The Silver Chalice (74 page)

There was silence for a moment before Elishama reached out one of his beautiful hands to touch a circular object that lay on the table in front of him. “We must give my young men a chance to fall asleep before we venture into any other part of the house. In the meantime, to take your mind from the troubles that hang over us, I will explain to you about this.”

He lifted the object so that Basil could see it was a clay model of a tiara and then replaced it on the desk.

“Being a sculptor and a worker in silver, you will be interested in this model. Do you think it good?”

“Yes, it is beautiful indeed. I have been admiring the design.”

“I appreciate such praise from you because I designed it myself and I am doing the most intricate part of the work. The telling will serve a double purpose because it will be at the same time an explanation of why my young men were working so late tonight. I am not a hard taskmaster. I ask of them no more than seven hours of labor each day although in Jerusalem we worked much longer. It is becoming the custom in Rome to
so arrange the working hours that they have most of the afternoon free. At the moment we are engaged in a race against time. This is the model of a tiara we are making for the Empress. A few days ago the Emperor became most insistent that it be finished in a much shorter time than he had stipulated at first. He is a man of small patience, and nothing will satisfy him short of a miracle on our part. He can hardly wait to place this remarkable gift on the head of his wife, who—ah well, ah well, we must concede that she is beautiful—who will wear it to great advantage. Because of this my young men and I have been working day and night.”

Basil had been studying the model as its originator spoke, admiring its proportions and the delicacy of the design. Certainly it would be beautiful on the amber locks of Poppaea.

“As you perhaps know, there is in Rome at the moment a great liking for the opal,” went on the gem merchant. “It is placed above all other hyaline stones. It is not a first favorite with me. I place the ruby and the sapphire above it, and someday, when we learn how to cut it, the diamond will be the greatest stone of all. But the men who buy the jewels and the women who wear them will be content with nothing but the opal. I bend to this popular demand, and so there will be many fine black ones from Egypt used in the design, set off with one truly magnificent specimen of the fire opal. The black ones are remarkably good.” He hesitated and then drew from a drawer under the table a stone of considerable size, which he held up for his visitor’s inspection. “Yes, there is much to be said for it. The opal has such warmth and variety of color.”

The stone was dark and luminous with green lights against a background as black as a thundercloud. It was, Basil said to himself, like a glimpse of the green flames of the nether regions, a little terrifying and yet with a fascination that could not be denied.

“There will be rubies as well,” explained the gem merchant. “I decided against the use of turquoise, but I am using many sapphires.” His eyes began to glow with enthusiasm. This was natural, for all Jews had a deep love for the sapphire. They believed that it restored failing sight and could even check the flow of blood from a wound. “Yes, I am setting some magnificent sapphires into the design. There will be a few olivines and, of course, some amethysts.”

“It will be costly.”

“Add the value of Pompey’s chessboard, which was made of gold, and that of the men, which were cut from precious stones, to the cost of the golden vine of Aristobulus and the fabulous necklace of Lollia Paulina,
and you will still not equal the cost of this tiara that is to rest on the head of our new Empress.” The merchant looked earnestly across the table at his guest. “Were you long enough at court to learn that Nero is unhappy about the city of Rome? He finds it crowded and ugly and with too many offensive smells. He dreams of a cleaner and finer capital. Young stranger, he could sweep the Subura out of existence with the money he is putting into this tiara, and build wide streets and clean houses instead. Ah well, ah well, there will be a handsome profit in it. Much of the profit will go to some more commendable use than the adornment of the body of the fair Poppaea.”

The black opal was replaced in the drawer and the model was moved to one side. The merchant rose, walked to the door, and opened it with great caution. The house had fallen into slumber; no sounds, at any rate, reached their ears. After a moment he returned and began speaking in a low voice. “I have been talking to fill in time. Now it seems safe to take you to the room where you will spend the night. I think all my young men are asleep, but it will be wise to remove your sandals. Permit me to make suggestions for our mutual good. Bolt your door on the inside and do not open it unless you hear someone rap twice slowly and then twice rapidly. That will be the servant I have selected to share the secret. When you open the door, stand well behind it, and under no circumstances go near a window. The name of the servant is Joseph. He was born in the Valley of the Cheesemakers. He is very deaf and very faithful.”

