The Silver Chalice (82 page)

“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.”

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 so 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.

“There is also this,” went on Jehoahaz. “You are a Roman citizen and you broke no law by acknowledging yourself a Christian. Inasmuch as no evidence developed of a conspiracy in the imperial household, there are no possible grounds for disturbing you here. It is my opinion that you may safely apply for another hearing.”

If Basil had been in a position to hear Nero say to Petronius, “Sometimes I find myself hoping he will escape,” he would have made his decision with fewer qualms. As it was, he said: “It is worth the risk to have it established that Linus had no right to sell me as a slave. Will you, Jehoahaz, take the necessary steps in my behalf?”

A week later Jehoahaz reported to him in a state of self-congratulation. “You are to be allowed another hearing. What is more, it has been set for a week from today. It helped me a great deal that the magistrate who heard it the first time has been recalled to Rome because he had become so barefaced in his dishonesty.”

The lawyer began at once to find witnesses who were willing to testify, for the most part merchants who had known Ignatius and had been in his confidence. He paid a visit also to the grimy stone building where the
head of the Roman forces in Antioch made his headquarters, and returned with more good news.

“The commandant has received the copy of Kester’s deposition,” he declared. “He expresses his willingness to turn it over to the magistrate who will hear the case.” The lawyer paused and winked broadly. “The magistrate is above reproach, a stern custodian of the principles of justice and honesty who has never accepted a bribe. We can depend on the utmost impartiality, which will make this hearing far different from the first.”

“How is Linus taking things?”

“With a degree of passivity that rather surprises me,” answered Jehoahaz. “What is the man trying to do? It is certain that he is making no effort to buy himself a second decision. Why not? I think it is because he lacks the money for the purpose. The city is full of rumors about him. He has made some disastrous gambles and he has lost two ships filled with goods from the South and East.” His voice fell to a confident whisper. “A better time could not have been found for the hearing. Linus is beset with difficulties. He will fight, of course, but he will not carry matters off again with such a high hand.”

On the evening before the hearing Basil paid a visit to the room where the Chalice was on view. Visitors were still arriving, and Luke, who had been on duty at the front gate, welcomed him with a tired smile.

“Tomorrow night,” he said, “we turn the Chalice over to the presbyters. It will be a relief in a sense when it is in their hands. I shall be able to rest again.” He added after a moment’s pause, “I start for Caesarea in two days.”

Basil felt a sudden sinking of the heart. “So soon?” he asked. “What are we to do without you?”

“There has been another message from Paul. He is pressing to be sent to Rome.” Luke’s eyes, which had been on the Chalice, came to rest with an unhappy intentness on Basil’s face. “None of us will return. We are old men and the sands are running out fast.”

“You are needed here,” protested Basil. “More than in Rome. They depend on you in everything. And you know what the situation is in Rome. Should you involve yourself unnecessarily in the troubles there?”

“Paul needs me,” said Luke simply. “He is a sick and lonely man. He must not be allowed to make that long sea voyage alone. My place is at his side.”

A woman who had been standing in front of the Chalice burst into loud
lamentations at this point. She beat her breast and wept so bitterly that her companions had to lead her away.

“It is hard not to be overcome when standing here,” said Luke. “The poor woman is thinking of the shameful death the Saviour died. And yet, my son, it seems to me that tears are a selfish manifestation. Whenever I yield to the impulse, I know it is for myself that I lament. It is true that Jesus wept on many occasions, but it was because of His pity for us. I never see a hint of moisture in the eyes of Paul. That great man of logical mind knows it is weakness to cry out for those who have passed on to a better life.

“We are weak creatures,” he continued after a moment, “and we repine for what we have lost. I am telling you this, my son, because I must say farewell to you so soon. I shall miss you; I shall miss you most bitterly. The unhappiness on your face tells me that you will feel unhappy also. Smooth the trouble from your brow, my boy. You have a fine wife and before long you will have a family of fine children. You will enjoy a full and useful life. Always keep me in your memory; the stranger who came to you that night in the Ward of the Trades when your spirits had fallen to such a low ebb. I smile still when I recall that you thought me the angel Mefathiel. It is one of the gems in my crown; if you can call the tiny chaplet I may have earned by such a name.” He leaned over and placed an arm on Basil’s shoulder. “There must be no tears when we part. Nothing but smiles and heads held high—even though we know it will be a last farewell.”

B
ASIL
was conscious of the scowl of Linus as soon as he entered the courtroom. The usurper sat on the other side, surrounded by a group of witnesses and men of the law. He was sprawled in a low chair with his feet planted wide apart and a belligerent look on his face; an obese figure, a little bent, more coarse of face than ever. He continued to scowl in Basil’s direction and to mutter sullenly to those about him.

“He is in an angry mood,” commented Jehoahaz. The man of law was confident and cheerful. “It will do him small good. One thing is certain, he has not bribed the dyspeptic Brutus up there on the bench. T. Orestes Flaminius is a young man of extreme rectitude and the custodian of the shortest temper I have ever encountered. We must tread warily and so avoid his wrath. But I suspect that he and Linus will soon be at each other’s throats.”

Basil looked at the magistrate with mingled feelings. T. Orestes Flaminius was noticeably young for such a post; thin, prematurely bald and obviously shortsighted, for he was squinting impatiently at the documents in front of him. He would be impartial, that was certain, but also he would be testy and difficult.

On the occasion of the first trial Basil had felt that he stood alone. No one had spoken to him. His father’s old friends, knowing him the certain loser, had avoided his eye. The atmosphere of the court was now quite different. Eyes met his with friendliness. People smiled at him and nodded. It had been a dark and threatening day when he tasted the bitterness of defeat; now the sun came triumphantly through the windows of the court and glistened on the polished breastplates of the Roman soldiers standing at each end of the magisterial bench.

Everything was different, but Basil did not find himself reflecting the cheerfulness of Jehoahaz. Deborra had found it impossible to accompany him. That morning she had risen at the same time he did, but she had been slow at her ablutions. “I am finding it hard to be cheerful,” she had said. And then, suddenly, she had seated herself and was looking at him with a white face. “Basil, I feel badly,” she said. “I—I am very much afraid I am going to be ill. Do not look so disturbed about it, dear heart. I am sure it is just the—the usual symptoms.”

As he sat in court now and waited for the hearing to begin, his mind was not on the case. He was thinking of the white face of his bride and fearing that she had held something back from him. She had been so pathetically limp and it had been so hard for her to smile when she said good-by.