The Silver Chalice

by Thomas B. Costain

  The earnestness of the old physician began to have an effect on Adam. He became somewhat uneasy. “Then you do not expect to go there again?” he asked.

  “I return very soon. If it is decided that Paul is to be sent to Rome for trial, I shall make the journey with him. If, on the other hand, the issue is to be decided in Caesarea, I shall take my place at his side.”

  Adam gave him a curious look. “You have changed. I always thought of you as gentle and human, the one disciple of the Nazarene with a twinkle in the eye. Now you are getting like the rest of them. You talk of death and destruction. You keep preaching at me that the city of David will be destroyed. I am disappointed in you, Luke the Physician. I prefer you as you were before you wrapped yourself up in the toga of prophecy.”

  “Must I tell you again that I am not a prophet? I am an old man who sees that things are going wrong in the world. I have always thought that the truths of Jesus could be taught best by spreading the doctrine of charity and pity. Now my heart is cold because I am beginning to see that the seed must be planted in the soil of tragedy. Only if watered by the blood of martyrdom can the tree grow to greatness.” He sighed and spread out his hands in a gesture of disillusionment. “The habits of men cannot be changed easily. It seems that the human mind can’t be reached by kindness alone. Man understands violence better. Perhaps the church of Jesus will gain strength from the flames of Jerusalem. Perhaps faith must be continuously renewed by persecution and cruelty.”

  Adam had regained his normal mood. He grinned and waved to Luke airily as he turned to enter the house. “I will see you then in Jerusalem, my venerable friend,” he said. “The city will be busy and it will be filled with peace, and wherever we go the dome of the Temple will be in our eyes. The only lamentations we hear will come from the Wailing Wall.”

  4

  Deborra had thrown herself with zest into the preparations for occupying her new house. When Adam found her she was in a spacious room on the ground floor, surrounded by her servants, and she was busily instructing them in the arrangement of the belongings they had brought with them. Her cheeks showed a slight flush of excitement, and it was clear that, for the time being, she was happy.

  The weather was providing something in the nature of a miracle. A breeze was blowing off the sea and had already dissipated the murky heat of the city. The tops of the green trees in the first of the two interior gardens swayed pleasantly and seductively. Deborra had donned a silk tunic and, in the fashion of the day, had bound her right arm inside it, leaving only one arm free. It was a graceful arrangement, if somewhat cramping, and showed to advantage the slender lines of her shoulder and waist. In her left hand she carried a small fan shaped like a palm leaf. This again was in accord with the dictates of fashion.

  Adam’s manner was brusque as he repeated his intention of leaving on the conclusion of the hearing.

  Deborra stepped clear of the circle of domestics and came over to him. She looked both shocked and sorry.

  “Why must you go so soon?” she asked. “Surely you are in need of rest.”

  “I am not needed here,” he answered in a grumbling tone. “And my own affairs are pressing. I go back to Aleppo and strike directly for the East from there. I shall return in a few months with great loads of valuable goods.”

  “I shall miss you so much.” She was on the point of tears. “How can I repay you for all you have done for me?”

  Adam brushed this aside and asked a question of his own. When did she plan to return to Jerusalem? He was hoping, it was clear, that she would be there when he returned from the East bearing the sheaves of his industry.

  Her brows drew into a thoughtful frown before she replied, “I am not sure. I may never go back. This city is my husband’s home, and my place is with him. I do not think”—she flushed unhappily—“I do not think my father will ever want to see me again. He may disown me and cast me off. Why, then, should I return to Jerusalem?”

  Adam had been holding his feelings under a close check. Now he allowed a trace of temper to show. “How can you live so far away from the altars of your own people?” he demanded. “Is it not clear to you already that this is a city of pagan abominations? The people of Antioch bow down before graven images. They are lewd and wicked. You will be unhappy.”

  “Adam, it is beautiful here! And there is a large Christian colony. I do not see why I should be unhappy.”

