On one occasion Tigellinus came to the room, followed by a decayed specimen of a man with a furtive eye. He engaged Nero in a whispered conversation and, when the Emperor disputed with him rather violently, he called upon his creature to supply evidence on the point at issue. The man did so without daring to raise his glance above the level of the royal knees, and Nero listened with an impatience that began finally to subside. At the finish of the colloquy he said to Tigellinus in an audible voice: “So be it. I give in to you. But it is hard, Tigellinus. The man was a friend. I liked him.”
Coming back to the bench on which he had been posing, the Emperor showed signs of some perturbation of spirit. He frowned and changed his position constantly and seemed thoroughly unhappy. Finally he burst out with an explanation: “Pity the lot of one born to rule! It has been reported to me that a friend of mine, one in whom I had reposed every confidence, has been secretly working against me. I have been compelled to agree to what Tigellinus proposes. My friend must die.” He paused and suddenly clapped his hands together with a suggestion of satisfaction. “I must forestall the too zealous Tigellinus. I shall send word to my friend to open his veins and so bring things to an ending before Tigellinus can seize him. Yes, that is the proper solution of this difficulty. I feel better about it already.”
Secretaries would run in and out at all times, and the Emperor would groan over the documents they brought and bewail the hardness of his lot. Sometimes he would wave the documents aside and refuse to read them. Basil found himself wondering how the ship of state continued to sail its course with so many delays. At the end of each sitting Caesar would depart with much shaking of his head and many groans over the hardness of the life of those who wear crowns. “How can I go on?” he would cry. “Ah, my little genius, pity me! I am an unhappy man!”
Basil did not realize how enamored he had become of his own success until the evening when a general named Flavius, who had returned from a successful campaign in the East, was the guest of honor at Caesar’s table. The victor proved to be a spare soldier of middle years with a face completely lacking in imagination and urbanity. He partook of little food but drank with practiced steadiness, and it was clear that he was astounded at the magnificence of the banquet.
Basil and Septimus were sitting together this evening, and the latter shook his head over the attitude of the returned warrior. “What they say about Flavius must be true,” he muttered. “They say he is a dull fellow, a disciplinarian and a martinet, and nothing else. It is even being said that he had simpletons fighting against him and so could not help winning.”
As soon as the long and elaborate meal was over Nero sang for his guests without much urging, accompanying himself on a small lute. He was in good form, with a control that never failed him. There was, it is perhaps needless to state, a thunder of applause at the finish. The royal troubadour accepted this loud tribute with a pleased nod of his oversized head and even condescended to the use of the phrase that paid singers employed. “My lords,” he said with a low bow, “the artist thanks you for your attention.”
He laid aside his lute then and began to talk in a voice that gained excitement as he went on, his remarks being addressed directly to the victorious general. Flavius listened with no trace of expression on his face, which the suns of the East had baked to the color of earthenware.
Basil could not tell what was being said. He was beginning to have the first smatterings of knowledge of the Latin tongue, but his mastery of it was not equal to the rapidity of the words that came from the royal lips. After a while he turned to Septimus and asked what it was all about.
“The Emperor is telling Flavius that Rome must now achieve a new kind of greatness. He says that the world has been conquered and so there is no longer any chance for generals to add to the glory of the empire. It remains for him, the Emperor no less, to lead the way to a new kind of conquest; the subjugation of the arts and the centering of all creative efforts here in Rome. It is all a lot of weak pap and rancid onion oil. That poor Flavius, with his stupid little mind, cannot make head or tail of all the fine phrases our Caesar is spinning about him.”
“The general looks puzzled,” commented Basil.
“I too am puzzled,” acknowledged Septimus. “Should ideas like this be advanced in public by the ruler of the world? What will the armies in the field think?”
The Emperor’s fervor mounted as his discourse went on and on. Once he turned to the corner where Basil and his companion sat and pointed a finger. For a few moments all eyes in the place were fixed upon them.
“What did he say?” asked Basil when the flurry of interest in them had come to an end.
“I am not sure I should tell you,” answered Septimus. “I suspect you of a weakness for flattery. Still, you might as well hear it from me as from others. It seems that our Caesar conceives himself the source of inspiration that will raise up in Rome a galaxy—his own word—a galaxy of great artists who will excel the achievements of the early Greeks. He says you are his first discovery. He pointed you out to the company and predicted that someday you would be ranked with the great men of the past.”
Basil said nothing. The praise that had been lavished on his work was, he acknowledged to himself, most gratifying. For several moments he sat in an exultant glow. “Why should not Caesar be right?” he thought. He had been demonstrating to them that there was in his hands a touch, at least, of genius. Why should it not bring him recognition and acclaim?
Then he brought himself up with a sharp tug on the reins of his common sense. He was allowing himself to be carried away by the first words of public praise. Even if it were his intention to continue indefinitely at the imperial court, it would be dangerous to swallow good opinions so avidly; and it had never been his purpose to consider this more than a brief interlude. He had other work to do. “Now that I know how susceptible I am to praise,” he thought, “I must be on my guard. And it is very clear that I should get away from here before my vanity plays me worse tricks. I must be on my way.”
