Basil pointed an accusing finger at a brass plate with a spoon tied on top of it that his companion had tucked under one arm.
“But is it not work to carry that?”
“No, my young friend. Do you not see the distinction? A spoon is helpful to support life, and so it is allowed to carry one wherever you go. If the spoon happens to be on something else, then it is permitted to take the other object as well. Yes, it is a subterfuge. I grant it. But such subterfuges make it possible to exist under the strictest laws, and so all good Jews do as I am doing. I carry this plate with a clear conscience.”
The freshness of dawn had been driven from the air already by the conquering sun. Segub the Zebra had not overstated things; it was going to be a very hot day. Raguel sighed and looked up into the sky. “I am no longer young, and it becomes increasingly hard to walk to the mines. Now, young stranger, you will tell me your story.”
Basil slung the blue cloth that contained his supply of clay from one shoulder to the other. He was finding it a little hard to breathe. “I was a slave in Antioch,” he began.
It took quite a time to finish the story, but there must have been conviction in the narrative. At the finish the master dyer nodded his head with a hint of belief.
“I do not think you could make up such a tale,” he said. “To believe what you have told would make me very happy. We who depend on the word which reaches us from other places need a symbol on which to fix our eyes. What better one could there be than the Cup of the Last Supper? But it is true that Loddeus also told a story of convincing detail.” Raguel studied the face of his companion, which was looking flushed and feverish under the solar onslaught. “Somehow I am disposed to put my trust in you rather than him. There was a glibness about him that sat ill on my stomach.”
They were walking over baked roads that were hard and rough to the foot. There was not so much as a single palm to lend them shade. The mountains that sheltered the city were now close at hand, their peaks starkly outlined against the thin blue of the sky. The few stragglers they passed were like white wraiths, their feet plodding slowly, their heads sinking despondently forward. Even the cry of birds overhead was muted and seemed to come from a great distance.
Raguel raised his staff and pointed. “The mines are over there, at the base of the hills. Those who work in them are all Christians—poor, patient fellows, any one of whom would die willingly for a single glimpse of the Cup. Young man, young man, you would not trifle with anything as sacred as this? Are you telling me the truth?”
“I have spoken the truth,” declared Basil, laying a hand on his heart.
Raguel looked at him intently for a moment. Then he smiled and nodded his head; he was convinced at last. He touched a hand to the brass plate under his arm. “I am taking this,” he said, “to one of those gentle, tired men who work so hard in the mines. His brother was crucified two days ago with this plate nailed to the cross and on it no more than a number. Last night, after darkness had fallen, I went to the Knoll of the Dead Men under the shadow of the Rock of Vultures and I stole the plate because I thought my poor friend Abishalom would want it.
“Can you believe,” said Raguel as they continued to plod on through the intense heat, “that my friend Abishalom has never been more than a mile away from the place where he was born? Will you accept my word for it that he does not know what is done with the ore he carries in sacks on his back from the mine shaft to the mill, limping all the way because he is lame? That he has never seen a piece of the burnished brass they make in the mill? All these things are true.
“He is married, my poor friend, and he has seven children. His wife is a bitter woman who tells him he is a weakling, a failure. She has thrown it into his face always that he is not good enough to work on making the brass in the mill instead of carrying ore on his back. That is why he has never set foot in the mill. In his way he is proud, my friend.
“He had an older brother, Hobab, who was strong and upstanding and a leader among the miners. As a boy Hobab always helped the lame Abishalom over the rough places, sometimes carrying him on his back. He was always gentle and loving as an older brother should be, and as a man he continued to help and cherish him, sometimes sparing a coin or two when the tax collectors came and Abishalom had nothing to give them. But Hobab had a great temper, and when the Zealots began to make trouble with the miners he incited his peace-loving fellows to strike back. There was fighting and a man was killed. The Roman soldiers came and took Hobab away, saying he was the ringleader. They crucified him on the Knoll of the Dead Men.” His face had fallen into lines of sadness. “I am told that Abishalom has not spoken since they took his brother away. He lies on his bed and stares at the wall with eyes that see nothing. It may be that he will never get up again.”
They had come in sight of a cluster of small huts. Raguel raised his staff and pointed at one of them. “That is where he lives,” he said. “I will go in alone, if you do not mind.”
It was a long time before he came out. Saying nothing, he seated himself beside Basil, who had found a spot that was in shadow from the sun. He lifted a handful of the sandy soil and let it trickle through his fingers, his head bent over to watch. He repeated this several times and then he began to speak.
“It is no wonder,” he said in a reflective tone, “that men like Abishalom have such barren lives. It is hard to live where the earth is so lacking in fertility. It is a struggle to survive. But,” he added with a sigh, “he will not have to struggle longer. My poor friend has very few hours left.”
