“To what lengths will this man go?” demanded Luke. “He seems capable of doing anything for a sensation.”
Basil had no comment to make. He had recognized the dark beauty standing with such unconcern under the still hostile eyes of the multitude. It was Helena, the slave who had run away from the white palace of Ignatius.
2
The face of the magician had been that of an old man when he first appeared on the platform. Excitement had now removed some of the evidence of the years. There was in his eyes an almost impish delight in the audacity he was displaying. His body seemed to take on a greater agility, his step was spry, he snorted triumphantly through his camel-like nose.
A seed was planted in a small earthenware bowl and grew into a tall plant before their eyes. Fruit sprouted on the branches and grew to ripeness. The girl picked a pomegranate from its branches and then glanced impudently about until her eyes caught those of a young sheik from the desert with a proud high hook to his nose. She threw the pomegranate to him, calling, “If you find it sweet, O Chief, think of me.”
A sickle, which had been lying on the table, flew into the air. It hovered unsupported and then proceeded to cut the plant down close to the earth in the bowl, without the aid of any hand.
“No man that ever lived,” boasted Simon, “could harvest a field of grain as quickly as this magic sickle.”
With a sudden loud screech the magician bounded high into the air and in what had seemed empty space above him found a scimitar with a brightly burnished blade. Taking his assistant’s throat in his other hand, he forced her to a kneeling position. With one clean, quick stroke he severed her head from her body and held it up for all in the audience to see.
“O Guardian Angel Shamriel!” he chanted. “Listen to me, Shamriel, hear my command. Restore this bleeding head to its proper place so that life may return to the body of my beloved Helena. Yah, yah, Zebart, Shamriel!”
The head and the trunk drew together. Simon ran his hands around the point of juncture, intoning a chant in a high singsong. All trace of fission disappeared, and a moment later the eyes opened, the girl smiled and nodded her head.
“O Shamriel, praise to thee!” chanted the magician. “My Helena lives again.”
The horror and shock of the audience exploded in a deep murmur of wonder. The magician held out the scimitar for all to see that there was blood on the blade. Then he dropped it on the table and bowed to his watchers.
“Saw you ever the like before?” he asked. Then he turned to the girl. “My Helena, you are well again?”
“Quite well, master,” she answered.
“Was it painful when my lethal blade separated your head from your body?”
“I do not know, master. I remember nothing.”
Simon took her by the hand, helped her to her feet, and then led her to the front of the platform. She dropped a curtsy and smiled again at the amazed audience.
A moment of silence followed. It was the deliberate pause that comes when something of extreme importance is to follow. Then a cultivated voice spoke from the audience, and it was as though the curtain had risen at last on the play of the evening after an elaborate prologue.
The speaker used Aramaic, but his voice carried such a scholarly note that it was apparent he was more accustomed to speaking in Hebrew.
“O Simon, are you not bold,” he asked, “to display your magic in the land where Jesus the Nazarene performed His miracles?”
The voice contained more than a hint of scoffing. Luke stiffened into immediate attention.
“I have heard of Jesus the Nazarene and His miracles,” answered the magician. “Who indeed has not?”
The questioner in the audience now propounded another query, his tone still more suave. “Were these miracles manifestations of divine power, or could they have been wrought by the tricks of the magic trade?”
“I do not like your choice of words,” said Simon. “Trade? It is more, much more, than that.” He paused before adding, “Who am I to answer such a question?”
Luke spoke in Basil’s ear. “All this has been carefully prepared in advance. I am sure this questioner comes from the Temple, that he is an agent of the High Priest.”
“It is said,” went on the suave and mocking voice, “that on one occasion this Jesus the Nazarene caused tongues of flame to appear above the heads of various men he called his disciples. It is told, moreover, that these common men of the people, these untutored fishermen and shepherds, spoke in many languages thereafter and also performed miracles. Could you, with your mastery of magic, perform such things again?”
Night had been falling rapidly. No steps had yet been taken to illuminate the platform, and the figures of Simon and his lovely assistant had become no more than shadowy outlines. Out of the darkness the voice of Simon was raised.
“My friend, whoever you may be, I tell you that it can be done again.”
“Then indeed I consider that my time this evening is being well spent. Do I understand that you declare your ability to make a tongue of flame appear above the head of anyone selected from this audience even as Jesus the Nazarene did?”
“Yes.” There was a long moment of silence before the magician asked, “Is it desired that I, Simon of Gitta, demonstrate my powers by repeating this miracle of which there has been so much talk?”
A chorus of voices rose from all parts of the crowd, cultivated voices that spoke in the common Aramaic but with the rich intonations of the ancient Hebrew. “Yes, yes!” they cried, and “Show us, Simon of Gitta.”
Luke sensed more than before the smack of preparation in this and he shook his head in a sudden anger. “Is there nothing they will stop at?” he whispered to his young companion. “Ah, what hatred they still have for the Master!”
“In order to do as you wish, I must ask some assistance of you,” declared Simon. “Three citizens will be needed on the platform. To silence in advance any criticism of my methods or any hint of collusion on the part of those selected to aid me, I ask that they be men of established reputation and so well known to all of you that it will be clear they have not been coached to play parts in a deception.”
