The Silver Chalice (27 page)

“You sat with us when this man,” motioning toward the head, “was brought in for a hearing.”

Aaron nodded. “Yes,
rabbani
.”

The High Priest glowered reminiscently. “You heard him call me ‘a whited wall.’ I have been called more scurrilous things, but nothing has ever been said of me that sits more ill on my stomach. I shall never forgive Saul of Tarsus. My enmity will follow him to the end of his days.” Then he nodded briskly. “But I did not bring you here, Aaron ben Joseph, to talk about this persistent advocate of heresy. I want to speak instead of the talented artist who made this. You are aware, of course, that it was this artist who rescued the girl after she threw a stone at the Romans.”

“I have heard it said.”

“You must be aware that it is the same man who was brought from Antioch by your father.”

Aaron, not to be caught in any such trap, answered warily, “I doubt if it is the same man. There are many artists and silversmiths in Jerusalem.”

“But only one capable of doing such fine work. You are aware, of course, that this man continues to live under your father’s roof?”

Aaron was caught off guard. “I am certain,” he exclaimed, “that the young artist left our roof some time ago, having completed what he came to do.”

“Apparently I am better informed than you are of what goes on in that
great warren of stone your father calls his house. I can even tell you in what well-concealed corner of the house the young man is lodged.” He had been keeping his eyes fixed on his hands, but now he looked up suddenly and stared hard at Aaron. “I can even tell you the nature of the work on which he is now engaged.”

“I shall have him routed out!” cried Aaron with an air of outrage.

“The time has not come for that,” said the High Priest. “This is something that must be kept from the ears of the Romans. Much as I might like to humble the pride of Joseph of Arimathea, I do not want it done at a high cost. The Romans would take any excuse to step in and confiscate all his property—and I assure you that I desire that almost as little as you. We must be sensible and bury away the incident of the riot and never stir it up again. In any event, I do not want this young man disturbed. There is a touch of genius in him. I am almost disposed to think that the spirit of Scopas has come back and is expressing itself through the tips of his fingers. Do you understand much of Scopas and his work?”

Aaron shook his head in denial of such knowledge. It was clear he considered the matter of small importance.

“Scopas,” explained the High Priest, “was the first artist to inject human emotions into the sheer perfection of Grecian sculpture. The men and women he created in everlasting marble were filled with loves and hates and fears. He did it in unmistakable ways. The heavy overhang of the brows lent emotional strength, even though the eyes were deeply shadowed. The flare of the nostrils lent excitement. He was a little rough and rugged and perhaps lacking in the perfection of those who went before him. But he brought a new note into the most enduring of all forms of art.” He was beginning to wheeze from so much talking and found it necessary to pause in order to catch his breath. “I am getting as long-winded as that strutting little jackass Jorim who directs the cantillation of the prayers in the Temple, Jehovah forbid! But I must point out that there is much of the Scopas touch in this remarkable head of Paul. I do not want this young man treated roughly in any way. I want him to go on creating things as fine as this.

“But, Aaron, this artist is being made an instrument in a very dangerous plan,” he went on. “I said before that the time has come for frankness between us. I shall keep nothing back. A member of your household staff has been in my pay for some time. Last night he brought me word that a certain cup is concealed in your father’s house. It is plain and it is
cheap, but any Christian would be willing to die for the privilege of touching it. It is the cup the Nazarene used when He broke bread for the last time with His followers. Your father has employed this young Greek to fashion a silver frame for it.”

“I assure you I had no knowledge of this.”

“That I know. Your father kept his possession of the Cup a secret, and it was not until recently that he shared his knowledge with anyone. That such a cup was in existence has been known to us for many years, and we have realized the importance of it. We have searched for it high and low.” His hands drew so tightly together that they seemed an expression of the ruthlessness of their owner. “I shall not know a moment’s peace of mind until it has been brought to me and I have seen it
broken into pieces and ground to dust before my own eyes!
I lay this command on you, Aaron ben Joseph, that you find this Cup at once, today, and bring it to me.”