“I will take every precaution,” promised Basil. “That is the least I can do when you are risking so much.”

The gem merchant pressed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “You stood up before Nero and proclaimed yourself a Christian. I, who must conceal my beliefs, can surely do this much. I do it gladly.” He placed a brass cover over the lamp so it would not give a wide reflection in passing through the halls. “I will visit you in the morning and we will discuss plans for your escape from Rome.”

The bedroom was large and airy and furnished with a degree of luxury that came as a surprise after the Spartan quality of the room below. There was a large bed and a sunken bath in one corner. A detailed map of Jerusalem had been sketched in colors on one wall. He caught glimpses
of such aids to comfort as a laver, a wine container, and an assortment of bottles and drinking cups. The air was delicately perfumed, and a cool breeze blew in through the windows.

He found it impossible at first to sleep. The events of the evening kept running through his mind. He paced up and down the room on bare feet, his hands clenched, his whole body taut. The vision of Juli-Juli chained to a wall would not leave him. There must be something they could do to help her. But what, what? His thoughts kept running into this mental cul-de-sac.

He spent some time in front of the map, lamp in hand. With the forefinger of the other hand he traced the course he and Deborra had followed when they fled from the Court of the Gentiles and led pursuit through the domain of the poor cheesemakers. He lowered himself with great care into the water that filled his bath and lay there without moving, hoping that slumber could be induced in that way. It did him no good. He was as wakeful as before when he emerged from the tepid water. As he dried himself he kept asking the same question. What could be done to help the little dancer?

It was strange that he could not get to sleep, for physically he seemed very tired. His legs balked when he started back at his pacing. He seated himself with a deep sigh in a chair facing the windows.

Immediately, as though he had come to witness a play, the wall seemed to recede and dissolve, and he found himself looking at a familiar scene. It was familiar because he had seen it before, the gathering of twelve men about a long table in the Wall of David. He knew it was not a dream this time. He could not have fallen off in the winking of an eye, and the scene was much too vivid, too clear. Every detail was as clear as though he himself sat in this room in the Wall of David. It was the same as before in the matter that concerned him most: the space in the center was still vacant.

His eye was taken immediately by the man who sat on the left of the open space, and he said to himself with elated excitement that it was John. There was no mistaking the Beloved Disciple. The protruding brow and the widely spaced eyes, the sensitive and eloquent mouth were the same. This young John had a bodily vigor that the wasted figure preaching in the mine near Ephesus had lacked, and his face was that of a young man; a young man of great courage and sweetness.

“Peter will be on the other side,” Basil said aloud, turning his eyes in that direction. He broke at once into an excited laugh of recognition,
for the figure to the right of the space was none other than Cephas!

So the old servant at the inn was the acknowledged leader of the Christians, as he had half suspected, the disciple who had been chosen by Jesus. This explained the deference paid him by Hannibal and by the man Mark. It explained his absences also, for the responsibilities of leadership would call him away at times.

The Peter who sat at the right was far different from the gentle old man of the inn. He was having nothing to say and his eyes were stormy and unreconciled to the nature of the separation that Christ had said was soon to take place.

But Basil had not time to study more closely the face of the moody Peter. Something was happening to the scene; something far different from anything he had witnessed before. It caused him at first a shiver of dread and then, taking him to the other extreme, a sense of blissful anticipation. The space that had been empty was no longer entirely bare. Someone, still no more than a shadow, was sitting there!

He strained his eyes to see, and gradually the form became clearer, as though a process of materialization were taking place. Slowly the shadows turned to substance, and out of the merging of surfaces and colors a face appeared. It was the face of a man in his early prime, a face delicate, gentle, but wonderfully strong and wise, although at that moment it was tortured with a tragic duty and sad beyond all human comprehension.