Neither of them broke the silence for several moments. Then the master dyer again raised his voice. “When Christians gather together for talk, it is the question of life after death that concerns them most. It is a new thought, strange and wonderful, and it lights their minds like a thousand suns. They play with it as a beggar child might play with a precious stone he has found in a dustbin. They believe, but at the same time they marvel at their own audacity. They con over the evidence. ‘Did not Jesus say this?’ and ‘What did He mean when He told His disciples that?’ They quote the words of Peter and Paul and sometimes they reflect that the Grecian people also believe in a future existence. But always it is vague and they long to have their minds set at rights.” He lifted his head proudly “I have no doubts. I am one of the few. I am never troubled in my mind. Ever since I accepted Jesus I have been sure that I would see Him in all His glory. I am happy in my faith. And now, praise to Jehovah and His only begotten Son, my poor friend Abishalom is able to share my faith!”
He turned to Basil a face that glowed with light. “He lay there in the stifling heat of a corner, his face like a mask of death. I do not think he knew me when I bent over him. I placed the brass plate in his hands and told him what it was. Do you remember what I said, that he had never seen a mirror? He looked at the bright brass of the plate, and a face looked back at him. They were much alike, the two brothers, and he cried out at once that it was his brother he saw. ‘O Blessed Father in heaven,’ he said. ‘There is a life after death! See, my brother has not gone down into the darkness of the grave. He looks at me from the plate under which his body died. His eyes smile at me, they weep, they try to tell me things.’ It was hard for him to hold the plate so that he could continue to watch the face in it. After a long time, while he gathered his strength for more words, he said: ‘I know what he is trying to tell me, my fine, tall brother who died so bravely. He says he will be there to meet me when I die and that he will take me up on his back and carry me far out over the clouds and through the stars on the path to paradise!’ ”
A doubt drifted across the dyer’s face for a brief moment. “It may seem to you that my friend has been cheated, that he has been brought to a belief in the future life by a trick. It is not so, young stranger. The Lord must have put it into my head to steal the plate from the cross on which Hobab died and take it to his brother. It was Jehovah’s way of showing the truth to this humble man with his simple, clouded mind. Aiy,
you should have seen Abishalom’s face! It glowed with the happiness that had come to him. And”—he gestured quietly with his hands—“who knows? Can we be sure it was not Hobab who looked back at him from the plate of brass? Stranger things have happened, my boy.”
The sun had stolen up on them, determined to deny them the shelter that a sparse and mournful tree had been affording. It was now peering straight around the tree and directing its rays at them like arrows of fire. Raguel said: “We must be on our way. But first I shall tell you one thing more. I saw that my friend’s wife was eying the plate with a speculative gleam, and I knew she was wondering how much she could sell it for. So I called the older of the two sons aside. He is a boy of thirteen, and I think he must be a good eater and sleeper and that his bowels are regular because he already has much of the great strength of Hobab. His name is David, but all his life he has been called Young Waxy Nose. I said to him: ‘From now on you must never allow anyone to call you Young Waxy Nose, but always it must be David because very soon you will be the head of the family.’ And I looked him hard in the eye and said to him sternly: ‘David, do not allow the plate to be taken from your father’s hands. Stand by him, and when he dies—for he is going to die, David, and you must be brave and not give way to the tears I see in your eyes—you must see to it that he is buried with the plate clasped as tightly as he holds it now.’ And the boy choked back his tears and he stood up very straight and said: ‘It will be as you say, Uncle Raguel. I am now the head of the family and I shall give the orders.’ ”
There was no longer any hope of comfort where they sat. Raguel sighed and rose to his feet. “Come,” he said. “There is more for us to do.”
They turned, and Raguel led the way toward the base of the nearest mountain. The heat here was even harder to endure. It was reflected back from the rocky surfaces of the hills and seemed to settle down about them like a sullen and angry cloud.
“Have you heard, my young friend,” asked Raguel, “that there are miles of subterranean galleries under the city? We are not certain today of the purpose for which they were designed, although it is thought they may have been intended as a means of escape if the city should fall to an invading army. They run out under the walls. One line of galleries has an exit under the base of this mountain ahead of us. No one knows this save the men who go down into the mines with their picks, all of whom are Christians. It was they who discovered the steps that connect their shaft with the last of the underground chambers, and they have kept the secret of it closely.” He paused, and his eyes, half closed in the glare of the sun, looked up at Basil with a smile. “I am going to take you to see John,” he said.
“When?” cried Basil with relief and delight.
“Now,” said Raguel. “He will attend the services that begin”—he turned to stare up at the position of the sun—“in about half an hour.”
3
The chamber in which they found themselves after the descent of a sloping passage through dark rock was dimly lighted by torches fixed at intervals in the walls. After his eyes became accustomed to the gloom Basil saw that the space below was already well filled. The people sat for the most part on the natural flooring of stone, but a few, who seemed to be on watch, stood along the walls; men of serious mien, intent, resolute, even fanatical. They seemed less predominantly Semitic than at the other Christian gatherings Basil had witnessed, and he commented on this in a whisper.
“Nearly all here today are converts of Paul’s,” answered Raguel. “He has been much in Ephesus and, whenever he comes to expound the truth to us, we grow and multiply. There has been whispering of late among the Jewish people that Paul is trying to lead them away from the Laws of Moses. They do not like it. They resent his efforts to carry the Word to Gentiles. Many have recanted and become the strictest of Judaizers, casting Jesus out of their hearts. They are the most bitter against us. They give encouragement and aid to the Men with the Daggers.” Basil could see an apologetic expression spread across his face. “Was it any wonder, my young friend, that I was suspicious of you and not prepared at once to lead you to John? Next to Paul, he is the one the backsliders would like most to deliver over to the Asiarchs.”
