The Silver Chalice (11 page)

The nature of the message the fingers of Aaron had conveyed to the ears of his servant became clear when the latter returned with a jug of wine. It was
vinum acetum
, thin and metallic in flavor. Basil made a wry face and replaced his cup after one taste.

A sound of voices from the interior court of the house drew him to the window overlooking it. He was surprised at the size and beauty of the garden upon which he found himself gazing. It was oblong in shape and filled with a profusion of flowers and small trees. A magnificent fountain stood in the center, throwing a spray of water into the air as high as the latticed windows of the second floor. Birds of brilliant plumage nestled sulkily in the green foliage and occasionally drew attention to themselves with a flap of scarlet wings or an unmelodious cawing. Basil made a
mental acknowledgment to Joseph of Arimathea: in the matter of gardens Jerusalem ranked well above Antioch.

A very old man had entered the court, leaning on the arm of a girl, and progressing with slow and unsteady steps. Certain that this was the great Hebrew merchant, Basil studied him with eager eyes. The brow of Joseph of Arimathea was unusually broad, and his deep-sunk eyes had both nobility and intelligence. It was a beautiful and generous face. Basil’s fingers itched for his finely balanced hammers and the coolness of his modeling clay.

He was so concerned with the countenance of the venerable merchant that he did not notice the girl with him. This was an oversight, for she was worth a long glance: a small figure in a white
palla
that covered her from neck to sandaled foot; her hair, as black as midnight, in braids hanging over her shoulders; her eyes so concerned with guiding her grandfather’s steps that it was only when she glanced up for a casual moment that they were seen to be bright under finely arched brows.

The voices of the pair in the garden carried clearly to the room where the visitor waited, and Basil realized that they were engaged in an affectionate bickering.

“My dear child!” the old man was saying. “You are getting to be the same kind of tyrant as your grandmother. I must do this, I must not do that. Why must I be blamed so much because I had a good meal this morning?”

“You are no better than a disobedient boy,” protested the girl in a high but pleasant voice. “Why, oh why, did you allow yourself a cucumber? Did not the kind physician who came to see you no more than three days ago tell you to be more careful? He mentioned cucumbers particularly. You will suffer for this! And you will have to take those medicines he left. Young hemlock and syrup of squills——”

“They turn my stomach,” complained the old man. “Such things are unfit for wild dogs!”

“And now you insist on seeing this artist,” went on the girl. “Do you think you have the strength today? There is plenty of time. The artist can wait.”

“He has come all the way from Antioch, my child, on the bidding of my good friend Luke. And there are reasons, of which you do not know, for showing him every courtesy.”

The girl’s voice displayed more interest at once. “What is there about him that I haven’t been told, Grandfather? You must let me know now.”
Without waiting for any response, she linked an arm firmly in his. “I shall go with you, then. And I shall see that the talk is a short one. You are getting tired, I can tell, and ready for a nice long nap.”

Joseph of Arimathea shook his snow-white head sadly in agreement. “Yes, a very long nap, my little Deborra.”

Basil had transferred his attention finally to the girl, and he found himself admiring the purity of her white throat and the animation of her eyes. He had little time to study her because Adam ben Asher joined him at the window.

“You like her?” asked the caravan captain in a brusque tone.

Basil answered cautiously. “Yes—if one may judge at this distance.”

“You think her attractive?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I knew you did. I could see it in your eye.” Adam was keeping his gaze fixed on Basil’s face. “And now what will she think of you? I am more concerned about that.” His breathing seemed labored, an indication that his emotions were deeply involved. “I give you a word of warning, young silversmith. You must stick to your hammers and tools. We want no airs here, no posturing and posing.”

Basil turned and looked steadily at him. “I know no reason for accounting to you for my conduct.”

Adam seemed on the point of explosion. “I shall find a reason,” he said.

