The Silver Chalice (22 page)

He was carrying a wand, one of unusual length and with an excess of carving. This he placed on a table in the center of the platform and over it threw a length of scarlet cloth extracted carelessly from a voluminous sleeve. The cloth writhed and shook. When it was snatched away there lay on the table, not the wand, but a copper snake that raised its head and emitted a hiss. The cloth was replaced and fell immediately into folds of emptiness. When removed a second time, the snake had vanished and there was nothing on the table but the wand.

“A simple trick,” said Simon Magus, his lips curling in an ugly smile. “You have seen it performed many times, no doubt. Any trickster living in a sun-drenched villayet on the Red Sea can juggle thus with wand and snake. I offer it first so that ye may judge better of what follows, the strange things I shall show you that are not at all a matter of deftness of hand or of the props of illusion.” He paused, and his glittering eye swept the gathering. “Hear me, O men of Jerusalem. There is a magic of the spirit which has been given to me and which I shall now employ.”

Luke had not been much impressed with all this proud chatter. “Would you believe, my son,” he whispered, “that there are people credulous enough to think this man is the Messiah? It is the truth. A cult was started in Samaria, where they profess to believe he works with divine aid. It is spreading quite rapidly. Many Greeks have joined and even a few, but a very few, Jews. I fear that this demonstration has been allowed in the hope that doubt may be thrown on the miracles of Jesus. The High Priest is willing to traffic with a Samaritan in his determination to destroy us.”

Simon again raised his arm in the air. “I shall take no more of your time
with simple legerdemain. I shall not try to befuddle you with appeals to Pehadron, the angel of terror, or to Duma, the prince of dreams. I shall now proceed to show you that I possess a power that is shared by no other man born of woman. There is a light within me that turns the external world to darkness but lights the world of dreams to the singing splendor of the stars. Because of these strange conditions under which I work, I must now call my chief assistant to my aid.” He raised his voice still higher. “Come, my child. Is this not the hour for great secrets to be bared? The one moment of the day when hidden truths may be revealed?”

In answer to this summons, a young woman joined him on the platform. She was beautiful in a remarkable degree. Her hair, held on the nape of her neck in a curious web of golden thread that a Roman matron would have called a chignon, was as lustrously black as her large and expressive eyes. Her features had such purity of outline that she seemed the product of a great Greek artist. She was dressed in the finest simplicity, the
palla
she wore being of silk; and not the coarse bombycimon which was being made on the Isles of Greece, but the purest variety which came in over the camel trains from Tartary.

To appear unveiled in public was to break the great law of the East, but she seemed quite oblivious to the sensation she was creating. Standing perfectly still, her shapely bare arms crossed on her breast, she allowed her eyes to rove with no trace of confusion over the sea of brown faces turned up to her. The first hint of a concerted protest died away, and fists that had been raised in the air were lowered. Curiosity seemed to have conquered, for the time being at least.

“To what lengths will this man go?” demanded Luke. “He seems capable of doing anything for a sensation.”

Basil had no comment to make. He had recognized the dark beauty standing with such unconcern under the still hostile eyes of the multitude. It was Helena, the slave who had run away from the white palace of Ignatius.

The face of the magician had been that of an old man when he first appeared on the platform. Excitement had now removed some of the evidence of the years. There was in his eyes an almost impish delight in the
audacity he was displaying. His body seemed to take on a greater agility, his step was spry, he snorted triumphantly through his camel-like nose.

A seed was planted in a small earthenware bowl and grew into a tall plant before their eyes. Fruit sprouted on the branches and grew to ripeness. The girl picked a pomegranate from its branches and then glanced impudently about until her eyes caught those of a young sheik from the desert with a proud high hook to his nose. She threw the pomegranate to him, calling, “If you find it sweet, O Chief, think of me.”

A sickle, which had been lying on the table, flew into the air. It hovered unsupported and then proceeded to cut the plant down close to the earth in the bowl, without the aid of any hand.

