for a moment, “Know you aught of one Kester of Zanthus?” He had no success at all.

Despite this lack of results, he continued his quest with undiminished zeal. He was so persistent that even in his dreams he pursued the elusive purveyor of army supplies. Where is one Kester of Zanthus? Where, tell me, I beg of you, where is he now?

On the last day of the week Basil was on the point of leaving through the dining hall of the household slaves, having completed his midday meal, when he saw Joseph enter, accompanied by Deborra. He returned at once to the small room where he took his meals in humbly solitary state and composed himself to watch. The visitors stood beside the overseer and smiled at the respectful but somewhat anxious faces about the table. It was apparent that the master of the household was expected to speak a few words, and when he failed to do so it became clear to the watcher that the old man had suddenly ceased to enjoy what his son had called his more lucid moments. His face had taken on a tired and blank look. His lips moved, but no words were forthcoming.

Deborra led him to a stone bench at the side of the room and seated him there. Then she returned to the head of the table.

“Your master is not well today,” she said. “I will tell you what was in his mind to say to you. He has been watching the work of the household and has studied the warehouse records, and he feels you are giving him the very best of service. For this he thanks you. He wants to be sure you are happy and contented. That you are well fed and clothed and that you are allowed ample time for rest and recreation.” She was speaking easily. Basil watched her with close attention. “My grandfather wants you to feel free to come to him if you have complaints to make and to be sure that you will not be punished in any way if you do come. As—as he is far
from well today, it might be better if any complaints were brought to me. I will know how to deal with them.”

“She is very capable,” thought Basil. “I am sure she would know what to do.”

Deborra hesitated before going on, having difficulty seemingly in expressing what was in her mind. “A time is coming——” she began. Then she stopped and glanced about her uncertainly. “I don’t know how my grandfather would have said this. But—but—
be of good cheer
.”

What did she mean? Basil was certain that a promise was being conveyed, but the nature of it lay outside his knowledge. The household staff had no doubts as to what it meant. By common consent they got to their feet and began to sing exultantly. Everyone joined in, even the overseer, who had plucked the whip from his belt and thrown it to the floor. Joseph of Arimathea, rousing from his withdrawn mood, began to sing with the others, holding closely his granddaughter’s arm. It was a simple air, and the words were about goodness and love and charity. Basil listened with the feeling of wonder that came over him whenever he witnessed a demonstration of religious feeling. What was the secret of their deep conviction? Why were they so happy in their faith?

In the middle of the hymn the eyes of Deborra turned in his direction for the first time. The look of surprise on her face turned at once to puzzlement, then to comprehension of the way in which he was being treated. Her cheeks flushed and she dropped her eyes.

An hour later Aaron came to Basil’s room, the silent servant in attendance as usual. He glanced about him before speaking.

“I see nothing wrong with this,” he said. “But a complaint has been made and something must be done about it.”

The usual snap of concealed fingers caused the servant to gather up all of Basil’s belongings, wrapping the tools and materials in a square of cloth. Leaving the room with the bundle on his bent back, the slave looked so much like a condor that he might have been expected to spread his wings and take to flight immediately. Aaron motioned Basil to follow.

It was to a spacious room on the top floor that they proceeded. It had windows looking out over the city on two sides and rich hangings on the walls. There was a luxurious couch on a raised platform over which a rich carpet had been spread. On a table beside the couch were an oil lamp and a silver laver with water spouting from holes in its sides. A repast
consisting of cold meat, a loaf of bread, and a platter piled high with fruit was spread on another table. A breeze blew across the room, bringing instant relief from the oppressive heat of the downstairs.

Aaron looked about him and his nostrils twitched with annoyance. “This,” he said, “is to be yours. It seems unnecessarily fine and I suspect—— Well, it is yours, for the time being.” A snap of the fingers caused the servant to deposit his bundle on the floor and betake himself to the hall. “My father is very feeble and so I lay this command on you, that you finish your task as soon as possible.”