“I am seeing Jesus!” whispered Basil. “I can see His eyes, as Deborra said I would.”

At that point the eyes seemed to look directly at him and to smile. They were wonderful eyes, set wide apart under a broad brow; wise, discerning, compassionate eyes that could express humor and sweetness even though a great sorrow possessed them.

Basil lowered his head, saying to himself, “I am not worthy to look any longer.” He had never felt so humble, so full of human faults, so conscious of his sins. What right had he to pry further, to continue watching this holy scene?

As he sat with his brow in his hands, however, it came to him that there was reason behind this vision, that it had been allowed him so that he could finish the Chalice. He must conquer his sense of humility and take advantage of the sublime opportunity that had been offered him. Convinced of this, he opened his eyes and studied the face of Jesus with the keen intentness of the artist.

With new eagerness he took account of details. The nose of Jesus was
neither long nor prominent. It was straight and with a delicacy of modeling that gave it beauty. The mouth expressed all the qualities that showed themselves in the eyes. The chin, which was bare of beard, showed strength as well as gentleness.

“I have been allowed this vision,” said Basil to himself with a sense of urgency and excitement, “so that I may finish the Chalice. I must get to work. Now, at once.”

At this point he realized that he was asleep, after all, for he could not bring himself back to consciousness. Knowing that he must set his fingers to their task while the vision of that incomparable face was clear in his mind, he strove harder to free himself of the shackles of slumber. He struggled and groaned. Realizing finally that he held something of weight in his right hand, he struck his leg a blow with it. He felt a sharp pain and, with the mists of sleep dissolving at once, he sat up straight in his chair. He was staring into the blackness of empty space, in which the outline of the curtained window was barely discernible.

He was weak with excitement and his brow was covered with perspiration.

“Jesus, Master!” he said in a tone under a whisper. “You have given your servant this great privilege. I have seen You, I have looked into Your eyes, I have seen You smile. Put now into my fingers the power to perpetuate for all time what I have been shown, so that other men may see also.”

All lassitude left him at once, and he felt strong and capable of achieving the task ahead of him. He fumbled at the table for the lighter and finally created a flame that flickered uncertainly before taking a steady hold on the wick. It was going to be a very inadequate light for the work he had to do, but he would make the most of it. Fortunately he had carried the blue cloth bag with him as usual that evening and it had been on his shoulder when he fled from the police. The clay was damp and ready for use, and he spread his tools out in front of him with fingers trembling with eagerness to begin and fear that he might fail.

He worked with intense concentration, repeating over and over that he had gazed on the face of the Son of God and that it would remain fixed in his mind forever, even though his hands might fail to bring it to life in the clay. He had no conception of time, save that he was sure the hours were speeding away. The insufficient light hampered him, but he did not dare seek to better it. Even when a gray light showed faintly through the window, he did not venture to draw back the curtain, remembering
the explicitness of the restrictions his host had placed upon him.

He knew that if he did not achieve at once what was demanded of his hands it would be useless to attempt change or revision later. With this thought driving him on, he never ceased in his feverish manipulation of the clay until the light stealing in around the curtains had a clearness and vitality that warned him that day had come.

He looked at what he had accomplished and said aloud, “This is all I can do.” He knew it was good. The face that had gazed at him in his dream now looked out from the gray clay. It was lacking in many respects; some of the mystery of the face was gone, and still more of the light in the eyes; but his fingers, he said to himself, were human. He would leave it as it was.

He turned toward the window and said, “Day has broken,” rising at the same time to draw the curtains more securely. The action made him conscious again of a pain in his knee. Glancing down, he saw that his leg was streaked with blood. It had been one of his knives he had found in his hand when the need to rouse himself had caused him to strike the knee. There was blood on the floor where he had been sitting.