Thomas B. Costain - The Silver Chalice

They parted in the hall, Basil returning to his room. He was filled with gratitude for the generosity and tact she had shown, but other considerations soon drove all thought of her from his head. Kester of Zanthus was alive. He, Basil, must get to Rome as soon as possible. How could such a long journey be accomplished? It occurred to him that Joseph might be generous enough to send him on his way with letters to people in Rome. The only other course open would be to join the crew of a ship sailing for the capital of the world. This he would be most reluctant to do, knowing that the lot of a sailor was no better than a step above slavery. He would not willingly place his wrists in chains again.

It developed that Joseph was unable to partake of any food that evening, and a female relative took his place at the round table where supper was served. She was large and billowy, and it seemed to Basil that she was regarding him with a hostile eye.

“She is a cousin,” whispered Deborra, suppressing a smile with difficulty. “Her name is Hazzelelponi, but everyone calls her Old Gaggle. She is a great eater and will not pay much attention to anything else.”

It was a spacious room, with windows opening on the north and east, and with fans swinging back and forth noiselessly on the ceiling. A servant in spotless white stood ready to serve them.

“I have saved three quail from below.” Abraham, the servant, bent his head over the girl’s shoulder to whisper this information. “They are cooked in wine and very good, mistress. They were fattened on curds and young grasshoppers.”

Deborra, whose cheeks showed a slight tinge of excitement as though this were an event of some importance, nodded her head in approbation of the quail. Then she asked, “What fish have you for us?”

Abraham drew down the corners of his mouth in a disconsolate line. “None has been prepared,” he said. “Perhaps I could get you some of the mullet they are eating downstairs. Red mullet with a crayfish sauce. Most tasty, mistress.”

Deborra shook her head. “I would rather not depend entirely on crumbs from my father’s table. What has been prepared for us?”

It was soon apparent that a most excellent supper was in readiness. After the bones of the tender quail had been picked clean, a platter of kid’s meat was served on rice, with pearl barley sprinkled over it, a mound of capers in the center, and young blite chopped fine around the edge of the dish. This was followed by hard-boiled eggs with a sauce of cummin, cheese of goat’s milk with preserved quince, and a heaping dish of fresh peaches. Throughout the meal their cups were kept replenished with the delightful honey wine called mulsum.

The appetite of the third member of the trio at table has already been commented on, and it is hardly necessary to say that she did full justice to this delicious supper. Both Deborra and Basil had the hearty capacity of youth and did not lag behind her. It was a long time before the last dish had been served and the towels and hot water provided. Hazzelelponi, who had become more silent as the meal progressed, showed no tendency to join them when they took their seats at a north window, where the last glint of the setting sun could be seen on the roof of the Temple. The sound of the shofarim, the horns with which the priests announced the coming of night, reached them with surprising clearness.

“I have heard it every night of my life, and yet it still excites me,” said Deborra, listening intently. “Do you know much of our customs?”

“Very little, I am sorry to say.”

“It is ram’s horns the priests use, but they are heated and straightened out to get more length and tone. I have never seen them. No one sees them. The priests keep them covered always, even when they come out to sound the passing of day. All the sacred objects in the Temple are kept covered. Did you know that the High Priest has bells on his robe so people will know when he approaches and will turn their heads away? It is all very mysterious.”

“I realize,” said Basil, “that there is one question no one asks.”

The girl’s face became grave at once. “I am not afraid to answer,” she said. “You mean, am I a Christian? Yes, yes! I was born in the faith. I was raised to believe in Jesus Christ. My mother, who died when I was quite small, taught me to say Jesus before any other words, even before avva or imma, and then she took me in to let my grandfather hear. He seemed very old even then. His beard was white and he had all those wrinkles of kindness about his eyes. The tears poured down his cheeks when he heard me say Jesus.

“He and my mother were very close,” she went on. “I can remember how concerned they were over the state of my father’s soul.” She sighed deeply. “I love my father, but I am sure now that he will never see the light. Religion to him is all a matter of form.” She glanced about her to make sure that none of the servants were in the room and that the third member of the party was not straining her ears to follow the conversation between them. “Father’s guests today are all from the Temple. The High Priest is there and many of the men closest to him. I think they are discussing what they will do now that Paul is on his way. Is it not strange that there should be such talk in the house of Joseph of Arimathea?”

She had been speaking with great earnestness, but now she paused. Leaning her chin on her cupped hands, she watched him with a sudden smile. “We are being very serious, aren’t we? We always seem to be so serious. Do you know that I have never seen you smile?”

“Am I as glum as that?”

“No, not glum. I think I would call you grave. And it is not surprising after all you have been through.”

He studied her face. It was a very young face, with the unclouded eyes and the fresh color of her few years. She looked more appealing at the moment, and prettier, than he had realized before.

“You do not smile often yourself,” he said.

She nodded at once in agreement. “I guess I have always been a little solemn. You see, I was a very small girl when Grandfather decided to be less active in trade. Then my mother died, and he has depended on me ever since. I was never allowed to play with toy children, [3]even when I was very small. I have never had any young friends. I don’t know a girl of my own age. Perhaps that is the reason.”

“We seem to be a pair of sobersides, don’t we?”

She had been so serious about her plight that, without any conscious effort, he found himself smiling at her. She returned it with immediate delight. “There!” she cried. “You have! You have actually smiled at me. For the first time. And it was a very nice smile. I liked it.”

She was realizing that perhaps she had liked it too well. Facing him at the window, she thought: “He has a very fine face. I think it is a beautiful face. It is so sensitive and full of imagination.”

“I think,” said Basil, “that we should make a compact, you and I. To do a lot more smiling. How often do you think? Once every half hour?”

“Perhaps that would be right for a start. If we should get to know each other better, we might begin to smile much oftener. We might even laugh.”

“Yes, we might even laugh.”

She nodded her head and smiled to such good effect that her whole face lighted up. “I am sure it is going to be very nice,” she said.

“What a pleasant little scene,” said a voice from the door.

It was Adam ben Asher, looking dusty and even a little weary, which was most unusual, for his powers of endurance seemed to have no bounds. He walked stiffly into the room, keeping his intense gray eyes fixed on them.