Thomas B. Costain - The Silver Chalice

“Are all the stories true?”

“I don’t know. But it has been read for centuries and no one questions its truth.” She raised her eyes from the parchment to smile across the couch at him. “I read Grandfather to sleep every day at this time. He falls off at once, but if I stop he wakens.”

“Do you never get tired?”

“Oh no. But I—I practice a deception on him. He has me read always from the Torah or perhaps from some legal documents. It is very dry, and as soon as he is safely asleep I change to something I find more interesting myself. Such as this.” Her smile returned, lighting up her face. “Sometimes he wakens and catches me at it and then he is very angry with me. You see, he pretends he does not sleep and that he listens to every word.”

The sleeper stirred and changed his position, turning his profile to the watchful eyes of the artist. Basil studied him from this angle, wondering at the beauty of modeling in the brow and nose. “He has such a splendid head!” he whispered. “I am afraid I shall never be able to do justice to it.”

The reading went on steadily for another ten minutes. The story gained in intensity because the young slave was sent out to fight against invaders of the valley where the estates of his master were located, and returned loaded with honors. Basil suspended work to ask more questions.

“I may not be here when you finish the reading,” he said. “Is the slave given his freedom?”

Deborra nodded. “Yes. And he is given some land and sheep and cattle. And a house of his own in the hills.”

“And does he marry the daughter of his master?”

A slight trace of pink showed under the ivory of the girl’s cheek. “Yes, he marries Tabitha. But not at first. He asks for her hand, but her father refuses him. So he goes back into the hills and wonders what he is to do. Then one night he rides down to her father’s house and gathers her up in his arms and takes her back with him. She rides behind him with her arms about his waist.”

“She goes willingly, then?”

“Oh yes, yes! Tabitha is very much in love with him. Then he sends down word to her father, saying, ‘Tabitha is my wife, and if you come to take her back we shall both fight you to the death.’ Her father goes up alone to the house in the hills and he asks his daughter, ‘Is this true?’ She answers that she loves her husband. Her father says, ‘Stay then with him, but never expect any inheritance from me, having disobeyed my commands.’ But when the father dies, they have almost as much property as he, and so it does not matter that nothing is willed to Tabitha. It is a beautiful story, is it not?”

The sleeper stirred again, roused himself, and sat up. He shook an accusing forefinger at her.

“You are at your tricks again. It is from the Book of Jashar that you read. Must I repeat that I have no liking for such light tales?”

“Grandfather, how many times must we talk about this? You know that I take up something different as soon as you go to sleep. Does it matter what I read as long as the sound of my voice keeps you from stirring?”

“It matters a great deal,” protested the old man. “I hear every word you say and I have told you so a dozen times. You are becoming very self-willed, I am afraid.”

“You have told me that many times too, Grandfather.”

He became aware of a third person in the room. “Who is this, my child?”

“It is the artist. I asked him to come in so he could study your features in repose.”

“I hope you will not think I have been presumptuous,” said Basil, beginning to gather his materials together. “It has been very helpful.”

He was summoned at the same hour for several days in succession and the work progressed rapidly, his acquaintance with Deborra keeping pace with it. On the fourth day, as he pressed with questing fingers around the line of the mouth, he realized that he had achieved a change of expression. He hastily withdrew his hands.

“It is finished,” he said after a moment.

Deborra dropped the parchment and ran over to stand at his shoulder. The white sleeve of her palla touched his arm. He was aware that she was breathing quickly.

“Yes, yes!” she exclaimed. “Lay not another finger on it, Basil, for fear it may change for the worse. It is perfect now.”

“Not as much as a fingertip.” He spoke happily. “It is finished and ready for casting.”

They had been speaking in excited tones. Joseph roused and sat up. “What is it?” he asked in the sharp tone he always used when first wakened. Basil had discovered that it meant nothing. The old man worshiped his granddaughter and thought her perfect in every respect.

“It is finished,” announced the proud artist. “May I show it to you?”

Joseph studied it with critical attention and then nodded his head. “I am well content,” he said. “Tomorrow Luke will be here, and then I shall have something to say to you.”

Basil was so delighted with the approval bestowed on his work that he paid no attention at first to the news about his benefactor. Then he said: “I am happy that Luke will be here. I have missed him very much.”

“Paul and his followers reached Caesarea several days ago and stayed there in the house of Philip. They are now approaching Jerusalem and will arrive at some time during the evening. I have sent word entreating him to slip quietly into the city, but it may not be possible. I very much fear that those who oppose him are as well informed of his movements as I am. There may be trouble tonight.” Joseph’s eyes returned to the clay bust. “I agree now with my granddaughter. It is perfect.”

That afternoon Deborra paid a visit in his room on the top floor. She was accompanied by three women of the household and carried in her hand a large metal ring filled with keys. Pausing in the doorway, she held up the ring.

“I have messages for you. They could have been brought by a servant, of course. But I thought I would like to be in a position to judge of your comfort now by the evidence of my own eyes. And so,” smiling, “I decided on a tour of inspection as an excuse to come.”

“It is kind of you to take so much interest. As you see. I live in the greatest comfort and luxury.”

After a moment’s silence her eyes, which she had kept lowered, were raised to his face.

“I know all about you,” she said in a low tone. “I know how you were robbed of your inheritance and how badly you were treated. I think you were—very brave about everything.” Then, realizing that she was allowing herself to display too much emotional involvement, she went on, “Grandfather would like you to sup with us this evening. At five o’clock.”

Basil had been learning something of the ways of the household. He knew that Aaron dined at five each day and that he made it a point to collect about him a group of notabilities, Roman officials, other merchants of rank and wealth, members of the Sanhedrin, the great Jewish council. This he did, it was said, to offset the well-known fact that Joseph was a Christian. Aaron entertained on a lavish scale.

While the son of the house dined in state, his father and daughter supped together, quietly and happily, in an apartment adjoining the bedroom of Joseph.

“It will be an honor,” said Basil.

The girl hesitated again. “If you care to come with me now,” she said, “there is someone below who has information for you. He told me of it before I came up. He is one of Grandfather’s men. His name is Benjamin, but everyone calls him Benjie the Asker. You will soon understand why.”

Benjie the Asker was waiting for them in a dark cubicle in the warehouse wing. He was small and wiry, with owl-like hollows around his eyes. In his hand he held a cup of sorbitio, a barley water that was considered cooling in hot weather.