“No man that ever lived,” boasted Simon, “could harvest a field of grain as quickly as this magic sickle.”

With a sudden loud screech the magician bounded high into the air and in what had seemed empty space above him found a scimitar with a brightly burnished blade. Taking his assistant’s throat in his other hand, he forced her to a kneeling position. With one clean, quick stroke he severed her head from her body and held it up for all in the audience to see.

“O Guardian Angel Shamriel!” he chanted. “Listen to me, Shamriel, hear my command. Restore this bleeding head to its proper place so that life may return to the body of my beloved Helena. Yah, yah, Zebart, Shamriel!”

The head and the trunk drew together. Simon ran his hands around the point of juncture, intoning a chant in a high singsong. All trace of fission disappeared, and a moment later the eyes opened, the girl smiled and nodded her head.

“O Shamriel, praise to thee!” chanted the magician. “My Helena lives again.”

The horror and shock of the audience exploded in a deep murmur of wonder. The magician held out the scimitar for all to see that there was blood on the blade. Then he dropped it on the table and bowed to his watchers.

“Saw you ever the like before?” he asked. Then he turned to the girl. “My Helena, you are well again?”

“Quite well, master,” she answered.

“Was it painful when my lethal blade separated your head from your body?”

“I do not know, master. I remember nothing.”

Simon took her by the hand, helped her to her feet, and then led her to the front of the platform. She dropped a curtsy and smiled again at the amazed audience.

A moment of silence followed. It was the deliberate pause that comes when something of extreme importance is to follow. Then a cultivated voice spoke from the audience, and it was as though the curtain had risen at last on the play of the evening after an elaborate prologue.

The speaker used Aramaic, but his voice carried such a scholarly note that it was apparent he was more accustomed to speaking in Hebrew.

“O Simon, are you not bold,” he asked, “to display your magic in the land where Jesus the Nazarene performed His miracles?”

The voice contained more than a hint of scoffing. Luke stiffened into immediate attention.

“I have heard of Jesus the Nazarene and His miracles,” answered the magician. “Who indeed has not?”

The questioner in the audience now propounded another query, his tone still more suave. “Were these miracles manifestations of divine power, or could they have been wrought by the tricks of the magic trade?”

“I do not like your choice of words,” said Simon. “Trade? It is more, much more, than that.” He paused before adding, “Who am I to answer such a question?”

Luke spoke in Basil’s ear. “All this has been carefully prepared in advance. I am sure this questioner comes from the Temple, that he is an agent of the High Priest.”

“It is said,” went on the suave and mocking voice, “that on one occasion this Jesus the Nazarene caused tongues of flame to appear above the heads of various men he called his disciples. It is told, moreover, that these common men of the people, these untutored fishermen and shepherds, spoke in many languages thereafter and also performed miracles. Could you, with your mastery of magic, perform such things again?”

Night had been falling rapidly. No steps had yet been taken to illuminate the platform, and the figures of Simon and his lovely assistant had become no more than shadowy outlines. Out of the darkness the voice of Simon was raised.

“My friend, whoever you may be, I tell you that it can be done again.”

“Then indeed I consider that my time this evening is being well spent. Do I understand that you declare your ability to make a tongue of flame appear above the head of anyone selected from this audience even as Jesus the Nazarene did?”

“Yes.” There was a long moment of silence before the magician asked, “Is it desired that I, Simon of Gitta, demonstrate my powers by repeating this miracle of which there has been so much talk?”

A chorus of voices rose from all parts of the crowd, cultivated voices that spoke in the common Aramaic but with the rich intonations of the ancient Hebrew. “Yes, yes!” they cried, and “Show us, Simon of Gitta.”

Luke sensed more than before the smack of preparation in this and he shook his head in a sudden anger. “Is there nothing they will stop at?” he whispered to his young companion. “Ah, what hatred they still have for the Master!”