This demand created an unexpected change in the son of Joseph of Arimathea. His thin face flushed with resentment.

“My father is dying,” he said. “Do you think me so lacking in feeling that I would disturb his last moments?”

“Let me explain the situation,” said Ananias. “The preaching of Paul is splitting the Christian ranks. All Jews, even those who believe in the Nazarene, resent his insistence that Gentiles be admitted on an equality. They feel so strongly that from this time forward it will be among the Gentiles that new recruits will be won. And now we have this pestilential magician, this rancid Samaritan, stirring doubts in all minds by the miracles he is performing,” A flush of excitement mounted to the brow of the High Priest. “With two such potent weapons in our hands, we may succeed in stamping out this dangerous heresy for all time! Can you not see how inconvenient it might be to let their leaders produce the Cup at this moment and use it as a new rallying point?”

“How long has my father been in possession of the Cup?”

“For some years——”

“Then”—with a satisfied wave of the hand—“a few days more will not hurt.”

“A few days!” cried the High Priest. “Even a few hours may prove our undoing. Do you not realize, Aaron ben Joseph, that I have the power to compel your obedience?”

But Aaron had taken his stand and he was of too set a turn of mind to be easily dissuaded. “You are the High Priest,” he said, “and so you have
great power. You have the power of the Temple, the allegiance of the priests and Levites, of the sons of Zadok, of the singers and porters. It may be that the daggers of the Zealots are at your command.”

The High Priest’s nostrils were twitching angrily. “That may be true,” he said.

“But,” went on Aaron, “we also have power. A different kind, but one to be reckoned with nonetheless. The power of wealth, the power of the mighty shekel. Our influence spreads far beyond the limits of the Diaspora. No trading house in Jerusalem could continue if we ordered otherwise. In considering our strength, think not only of what we could do; think also of what we could undo.”

Ananias was now thoroughly angry. He had withdrawn his hands from the table and dropped them in his lap, but not before his visitor had seen that they trembled with the rage that possessed him. “An hour ago, Aaron ben Joseph,” he said, “I instructed Rub Samuel to have your house surrounded by his most zealous and willing men. They are at their stations now. No one will be allowed to enter or leave without being questioned and, if it seems necessary, searched. Even you, the son and future head of the house, will be stopped. We spoke of power. This is a demonstration of it.”

“A ship from Troas is expected to dock at Joppa within the next few days,” countered Aaron. “It carries a valuable cargo. If Joseph of Arimathea decided that nothing was to be purchased here, there would be no buyers. The shipowners would suffer a grievous loss. They are all men of Jerusalem, and I recall that on the list is a man
high in the Temple
.” Having thus thrown down the gage of battle, Aaron seemed to be enjoying his role. “We spoke of power. This is another demonstration of it.”

The furious temper that had caused the High Priest to order the assault on Paul in court flamed up in him again. He pounded on the table with both fists.

“Thou stubborn son of an unregenerate father!” he cried.

Aaron, recalling the scene in the Sanhedrin, rose and leaned over the table. “Thou whited wall!” he exclaimed.

There was a moment of silence, and then Ananias threw himself back in his chair. He began to laugh. He laughed with so much gusto that his great mound of a stomach shook under the silver-fringed blue girdle about his waist. The bells on his tunic jingled loudly. “I have never liked you,” he said. “You seemed to me as poor in spirit as a tinker’s mule. But now
I find myself conceiving an admiration for you. I have changed my opinion so much that I shall make a bargain with you. Listen.”

He wiped away the tears that laughter had brought to his eyes. “The man who brought me the information about the Cup, for which I paid handsomely, had something else of importance for my ears. It concerns you, my friend with the temper that kindles slowly, you and the money you are to inherit. I shall tell you what it is if you, on the other hand, will make me this promise: that you will not in any way interfere with Rub Samuel’s men and that the instant your father’s eyes close in death you will call them in to guard the house while you search for the Cup. That you will promise, moreover, to tear down every partition in the house, if necessary, and raise every foot of flooring until you find it; and that you will then bring it to me.” The vigor with which he had spoken had brought a purple tinge to the High Priest’s cheeks. He stopped for several moments while struggling to regain his breath. “Is that a fair exchange between the stubborn son of an unregenerate father and a high priest who has twice been called to his face a whited wall? Is it a bargain? Is it agreed?”

