The Silver Chalice (56 page)

“It is a pack of falsehoods!”

Raguel gestured with both hands. “People are accepting it as the truth. And so when a beardless boy comes and says that the Cup was not destroyed, are we to believe him? Are we to accept him on faith and let him know our most closely held secret, the whereabouts of John?”

At first Basil had nothing to propose for the unraveling of this unforeseen difficulty. If the letter from Luke did not suffice, what more could
he do? Finally, however, he said to the dyer: “It may be I could convince you by telling the whole story; how I came to be in the household of Joseph of Arimathea, and everything that has transpired since. It is a long story.”

Raguel was dressed in a purple robe to anticipate the stains that his garments were certain to suffer in the course of his work. His neck and arms and ankles were discolored with splotches of this shade. He dried his hands on the skirt and then held the letter up to his eyes for a final appraisal.

“I go on an errand on the Lord’s Day,” he said finally. “It will mean a seven-mile walk and the same distance back. If you care to go with me, there will be time for the telling of this story.” He gave his head a warning shake. “It will be a hot and dusty walk. It leads into one of the most desolate spots on the face of the earth. Think twice before you decide to accompany me.”

Basil felt his heart sink at the need to face once more the malice of his great enemy, the sun, but he did not hesitate in answering. “Have I come all the way to Ephesus to see John, only to be sent away without an effort? I will go with you. I am sure the story I have to tell will banish from your mind the lies this Loddeus is spreading.”

Raguel let his eyes range to the raised portion of the room where a plump woman with warm brown eyes was working among the cooking utensils. She nodded her head to him and he smiled and nodded back. “You will stay with us. My Elisheba is a good provider and she will not mind another mouth to fill because my assistants have their meals with us anyway. We will start at dawn.
Maran-atha!
It will be a hard walk!”

Segub, who was called the Zebra, emerged from the dyeing room, where he and the other assistants slept on rolls of bedding behind the vats. His nickname rose out of his unwillingness to wash the dye stains from his person. His neck was red, his chest purple, his bony ankles a weak blue. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes with a slow hand.

“It will be hot,” he said, staring into the east. “Jehovah have pity on all flint-heads like my master who will walk to the mines this day.”

“If you were a good Christian,” said Raguel, “you would be going with us.”

“I am a good Christian,” retorted Segub. “I believe in the words of Paul, who said to us, ‘The Lord’s Day is made for man, not man for the Lord’s Day.’ I shall pass the hours in the shade of a tree and I shall think of you, master, toiling over the sands to those thrice-accursed mines.”

Raguel began the long walk with a pucker between his eyes. “I was converted to the teachings of Jesus seven years ago,” he said. “Do you see what that means? All my life I have lived under the Laws, and I am now too old to change. Many Christians disregard the strictest of the Laws. They lean on the utterances of Paul and say, ‘Is it not true that Paul says this or that?’ They are becoming very lax. But I—I cannot change my ways.” He sighed deeply. “Have you noticed any difference in me?”

Basil saw now that his cheeks looked sunken and that new lines had sprouted around his mouth.

“I lack teeth,” explained the master dyer, “and on the Lord’s Day I dare not use the substitutes that have been made for me. Why, do you ask? Because when they fall out—as they do a dozen times a day—I could not put them back in; that would be work, and all work is forbidden. Nor could I carry them, because that also would be work.”

Basil pointed an accusing finger at a brass plate with a spoon tied on top of it that his companion had tucked under one arm.

“But is it not work to carry that?”

“No, my young friend. Do you not see the distinction? A spoon is helpful to support life, and so it is allowed to carry one wherever you go. If the spoon happens to be on something else, then it is permitted to take the other object as well. Yes, it is a subterfuge. I grant it. But such subterfuges make it possible to exist under the strictest laws, and so all good Jews do as I am doing. I carry this plate with a clear conscience.”

The freshness of dawn had been driven from the air already by the conquering sun. Segub the Zebra had not overstated things; it was going to be a very hot day. Raguel sighed and looked up into the sky. “I am no longer young, and it becomes increasingly hard to walk to the mines. Now, young stranger, you will tell me your story.”

