The Silver Chalice (83 page)

Inevitably, however, his mind went on to more cheerful matters and he thought of the son who would arrive after all the customary symptoms had been lived through, the son who would proudly wear the fine clothes the old prince had left for him and frighten other boys by swaggering about in the conjurer’s mask.

“It is certain that Linus is in financial difficulties,” whispered the man of law. “It is the one thing I am concerned about. Are we fighting over a dead carcass?”

The sharp voice of the young magistrate was raised. “Let us begin,” he said.

Jehoahaz pawed through the documents in front of him and found the deposition of Kester of Zanthus. He rose to his feet. “Learned Judge,” he said, “I have a paper I desire to lay before you. It is a statement made by one of the five witnesses who was not heard from at the first hearing. His name is Kester of Zanthus and he is a dealer in army contracts, residing in Rome. This statement was given by Kester to the plaintiff when the latter was in Rome.”

Linus roused himself from his sprawling position and stared at the lawyer with startled eyes. Clearly he was hearing for the first time of the statement supplied by the missing witness. “Now he will begin to rant and roar,” thought Basil. But the man who had won the first legal battle said nothing. There was a flush on his flabby cheeks, and it could be seen that the hirsute hand with which he grasped the arm of his chair was twitching spasmodically.

“I have a copy of the evidence of this man, Christopher of Zanthus,” declared the magistrate, lifting a document in front of him. “It has been
supplied to me by the commandant of the imperial forces in this district, to whom it had been sent by the witness himself. There is, I understand, an acquaintance of long standing between them.”

The legal aides seated about Linus went into action at this point, arguing bitterly about points of law. There was a loud babble of voices for some minutes, and much raising of vehement fists in the air, and then the magistrate cut the discussion off with an impatient thump of his hand on the bench.

“Enough!” he said. “I need no instruction in the meaning of the Twelve Tables. This deposition, copies of which have reached the court now from two sources, is admissible as evidence.” He turned in the direction of Jehoahaz. “What witnesses have you?”

The witnesses who went up one by one, to stand briefly in the fierce light of the magisterial eye, were merchants for the most part, men who had known Ignatius well and who testified that they had heard him speak of Basil as his adopted son and his heir. Flaminius allowed no interference with them. He asked the questions himself, sharp, pointed, conclusive. It took no more than a few minutes in each case, and then a wave of the nervous hand of authority would send the witness back to his seat.

While this went on Basil was watching the man he had hated so deeply and for so long and realizing that none of that feeling was left in him. He was conscious, in fact, of a trace of pity for the usurper. Linus was a sick man and a frightened one. Basil no longer felt any desire to tear his opponent down and exult in his fall.

It was clear from the beginning of the defense case that it would rest on the evidence of Hiram of Silenus. Basil remembered him as a fat and oily specimen with great yellow freckles on his face. Hiram was both fatter and oilier now and the freckles had multiplied to the density of stars in a constellation. It was quite apparent from the moment he entered the room that he would have preferred not to testify a second time and that he had come under pressure of the law.

The magistrate summoned the witness to a position directly beneath the seat of authority and proceeded to go over his previous evidence step by step. Hiram, perspiring freely and sometimes turning to dart apprehensive
glances at Linus and his little circle of advisers, affirmed under this close examination that the evidence he had given at the first hearing had been true. He was still of the belief that the ceremony he had witnessed had not been one of adoption. He did not remember any striking of the gong with the ingot of lead, no affirmation on the part of Ignatius that he was taking the boy as his son.

The magistrate then picked up the statement of Kester of Zanthus and read it aloud. What did Hiram of Silenus have to say about this?

That the memory of Kester of Zanthus was at fault.

Had the father of the boy offered his son for sale three times as prescribed by law?

Yes, but not for adoption.

Had there been a meal afterward of five courses and had five of the finest wines been served as asserted?

He had no recollection of a meal of any kind.

Was it true that Ignatius had given to each of the five witnesses a belt buckle of silver?