The cressets raised on poles at each corner of the platform had not yet been lighted, and by this time the Gymnasium was wrapped in almost complete darkness. There were sounds of discussion in one section of the closely packed audience, followed by that of feet ascending the steps. There was some uncertainty and stumbling in the dark.
“I cannot see,” declared Simon. “My eyes are losing some of their power with the fast passing of the years. Are there three of you?”
“There are three of us, Simon of Gitta.”
“Good! We may now proceed. I ask of you, most worthy sirs and citizens, who are at this moment no more to me than faint figures in the dark, that you follow my instructions closely. You must do what I ask. Nothing more and nothing less. You will first bind my arms with cords you will find beside you on the table.”
Several moments passed with no sounds save an exchange of whispers between the three witnesses and the scuffling of their feet on the planks. Then the magician asked, “Are you satisfied that I now lack the power to use my arms? If you have any doubts, give the ropes another twist to tighten them further. I can stand the pain. Now bind my assistant also, but be gentler with her, for her arms are lovely and fragile and must not suffer.” There was a pause. “Are you convinced she is powerless to take any part in the drama which is about to unfold? Helena, my child, are you suffering pain?”
“Yes!” gasped the girl. “Proceed quickly, my master!”
“Stand in line in front of the table, my friends,” instructed Simon. “Do not touch one another. Do not touch the table. Banish all thought from your minds. Be receptive to the power I shall send you. O Shamriel, hear my plea! I beg your aid.”
A complete silence had fallen over the Gymnasium. The figures on the platform were no more than dark shadows.
“One!” cried Simon t
he Magician.
A small flame appeared above the head of the first witness in the line, a Roman officer, judging from the fact that he wore over his shoulder a red cloak of the type known as an abolla.
Far back in the throng of watchers Luke drew in his breath sharply. “What sorcery is this man using?” he asked in a tense whisper. He laid a trembling hand on Basil’s shoulder and began to quote from a story of the activities of the apostles of Jesus on which he had been engaged for many years:
“And suddenly there came a sound from heaven as of a rushing mighty wind, and it filled all the house where they were sitting. And there appeared unto them cloven tongues as of fire, and it sat upon each of them.”
Then he whispered to himself: “This evil man! What harm will he do? Will he turn people’s minds away from the truth?”
The “cloven tongue” had illuminated the stern features of the Roman officer for a few moments only and then had died out.
“Two!” cried the magician.
A second light appeared, this time above the head of the next witness in the line, a well-known rug merchant. He was an ancient man named Abraham ben Heleb and was counted among the wealthiest residents of the city. He seemed a little discomfited at the nature of the service being exacted of him. The shades settled down about him again.
“Three!” cried Simon, his voice shrill and triumphant.
This time the flame gave a brief glimpse of Ali, the beggar who sat every day at the Gate of Ephraim and demanded with arrogance charity of all who came and went. The mendicant, who was supposed to have accumulated much gold in his day, had time only to wink at the assembled audience before the light flickered out and the darkness closed in for the third time.
Then from all parts of the packed space there rose loud laughter and mocking voices. Even in the disturbed condition of mind to which he had fallen, Luke recognized still the scholarly note in all of them.
“So that was the great miracle!” shouted one.
“Have they been given the gift of tongues?” demanded another. “Speak to us, O Ali from the Ephraim Gate. Speak to us in the tongue of Seen.”
It became apparent now that there were few Christians in the Gymnasium, for the laughter was general. Gibes were heard from all parts of the darkened space in voices that were now rough and uncultured, the words from the most colloquial form of Aramaic.
A scurry of feet could be heard as assistants carrying burning torches mounted the steps of the platform. They set the oil in the cressets to burning. The three witnesses paused uncertainly and then began to file down.
Simon, panting with pain, cried to the dark-skinned assistants: “First, remove the cords from the arms of my helper. Be quick about it! She is suffering tortures.”
“Yes!” cried Helena. “I cannot stand it longer.”
When the cords had been removed she sighed audibly in relief. Simon, released in his turn, stepped forward to the edge of the platform.
“You have seen what you have seen,” he called in a voice edged with malice.
The voice that had spoken in the first place was raised again. “You have shown us, Simon of Gitta, that it may be done. Now you must answer a question. How was it done? Had you divine aid? Or was it no more than a magic trick?”
If there had been a careful preparation of this act, as Luke believed, the magician now elected to deviate from the course decided upon. The answer he gave, it was clear, was not what the questioner expected to hear. “O friend, I have heard your question,” he said. He paused then and allowed his eyes to take in for a second time the packed sea of expectant faces below him. He savored the anxiety with which they awaited his reply. “To that question you must find your own answer. Go now to your homes and give thought to what Simon, called the Magician but who perhaps is more than that, has shown you this night.”
3
Luke, leaning on the shoulder of Basil, was silent as they made their way out to the street with the rest of the audience. Mindful of the danger of being seen and recognized, they did not linger but moved away with brisk steps. It was not until they had outdistanced the other spectators, who showed a desire to loiter and exchange views on the strange things they had seen, that the physician allowed himself to speak.
