Thomas B. Costain - The Silver Chalice

“She will twist my arm to make me tell her what was said. But I won’t!” The child gave her head a defiant toss. “She has done it often, but I have never given in. She won’t get anything out of me.”

That night, following the instructions the slave girl had given him before leaving, Basil went to the open window and sank down on his knees. He turned his eyes in the direction of the stars.

“O Mefathiel,” he said, “I have no right to speak to you because you are an angel of the Jews and I am not a Jew. I am Greek. Because I am Greek you may not hear my voice. But if you do hear me, most kind of angels, I want to tell you that a door must be opened for me if I am not to fall into the hands of my worst enemy. The door must be opened for me at once or it will be too late. If you look down and see me as I am, you will think me unworthy of your help. But remember this, O Mefathiel: I am a slave and I wear the clothes in which I came two years ago. I have worn nothing else since, and you will think me no better than a beggar at the city gate. Am I worth saving? you may ask, O generous Opener of Doors. I do not know. All I can tell you is that I have a certain gift for making things with my hands, and this I promise: If the doors of my prison swing open, I shall work very hard and I shall always strive to keep this gift from tarnish.

“And thou, O Zachriel,” he went on, “of whose greatness I have just been told, do this much for a man who has never prayed to thee before. Never let me forget, Angel of Memory, those who have been kind to me and those who have taken great risks to be of help when I needed help. This I beg of you, as I do not want to be guilty of ingratitude, which is a great fault but a very easy one to commit.”

The rest of his prayer was delivered with an intensity that told how deeply he felt.

“I beg that my memory will remain so clear that I shall forget none of the wrongs which have been done me. Keep the thought of my misfortunes so fresh in my mind that I may strive to undo the ill that has been done to me and to those who depended on me. Let my memory feed my resolution to be avenged on my enemies when the right day comes. This I beg of thee, Zachriel, Angel of Memory.”

It was three nights later. Sosthene and his wife had climbed to their tiny rooftop, where a hint of breeze, tainted with the smells of the city, reached them over the huddle of parapets. It was so dark when the caller came, asking for the master of the house, that Agnes could see nothing of him, save that he was old and had a very long beard.

“You want the master?” she repeated. “Is it a matter to be talked over with him?”

“Yes. It is a matter to be talked over.”

“Is there, perhaps, something to be decided?”

The visitor smiled, amused at her insistence. “There is something to be decided.”

“Then,” declared the girl, “I had better ask the mistress to come down too. When there is something to be decided, she does the deciding.”

The old man laughed at this and patted her head. “You are bright, my child. I can see you will be one to do the deciding yourself when you grow up and become a woman.”

Agnes shook her head and sighed. “Oh no. I am not well and I am not going to grow up.”

The visitor moved closer to her so that he could see her face by the light of the small lamp she was carrying. He studied her carefully and with an air as sad as her own. “It is true, my child, that you are not well,” he said. “You will not get better if you continue to live in a place as close and hot as this. You need much fresh air and rest and good food. And you need loving care, my good little child.”

Agnes answered simply and without any intention of arousing his sympathies further, “I am a slave. A slave does not have these things. I must live here with my master and mistress.”

The old man’s manner became even more depressed. “In this life there are many things which are wrong, and of them, I believe, slavery is the worst. Someday, my child, there will be a great change in the world. A shining figure will come down out of the sky and after that there will be no more wickedness or slavery or bodily ills. I hope it will come to pass soon; even in time to save you from—from all the troubles I foresee.”

Eulalia led the way down the outside stairs, followed by a grumbling Sosthene. “Well, and what is it you want?” she demanded. “Is there something you wish to buy?”

The visitor hesitated. “Yes,” he said finally. “I think I may tell you there is something I want to buy. But we must not discuss it here. I feel there are ears in the darkness and that curiosity presses about us as closely as the heat of the night.”

“Come inside,” said Eulalia, all graciousness now that she saw the possibility of a sale.

She led the way into the shop on the ground floor and lighted a lamp suspended from the ceiling. By the limited illumination thus afforded it could be seen that the visitor was well advanced in years. He had a kind and understanding eye but with enough of an air of resolution to make it clear that he was not one to be imposed upon. For his part, he gave a quick glance about the small shop, noting the cheapness of most of the things for sale, the oriental masks, the daggers and bronze swords, the incense lamps, the jewel boxes from the desert country. Then he allowed his eyes to rest on the owner and his wife, studying them with great care.

“I must ask some questions,” he said. “You have in your household one Basil, a worker in silver and gold. I understand he made himself, without aid or suggestion, a figure of Athena, which was sold to the Greek banker Jabez, who is a collector of works of art. This is true?”

Sosthene was on the point of answering, but his wife’s sharp elbow nudged him into silence. “Yes,” she said. “He is a slave and our property. He made the figure.”

“And the silver vase with the head of Theseus in relief, which one of the magistrates in the city is fortunate enough to possess?”

“That also was of his fashioning.”

“And the plaque with moonstones, which a Jewish merchant bought from you as a gift for his wife?”

Eulalia nodded. “He designed the plaque. Is there something you want him to make for you? We can promise that you will be more than satisfied.”

The visitor continued his study of them, one hand smoothing the strands of his long silky beard. “It is not the work of his hands I desire to buy from you,” he said finally. “It is his freedom. I come to offer you any reasonable amount you may name.”

The woman of the house indulged in a cackling laugh. “The sum would be beyond your means, old man. My husband and I have our own idea of the value of this slave. It is high—very, very high.”

There was a nod of agreement from the visitor. “The price might be fixed at a high figure if you had nothing in the future to consider. But what of tomorrow? Will it be high then, or the day after? You must be aware that—that this young man who is called Basil may have no value at all if you wait that long.”

At this point Sosthene projected himself into the discussion. “The years have made you addled in the head,” he declared roughly. A sense of resentment took possession of him. “What is your purpose, dotard, in coming to us with such talk? Do you count us as stupid as the partridge that can be run down and clubbed to death? You are too well seasoned for such joking!”

“I know the price you paid for the boy.” The visitor was speaking now in tones so low that no ears beyond the confines of the stiflingly hot room could have heard him. “Linus made it low purposely because it was his thought to put more shame on the victim of his plotting. He is sorry now that he sold the young man at any price. Why? Because he wants nothing so much as to have his victim removed from his path. He will never feel secure as long as Basil is alive. He is powerful and the law nods at his say-so.” There was a moment of silence. The visitor waited just long enough to let the full significance of what he had said sink deep into their selfish and acquisitive minds. “If the young man were killed tonight—or the day after—what compensation would Linus pay you? Would you dare go to law, thereby accusing him of murder? Or would you be wise enough to accept your loss and do nothing?”