The Silver Chalice (28 page)

“It is a good thing that I am tied here so closely,” he said to himself many times. “If I dared venture out again, I would have gone at once to see her; and nothing but evil could have come of that.”

As soon as silence settled down over the house, he ventured out from his place of concealment. His first visit was to the slave baths, where he laved himself thoroughly. The dull ache in his head left him with the first touch of the cold water on his brow. He felt so much stimulated that he said to himself, “Tomorrow I must work.” He wondered when Deborra would return, and for the moment her image left no room in his mind for the dusky enchantress. After completing his ablutions he decided to risk a visit to the Court of the Packers in order to get some exercise. In the daytime this open space was the scene of much activity, of sweating porters who came and went, of carpenters breaking open cases that had come from afar or nailing up goods to be sent out. He had gone there often in the still of night because it afforded a larger space for pacing and still more because he could always look up and see the stars, and find much comfort and satisfaction in that.

His visit there this night suffered an interruption. As he paced up and down in the court, picking his way carefully among the wooden cases and the wicker hampers, giving the tool racks a wide berth, and setting his bare feet down with full regard for the danger of fallen nails, he became convinced that he was not alone. He heard sounds in the darkness, an occasional indrawing of breath, a stealthy rustling. He remained still, poising himself beside a tall basket that had come from the Far East and still had about it an exciting odor of spices and strange fruits.

It became clear finally that the sounds came from the east side of the court. Here, he knew, there was a long room that had two doors giving
on the court, doors that gaped open and were never used. Although this room seemed to lack occupancy, the hint of an earlier importance still clung about it. There were large pieces of furniture made of black and brown wood against the walls, and everywhere piles of moldering papers. Of all the apartments in the great house, this seemed to offer the least attraction for a midnight visitation. Nevertheless, after a long wait, Basil heard a scratching sound from that direction and then a light flared in an oil lamp. To his intense surprise he saw the intent face of Aaron above the flame.

The son of the house was conducting a search. He moved stealthily about the room, holding the lamp up in front of him, his eyes darting nervously this way and that. Finally he approached the open door nearest the silent witness, and Basil then became aware that a bed had been placed immediately inside it and that the bed, moreover, had someone sleeping in it. The son of the house stood beside the bed for a long moment, looking down. Unable to see the face of the sleeper, Basil watched that of Aaron instead, reading a curious conflict of emotions there, anger and cupidity and, struggling feebly against the stronger feelings, pity and a hint of kindness.

The cover of the bed stirred and a voice, the voice of Joseph of Arimathea, said, “Is it you, my son?”

“Yes, Father.”

“What do you want?”

Aaron responded by asking a question of his own. “What strange whim is this that has caused you to have your bed moved down here?”

The dying man did not answer at once and, when he did, it was in a voice so thin that the trapped listener in the darkness of the court could hear only an occasional word. He heard enough, however, to learn that Joseph had been convinced he might live longer if he found some way to keep his mind occupied. This room he had used through all the years of his active life. He had been moved here to escape the torpor into which he had been falling in his quarters above.

Aaron interrupted with a touch of impatience in his voice. “You have not set foot here for more than ten years. Not since you gave up full supervision.”

“That is true. It was a—a grievous mistake to give things up as I did. I see now that ever since I have been doing little but—wait for death to come.”

“Death is coming now. You must realize it, Father. What good can it
do you to move to this hot corner? There is not a breath of air here. To stay will only hasten the end.”

“No, my son. If I can keep my mind active, I can still live. A little longer; a week or two, perhaps. Long enough, I think, for the things I want to do.”

“I hear,” declared Aaron, his tone cold and accusing, all trace of kindness banished from his eyes, “that you have been summoning members of the staff here. You are asking them questions, giving them orders. I hear also you have been demanding to see statements.”

“I tell you that I am striving to keep my mind occupied.”

“You must be losing your mind.”