“It was trickery,” he said. “A very clever piece of magic and nothing more. But how it could have been done passes my comprehension.” He gave his head a sad and puzzled shake. “What ideas will those people carry away to their homes? Whatever they think about it, we have been done a great deal of harm. They will either believe that Jesus was a magician like Simon or that he, Simon, shares His divine powers.”
Basil made no comment, but for the first time he was not in agreement with Luke. What he had witnessed had made a deep impression on him. When the scimitar in the hands of the magician had cut its way, seemingly, through the neck of Helena, he had been so stricken with horror that he could neither speak nor move. He could not understand how life had been taken away from her and then restored so easily unless it had been by the exercise of godlike powers.
Simon the Magician, it was only too clear, was a great as well as an evil man.
CHAPTER X
1
THERE WAS NOTHING but bad blood between the Jews and the Samaritans, but trade relations had to be maintained in spite of this. The tiny country of Samaria, lying high in the hills below the Plain of Esdraelon, was extremely fertile and justly noted for its fine cattle and the richness of its fruit crops; and Jerusalem, where the community of the Temple lived in luxury and demanded the best of everything, was the finest market for these products. Practically all trade between the two countries flowed through one needle-eye, the House of Kaukben. He was a shrewd Samaritan who had taken a woman of Galilee as his wife and was willing to live in an unfriendly city because of the fat profits.
His house was large and so continuously busy that six helpers were needed. They were all Samaritans, young men with narrow foreheads, long jutting noses, and calculating eyes. The clerks, three in number, seldom ventured out on the streets, knowing from bitter experience that every Jew they encountered would spit at them and taunt them and that shrill urchins would follow and pelt them with offal. They were disposed on that account to keep to the shelter of the tall and narrow House of Kaukben, just off the Street of the Oil Merchants, their pens scratching busily all day long in a hot room behind the sign that Kaukben, who was inclined to make capital of all things, had raised beside the front entrance, with the word Samaritan boldly displayed. Boys of the right spirit made a practice of passing the establishment once a day and throwing a stone at the sign. The clerks, therefore, pursued their duties to the sound of a steady rattle of missiles on the painted board and of loud shouts: “Cutheans! Sons of pariah dogs, fathers of hyenas, brothers of pigs!” Occasionally the one who sat nearest the one window, a post of danger because sometimes a stone would find this mark instead, would demonstrate that the spot possessed a compensating advantage. He would smirk and say, “Another of them just passed, a girl of rarely fine proportions, my friends, and such a fine swing to her!”
It was in the House of Kaukben that Simon the Magician was staying during his triumphant visit to Jerusalem, and it was on the rooftop that he rested from his labors that night.
He had thrown aside his conjurer’s cloak, and it lay on a couch in such a position that its secret mechanisms were clearly visible; the pockets containing the articles that had appeared as he needed them and then vanished again, the linen “pulls” that made it possible to transfer things from one sleeve to another and from pocket to pocket, even the large receptacles containing the paper replica of Helena’s head and the bloody scimitar used in the decapitation scene. Without the cloak Simon was dressed in a single garment, the bracae introduced into the East by Roman soldiers after campaigning in Gaul and Britain, which were cold countries. This consisted of a close-fitting set of drawers covering the body from waist to knees. Thus scantily attired, he looked old and thin and as br
ittle as a sun-dried bone.
The sorcerer was in a jubilant mood. He had been a great success and had astounded an audience of Jews. Now he had supped well on a slice of cold Samaritan beef and a rich dish made up of Samaritan dates, figs, and pomegranates mixed in wine. His bodily needs satisfied, he sprawled on a couch and watched Helena over the pewter drinking cup he was holding in his hands.
The girl had supped with him; lightly, for she was mindful of the danger to the feminine figure in rich food. She was equally disposed to relax after the strain of the evening. Having cast aside her sandals, she was taking great delight in wriggling the toes of her small and well-tended feet. Her dusky hair had fallen into some disorder, and her eyes, which were fixed on the lights of the city below, had a dreamy look. Her thoughts, clearly, were far away, so far away that she was completely unconscious of the presence of Simon.
“The High Priest was there tonight,” said the magician proudly. Samaritans, suffering under the superior attitude of the Jews, made an outward pretense of equal antagonism but suffered underneath from a sense of inferiority. There was a great satisfaction for Simon in having brought Ananias out to watch him perform. “No one knew it. He was on one of the housetops where he could see everything. Did I tell you there were priests and Levites scattered throughout the audience to carry out his orders? They were all taking the greatest delight in what I, Simon of Gitta, was doing to break the Nazarene myth.”
If the girl heard this, she gave no sign. She sighed and ran her fingers testingly over her crisp black curls.
“Why did I wait so long to make an appearance in Jerusalem?” demanded Simon. Although the question was addressed to himself rather than to his companion, he spoke in a loud voice. “I could have done this long ago. I could have done it after talking in Samaria to Peter, that stubborn and quarrelsome man. Have I told you how he answered me when I offered to pay well for the gift of tongues and the power to perform miracles?”
The Silver Chalice Page 17