Basil slung the blue cloth that contained his supply of clay from one shoulder to the other. He was finding it a little hard to breathe. “I was a slave in Antioch,” he began.

It took quite a time to finish the story, but there must have been conviction in the narrative. At the finish the master dyer nodded his head with a hint of belief.

“I do not think you could make up such a tale,” he said. “To believe
what you have told would make me very happy. We who depend on the word which reaches us from other places need a symbol on which to fix our eyes. What better one could there be than the Cup of the Last Supper? But it is true that Loddeus also told a story of convincing detail.” Raguel studied the face of his companion, which was looking flushed and feverish under the solar onslaught. “Somehow I am disposed to put my trust in you rather than him. There was a glibness about him that sat ill on my stomach.”

They were walking over baked roads that were hard and rough to the foot. There was not so much as a single palm to lend them shade. The mountains that sheltered the city were now close at hand, their peaks starkly outlined against the thin blue of the sky. The few stragglers they passed were like white wraiths, their feet plodding slowly, their heads sinking despondently forward. Even the cry of birds overhead was muted and seemed to come from a great distance.

Raguel raised his staff and pointed. “The mines are over there, at the base of the hills. Those who work in them are all Christians—poor, patient fellows, any one of whom would die willingly for a single glimpse of the Cup. Young man, young man, you would not trifle with anything as sacred as this? Are you telling me the truth?”

“I have spoken the truth,” declared Basil, laying a hand on his heart.

Raguel looked at him intently for a moment. Then he smiled and nodded his head; he was convinced at last. He touched a hand to the brass plate under his arm. “I am taking this,” he said, “to one of those gentle, tired men who work so hard in the mines. His brother was crucified two days ago with this plate nailed to the cross and on it no more than a number. Last night, after darkness had fallen, I went to the Knoll of the Dead Men under the shadow of the Rock of Vultures and I stole the plate because I thought my poor friend Abishalom would want it.

“Can you believe,” said Raguel as they continued to plod on through the intense heat, “that my friend Abishalom has never been more than a mile away from the place where he was born? Will you accept my word for it that he does not know what is done with the ore he carries in sacks on his back from the mine shaft to the mill, limping all the way because he is lame? That he has never seen a piece of the burnished brass they make in the mill? All these things are true.

“He is married, my poor friend, and he has seven children. His wife is a bitter woman who tells him he is a weakling, a failure. She has thrown it into his face always that he is not good enough to work on
making the brass in the mill instead of carrying ore on his back. That is why he has never set foot in the mill. In his way he is proud, my friend.

“He had an older brother, Hobab, who was strong and upstanding and a leader among the miners. As a boy Hobab always helped the lame Abishalom over the rough places, sometimes carrying him on his back. He was always gentle and loving as an older brother should be, and as a man he continued to help and cherish him, sometimes sparing a coin or two when the tax collectors came and Abishalom had nothing to give them. But Hobab had a great temper, and when the Zealots began to make trouble with the miners he incited his peace-loving fellows to strike back. There was fighting and a man was killed. The Roman soldiers came and took Hobab away, saying he was the ringleader. They crucified him on the Knoll of the Dead Men.” His face had fallen into lines of sadness. “I am told that Abishalom has not spoken since they took his brother away. He lies on his bed and stares at the wall with eyes that see nothing. It may be that he will never get up again.”

They had come in sight of a cluster of small huts. Raguel raised his staff and pointed at one of them. “That is where he lives,” he said. “I will go in alone, if you do not mind.”

It was a long time before he came out. Saying nothing, he seated himself beside Basil, who had found a spot that was in shadow from the sun. He lifted a handful of the sandy soil and let it trickle through his fingers, his head bent over to watch. He repeated this several times and then he began to speak.

“It is no wonder,” he said in a reflective tone, “that men like Abishalom have such barren lives. It is hard to live where the earth is so lacking in fertility. It is a struggle to survive. But,” he added with a sigh, “he will not have to struggle longer. My poor friend has very few hours left.”