  “Look at this house!” Adam swept an arm impatiently about him. “It is full of obscene figures and heathen decorations. Even the walls are made of tile from the devil-worshiping desert and not of the clean limestone of our native hills. Everything is so wrong here that my flesh crawls with repugnance.”

  “But,” cried Deborra, “there is so much real beauty. I have been reveling in it. This wonderful breeze from the sea, the beautiful gardens, the green of the trees, and the flowers I see blooming behind the white stone walls. Adam, this is a city of enchantment. I think I can be happy here.”

  “Will you be happy when the paschal moon is in the sky and you cannot see the Temple in the fading light?”

  Adam turned and stamped to the door, striking a hand angrily against a linen tapestry hanging on the wall beside it. “Heathen gods, heathen conceits, all this artistic emptiness!” he cried. He paused and threw back to her over his shoulder: “I shall return directly to Jerusalem from my travels in the East. It seems improbable that I shall ever see you again.”

  “Adam!” she cried. “Of course we shall see each other. I would be most unhappy to think otherwise.”

  “Sahumah,” he said. He hesitated and then added with a shrug of his shoulders, “I suppose now I shall have to look around for a Leah.”

  CHAPTER XX

  1

  SITTING ON A HARD STONE BENCH in the court, with the eagles of Rome embossed in black marble on the wall above her, Deborra was aware that her father had never once looked in her direction. He had already taken his seat when she entered, and beside him sat a doctor of the law who had accompanied him from Jerusalem. They had been sharing an uneasy silence, but as soon as she came in the lawyer began whispering to her father with an intense earnestness. Aaron had said nothing but had nodded his head at several points.

  She watched them with saddened intentness. “My poor father!” she thought. “He has always been an unhappy man. He complained so many times that I thought more of Grandfather than I did of him. And he was right: I loved Grandfather above everyone.”

  She remembered then the name of the man with her father. He was called Ohad, and he stood high in legal councils and was heard often in the Sanhedrin. That Aaron had brought him all the way to Antioch was proof of the extent of his determination to acquire the funds that his father had accumulated with Jabez. The nose of Ohad protruded from his long and narrow face like the beak of a bird of prey. He filled her with dislike and distrust.

  “What are they whispering about?” she wondered. It was about her, of course. The somber look in her father’s eyes made her certain he would never forgive her.

  Adam and Luke shared the bench with her, but Basil had not been well enough to come. Her two companions were saying little and keeping their eyes fixed on Jabez. The latter, who was seated in front of the raised dais of the magistrate, was as small as the reports of him had indicated; a neat man in a spotless toga with deep purple bands. He had a well-trimmed beard and a rather fine mane of pomaded black hair. There was a pile of parchments in front of him, and his trim hands riffled through them at intervals with swift dispatch.

  “Everything depends on this banker,” whispered Adam. “The rest of them are no more than shadows; Aaron himself, that voracious pelican he has brought with him as a lawyer, the magistrate, all of them. It is what Jabez is going to say and do that counts. I wish I knew what was in his mind.”

  Deborra looked at the dapper little man again and decided that no one could do more than guess what was going on in his mind. He was completely self-composed.

  �
��As we cannot know what he is thinking,” went on Adam, “I wish we had Benjie the Asker here to find out what the lesser men are saying. Perhaps,” getting quietly to his feet, “I may be able to pick up some information myself.”

  The few spectators in the courtroom were paying little attention to the main characters in the drama. They had no eyes for anyone save Prince P’ing-li, who had come in with a retinue of servants and was sitting at one side. They whispered excitedly about the costliness of his carmine robe that was thickly encrusted with precious stones. As his chair lacked side supports he had called upon two of his servingmen to hold his forearms on the usual cushions, and this both puzzled and amused them. Stories were being whispered back and forth. He was a famous conjurer from the East who rode on the back of a fire-spitting dragon and who, moreover, could summon demons to fly in through the window and set the earthly pomp and majesty of Rome at naught; he was a man of such wealth that Jabez would have to bow and scrape before him; he was the ruler of a great foreign country who had come in person to study the workings of Roman law.

