The Silver Chalice (78 page)

The feeling that had permeated the broad framework of the imperial bones had been at fault. There was to be no proof of superhuman qualities that day.

Simon the Magician, Simon of Gitta, the greatest performer of magic tricks the world had ever seen, stepped to the edge of the platform. He turned in the direction of the palace and raised both arms in the air as a salute to the majesty of the throne. A series of bows to the dense throngs followed. The raised arms made a final gesture as a signal that he was ready. For a moment he stood poised on the tips of his toes, then without any hint of hesitation Simon Magus cast himself forward into space.

For the briefest interval of time the white-robed body seemed to maintain itself, then there was a panicky agitation of the limbs and the figure jerked over in the air like an acrobat doing a somersault. Again it performed a complete turn, then began to fall. It gained momentum every second as it plunged down headfirst to the ground.

A great shout, combined of excitement and horror, rose from the crowd. Around the base of the tower people were struggling frantically to get away before the body could descend on them. It came hurtling down, and there was a dull thud as it struck the ground, an unmistakable thud that told all Rome that Simon the Magician had not fared well.

“He has broken his neck most thoroughly,” said Petronius. Then he added, “And most artistically.”

Nero listened to the bedlam of sound from the crowded gardens. He was frowning and there was a flush of anger on his cheeks.

“This has been a bad thing,” he muttered. “What will the people of Rome say? Will they think better of the Christians?”

“They could be guided in their thinking,” hinted Tigellinus. “It can be given out that the Christian leaders called on evil powers to paralyze his body when he sprang into space.”

Nero had been looking into the wild confusion of the grounds where members of the Guard had formed a ring around the prone body and were forcing the sensation-mad people to stand back. He turned to Tigellinus on hearing this suggestion. “You think the Christians could be blamed? If they are said to be at fault, they can be punished. We must give it some thought, Tigellinus. Ways must be found to make them pay for the death of this fellow.”

An officer of the Guard made his way into the enclosure and bowed before Nero. “The man is dead,” he announced.

Tigellinus began to issue orders. “Remove the body at once. We will decide what is to be done with it later. Get it out of sight as quickly as possible.” He turned to whisper in his master’s ear. “It can be given out also that Simon was the victim of treachery among his own people. They had been quarreling. There was some kind of a struggle before he started to climb the tower.”

“Are any of them Christians?”

“I do not think so. But it can be announced that they are.”

The failure of Simon’s effort to fly had been such a disappointment to Nero that he was left with a furious desire for some kind of retaliation. The words of Tigellinus offered him a way.

“Make prisoners of all of them,” he commanded. “The people of Rome have been robbed of the spectacle they came out to see, and we must not let them go home in a grumbling mood. Give them something more to watch, Tigellinus. Take these ungrateful servants of the magician to the top of the tower and cast
them
off.” He glanced about his immediate circle with wildly excited eyes. “It will be a just punishment. Lose no time, Tigellinus. It must be done while the excitement runs high.”

“What of the woman?”

“Keep her until the last so the people can feast their eyes on her while she waits to die.”

Helena had been standing at the entrance of the royal enclosure while Simon completed his climb and through the moments of horror that followed. Realizing her danger, she decided then that it would be wise to get as far away as possible from the royal eye. At the first move she made, however, the hand of one of the guards fell on her shoulder with a heavy finality.

“Stay where you are,” he ordered gruffly. “How do I know what orders will be coming?”

Accordingly she was there when the order came. The two guards trussed her arms with violent speed and skill and placed her between them. She was taller than Juli-Juli, but there was a similarity of position that would have occurred to anyone who had seen the dancer led from the banqueting hall. It might have occurred to some also that the finger of fate had intervened and a debt was being paid.

Helena accepted her lot with courage. She did not struggle or weep. She made no effort to appeal to the only power from which release could have come. Knowing the uselessness of an appeal, she did not look in Nero’s direction.

“What will they do with me?” she asked in a low voice.

One of the tall soldiers made a gesture to indicate the top of the tower. “You are to be taken up there.”

Helena shrank back. “No!” she cried. “No, not that! I am not afraid to die, but I—I have such a dread of heights!”

“It will be quick,” said the soldier in a matter-of-fact tone.

Simon’s assistants had sensed the probability of trouble as soon as the tragedy occurred, and so the officers sent by Tigellinus came back with one only. It was Idbash, who had fallen a victim to his own lack of expedition in getting himself out of harm’s way; a thoroughly frightened Idbash who struggled and dragged his feet and proclaimed his innocence with piercing violence. They brought him only as far as the entrance to the enclosure and held him there while waiting for orders. His fears increased when he saw that Helena also was a prisoner.

“Mistress, gentle lady!” he cried. “I have done no wrong. Tell them I am just a servant. I did not know anything. Please, kind mistress, tell them this is a mistake, that I have done nothing.”

Helena’s face was white and her limbs were trembling, but she answered him in an even voice: “No one has done anything wrong. But we are going to be punished.”

“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

B
ASIL 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.