Aaron, somewhat aghast at the lengths to which he had allowed himself to go, had sunk back into his chair. Now, however, he discovered a sense of pride in having bandied insults and threats with the head of the Temple. He nodded his head.

“It is agreed,” he said.

“Listen, then. Your father is diverting a large share of your inheritance from you. He is too good a Jew to do this in his testamentary instructions, but for many years he has been depositing a portion of his profits with the banker Jabez in Antioch. These funds, which now amount to a very considerable sum, pass to your daughter on Joseph’s death. Your daughter is a convert to the Christian teachings and she understands that she is to serve in a sense as custodian of the money, and that some part of it at least is to be for the use of the Nazarene leaders. By this means your father will continue his support of the heresy after his death.”

For perhaps the first time in his life Aaron’s face was a mirror of all the emotions that filled him. In his distended eyes, in the flush of his face, in the spasmodic opening and closing of his fingers could be read the anger aroused in him and the determination he had already conceived that no part of his inheritance would be taken from him.

“Has your daughter passed the age of thirteen years and one day?” asked the High Priest.

Aaron nodded. “She has had her fifteenth birthday.”

“Then she is legally of age. I hoped she was still a minor and barred from receiving this inheritance, except in trust.” The priest looked somberly at his visitor. “I have some advice to give you. Your daughter, although of age, is still unmarried, and so she is under your guardianship. Have a trusted agent ready to leave as soon as your father dies. Send him to Antioch on the fastest ship you own or can charter. Give him written authority to claim the money in your name as father of the girl. Once you get the funds into your own hands, you will be in a position to control them so that not one half shekel will ever find its way into a Christian purse! You know what the law says, that a guardian may ‘buy, sell, build, demolish, hire out, plant, sow——’ You know what it says as well as I do.” Ananias leaned across the table and regarded his visitor with an insistent frown. “You must realize the importance of this. Above everything, see that the girl does not marry. Once she takes a husband, your rights come to an end and she passes under his tutelage. Aaron, she must not marry!”

Aaron spoke through tightly locked lips. “I put no trust in agents,” he said. “I shall go to Antioch myself!”

Basil had no appetite that day for the meal brought to him at five o’clock. It was an unusually good one. There was even a slice of hot meat and a batter as rich as the
keroshitha
, that wonderful dish made of dates, raisins, figs, and almonds that was served once a year with the paschal lamb. He said to the servant who came to remove the dishes, “Eat it yourself, Eschol the Toad.” The servant, his eyes fixed greedily on the batter, answered, “I will cut off at the wrist any hand that tries to take as much as a mouthful from me!”

Basil had been existing in a state of mounting discomfort and tension. The air in the room behind the meal sacks had grown more fetid with each day of his occupancy. The throbbing of his head made the light of the oil lamp intolerable, and he spent most of his time in darkness. This left him with his thoughts for company, and it disturbed him that the picture of Helena filled his mind continuously. He would envision her as she had appeared on the morning of his second visit to the House of Kaukben, looking so cool and lovely in her severe linen gown, with her
feet bare and her luxuriant black tresses hanging down her back, or as she sat beside him in the empty Gymnasium, her head pressed against his shoulder.

Although he allowed her to monopolize his thoughts, he was aware that his interest in her was both unwise and unhealthy. He had not failed to detect that her eyes, which were dark and soft and lovely, could also be hard and calculating. Her voice, gentle and enticing for the most part, had at times a different note. She had displayed an interest in him that caused his blood to tingle in recollection, but he was not convinced it went any deeper than self-concern. Yes, she could be cold and hard; but this, instead of leading him to a more sensible frame of mind, had the effect of stimulating his feeling for her.