  The one who deserved the most attention, and was getting the least, was the magistrate, sitting high up above them in a silence that seemed sullen. Deborra had taken one look at him and had fallen into a state of panic, fearing that justice could not be obtained from one who wore the stamp of corruption so openly. He was a squat old man with bloodshot eyes and cheeks as flabbily dewlapped as a hunting dog’s. He wheezed and groaned whenever it became necessary to change his position. His toga was carelessly draped over his grossly fat shoulders and showed unmistakable stains of perspiration. A thin man with red hair who resembled a ferret sat at his shoulder with a bundle of documents in his hands.

  When this most unpleasant-appearing old man spoke, his voice created a measure of surprise. It was clear, concise, well modulated.

  “The document,” he said, “seems to be drawn in accordance with the Twelve Tables.” He glanced down at Aaron and his legal supporter. “What points do you wish to raise for my consideration?”

  Ohad rose slowly to his feet. He had long and spindly legs and created the illusion of a crane watching by the side of a stream for unwary fish.

  “ ‘The passionate man cannot be a teacher,’ ” he quoted. “I shall strive, Learned Judge, to discuss the points involved without any trace of passion. Moreover, I shall speak with a proper brevity. Permit me first to make a statement from the Laws, ‘A man cannot disinherit his legal heir.’ ”

  “You quote from the Laws? It is not from the Twelve Tables that you draw this pronouncement. What laws, then?”

  Ohad, speaking with a mellow and unctuous roll, could not keep a hint of superiority from showing in his voice. “The laws of the Hebrew people, O Learned Judge.”

  “This is a Roman court,” said the magistrate in a dry tone.

  “I use the Hebrew words only because I am most familiar with them. For this I crave your indulgence. But, Learned Judge, the principle stated is the same in all laws. It is to be found in the Twelve Tables. A man may not disinherit his rightful heir.”

  Several men sprang to their feet and contended for places in front of the bench with the obvious intention of speaking. The magistrate commanded silence by a noiseless twiddling of his fingers. “I, Fabius Marius, will state the answer on this point. The Twelve Tables permit a man to exclude his son from inheritance, provided the name of the son is stated specifically.”

  One of those clamoring for the right to speak exclaimed: “May I call to the attention of the learned judge that the documents Joseph of Arimathea drew up for the guidance of Jabez declared specifically that his son Aaron was not to receive any of the moneys? The instructions are clear and not open to misconstruction.”

  It became apparent at once that no set rules were in use for the presentation of evidence or the hearing of witnesses. Men crowded below the magistrate’s bench and expressed their opinions or endeavored to call his attention to documents in their possession. These eager disputants, who were from both sides, were without exception elderly men and learned in the law. Their heads shook and their long beards waggled with the vehemence that possessed them.

  Ohad became convinced quickly that there could be no advantage in disputing the exclusion of Aaron from the inheritance. He lowered himself into his seat and began to speak in earnest tones to his principal. It was apparent that the latter was not in immediate agreement. He seemed to be fighting back in a state of sullen fury, and it was not until the weight of the arguments the man of the law brought to bear became too heavy that he gave in. He twitched his shoulders in bitterness rather than resignation. When Ohad rose to discuss the second of their claims he turned to stare bleakly at the nearest window.

  “O Judge,” said the lawyer, “there is nothing in the instructions to deny Aaron the right to act as his daughter’s guardian. Nay, it is an established fact that he may continue to exercise all duties and responsibilities as long as she remains in his tutelage.”

  “Is she a minor?” The magistrate’s voice carried a strong note of skepticism. His shortsighted eyes darted about the courtroom. “I believe she is present. Will Deborra, daughter of Aaron and a principal in this case, stand up?”