He had received no gift of any kind from Ignatius.

Did he have in his possession a silver buckle of the kind described by Christopher of Zanthus?

No, he had no such buckle.

At this point in the examination Basil sat up very straight on the bench he was sharing with his legal adviser, his attention roused to a keener point. There had been something about the appearance of Hiram when he first entered the room that had tantalized him with a hint of familiarity. Could it have been the buckle on his belt?

He got to his feet and made his way through the crowded space in front of the magisterial dais until he stood close to the unwilling and now harried witness. His eyes settled on the buckle of the man’s belt. It was of silver and it had five points; it was, in fact, identical in every way with the one Kester of Zanthus had worn.

“This lag-witted ox, this accepter of bribes!” said Basil to himself. “He has been guilty of the stupidity of wearing into court the evidence that will prove him to be lying.”

What would be the most effective way of calling the buckle to the attention of the young magistrate with his keen wits and his eyes as sharp as camel-prods? Basil examined the perspiring bulk of the reluctant witness and saw that the leather of his belt was showing the strain of spanning a
stomach that had become too wide for it. The belt had worn thin at the back.

Basil carried one of his knives in his own belt and this he now produced, touching a finger lightly to the blade. It was keen and sharp. He edged his way behind Hiram and gave the most frayed part of the leather a quick, deft slash. The leather parted and the belt fell to the floor.

Before the startled Hiram could do anything about retrieving the belt, Basil had it in his hands. He glanced at the inside of the buckle, which was tarnished from long use, and saw that two names and a date had been inscribed upon it. Stepping close to the dais, he held it up in the air.

“Here, Learned Judge, is proof that this witness has not told you the truth,” he declared. “This is the buckle which was given him by my father, Ignatius; the same gift which the other four witnesses received.”

The magistrate held out a peremptory hand. “Give it to me.”

The belt was handed up to him and he examined the inscriptions with an eye that had become cold and accusing. Then he leaned forward and held the article out to the witness.

“Where did you get this?”

“I do not remember. I have had it for many years.”

“Do you deny receiving this from Ignatius on the occasion under discussion?”

“I do not recall receiving a present of any kind.”

“What explanation do you give of the inscriptions on the back?”

“I was not aware there were any inscriptions.”

“And yet you tell me that you have owned this belt for many years? Do you still deny any knowledge of the nature of the inscriptions?”

“Yes.”

“I call to your attention that the buckle is inscribed with the name of Ignatius and the name he was giving the boy, together with the date of the ceremony.”

The witness had nothing to say. He was now perspiring so profusely that he seemed on the point of melting away like tallow under the rays of the sun.

The magistrate raised a hand for silence. All mutter of conversation in the court ceased. There was no sound even of rustling garments or the scuffing of sandals on the floor.

“It will not be necessary to hear anything further,” said the magistrate.

No doubt was left as to what the verdict would be. Basil looked at Linus. The mouth of the usurper had fallen open and his face had
become as white as candle wax. Basil said to himself: “Luke was right. There is no satisfaction in revenge. This man deserves no pity and yet I find that I am sorry for him. I have won but I must strive to be generous.”

Basil noticed differences in the house on the Colonnade as soon as he was admitted. The halls had not been sufficiently aired and his nostrils encountered a thicker mustiness than he had ever detected in the halls of Nero. It surprised him still more, however, that he had been met by Quintus Annius.

The Roman clerk bowed to him solemnly and ceremoniously. “I knew you would come,” he said. “As he came the other time.”

“Is my haste unseemly?”

Quintus Annius shook his head. “Not at all. The others have been arriving. You are the last.”

Basil looked his surprise. “What others?”

The Roman clerk made a gesture with his hands that suggested resignation. “The creditors,” he said.

This brought other questions at once to the tongue of the restored owner. “Creditors? What I have heard is true then? Linus has been having losses?”

