The Silver Chalice (15 page)

Basil’s attention, nevertheless, was given mostly to the member of the trio who walked on the right. There was a familiarity about this figure that did not lead to an identification until some peculiarity about the man’s gait solved the problem. It was Luke, a jaded and somewhat disheveled Luke, weary from his travels and walking with the suggestion of a limp. Basil got to his feet and leaned out of the window in order to see better. He was realizing how much he had missed this kindliest of men since they had parted at Aleppo.

A man crossing the bridge in the opposite direction stopped as the three passed him. He remained motionless for a few moments, his eyes fixed intently on their backs. Then he turned and began to follow. A few moments later another pedestrian did the same. Before the watcher in the window was fully aware of what was happening there were half a dozen people tramping in the wake of the small man with the bowed legs; and before the head of the procession had reached the end of the bridge there were at least twoscore. It was now possible to distinguish voices, and Basil could hear repeated one word time and again, “Paul—Paul—Paul.”

The small man, then, was the fiery evangelist whose preaching to the Gentiles had gone so far to split the Christians into two camps and whose presence in Jerusalem was expected to lead to much trouble. Basil strove to recall the day when he had heard Paul preach at Ceratium; but time, he found, had now blurred that episode in his mind.

His interest was deeply engaged and he watched the small man with the most intense curiosity. Paul, it was clear, was fully aware of the excitement he was creating and of the steady growth of the following that trailed after him like the tail of a comet. His voice could be heard, deep and resonant and emphatic. He was no longer carrying on a part in a conversation but was delivering an oration that those behind him could hear. His gestures had become studied and occasionally he shot a quick glance back over his shoulder as though to estimate the effect of what he was saying.

When the slow procession reached the end of the bridge and poured onto the paved open space before the door of Joseph it was joined by members of the household. Basil was surprised to see the diminutive figure of Benjie the Asker among the newcomers. From a window to his right he perceived the bald head of Aaron peering out with a caution that suggested he did not want to be seen himself.

Luke whispered in Paul’s ear. The latter listened intently and then
nodded in agreement. Raising a hand above his head, he spoke directly to those who had followed him.

“It is not meet that we linger here before the door of a brave and good man in whose debt we stand,” he began. Basil, sitting high up in his window, could hear every word clearly, for Paul’s voice had a remarkable carrying quality. “Disperse now to your homes or to the occupations by which you earn your daily bread. There will be opportunities within the next few days for us to gather together so that ye may hear what I have to tell of my stewardship. I do not know when or where it will be. The hand of hostility is being raised against us and we must exercise caution. Go then: watch and wait for the time when it will be possible for us to meet.” The apostle paused and glanced about him at the attentive faces. “Then you will hear a wondrous story, the story of a world yearning for the truth, a field ripe for the sickle.”

Basil had expected to be summoned at ten o’clock. It was nearly twelve when Luke came to his room. The weariness that had been perceptible at a distance was unmistakable at close range. The physician’s large and eloquent eyes had a gaunt look in them and he moved stiffly. It was with a return of animation, however, that he came into the room and placed a hand on each of Basil’s shoulders.

“My boy,” he said, his face lighting up with a smile, “I have received the best reports of you. Joseph is well content with what you have done—and equally with you. The small Deborra is convinced you are the greatest artist in the world. Even Aaron, whose capacity for enthusiasm is small, has no criticism to offer. I need not tell you how happy this makes me.”

“I have missed you very much,” said Basil.

“Have you, my son?” The smile grew in warmth. “I have been many places and seen many strange things since we parted company. Often I said to myself that I wished you were there. Truly the Lord Jehovah rode with us and watched over us; and the scroll of history was being filled by the winds that brought our ship to Caesarea. Someday I shall sit me down and tell on parchment all the things that befell us; and I think, my son, that the world will hearken to the strange and wondrous story.” His mood changed then and he shook his head with a hint of depression.
“We have scattered since we arrived, and stay in the humblest of houses. Even Paul is for the moment reconciled to remaining in seclusion. But he keeps saying that the Lord did not summon him to Jerusalem to skulk in the Cheesemakers’ Valley, and I am afraid he will soon issue forth and cry out his message for all the city to hear.” The tired head nodded slowly. “What will happen? What will the next few days bring forth?”