The girl’s solicitude over her grandfather’s health had prevailed. It was two hours before Basil was summoned to the bedroom of the head of the household. Joseph was sitting up in a huge bed, looking small and thin on its snowy expanse, but refreshed and receptive. On a table beside him there was a half-empty wine cup of silver and a platter with the remains of a light meal. His granddaughter sat close at hand. She gave Basil one glance and seemed surprised to find him so young. Then she studiously lowered her eyes.

“You are a boy,” said the old man in a voice that seemed too deep and full to issue from a frame so frail. He did not appear to be disturbed, however, for he did not labor the point. “You left my friend Luke in good health, I trust?”

“He was fatigued with the journey from Antioch to Aleppo,” answered
Basil. “But after one night’s rest he started back alone to join one Paul of Tarsus. They are coming to Jerusalem together.”

Joseph of Arimathea nodded his head gravely. “I wrote to Paul and advised against coming at this time, but I did not expect he would heed my warning. He scents danger and rushes always to meet it.” His eyes, which shone benignly in a forest of wrinkles, turned back to his youthful visitor. “I see you have brought your clay with you. Set to work at once. I am well rested today. When your subject is as old as I am, you must take advantage of every moment.”

Basil heard this suggestion with a feeling of panic. He invariably had difficulty in the first stages and he feared that nervousness would steal from his fingers all power to catch and imprison a likeness in the damp clay. If he failed, this shrewd old man in the enormous bed might decide he would not do for the task. What would happen to him then? He was a free man now, of course. He kept the document attesting his release from bondage in the belt under his tunic, and he could not be returned to slavery. But failure might rob him of his one great chance, and he would find himself condemned to a lifetime of ill-paid labor at a workman’s bench.

He took a seat with open reluctance at the foot of the bed and set his fingers to work. At first his worst fears were justified. He could do nothing with the clay, and the face that emerged from the probing of his nervous hands bore small resemblance to Joseph of Arimathea. “I am going to fail!” he thought in a panic. “I shall be sent away in disgrace. Luke will be blamed and Adam ben Asher will be so pleased that he will laugh at me.”

A second effort was more successful. The noble brow began to show, and under it the weary eyes came into a semblance of life. A deep sense of relief took possession of the boy and communicated itself to the tips of his sensitive fingers. He began to work then in real earnest and with a full share of the concentration of the artist.

He became so absorbed that he paid little attention to the talk carried on between Joseph and the girl. They were discussing Paul and a certain errand of much urgency that was bringing him to Jerusalem. There was mention also of others whose names meant nothing to the youth, James and Philip and Jude. It was clear that Joseph had reservations in his mind as to the attitude these men would take when the unwanted but intrepid Paul arrived. All this seemed of small importance to Basil; of minute concern, in fact, when compared with his feverish desire to transfer the
stamp of the merchant’s noble head to the damp material in his hands.

He became aware that a silence had fallen on the room and saw then that the girl had deserted her seat beside the couch, vanishing from the range of his vision. It was not until he heard her voice behind him that he realized she was still in the room.

“It is perfect!” she cried. “Oh, Grandfather, it is exactly like you.”

Basil turned his head and saw that she had stationed herself at his shoulder so she could watch while he worked. Her eyes had widened with pleasure over what he was accomplishing. She was not beautiful, but when her face became lighted up thus she came close, he decided, to real beauty. Her lips were slightly parted with excitement and there was a hint of color in her cheeks. She smiled at him and repeated, “I think it is perfect.”

“It is a beginning,” said Basil. He studied his work with a critical eye and discovered that, although it had many good points, there was still a serious weakness. He turned on his stool to explain to her, “Getting a likeness, that human touch which can be recognized at first glance, depends nearly always on some one detail. It may be the width between the eyes. It may be as small a matter as the angle of the eyelid. Until you stumble on what it is, the face remains lifeless. Now I have one advantage here: I know what it is I need. The key to the likeness is the nose. Your grandfather has a most remarkable nose. It dominates his face. Oh, if I can only get it right! If I do, you will see this lump of clay come quickly to life before your eyes. But so far I have not succeeded.” His fingers had gone back to work as he talked, changing the clay this way and that with the slightest possible pressure of the fingers. Suddenly he stopped. “I think—— Yes, I have it! Here it is, that splendid nose. I did no more than make a slight change in the elevation, the merest fraction of space, and now it is right. At last it is a likeness!”