  Deborra rose to her feet. She flushed when she realized that every pair of eyes in the room had turned to stare at her save those of her father, who continued to gaze out of the window. She was dressed quietly in a white palla with gold and blue bands, and her hair was bound with a gold ribbon. The judge leaned out over his bench, the better to see her, and then gave his head an approving bob.

  “Women cannot be called as witnesses,” he said, “and so I may not ask you any questions. I desire to state, nevertheless, that I have already reached two conclusions. The first—and I am sure that all will agree with me here—is that the daughter of Aaron is a most handsome young woman indeed.” The courtroom tittered and the magistrate beamed and nodded his head like an ancient but pranksome faun. “The second is that she has come of age legally, it being my understanding that the age fixed under Hebrew law is thirteen years and one day.”

  Luke rose to his feet and advanced to the bench. “I have documents to offer,” he said, “in proof of the fact that Deborra, daughter of Aaron, is in her sixteenth year.”

  Fabius squinted down at Luke suspiciously. “Who are you?”

  “I am called Luke the Physician. I was for many years a close acquaintance—nay, a close friend—of the deceased Joseph of Arimathea. I was present in his house and witnessed the marriage of his granddaughter. I accompanied her from Jerusalem to Antioch.”

  The magistrate consulted a list in front of him. “You have not been summoned,” he complained.

  “This man is a leader among the Christians,” declared Ohad bitterly. “For many years he has accompanied one Paul of Tarsus on his journeyings about the land.”

  The eyes of Fabius turned slowly from Ohad to Luke. “You are a companion of Paul of Tarsus,” he said to the latter. “In spite of this I am prepared to accept the documents you bear. But you will not be permitted to offer oral evidence.”

  Fabius ran a quick and practiced eye over the parchment. “The statements contained here,” he said, nodding his head, “bear out the conclusions I had already reached. The daughter has come of age legally.” He inclined his head in her direction. “You may now sit down.”

  When Deborra had resumed her seat, Adam tiptoed up behind her and began to whisper in her ear. “I have learned one thing. Your father paid a visit to Jabez this morning and they quarreled, noisily and unmistakably. The banker’s face was red with anger when he escorted your father to the door. Has he been taking any part in the proceedings?”

  “None,” answered Deborra. “He has not raised his eyes once.”

  Adam frowned uneasily. “I do not understand this,” he said. “Does Jabez intend to stand aside and play a neutral part? If he does, it will weigh against us.”

  “I think,” whispered Deborra, “that we were wise not to ent
rust our documents to him.”

  Adam lowered his head still further. “I have also gleaned some facts about the judge. He was a slave in Rome but secured his freedom and later became a Roman citizen. This may be a fortunate thing for us. It is said there was some opposition to having him hear this case.”

  Deborra looked at the magistrate with new eyes. It seemed to her now that she could detect the faintest hint of kindliness in the purple-veined expanse of his face.

  “He became a political force in Rome but made enemies by speaking his mind freely about men above him in rank. He was sent here as a measure of exile. It has been the same; he continues to make ill-wishers by his persistent candor. In spite of this he is liked by the common people, and it is generally believed he is honest.” After a moment Adam added: “He has had little education and depends on that redheaded shadow back of him; and he is as venal as a professional beggar.”

  Fabius raised a hand to still the bickering voices beneath him. “It is contended by the learned man from Jerusalem,” he said, “that the heiress in this case is under the guardianship of her father. This does not apply, because she comes into court a married woman. She is now under the tutelage of her husband.”

  Ohad had declared his intention to conduct himself without giving way to passion, but at this point his face became contorted with feeling and his voice shook with an anger he made no effort to conceal. “The man she married is an ex-slave!” he cried. “He has had his freedom for a few weeks only. I assert without any fear of contradiction that a freedman may not usurp the authority of the head of a family. This is a point we are prepared to fight, if necessary, in the highest tribunal in the world.”