“I saw from my window that Paul came with you,” said Basil. “Is he still here?”

Luke nodded. “He has been with Joseph of Arimathea for two hours. The advice of our splendid old friend is always sound and welcome. Even Paul feels the need of it in this crisis. I betook myself away for a few moments in order to see you, my son, but now I must return. You will be sent for soon, I think.” He had been on the point of leaving, but at this he checked his steps. “I have spoken to Joseph about the little child in Antioch. He agrees she should be bought out of slavery and will see that it is done.”

Basil felt a warm flood of gratitude for both old men, his own benefactor who had not forgotten to intercede for Agnes and the generous one who had promised his aid. “I give you my thanks!” he said fervently. The eyes with which he smiled at Luke were partly filled with tears. “I fall more into your debt all the time. Will I ever be able to repay you?”

“Yes,” said Luke. “And very soon, I think.”

Shortly after Luke left, Deborra appeared for the second time in the doorway. The usual domestics were behind her, the same ring of keys was in her hand, the same apologetic smile on her lips. There was one difference: a thin mongrel pup stood apologetically at her heels.

She explained about the dog first, speaking in a low voice for his ears only. “I want to be gay, to laugh more, to—to have a good time. So I thought it would help to have a pet. Benjie the Asker found this one for me. He was a poor stray in the Bellows of Beelzebub. Now that he has a home he is very grateful. Of course he is not the kind I wanted. What I wanted was a—a very busy little dog who played and barked a great deal. This poor fellow is a mournful kind of dog.”

Basil studied the sad eyes and drooping tail of the mongrel. “I am afraid he has seen much sorrow,” he said.

“I think so too. Perhaps I should name him after one of the old prophets, the ones who always found life so black and full of sin—Jeremiah or Zephaniah or Habakkuk. A name like that would suit him.
But I don’t care.” She leaned down and patted the animal’s head. “I like him already. I am going to keep him.”

She then proceeded with the errand that had brought her to his door. “Paul is with my grandfather. He has been there all morning.”

“I was told he seeks advice of your grandfather.”

Deborra could not refrain from smiling. “Perhaps that was his intention. But in truth Grandfather has had no chance yet to give advice. Paul has done all the talking.” She hastened then to correct what she feared was a wrong intention. “It has been quite wonderful. I was allowed to stay in the room and listen. I was carried away by the things he was telling.” The smile struggled to regain possession of her face. “But it goes on and on, and I think there has been enough of it now. I can see that Grandfather is becoming very tired. And you, Basil, must be impatient with so much delay.”

“A little,” he acknowledged.

“I am impatient too. I have no idea what Grandfather is going to say to you. I questioned him last night and again this morning. He was quite stubborn about it. He just smiled and said it was a secret. I was angry with him, but it had no effect at all.”

“We will have to wait a little longer, Deborra. It won’t be hard.”

She had turned to leave, but at this she came back, to stand in the doorway with her head leaning against the frame.

“Did you know that you called me by my name? You made it sound very nice. Perhaps Greek voices are more melodious than ours.”

“Perhaps the reason is that the name is a very nice one.”

Deborra hesitated. “I should not tell you, but—I know a little. Enough to be sure that what Grandfather has to say will please you.”

The summons came at one o’clock, but the talking had not reached an end when Basil arrived at the spacious room of the head of the house. He recognized the deep voice of Paul as soon as the door opened to admit him.