Basil was so much occupied now in this encounter between the great merchant and his son that he allowed himself to peer out from behind the empty spice basket. He noticed that Joseph had shifted his position in the bed and that it was now possible to see his face. It was shocking to discover how thin it had become. The eyes had fallen far back under the noble arch of the brow.

There was a long pause before the sick man answered. “I am ill in body and in spirit,” he said. “But my mind is as clear as it ever was.”

Basil could see that the eyes of the son of the house were never at rest. They darted about, peering into all parts of the room, always coming back to a furtive inspection of the pillows on which his father’s head rested.

“In the morning,” declared Aaron, “I shall give orders to have you moved back.”

Joseph answered immediately, his voice stronger and more alive. “Here I shall remain. Any orders you take it on yourself to give, my son, will be disregarded. Bear this in mind. Master I have always been in my own house, and master I shall remain until I have drawn my last breath.”

“I think not. You are doing insane things, things I will not permit. I know about the steps you are taking, the base tricks you propose to play on your only son! Is it any wonder you cannot die in peace with such dishonesty on your conscience!”

“I have much on my conscience, Aaron, my son. I am aware that I have sinned in the eyes of God and His beloved Son. I have failed in so many things! But where you are concerned, my conscience is clear. You will get your full due, perhaps more. You will be the most powerful merchant in the world. Does not that suffice?”

Aaron was on the point of bursting out with direct accusations, but a sense of caution laid hold of his tongue in time. To let his father see that
he knew of the cup in the house would serve only to put the aged man on his guard. It would be even more unwise to avow knowledge of the funds deposited in Antioch. He contented himself, therefore, with saying, “I have always known, Father, that you placed little confidence in me.”

“Aaron, my son,” said Joseph sadly, “if I have sinned against you, it has been in failing to do anything for your immortal soul.”

“My soul is my own concern. You must know that I incline to the Sadducees and have no faith in this existence after death of which you speak so much.”

“My son, my son! Must I die and leave you in such utter darkness!”

“There is one thing I must tell you,” said Aaron, drawing cautiously on the knowledge he had brought away from the house of the High Priest. “The men in the Temple have been buying information from a member of our staff. What it is they have learned, I leave you to guess. Today the result was seen. The Mar, as they are beginning to call Rub Samuel, has set men about the house, and no one may enter or leave without being stopped.”

The wasted body on the bed stirred with agitation. “It is only because I am dying that he dares do this!”

“Father,” said Aaron, “there have been great changes in this world since you withdrew yourself from it. If you were still young and at the height of your power, you would be unable to fight against this man and his organization. I am telling you this by way of warning. Do not attempt anything that will give them an excuse to take possession of the house.” His voice had ceased to carry any hint of compassion. “If you persist in your wrongdoing—if you attempt to rob me, your son and rightful heir—you will find me ready to fight with them in defense of my rights!”

“I have lived too long!” There was a piteous note in the voice of Joseph. “I have lived to hear my own son threaten to join with my enemies!”

Had Basil been forced into playing eavesdropper when Aaron talked to the High Priest instead of perching behind his wicker basket at this moment, he would have been spared much unnecessary agitation of mind. As it was, he reached the conclusion immediately that the Zealots had one purpose in watching the house, and that was to lay their hands on him. He fell into such a panic of speculation and the making of such hasty plans for escape that he did not hear anything more that was said between father and son. He was aware that they continued to talk, that Aaron’s voice was bitter and menacing, and that it was not until exhaustion made
it impossible for Joseph to respond to the accusations of his son that the latter withdrew.

Basil waited until the lamp in Aaron’s hands had receded down the passage leading to the residential wing. Then he made his way out of the Court of the Packers and slipped back through the darkness to his place of sanctuary. He was sure that it would remain sanctuary for a very few hours only. There was no way to leave the house; and if he did accomplish the seemingly impossible, where, then, could he go?

For the first time since he had last seen Helena that disturbing figure played no part in his thoughts for the balance of a sleepless night.