At noon on the following day Basil was summoned to the bedroom of Joseph. Deborra met him at the door. “Have you forgiven us?” she asked in a whisper. “I knew nothing about it.”

The sleeper stirred on his couch and called in a complaining tone, “You are not reading, my child.”

“Grandfather always has a nap at this time,” she whispered in explanation. “I read to him. I thought it might be of help to you if you could study his face in repose.”

She returned to her seat beside the bed and proceeded to read from a parchment of formidable size. The old man sighed in content, and almost immediately the steady rhythm of his breathing indicated that he had fallen back into slumber.

The young artist hastened to take full advantage of this opportunity to study his subject. His fingers wrought on the clay in eager haste, adding detail to what he had achieved at the first attempt. Although absorbed in his work, he found himself following what the girl was reading. It was the story of a young shepherd who was captured and sold into slavery in the household of a wealthy man in the country about Babylon. He became so much interested, in fact, that he paused from his labors to ask a question.

“What is it you read from?”

Deborra answered in the same even tone, “This is the Book of Jashar. It is very, very old and made up of tales of early Hebrew heroes.”

“Are all the stories true?”

“I don’t know. But it has been read for centuries and no one questions its truth.” She raised her eyes from the parchment to smile across the
couch at him. “I read Grandfather to sleep every day at this time. He falls off at once, but if I stop he wakens.”

“Do you never get tired?”

“Oh no. But I—I practice a deception on him. He has me read always from the Torah or perhaps from some legal documents. It is very dry, and as soon as he is safely asleep I change to something I find more interesting myself. Such as this.” Her smile returned, lighting up her face. “Sometimes he wakens and catches me at it and then he is very angry with me. You see, he pretends he does not sleep and that he listens to every word.”

The sleeper stirred and changed his position, turning his profile to the watchful eyes of the artist. Basil studied him from this angle, wondering at the beauty of modeling in the brow and nose. “He has such a splendid head!” he whispered. “I am afraid I shall never be able to do justice to it.”

The reading went on steadily for another ten minutes. The story gained in intensity because the young slave was sent out to fight against invaders of the valley where the estates of his master were located, and returned loaded with honors. Basil suspended work to ask more questions.

“I may not be here when you finish the reading,” he said. “Is the slave given his freedom?”

Deborra nodded. “Yes. And he is given some land and sheep and cattle. And a house of his own in the hills.”

“And does he marry the daughter of his master?”

A slight trace of pink showed under the ivory of the girl’s cheek. “Yes, he marries Tabitha. But not at first. He asks for her hand, but her father refuses him. So he goes back into the hills and wonders what he is to do. Then one night he rides down to her father’s house and gathers her up in his arms and takes her back with him. She rides behind him with her arms about his waist.”

“She goes willingly, then?”

“Oh yes, yes! Tabitha is very much in love with him. Then he sends down word to her father, saying, ‘Tabitha is my wife, and if you come to take her back we shall both fight you to the death.’ Her father goes up alone to the house in the hills and he asks his daughter, ‘Is this true?’ She answers that she loves her husband. Her father says, ‘Stay then with him, but never expect any inheritance from me, having disobeyed my commands.’ But when the father dies, they have almost as much property as he, and so it does not matter that nothing is willed to Tabitha. It is a beautiful story, is it not?”

The sleeper stirred again, roused himself, and sat up. He shook an accusing forefinger at her.

“You are at your tricks again. It is from the Book of Jashar that you read. Must I repeat that I have no liking for such light tales?”

“Grandfather, how many times must we talk about this? You know that I take up something different as soon as you go to sleep. Does it matter
what
I read as long as the sound of my voice keeps you from stirring?”

“It matters a great deal,” protested the old man. “I hear every word you say and I have told you so a dozen times. You are becoming very self-willed, I am afraid.”

“You have told me that many times too, Grandfather.”

He became aware of a third person in the room. “Who is this, my child?”