He nudged the elbow of Septimus. “I can see that I have been here too long,” he whispered. “What can I do about leaving? Must I have Nero’s consent?”
Septimus had been looking rather grim, but at this he brightened up. “I thought for a moment you were lost,” he said. “I could see a gleam in your eye and I said to myself, ‘He is not going to be able to resist this bait and he will be drawn into all this tug of war and seesawing for the royal favor.’ But now I see you have a stiffer spine than that.” He gave his head a shake of warning. “It would be folly to let the Emperor know what you are planning. He is so heated up himself with his visions of a new glory that he would think you guilty of treachery, if not of treason.”
“Does that mean I must stay here indefinitely?” asked Basil. “Am I a prisoner?”
“In a sense. A prisoner of your own success. Still,” whispered his companion, “there is always the hole under the palace wall. That is your only hope of getting away now. But I would not advise using it unless you are sure you can leave Rome immediately.”
4
While Basil labored and Nero sang, the timbers of Simon’s tower were rising in a section of the palace gardens that faced the main portico. The few odd moments the former had to himself were spent watching the upspringing of these ominous walls.
His first impression was one of amazement at the speed and efficiency with which everything was done. The engineer in charge, a cool young Roman, seemed to know everything. He spoke very seldom, but when he did, things happened rapidly. Basil liked to watch the bringing in of the stout tree trunks for the base of the structure. They were dragged by four or six horses harnessed side by side, raising a cloud of dust like a charge of chariots. This would be followed by a speedy unhooking operation, and the claws of the compound pulleys would seize the logs and toss them up like straws to the places designed for them. It was exciting to see all this accomplished without raising a bead of sweat on the brow of a singl
e slave, how the stays were swung aloft, and the rails and the oblique struts that were known as dragon-beams.
He became so much interested that he inspected the tools the workmen used and found them new and infinitely superior to anything he had ever known. The great saws had crossed teeth to prevent binding in the wood, and this was something very new indeed. The simple boxes called planes, with straps for the hand, could be run across a plank with great ease and leave the surface as smooth as marble. He doubted if Jesus had worked in Nazareth with tools as fine as these.
“It is no wonder,” he thought many times, “that Rome rules the world.”
He graduated from this feeling of interest to one of alarm as the tower kept rising higher and higher into the sky. It had become now a threat, a tangible threat, to Christianity. He would stand and stare up at it and say to himself, “If Simon flies off from the top, the world will believe him capable of doing anything that Jesus did.” He knew that nothing had been heard from the leaders of the Christian church in Rome. If the challenge of Simon had reached their ears, they had refused to respond. Nero railed bitterly about the silence of the detested Christians. “Simon Magus will do what he can,” he said one day to Basil. “If these sly dogs do not then come forward to face him, they will receive the punishment they deserve.”
Basil had no doubt that Simon would succeed. He remembered what Helena had told him of the new device that would be carried, in great secrecy no doubt, and installed at the summit of the tower. Simon would fly high up in the air, and no one below would be able to see how it was done. They would raise their voices and cry out that a miracle had been wrought.
One day Basil stumbled on a confirmation of what Helena had told him. Walking close to the foundations of the high wooden walls, he caught a word of Aramaic spoken by a workman who was operating a bow drill with a strap like the leash of a top. He was addressing a fellow worker who was operating a drill that scooped out wood with ease and precision.
“He will do it by wires,” said the first carpenter. “Bronze wires. Do you know what they are?”
“By the adz of Atlas, yes!” answered the second. “I have seen them, great, heavy ropes of bronze that could rip the bowels from a mountain of copper.”
“But this is different. It is called—drawn wire. I am not sure what that means, but I suppose the stuff is drawn out, by some magic Simon knows, until it becomes very thin. This much I have been told, that it keeps all its strength no matter how thin they make it. Do you believe that, Jacob?”
“I do not believe it, Ziphah. It stands to reason that when you reduce the size of anything you take away from its strength.”
“But this is said to be different, I am telling you, my Jacob. It can be made as thin as a cobweb, but it never loses strength. It is a kind of miracle. I hear this pestilential magician has strips of this wire as long as fifteen feet.”
There was the explanation, said Basil to himself as he walked away in a state of great alarm. These wires like cobwebs would be painted so they would not glisten in the sun and no human eye would be able to see them from the ground. There would be a wheel concealed at the top of the tower that would swing Simon around the narrow apex, allowing him to rise and dip in the air like a swallow about the parapets of houses.
“That is how it will be done,” he said to himself. “Should I go to Nero and tell him about it? Would he believe me if I did?” He decided after much earnest thought that nothing would be accomplished by going to the Emperor. Nero wanted Simon to succeed, by hook or by crook, because he desired to see the Christians confounded in the eyes of the world. He did not care what means the magician used. In any event, what proof did Basil have to offer? He had nothing but suppositions.