“In order to do as you wish, I must ask some assistance of you,” declared Simon. “Three citizens will be needed on the platform. To silence in advance any criticism of my methods or any hint of collusion on the part of those selected to aid me, I ask that they be men of established reputation and so well known to all of you that it will be clear they have not been coached to play parts in a deception.”

The cressets raised on poles at each corner of the platform had not yet been lighted, and by this time the Gymnasium was wrapped in almost complete darkness. There were sounds of discussion in one section of the closely packed audience, followed by that of feet ascending the steps. There was some uncertainty and stumbling in the dark.

“I cannot see,” declared Simon. “My eyes are losing some of their power with the fast passing of the years. Are there three of you?”

“There are three of us, Simon of Gitta.”

“Good! We may now proceed. I ask of you, most worthy sirs and citizens, who are at this moment no more to me than faint figures in the dark, that you follow my instructions closely. You must do what I ask. Nothing more and nothing less. You will first bind my arms with cords you will find beside you on the table.”

Several moments passed with no sounds save an exchange of whispers between the three witnesses and the scuffling of their feet on the planks. Then the magician asked, “Are you satisfied that I now lack the power to use my arms? If you have any doubts, give the ropes another twist to tighten them further. I can stand the pain. Now bind my assistant also, but be gentler with her, for her arms are lovely and fragile and must not suffer.” There was a pause. “Are you convinced she is powerless to take any part in the drama which is about to unfold? Helena, my child, are you suffering pain?”

“Yes!” gasped the girl. “Proceed quickly, my master!”

“Stand in line in front of the table, my friends,” instructed Simon. “Do not touch one another. Do not touch the table. Banish all thought from your minds. Be receptive to the power I shall send you. O Shamriel, hear my plea! I beg your aid.”

A complete silence had fallen over the Gymnasium. The figures on the platform were no more than dark shadows.

“One!” cried Simon the Magician.

A small flame appeared above the head of the first witness in the line, a Roman officer, judging from the fact that he wore over his shoulder a red cloak of the type known as an
abolla
.

Far back in the throng of watchers Luke drew in his breath sharply. “What sorcery is this man using?” he asked in a tense whisper. He laid a trembling hand on Basil’s shoulder and began to quote from a story of the activities of the apostles of Jesus on which he had been engaged for many years:

Then he whispered to himself: “This evil man! What harm will he do? Will he turn people’s minds away from the truth?”

The “cloven tongue” had illuminated the stern features of the Roman officer for a few moments only and then had died out.

“Two!” cried the magician.

A second light appeared, this time above the head of the next witness in the line, a well-known rug merchant. He was an ancient man named Abraham ben Heleb and was counted among the wealthiest residents of the city. He seemed a little discomfited at the nature of the service being exacted of him. The shades settled down about him again.

“Three!” cried Simon, his voice shrill and triumphant.

This time the flame gave a brief glimpse of Ali, the beggar who sat every day at the Gate of Ephraim and demanded with arrogance charity of all who came and went. The mendicant, who was supposed to have accumulated much gold in his day, had time only to wink at the assembled audience before the light flickered out and the darkness closed in for the third time.

Then from all parts of the packed space there rose loud laughter and mocking voices. Even in the disturbed condition of mind to which he
had fallen, Luke recognized still the scholarly note in all of them.

“So that was the great miracle!” shouted one.

“Have they been given the gift of tongues?” demanded another. “Speak to us, O Ali from the Ephraim Gate. Speak to us in the tongue of Seen.”

It became apparent now that there were few Christians in the Gymnasium, for the laughter was general. Gibes were heard from all parts of the darkened space in voices that were now rough and uncultured, the words from the most colloquial form of Aramaic.

A scurry of feet could be heard as assistants carrying burning torches mounted the steps of the platform. They set the oil in the cressets to burning. The three witnesses paused uncertainly and then began to file down.

Simon, panting with pain, cried to the dark-skinned assistants: “First, remove the cords from the arms of my helper. Be quick about it! She is suffering tortures.”