Adam was still watching the procession of the First Fruits. “We, the children of Israel, take our religion seriously,” he said. “And we are the only people in the world who do. I will tell you about that.”
He proceeded to do so after the camel train had started and he had ranged himself beside the young artist. “One day,” he began, “I was tempted to commit a sin. Not one of your puny sins, the kind that stupid little men commit every day, but a great, black, terrible sin. As I considered it, I felt that a hand was suspended over my head, ready to strike. I knew what it was: it was the hand of Moses. He has been dead for thousands of years, that wrathful man, and yet no Jew can commit a wrong today without fearing that Moses will punish him personally for it. It was Moses who taught us that the Sabbath must be kept. Master Basil, have you noticed that my left arm is stiff at the elbow? I get little use of it. When I was a boy I broke it on the Sabbath and my father would not permit anything to be done for it until the following day.”
He was silent for a moment and then he began to deliver an address on the merits of his people. “To the Jew who lives abroad the Temple is the center of all spiritual life. He has his own synagogue, but it is to the Holy of Holies that he turns. He longs to share in its activities. It has become our custom to send out word from Jerusalem when the paschal moon rises. It’s done by a string of beacon fires lighted on the tops of hills. As soon as the moon lifts its pale head above the horizon, the beacon fires flash and in a matter of minutes the Jews, even those as far away as Babylon, know that the paschal light is flooding the Holy City. They walk out on their housetops and stretch their arms toward Jerusalem. And a great peace and happiness take possession of them.
“But the cursed Cutheans”—a term of contempt the Jews used in speaking of Samaritans—“know of this and they envy us a custom in which they are not permitted to share. They try to interfere. They light other fires on hilltops—at the wrong times, of course. When this happens, the custodians of the sacred beacons become confused and do not know which lights to believe.
“Once,” he continued with a note of satisfaction in his voice, “I was riding by night from Damascus. Off there in the direction of Mount Ebal I saw a light spring up on a hilltop and I knew they were playing their tricks again. I took my men to the hill, and there we found them, a score of grinning Cutheans, piling wood on the blaze and laughing and capering about.” He threw back his head in a loud laugh of enjoyment. “We drubbed them from the hills and we trampled out the fire; and we sent down word into the smug valleys where they live in slothful ease that if they interfered again with the holy paschal fires we would set a torch to Shechem and Sebaste. That took away their appetite for tricks.”
He seemed no longer aware that he had hearers. With eyes fixed straight ahead and his voice raised to an oratorical pitch, he declaimed the glories of his race. He recited stories from the Book of Jashar, gesticulating with his one good arm. He kept returning to the point of view with which he had started, that truth dwelt only in the Jew and that all other religions were no more than lip service to idols. This continued literally for hours. He seemed tireless. At the end of each story he would straighten himself and look up into the sky, where the sun was blazing, and he would shout out loudly, as though in defiance of the world, the words of the creed. To Basil, now half a dozen camel lengths behind, it seemed that everything in between was a jumble of words, and all he could distinguish was the phrase so often repeated:
Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God is One God!
* The name commonly applied to Bagdad.
CHAPTER III
1
IT WAS THE CUSTOM in Jerusalem to face the Temple when out of doors. To abide by this rule men had to control their walking and standing so that the great white building would always be partially in the eye, even looking back over the shoulder when going in the opposite direction.
This was a simple matter from the house of Joseph of Arimathea. It stood on the brink of the western hill above the Cheesemakers’ Valley, and from there the horizon was dominated by the house of the one God on the slope of Mount Moriah, its marble walls brilliant against the turquoise of the sky, its gold-sheeted roof with tall spikes of the precious metal proclaiming the wealth and power and the reverence of the race which had raised it.