“I will not compromise, Joseph of Arimathea,” the apostle was saying. “I have come to Jerusalem with a message. A message for your stiff-necked leaders, for such they are in very truth. It is this, that the Gentiles must be received, not on our terms but on their own terms. They must not be compelled to accept everything in the Law of Moses. To us the Law is familiar. It seems to us perfect. We were born to it and we believe in it. But to the Gentiles it is strange and frightening and it would drive them away from Christ. If we say they must be circumcised before they
may belong, they will turn their backs on the great truths which Jesus taught. No, no, Joseph of Arimathea, I must be firm and allow no tampering with the decision reached five years ago, at which time I was given a free hand. The second thoughts, the reservations, which now fill the minds of the presbyters of the faith, must be put aside.”

“This is the young man,” said Joseph, motioning Basil to enter.

As Basil made his way into the room he saw that Joseph was reclining on his couch as usual and that both Luke and Deborra were present, although seated at a distance. Paul, who was stationed close to Joseph, turned at his entrance and gave him the benefit of a quick but intent glance.

The first close glimpse that Basil was thus afforded of this remarkable man was in the nature of a shock. He was surprised to find how old the great apostle had become. Paul’s hair and beard were white, and there were both fatigue and suffering in the lines clustering about his eyes and accenting the hollowness of his cheeks. It surprised the youth also that the face that had been turned to him was not an agreeable one. The features seemed to have been cut out of the hardest granite, and the expression was stern. But at the same time he realized it was a compelling face. The eyes under straight white brows were the color of the moon in a daylight sky, strange eyes, disturbing and at the same time fascinating.

Basil realized after one glance at this frail old man in his short and unadorned woolen tunic that no one else in the room seemed to matter.

Joseph cleared his throat. “I have already said that I am pleased with what this young man has done for me. There is something I have not told you.” He motioned toward the clay bust, which stood on a pedestal beside him. “It was not for this alone that I had him come here. There is something of much more moment to be done. It is so vital that I had to be sure of the artist who would undertake it. This,” indicating the clay head, “was a test. He has passed it so well that I am sure he is capable of the much greater work that is now to be done.

“I have been making another test,” went on the venerable head of the house. “It was not enough to be sure of this young man’s skill with his hands. I had to be equally sure of him—of his character, his loyalty, his patience, even his courage. Unknown to him, I think, he has been under observation. I wish to say now that he has satisfied me on every point.”

Basil saw that Luke was smiling and nodding his head at him. Deborra
was leaning forward, her lips slightly parted in anxious anticipation.

“Young man,” said Joseph, addressing Basil directly, “I must tell you, before going any further, that the task I have in mind would entail the most careful study and the hardest of work. You must give years to it if necessary. You must travel, for there are many men to be seen, of whom you must make as good likenesses as you have of me. You must expect to meet opposition and to face danger.”

“I shall be happy to undertake it,” declared Basil. “And to give every moment of my time to it. If I have any reluctance at all, it is because I wonder if it will be possible to satisfy you.” He paused and then asked, “Where would it be necessary for me to go?”

“To Caesarea, I think. To Ephesus. Perhaps to Rome.”

Basil found it hard to prevent himself from crying out exultantly, “I will go!” That he would have to visit Rome was sufficient to make him accept instantly. The answer to the question that had been weighing heaviest on his mind had been found. He would get to Rome and he would find Kester of Zanthus.

The main explanation was now to be made. Joseph glanced first at Paul and then at Luke. “Some years ago an object came into my possession,” he said. “It was of such a nature that I trembled at the responsibility that had been placed on me. The fear that it might suffer damage or that it might—ah, what a terrifying thought!—be stolen or lost weighed so on my mind that I had a special room made in which to keep it. There it has been ever since, as free of observation as though in the Holy of Holies. Today, for the first time, I propose to open the room.”

Paul had listened to the explanation with interest but also with some impatience. It was clear he resented the interruption to the discussion of his views. “My good Joseph, what can this most mysterious object be?” he asked.

“Let me tell you first,” said Joseph, “how it came into my hands. A woman brought it to me, a humble woman who had hidden it away, not being sure of her duty in the matter. She had feared it might get into the wrong hands and so she had waited. It was with the most solemn admonitions that she confided it to me. I was to keep it until I in turn could be sure of what was to be done. She was very poor, but I need hardly tell you that she refused any remuneration.”