When he turned back to the palace he encountered Helena in the gardens. He had not seen her since the night of his arrival at the palace, and it was apparent to him at once that her attitude had changed. There was no mistaking the coldness in her eyes.
“What do you think of it?” she asked, gesturing toward the tower. “It is to go still higher. Simon does not believe in doing things by halves. He says he is going to fly and so he wants the upper reaches of heaven for his flight.”
“The higher up it goes,” said Basil, “the less chance there will be for the wires to be seen.”
“Wires?” Helena gave him a level glance that was nothing less than glacial. “What are they?”
Basil did not attempt to answer. The girl regarded him with no evidence of a rise in the temperature of her eyes. Then she changed the subject.
“You are flying high yourself,” she said. “You are soaring in the heavens of Nero’s favor. Has it been pleasant to climb so rapidly, even though you know you owe your chance to someone else?”
At this Basil’s attitude became as chilly as her own. “I did not want this to happen. You arranged it, I know, but it was against my wish. I was summoned to appear and I had no alternative but to obey. I had no desire to do any of this climbing you hold against me.”
“You had no desire to climb? That I do not believe. My shoulders are bruised by the stamp of your heels.” Her feelings became more hostile with every word she spoke. “I talked to you about Simon and his delusions. Have you mentioned this to others?”
“I have not repeated a word to anyone.”
“Put what I said out of your mind!” Her tone was sharp. “I must have been out of my own mind when I spoke to you. It was very foolish of me.” For several moments she kept her eyes on the ground, and it was clear that she was seeking her way to a decision. Then she looked up suddenly. “The palace rings with your praises. Everyone says your models of Nero are true to life. You have looked into his eyes and read his soul. I wonder, O Basil, if you have any desire to look into my eyes and read what is in my mind? You might find it very disturbing if you did. Very disturbing indeed, my little Basil!”
CHAPTER XXIX
1
ON THE EVENING following his conversation with Helena, Basil visited the domain of Selech on his way to the banqueting hall. There was an air of expectancy in the kitchens, which he attributed at once to a curious object standing in front of Selech’s platform, a structure about six feet high and resembling a closed chair. There were handles on each side, front and back, by which it could be carried. On examining it with some curiosity, Basil discovered that the base was of wood but that the rest was made of pastry. It had a delicious aroma, as though it had come fresh from the ovens, and it was coated over with sugar to make it a warm and inviting brown. On the top there was a bird’s cage, also made of pastry and filled with canaries. The birds, twittering among themselves, were perched on swings of hard candy. The top was fringed with candy bells that jingled lightly.
“What is this?” asked Basil when Selech joined him near the pastry chair.
“It is to be used for a surprise tonight,” explained the Archimagirus. “Observe, there is a door, and no one will be able to see inside when it is closed. The chair will be carried in with great ceremony; music and drums and acrobats. The canaries will be singing like mad, and then—the door will fly open and someone will come out.”
It was clear who the someone would be, for at this moment the little dancer Juli-Juli arrived in the kitchens and began to weave her way across to them. She was dressed in green and her arms were filled with a mass of fluffy yellow plumes. It was clear that she was very much excited, because she smiled and waved to them and began to dance her way around the ovens and tables.
“Is it ready?” she asked. “How wonderful! I am ready, O Selech. I can hardly wait. It smells so good that I am afraid I shall bite holes out of it when they are carrying me in.” She smiled at Basil over the burden of plumes. “Please, Selech, tell this young man all about it. He is a very nice young man and he has a beautiful wife. But he is very serious, and I think we could get him to smile if you told him.”
“He will be there to see for himself,” protested the great cook. “Should we rob him of the surprise?�
��
The girl smiled at Basil again and held out the plumes for his inspection. He could see they consisted of two large wings and a cap shaped like a cock’s comb. She put the cap on her golden hair, pulling it down tightly over her ears, and then made motions with her arms to indicate that the wings would be attached to her shoulders.
“Tell him my first number will be a bird dance.”
Selech translated this and then added an explanation. “There is a spring under the chair. When it is released, she will shoot out through the door like a bird in flight.”
Juli-Juli was fairly dancing with excitement. “Tell him about my second number, Selech. Ah, that second number. I want him to know about it. Then he will be sure to wait for it.”
“Do not fear, Juli-Juli. The young man will wait.”
“She will make a very lovely bird,” declared Basil.
Juli-Juli did not need to have this translated. She sensed his admiration from the smile that accompanied the remark and smiled back at him, nodding her head delightedly. “Do not repeat this, if you please, Selech, but it is a pity he is married,” she said.
“She will appear with the dessert,” explained the cook. He turned to the little dancer. “Caesar will think you a real bird when the door opens and you fly out. You must do your teacher credit tonight. You must dance, Juli-Juli, as you have never danced before. But now I think you had better return to your own quarters. Darius will be wondering where you are.”
The Silver Chalice Page 53