Neither of them broke the silence for several moments. Then the master dyer again raised his voice. “When Christians gather together for talk, it is the question of life after death that concerns them most. It is a new thought, strange and wonderful, and it lights their minds like a thousand suns. They play with it as a beggar child might play with a precious stone he has found in a dustbin. They believe, but at the same time they marvel at their own audacity. They con over the evidence. ‘Did not Jesus say this?’ and ‘What did He mean when He told His disciples that?’ They quote the words of Peter and Paul and sometimes they reflect that the Grecian people also believe in a future existence. But always it is vague and they long to have their minds set at rights.” He
lifted his head proudly “I have no doubts. I am one of the few. I am never troubled in my mind. Ever since I accepted Jesus I have been sure that I would see Him in all His glory. I am happy in my faith. And now, praise to Jehovah and His only begotten Son, my poor friend Abishalom is able to share my faith!”

He turned to Basil a face that glowed with light. “He lay there in the stifling heat of a corner, his face like a mask of death. I do not think he knew me when I bent over him. I placed the brass plate in his hands and told him what it was. Do you remember what I said, that he had never seen a mirror? He looked at the bright brass of the plate, and a face looked back at him. They were much alike, the two brothers, and he cried out at once that it was his brother he saw. ‘O Blessed Father in heaven,’ he said. ‘There is a life after death! See, my brother has not gone down into the darkness of the grave. He looks at me from the plate under which his body died. His eyes smile at me, they weep, they try to tell me things.’ It was hard for him to hold the plate so that he could continue to watch the face in it. After a long time, while he gathered his strength for more words, he said: ‘I know what he is trying to tell me, my fine, tall brother who died so bravely. He says he will be there to meet me when I die and that he will take me up on his back and carry me far out over the clouds and through the stars on the path to paradise!’ ”

A doubt drifted across the dyer’s face for a brief moment. “It may seem to you that my friend has been cheated, that he has been brought to a belief in the future life by a trick. It is not so, young stranger. The Lord must have put it into my head to steal the plate from the cross on which Hobab died and take it to his brother. It was Jehovah’s way of showing the truth to this humble man with his simple, clouded mind.
Aiy
, you should have seen Abishalom’s face! It glowed with the happiness that had come to him. And”—he gestured quietly with his hands—“who knows? Can we be sure it was not Hobab who looked back at him from the plate of brass? Stranger things have happened, my boy.”

The sun had stolen up on them, determined to deny them the shelter that a sparse and mournful tree had been affording. It was now peering straight around the tree and directing its rays at them like arrows of fire. Raguel said: “We must be on our way. But first I shall tell you one thing more. I saw that my friend’s wife was eying the plate with a speculative gleam, and I knew she was wondering how much she could sell it for. So I called the older of the two sons aside. He is a boy of thirteen, and I think he must be a good eater and sleeper and that his
bowels are regular because he already has much of the great strength of Hobab. His name is David, but all his life he has been called Young Waxy Nose. I said to him: ‘From now on you must never allow anyone to call you Young Waxy Nose, but always it must be David because very soon you will be the head of the family.’ And I looked him hard in the eye and said to him sternly: ‘David, do not allow the plate to be taken from your father’s hands. Stand by him, and when he dies—for he is going to die, David, and you must be brave and not give way to the tears I see in your eyes—you must see to it that he is buried with the plate clasped as tightly as he holds it now.’ And the boy choked back his tears and he stood up very straight and said: ‘It will be as you say, Uncle Raguel. I am now the head of the family and I shall give the orders.’ ”

There was no longer any hope of comfort where they sat. Raguel sighed and rose to his feet. “Come,” he said. “There is more for us to do.”

They turned, and Raguel led the way toward the base of the nearest mountain. The heat here was even harder to endure. It was reflected back from the rocky surfaces of the hills and seemed to settle down about them like a sullen and angry cloud.

“Have you heard, my young friend,” asked Raguel, “that there are miles of subterranean galleries under the city? We are not certain today of the purpose for which they were designed, although it is thought they may have been intended as a means of escape if the city should fall to an invading army. They run out under the walls. One line of galleries has an exit under the base of this mountain ahead of us. No one knows this save the men who go down into the mines with their picks, all of whom are Christians. It was they who discovered the steps that connect their shaft with the last of the underground chambers, and they have kept the secret of it closely.” He paused, and his eyes, half closed in the glare of the sun, looked up at Basil with a smile. “I am going to take you to see John,” he said.