The Silver Chalice. Thomas B. Costain
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purpose was to be good to living creatures, even to men. The old city had appeared at a distance like a saffron concoction on a shallow platter of green held out in welcome by the bronze hands of the gods of the hills. On close inspection the town proved to be a baffling maze of narrow lanes with astonishing bazaars comparable only to Time, which has no beginning and no end. Basil, child of the Ward of the Trades, lost himself in these vastnesses and only through the help of a beggar, whose sores were honest, found his way back, late and shamefaced, to the great khan inside the Antioch Gate.
He was there in time to witness the belated arrival of Adam ben Asher, to whom they had been directed. The latter proved to be a study in incongruities; a figure of bulging girth and yet obviously as tough as leather; his skin blackened by desert suns and his eyebrows the bushiest of black penthouses, while his lively and roving eyes were of a most unusual shade of gray. Contrasts were to be observed also in the matter of his dress. With a flowing tunic bearing the red stripe of the desert nomad, he wore high-laced shoes that suggested a Greek dandy and a belt that could have come from nowhere but the distant and fabulous Cathay. He talked in the high-pitched voice of the professional teller of tales, he gestured like a camel trader, he fell in and out of rages as easily as a player of parts. His talk never ceased, and it was amusing, blistering, and laudatory in turn. He was openly and professedly a friend of every man on the caravan trails.
He crossed the courtyard of the khan, his voice shrill in greeting of Luke the Physician. A clout on the chest knocked the latter off balance and an immediate thump between the shoulder blades saved him from falling. “You look as cool as the snows of Ararat,” Adam declaimed. What errand brings you here? Do you go to prepare the way for the Brave Voices in a conquest of Bavil?”[1]
| [1] | The name commonly applied to Bagdad. |
Luke had accepted the buffeting in good grace, but he protested what Adam had said. “It hurts me to hear you speak in this way,” he said.
“Because I call Paul and Peter and the rest of your friends the Brave Voices? Come, what am I to call them? I stand by the old beliefs and the Law of Moses and I cannot bring myself to speak of these followers of the Nazarene as apostles. What then? Brave Voices is as good as any name. If it implies a small measure of disrespect, it indicates at the same time that the Christian leaders have courage. Can you expect me to do more?” He burst into a loud guffaw. Ending it abruptly, he shot a question at Luke. “What brings you to Aleppo?”
“I bring you this lad,” said Luke. “He goes to Jerusalem, and it is the wish of Joseph of Arimathea that he make the journey in your train.”
The light eyes of the mahogany-skinned nomad turned in Basil’s direction. They took in every detail of his appearance, the youthful thinness, the wide brow, noting also the short-sleeved colobium of the free man, which the youth wore with such gladness.
“Who is he?” demanded Adam ben Asher, not lowering his voice. “He’s too young, I think, to be one of the Brave Voices, but there’s a suspicious glitter in his eye. There’s something about him that makes me uneasy. What is it?”
“Adam ben Asher,” said Luke in an urgent tone, “it will be better if you refrain from shouting about us to the rooftops. This young man comes from Antioch. He is an artist and he goes to carry out a commission for Joseph of Arimathea.”
At this the caravan man gave over all other interests to a study of the youth. His manner lost all trace of joviality and became intense and critical.
“I think ill of artists,” he remarked. “There have been too many of them in the world, painting on walls and carving idols out of stone. So, this one is an artist and he goes to work for Joseph of Arimathea! I have worked for Joseph of Arimathea all my life, and this is a matter of some concern to me.”
The kindly eyes of Luke showed a faint trace of weariness. “My friend,” he said, “this is a very small matter. It does not concern you in any way.”
The curiously assorted trio sat down together in a corner of the courtyard with a copper dish between them, filled with rice and lamb and all manner of small surprises in the way of vegetables and nuts and spices from the Far East. Basil ate with the good appetite of youth. Adam ben Asher performed prodigiously, wiping his hands on a napkin each time he dipped into the dish but paying no immediate attention to the smearing of his lips and cheeks. Luke partook lightly and with a noticeable fastidiousness.
“You and I, O Luke,” declared Adam, probing into the dish with a forefinger, “are much alike. You are not counted among the bravest of the Brave Voices, but I have observed how they depend on you in all things. You arrange the meetings, you talk to the magistrates, you see that there is food. When money is needed, you go to Joseph of Arimathea. You talk to the captains of ships, and jailers and innkeepers and tax collectors. I wonder if there would be as many believers today had it not been for the quiet work of one Luke who sits beside me at this moment and frowns with disapproval of what I say. You, old friend, have made yourself indispensable to them, and what is your reward? You have become the—the Cart Horse of Christianity!” The caravan captain threw back his black-thatched head and roared with appreciation of his own cleverness. “And now on the other hand. That wise old man in Jerusalem, Joseph of Arimathea, is counted the great merchant of the world. But for the last ten years I, Adam ben Asher, have done much of the work. I buy, I sell, I fight, I contrive. I take out caravans, I go as far east as India. I work from sunrise to sunset. I am the Titan of the Trails, the Pilgrim of the Pe Lu. It is Joseph of Arimathea who dispenses the wealth with such a generous hand, so that the Brave Voices may go out and preach, but it is Adam who provides the dinars.”
Basil had finished his repast and was listening to this discourse with absorbed interest. Adam ceased talking at this point to give the youth another prolonged study.
“So, this boy is an artist!” he said finally. “I believe you, O Luke, because he could be nothing else with such useless hands. But what is this genius going to do for Joseph of Arimathea?”
“Your master is a very old man,” said Luke, “and his granddaughter, the little Deborra——”
“The little Deborra,” interrupted Adam with a loud and impatient snort, “is fifteen. The right age for marriage.”
“Has her age any bearing?” asked Luke. “This is how it came about. Deborra wants a likeness of Joseph in silver that she will always be able to keep. I was asked to find the best worker in silver in Antioch and I selected this young man.”
Adam ben Asher had finished his meal. He dipped both hands in a bowl of water and clapped them over his face, rubbing vigorously to remove all traces of the repast, blowing the while like a sea monster. When he had finished, he rested his elbows on his knees and gave Basil a still more protracted stare.
“How long will this foolishness take?” he demanded, addressing the youth for the first time.
“A few weeks,” answered Basil uneasily. It was not hard to read dislike in the shrewd eye of this strange individual. “Perhaps a little longer. It will depend on how much success I have. Sometimes the first attempts are not successful.”
Adam turned to the older man. “Was it not possible to select one who would be successful from the first? Is this a pindling apprentice you send to Jerusalem? Where will he live?”
“He will live in the house of Joseph. It is the rule because it gives him a chance to study his subject.”
“And for many other things. My venerable friend, do you consider this fellow good to look upon?”
“He is well favored.”
The caravan captain glanced at Basil again and frowned. He changed his position, stole another look, and frowned with still greater violence. Finally he commented in a grumbling tone: “As I have said, I think poorly of artists. They are a weak-kneed lot. I could take this one in my two hands and crack all his ribs. It would be a pleasant way of exercising the muscles.” He turned then and asked a question of Luke.