Thomas B. Costain - The Silver Chalice

AND THE ENCLOSING WALL

SURROUNDING THE SANCTUARY.

WHOEVER MAY BE CAUGHT,

OF HIMSELF SHALL BE THE

BLAME FOR HIS CERTAIN DEATH.

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 wax 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.”