Luke was surprised the next morning to find himself stopped on reaching the house of Joseph. At one moment the space in front of the entrance was empty; the next, two men were between him and the door. They had materialized from nothing, or so it seemed; and they were dark and unfriendly and fiercely terse.

“Who are you?” demanded one, a man of short stature with the shoulders and arms of a gorilla. He spoke in Hebrew instead of Aramaic, and from this Luke judged him a Zealot. Most of the nationalist party had reverted to the use of the pure tongue of their forefathers, scorning what they called the mongrel language now used as the common means of communication throughout the East.

Luke understood Hebrew but could not speak it. He responded in Aramaic, “I see no reason for answering.”

“There is a good reason.” The short man glowered as he said this and produced a dagger of the kind known as a
conchar
from under his robe. After allowing the sunlight to glisten momentarily on the bright blade, he dropped it back out of sight. “That is the reason. A good one, my ancient friend, the very best of all. You will not be allowed to enter unless you convince us you have the right.”

Luke was showing the effects of his long stay in the heat of Jerusalem. Much of his life had been spent in the open, on the sea and on the camel trains, in Greek towns that perched on lofty promontories and looked far down on the parched land along the coast; wherever, in fact, the beckoning finger of Jehovah had summoned Paul. Since coming to the Holy City, the suspicions and the constant tug of bitter wills had galled and
fretted his generous mind. His eyes were shadowed with care, his brow had become endowed with a mass of new wrinkles, even his beard covered his chest in limpness and discouragement.

He answered in an impatient tone, “I am a physician.”

“So.” The guard studied him closely from head to foot. “The old man inside is close to death. You can do nothing for him. Not all the medicines in the world can give him an additional day of life.” After a moment of sultry silence he added, “And a good thing it is.”

Nothing more was said for a moment, and then the guard burst out with an abruptness which startled the visitor, “My name is Mijamin. Have you heard of me? I think perhaps you have, old man.” He seemed proud of his identity and prepared to proclaim it to the whole world despite the illegality of the part he was playing at the house of Joseph. “And you, my bearded friend, are a Christian. I am so sure of it that I should send you away with a clump on the ear and a warning never to show your face hereabouts again. You are a poor-spirited lot, you Christians; ready to bow the knee to Rome, to accept chains with a weak, slavering smile. That is not the worst part of it. You are telling others that it is wrong to resist the slavery of Rome. It is because of your teachings that we have failed to bring the children of Israel into a solid and united body to resist the enemy of our race.”

His eyes had become red and angry. He flourished a dagger within a few feet of Luke’s face. “This fellow Paul is no better than an agent of Rome, a spy, for all we know. He surely must die. And you, my sly gray-beard, are one of those who walk behind Paul and do his bidding. Now that I have had a chance to look you over thoroughly, I recognize you as one of them. I am sorely tempted to take that old throat in my hands and bring your existence to a fitting end.”

“Leave be, Mijamin,” said the other guard. “This one is a mild and harmless creature. And his errand is to see the sick man inside. It is not in our instructions to stop the likes of him.”

The second guard, who was tall and thin to the point of emaciation, ran a hand over the visitor’s frame, finding nothing to create suspicion. “Be quick about your errand,” he grumbled. “And don’t try to bring anything away with you. If we see a bulge under your robe, we will let sunshine between your ribs!”

It was with surprise that Luke found himself escorted to the room opening off the Court of the Packers. It was hot and noisy there, the air
filled with the loud shouts of overseers, the screech of saws, the staccato rap of hammers. He sensed the reason behind the change, however, when his eyes lighted on the sheets covered with columns of figures that were strewn over the bed. Joseph was paying no attention to these reports now. The mound he raised under the one thin covering was pitifully small, and his eyes seemed enormous in the bony mask of his face.

“My good friend,” said the sick man in a reedy whisper, “I am happy to see you once more. It may be I shall not see you again.”