By way of contrast, the Cheesemakers’ Valley was a belt of squalor separating the mount of the Temple from the activities of the upper and lower cities. As though striving to escape from its stifling heat and noisome discomfort, the houses of the cheesemakers climbed up the slopes, one on top of another, tiny structures of stone with flat roofs and a thick overgrowth of stout vines. It was a simple matter to mount from roof to roof, and many a fugitive from the law had escaped in that way, with the help of the repressed people who lived on the slope. The route most commonly taken was called the Goat’s Walk; and at the end of it the climber found himself facing a door of imposing proportions in a wall of marble. This was the house of Joseph of Arimathea, the wealthiest man in Jerusalem, some said in the whole world. As Joseph had not placed a foot outside the great bronze-studded door in ten years, he had grown into a myth to the poor people whose homes clung precariously below him like pods on a beanstalk. Boys, who are always lacking in proper reverence, sometimes clambered up from the Valley in noisy groups and chanted in front of the door: “Ha, rich man, we are cubs of the poor cheesemakers; give us of your abundance.” If they had not been doing this too often, the door would open and something satisfying would be distributed among them, dates, oaten cakes, sometimes even a copper coin for each.
It was to this splendid door that Adam ben Asher escorted Basil on the morning of their arrival in the Holy City. A current of air from the Cheesemakers’ Valley came up blisteringly hot on their backs as they waited to be admitted. Adam did not seem to mind the discomfort. He turned so he could feast his eyes on the blazing white marble of the Temple at the far end of the bridge across the valley, being careful not to permit the Castle of Antonia to obtrude itself on his vision. This solid pile at the northwest corner had been built by the hated Herod and was now the headquarters of the Roman governor; and so no Jewish eye rested voluntarily on its high stone battlements.
They were escorted into a cool room off the entrance hall and in a few minutes they were greeted by Aaron. Remembering what Adam had told him about the son of the house, Basil was not surprised to find Aaron a middle-aged man of spare build with a face as arid as the desert lands beyond the Jordan and a quick darting eye that passed over each of them in turn with no indication of welcome or pleasure.
“You are back,” said Aaron to Adam. “Has it been a successful journey?”
“Was I not in charge? Is it not certain, then, that the camels have brought wealth on their backs?”
“Perhaps,” said Aaron dryly. “That will be seen.” He glanced coldly at Basil. “Who is this?”
“This is the artist selected by Luke the Physician in Antioch. On instructions from your father.”
Aaron had been holding both of his hands behind his back and at this point he made a loud snapping sound with his fingers. A servant had accompanied him into the room, carrying his head bent over so far that it was impossible to see much of his face. The click of his master’s fingers conveyed some special intelligence to this attendant, for he turned immediately and left the room, the arch of his back and neck lending him a close resemblance to a condor.
“Ebenezer will tell my father you are here,” declared Aaron. “If he is in one of his more lucid moments, he will probably see you at once.” He studied Basil with an eye as cold as outer space and then said to Adam, “He is very young. Were his qualifications weighed carefully before he was selected?”
“I was so told by Luke.” Adam’s voice carried a bristling note. “Is it not claimed that one Jesus disputed with learned doctors at the age of twelve?”
“That has no bearing,” declared the other sharply. He motioned toward a room opening off the one where they w
ere standing and then addressed Basil. “You will find water there to remove the stains of travel. There will be wine brought in. You,” to Adam, “will have other matters to attend to elsewhere, no doubt.”
“When my master dies, this ungrateful son of a good father will have no further use for my services,” muttered Adam when Aaron had left.
Alone in the inner room, Basil looked about him with speculative eyes, mentally comparing the house of Joseph of Arimathea with the palace on the Antioch Colonnade. It was furnished with a beauty he found somewhat strange, although he realized that the hangings had a fineness of color and texture that gave him a sense of voluptuous pleasure and that the rugs were the best product of the weavers who wrought magic with skilled fingers. It seemed to him that an air of mystery was fostered purposely, whereas the house of Ignatius had been kept wide open, a little noisy by contrast, with the sunlight free to invade every nook and corner. There were other differences. The ornamentation in Antioch had been pure and with a certain feeling for the ascetic; here it approached the point of overelaboration.
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.
2
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 t
ook 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!”
The Silver Chalice Page 8