More people continued to arrive, weary men who walked stiffly and paused before entering to shake the dust from their robes.
“Where do they come from?” asked Basil.
“Many are miners and live hereabouts. The rest are from the city. It is the rule to start during the hours of darkness to avoid notice, for it is above everything necessary to conceal the secret of where we meet. They will go back by twos and threes, being very leisurely about it and making it seem that they have spent the day walking in the fields. They, the bitter turncoats and the men who carry daggers, know better, of course; but so far they have failed to discover anything about us. We change the places of meeting every few weeks. I don’t know where we shall go next.”
Raguel fell silent at this point and laid a restraining hand on Basil’s arm. The services were beginning with a reading from early writings. The member who did the reading stood on a ledge of rock at one end of the chamber. Knowing that most of them came from the poorest part of the population, Basil was surprised at the scholarly note in the speaker’s voice and the fine intelligence in his face. The reading was followed by singing in which all joined. There was a pause then, and Basil took advantage of it to look about him more closely at the earnest men and women who made up the gathering. His eyes, having completed the circle of the chamber, came back again to the stone ledge, and he was surprised to find that it now had a new occupant.
The newcomer was of undistinguished stature, being under the average in height and thin to the point of emaciation, a stooped and somehow pathetic figure in a plain white robe. He looked about him and raised an arm in the air; and the rustling and the whispers ceased and the figures seated in the semi-gloom became as motionless as the warriors and gods that were traced crudely on the walls above them.
Basil turned to his companion with an inquiring uplift of eyebrow, and Raguel answered by shaping noiselessly with his lips the single word, “John.”
“I come to you, mayhap, for the last time,” said John, speaking in a thin, high voice. “It is written that soon I shall be taken and sent to the islands, to be held there in captivity by men who are filled with hatred and fear. They fear and hate me, but even more the vision that has come to me. My eyes have been lifted to the heights and I have seen the writing on the heavenly walls beyond the clouds and the stars. The voice of the Lord has spoken in my ear and has told me that I must preach to men of what I have seen and heard.”
His voice rose suddenly to a high pitch, filled with conviction and passion. “Ye that walk in the truth, who have been born of God because ye believe that Jesus is the Christ, ye need have no fear. He that came by blood and water will come again soon, and it is not strange that these others are filled with a fear of His coming. The time is close at hand! I shall speak to the seven churches before the time comes, and what I have to tell will turn the blood of the kings of earth to water, and the blood of the great men as well as the little men and the scoffers. And they will seek to hide themselves in the depths of the forests and under the waters and in the bowels of the earth under the high tombs of the mountains.”
Basil was listening intently, but even as his ears were filled with the strange words of the passionate little man his fingers were pulling excitedly at the blue strings of the cloth. He did not want to miss a single word that fell from the almost bloodless lips of the apostle, but he knew he must not lose this opportunity to imprison in the damp clay the unusual countenance of this favorite follower of Jesus. It was not a difficult task in one sense, for the leonine head of John was different in ways that set him sharply apart. His protruding forehead of a thinker and dreamer was like a broad penthouse. The straight nose was long enough to balance the width between eye and ear, but it made the mouth and chin seem small by comparison. The mouth, Basil perceived,
was sensitive and the chin courageous, but it was only with a second glance that he noticed them at all, so immediately did his eye absorb the grandeur of the brow and the banked fires that smoldered beneath it.
“Will I be able to capture his mighty spirit?” thought the young artist, his fingers furiously busy. “Can I make it clear that this is a man who walks and talks with God?”
The apostle was telling of his vision in words that were sometimes vague and sometimes even incoherent but always touched with a power that transcended human use. Basil became so carried away finally that he lost concern with the task that had brought him there. His hands ceased their efforts while he watched and listened. At least it seemed to him that this was so; but at a moment when the apostle paused, he realized that, without any prompting of his will, they had resumed the work of molding and manipulating the clay.
He was filled at once with a sense of horror. It had happened again! He remembered how his fingers had dug so passionately into the clay when his thoughts had turned to Linus and the revenge he craved, and how completely they had destroyed the first model he had made of Luke. Was this a repetition? Had the clay in his hands been turned into another formless mass? He was afraid to look.
John’s voice ceased its fervid outpouring. After the customary breaking of bread, he lifted an arm in blessing. A moment of silent prayer followed, and then he stepped down from the ledge of rock. Basil felt the hand of Raguel on his shoulder.
“The meeting is over,” said the dyer, getting to his feet. “You have seen John, young stranger. You have heard him speak. Has it not been a wonderful experience?”
“I shall always be grateful to you,” replied Basil, following him out into the ascending passage to the mine. He continued to carry the clay in both hands, but he had not yet mastered his feeling sufficiently to risk a glance at it.
The Silver Chalice Page 43