“Yes, yes!” cried the girl.

But Basil shook his head. “It is not enough yet,” he said, speaking as freely as though no one else were in the room. “True, I have the likeness now. But I am getting him as he is today. There must be as well a hint of the power of his earlier years. It will be empty without that. And again the secret is in his nose—that fine, fighting proud nose. I shall have to work still harder. But,” confidently, “it will come. When one has attained this stage, it can be taken as certain that the final goal will be reached.”

“I am sure of it,” said the girl.

“Perhaps you young people will suspend your discussion long enough to let me see it,” said Joseph. “It is
my
face you are discussing with such frankness. It is
my
nose that seems to cause so much concern.”

He reached out a hand. His fingers, which had almost the transparency of ivory, trembled slightly. He accepted the clay from Basil and frowned a little in his shortsighted study of it. There was at the same time, however, an almost immediate display of approval.

“Yes, Deborra,” he said, “the young man has a likeness of me here. I think it is going to be good, very good indeed.”

Basil warmed to this welcome praise from his employer. All doubt left him. He was going to succeed. He was so certain of it that he accepted the clay back and set to work again with a feeling of full confidence.

Deborra returned to her chair beside the couch. Her praise had increased Basil’s interest in her, and he was now fully conscious of the grace of her movements and the fine line of her profile. As noses had been so much under discussion, he gave hers a close scrutiny. It was short and straight and with the merest indentation at the end, which made it the very pleasantest kind of nose, pretty and slightly pert. He decided that he liked it.

“How can you be so calm about this, Grandfather?” she asked. “I think it is quite wonderful!”

The eyes of the two young people met across the room, hers still wide with the pleasure she was taking in the success of his efforts. She smiled at Basil so warmly that he began to wonder if it was entirely her interest in the work that prompted her. Was she willing to let him see that he himself was included in the approbation she felt?

F
OR A WEEK
Basil saw nothing more of Joseph of Arimathea or his granddaughter. Adam ben Asher, he learned, had departed from the city. He worked a little on the clay bust from memory but found it unwise to attempt much, fearing he might lose the likeness. It was at best an elusive thing and could be destroyed by the indiscreet pressure of a fingertip.

He had been consigned to a small room on what obviously was the wrong side of the house, an airless space within sound of warehousing activities and on a dark hall that swarmed with workmen at all hours of the day. He washed with the domestic staff, waiting in a long line for his turn at a stream of water spouting sluggishly from a pipe, and sharing a piece of soap with the others. At intervals he visited an open and somewhat malodorous trench in the slave quarters. This treatment was so different from the warmth of his reception that he could not understand it. Had Joseph, on second thoughts, been less pleased with the start he had made? Was the parsimonious son of the house responsible for this unfriendly accommodation?

He took his meals alone in a small underground room lighted by an oil lamp in a bracket close to a ceiling that dripped moisture. The food was wholesome but decidedly plain and by the third day had become monotonous. Through an open door he looked on a long and dark chamber where the slaves of the household sat down to meat at the same hours. They gathered around a table large enough to accommodate forty or more at a time. He watched them as they ate (their food the same as his) and was surprised at the cheerfulness they displayed. They were a motley gathering, with skins of many colors, but dressed without exception
in the plain gray tunic and the brass collar of servitude. There was much chaffing and laughing and, as both sexes shared the table, a tendency to ogle and flirt. An official sat at the head; the overseer, no doubt, for a whip was tucked into his belt, which he wore outside his tunic. He was a heavyish individual but not without good nature. He indulged in much humor of a heavy, bludgeoning variety and did a great deal of winking at the women.