Thomas B. Costain - The Silver Chalice

“All I can promise,” said Basil earnestly, “is that I will try. That I will try very hard—so that I may be able to see His eyes.”

“Oh, Basil, Basil!” cried Deborra happily. “That is all we ask.”

Basil tossed on his hot couch that night. One train of thought ran continuously through his mind. Had these earnest people the secret of peace and happiness on earth? Would his success in making the silver Chalice depend on the state of mind with which he approached the task? Must he believe in Jesus of Nazareth before he could hope to achieve a mental picture of Him and mold it into perpetual form?

It took some time to reach a conclusion, but it came to him finally as he stared out at the sky where the stars seemed to hang low enough for a hand to reach. The Chalice was the most important thing in his life. It must be made for the ages, and the faces of Jesus and His disciples must look out from the silver frame for all the world to see and know. Nothing else must be allowed to concern him. His personal affairs must be forgotten. He must strive hard to reach the state of mind where he might see the eyes of Jesus. He had become sure that happiness would come to him at the same time.

He felt an immediate sense of peace. A breeze blew across the room and cooled his hot brow. He saw the benevolent face of Luke smiling at him in approval and a sense of something even deeper in the wide-spaced eyes of Deborra. He fell into sleep.

He roused himself early. A sultry morning: a heavy, moist blanket seemed to stretch across the sky, obscuring the outline of the Temple. There was such a deadness in the air that the slightest movement was an effort.

By seven o’clock Benjie the Asker was at his door, full of energy and bubbling with news.

“The Zealots were all over the city last night,” he announced with zest. “They were looking for Paul. If they had found him, he would have had as many daggers in him as a porcupine has quills. It was felt to be unsafe for him to venture on the streets in daylight, so he went to the hall, where the presbyters will meet, before dawn. Yes, there he is now, pacing up and down with a challenge in his eyes. ‘Bring mine enemies to me,’ he is saying to himself, ‘and I will demolish them.’ ” The Asker beamed delightedly at Basil. “I am a lucky man today. I have been told to take you to the meeting and so I shall be there when the air is filled with the hailstones of invective. We must start as soon as you break your fast.”

Basil began to bathe himself gratefully before the silver laver. “I have no desire for food on a day like this,” he said, sloshing the water over his shoulders. “I have only one thought in my mind. To start work.”

“That is wrong,” declared Benjie emphatically. “The hotter the day, the bigger the meal. That is my rule. This morning I had a melon, a platter of grapes, the chop of a tender kid, and even a wedge of cheese. I feel as full of fight as David issuing forth to do battle with Goliath, whose spear was like a weaver’s beam. Eat well, young artist, and your fingers will find a fresh magic in them.”

In the hall they met Ebenezer, the servant of Aaron. He was walking with less stoop in his back and even a hint of animation on his usually expressionless face. Basil was surprised when this most silent of men stopped them and began to speak.

“What word does Benjie have for us?” he asked, his voice husky from lack of use. “Paul will not give in to them?”

“Have no fear, friend Ebenezer,” answered Benjie. “Paul has come to Jerusalem for no other purpose than to fight. He will not give in.”

The bent head nodded gravely. “It will be his last battle, O Asker. It is so written.”

When they reached the street, where the sun, having broken through the clouds, greeted them with a blasting fury of heat, Basil asked his companion, “Can it be that the servant of Aaron is a Christian?”

Benjie nodded his head. “Ebenezer is one of the most devout of us all. He is a Gentile from the far North, and so he is a firm believer in everything that Paul preaches.” He gave Basil a cautioning glance. “Aaron does not know that Ebenezer belongs to us.”

Basil’s mind was still filled with what Deborra and Luke had said to him. That this strange servingman, spending his days in obeying the instructions of his master’s fingers, was a Christian also, interested him deeply.

“And the other slaves?” he asked.

“All of them. Even Uzziel, the overseer.”

It proved to be a long walk. They did not go to the little room in the wall of David where the leaders of the church met, but turned their steps instead in the direction of the upper city. Basil found himself exhausted from the heat by the time Benjie stopped before the door of a warehouse in the Street of the Weavers. They were admitted to a dark cavern-like space which seemed cool after the furious onslaught of the sun. As their eyes were blinded by the sudden change, they remained by the door until a voice said, “This way, if you please, my masters.” They followed the white tunic of the speaker, and Basil’s eyes recovered their function sufficiently to see that the place was piled to the ceiling with bales of cloth. Passing through a door at the rear, they found themselves in an interior hall that was still darker. Their guide stopped abruptly and gave a rap with his knuckles on what seemed to be a blank wall. A panel slid back, and they became aware of light beyond and a murmur of voices.

“Who is it?” asked a custodian within.

“We come from Joseph of Arimathea,” said Benjie.

The custodian said, “Enter,” and swung back a narrow door. As they stepped into the room, which was lighted through the ceiling, Benjie whispered to his companion, “It is Paul speaking, and I can tell from his voice that he is wrapped in the toga of battle.”

Basil was led to a seat behind a screen. He had opened out on his knees the cloth containing wax and had spread his tools in convenient array before his eyes became sufficiently adjusted to take in any of his surroundings. He sat back then and looked about him.

He saw that the hall, which was not large, was fitted up in a state of solemn and rather dingy splendor, as though at some earlier stage an effort had been made to match in a small degree the austere grandeur of the Temple. The walls were covered with hangings that had once been handsome, and there was an imposing dais at one end where, behind a pulpit of yellowing ivory, sat a small group of men in a matching solemnity.

A larger group, less stern of mien and containing a few women, sat on benches in front of the dais. Paul was standing in the midst of this second group and was filling the hall with the ardor of his words.

Benjie had stationed himself behind Basil. He gave the shoulder of the artist a twitch and whispered: “Look well at those two men on each side of the pulpit. James, on the right, is a kinsman of Jesus. The one on the other side is Jude.”

Basil studied both men, noting particularly the face of Jude; the high forehead, the finely molded nose, the beard in which he took an obvious pride, for it was curled and oiled and quite handsome. Basil’s fingers went busily to work.

After a time he said: “A face such as that of Jude presents small difficulty. Have you noticed how his nose curls? There is a hint of arrogance in his eye. Such physical traits are easy to get.”

“You have him already,” whispered Benjie. “It has taken no more than fifteen minutes. Truly this is astonishing.”

Basil laid aside the head of Jude and took up another lump of wax. “That high pucker across the brow of James will make him an easy subject.”

The features of the kinsman of Jesus came to life as the sensitive fingers flew at their task. Benjie watched closely, shaking his head at intervals to express his amazement. He even gave vent to a low whistle when the skilled hands created the nose of the apostle with no more than a moment of pressure on the wax. A second motion gave it a blunted end, and this seemed to be the finishing touch. A perfect likeness had been achieved.