A morose nod of the head provided the answer. Basil’s heart sank very low. Had he won back his inheritance to have it snatched away again in the moment of victory? Did this mean that his hope of security and independence was to be no more than a dream?

He became unpleasantly aware of the silence and emptiness of the halls. Most of the furnishings had been removed, and so far he had seen no trace of servants.

“Where are the slaves?” he asked.

“There was a commotion when word of the decision reached us. I ordered them confined to their quarters.”

“What kind of commotion?”

“Linus was a hard master and had made himself hated. When we heard you had been restored to your inheritance there were demonstrations of joy. For a time they got quite out of hand.”

Basil smiled without any sense of mirth or pleasure. “I begin to get a
sense of welcome after all. But any real satisfaction I might have taken is gone because my mother is not here to share in it.”

Quintus Annius nodded gravely. “It is much to be regretted that she could not have lived two months longer. She was very kind, particularly near the end. We had many talks and she was always certain that you would be restored to your rights. The last time I saw her she said it would be soon but that she would not be here to see it. How true that was!” He sighed deeply. “As long as she lived we were able to keep up a semblance of order. It was after her death that the place fell into such shameful neglect. I even found myself wishing at times that Linus had a wife.”

“Is he here?”

The clerk raised both hands in the air, the fingers clenched in sudden anger. “He was the first to come. He said he was going into his room and did not want to be disturbed for half an hour. I took this to mean that he would resort to the only honorable way to conclude such—such an inglorious affair as this has been. No sounds came from behind the door and I said to myself, ‘He has opened his veins.’ I waited the half hour, but when I went in I did not find him on the floor in a pool of his own base blood. The room was empty and it had been ransacked from top to bottom!” The clerk’s face, which was usually void of expression, had become red with the intensity of his indignation. “He had seized everything of value he could get his hands on—money, bits of jewelry, documents—and had taken advantage of the absence of the servants to leave by the rear gate. A fitting end after all. He had made himself a common thief!”

“Whatever he managed to steal,” declared Basil, “is a small price to pay for the gift of his absence. He will never dare come back. And when we have been robbed of so much, does a little more matter?”

They had reached the door of the circular room. Quintus Annius motioned with his thumb. “They are in there,” he said. “Waiting for you. I suggest you come with me first. I have some documents to show you.”

In his own small room the clerk seated himself before a neat pile of documents. He looked at them and heaved a bitter sigh.

“Everything is listed here,” he said. “Here are the debts, as far as I have been able to compile them. The total will give you an unpleasant surprise. Here is the list of our assets. They have been dwindling fast. What a hopeless mess it has been!”

Basil glanced at the figures, and his heart went down again into the
depths. It was worse, much worse, than he had feared. “There will be little left,” he said.

“Very little. Those fellows in there have been most demanding. They have been hovering over us like vultures, flapping their wings and screeching.” He picked up the documents and frowned over them. “I have done nothing for you. As you do not need to be told, I am a coward. I deserted you the first time——”

“I had refused to take your advice.”

“True. But when the second hearing was directed, I did not go into court. I knew the magistrate would look at me and ask, ‘Why did you not give this evidence the first time?’ The only answer I would be able to make was that I had been afraid. I lacked the courage to face that question, and so I stayed here and skulked in abasement. You will never forgive me. I do not deserve it.”

“Put it out of your mind,” said Basil. “I assure you that I have no hard feelings.”

The young Roman’s face flushed with a new resolution. “I shall try to make up for it. I will fight for you against these ravenous dogs. I will fight over every bone that is left. I may even be able to bury a few bones away where they will not find them.” He shook his head with a savage resentment. “He was out of his depth from the very first, a midget trying to fill the shoes of a giant. I have been in torment, watching him destroy with his fumbling hands the magnificent prosperity into which he stepped!”

There was a long moment of silence. Basil was realizing how badly shaken he had been. “This is a hollow victory,” he thought. “But I have one satisfaction. The stigma of slavery has been lifted from my name. Perhaps I should be content.” He asked aloud, “How many slaves are there?”