His eye was taken immediately by the man who sat on the left of the open space, and he said to himself with elated excitement that it was John. There was no mistaking the Beloved Disciple. The protruding brow and the widely spaced eyes, the sensitive and eloquent mouth were the same. This young John had a bodily vigor that the wasted figure preaching in the mine near Ephesus had lacked, and his face was that of a young man; a young man of great courage and sweetness.
“Peter will be on the other side,” Basil said aloud, turning his eyes in that direction. He broke at once into an excited laugh of recognition, for the figure to the right of the space was none other than Cephas!
So the old servant at the inn was the acknowledged leader of the Christians, as he had half suspected, the disciple who had been chosen by Jesus. This explained the deference paid him by Hannibal and by the man Mark. It explained his absences also, for the responsibilities of leadership would call him away at times.
The Peter who sat at the right was far different from the gentle old man of the inn. He was having nothing to say and his eyes were stormy and unreconciled to the nature of the separation that Christ had said was soon to take place.
But Basil had not time to study more closely the face of the moody Peter. Something was happening to the scene; something far different from anything he had witnessed before. It caused him at first a shiver of dread and then, taking him to the other extreme, a sense of blissful anticipation. The space that had been empty was no longer entirely bare. Someone, still no more than a shadow, was sitting there!
He strained his eyes to see, and gradually the form became clearer, as though a process of materialization were taking place. Slowly the shadows turned to substance, and out of the merging of surfaces and colors a face appeared. It was the face of a man in his early prime, a face delicate, gentle, but wonderfully strong and wise, although at that moment it was tortured with a tragic duty and sad beyond all human comprehension.
“I am seeing Jesus!” whispered Basil. “I can see His eyes, as Deborra said I would.”
At that point the eyes seemed to look directly at him and to smile. They were wonderful eyes, set wide apart under a broad brow; wise, discerning, compassionate eyes that could express humor and sweetness even though a great sorrow possessed them.
Basil lowered his head, saying to himself, “I am not worthy to look any longer.” He had never felt so humble, so full of human faults, so conscious of his sins. What right had he to pry further, to continue watching this holy scene?
As he sat with his brow in his hands, however, it came to him that there was reason behind this vision, that it had been allowed him so that he could finish the Chalice. He must conquer his sense of humility and take advantage of the sublime opportunity that had been offered him. Convinced of this, he opened his eyes and studied the face of Jesus with the keen intentness of the artist.
With new eagerness he took account of details. The nose of Jesus was neither long nor prominent. It was straight and with a delicacy of modeling that gave it beauty. The mouth expressed all the qualities that showed themselves in the eyes. The chin, which was bare of beard, showed strength as well as gentleness.
“I have been allowed this vision,” said Basil to himself with a sense of urgency and excitement, “so that I may finish the Chalice. I must get to work. Now, at once.”
At this point he realized that he was asleep, after all, for he could not bring himself back to consciousness. Knowing that he must set his fingers to their task while the vision of that incomparable face was clear in his mind, he strove harder to free himself of the shackles of slumber. He struggled and groaned. Realizing finally that he held something of weight in his right hand, he struck his leg a blow with it. He felt a sharp pain and, with the mists of sleep dissolving at once, he sat up straight in his chair. He was staring into the blackness of empty space, in which the outline of the curtained window was barely discernible.
He was weak with excitement and his brow was covered with perspiration.
“Jesus, Master!” he said in a tone under a whisper. “You have given your servant this great privilege. I have seen You, I have looked into Your eyes, I have seen You smile. Put now into my fingers the power to perpetuate for all time what I have been shown, so that other men may see also.”
All lassitude left him at once, and he felt strong and capable of achieving the task ahead of him. He fumbled at the table for the lighter and finally created a flame that flickered uncertainly before taking a steady hold on the wick. It was going to be a very inadequate light for the work he had to do, but he would make the most of it. Fortunately he had carried the blue cloth bag with him as usual that evening and it had been on his shoulder when he fled from the police. The clay was damp and ready for use, and he spread his tools out in front of him with fingers trembling with eagerness to begin and fear that he might fail.
He worked with intense concentration, repeating over and over that he had gazed on the face of the Son of God and that it would remain fixed in his mind forever, even though his hands might fail to bring it to life in the clay. He had no conception of time, save that he was sure the hours were speeding away. The insufficient light hampered him, but he did not dare seek to better it. Even when a gray light showed faintly through the window, he did not venture to draw back the curtain, remembering the explicitness of the restrictions his host had placed upon him.
He knew that if he did not achieve at once what was demanded of his hands it would be useless to attempt change or revision later. With this thought driving him on, he never ceased in his feverish manipulation of the clay until the light stealing in around the curtains had a clearness and vitality that warned him that day had come.
He looked at what he had accomplished and said aloud, “This is all I can do.” He knew it was good. The face that had gazed at him in his dream now looked out from the gray clay. It was lacking in many respects; some of the mystery of the face was gone, and still more of the light in the eyes; but his fingers, he said to himself, were human. He would leave it as it was.
He turned toward the window and said, “Day has broken,” rising at the same time to draw the curtains more securely. The action made him conscious again of a pain in his knee. Glancing down, he saw that his leg was streaked with blood. It had been one of his knives he had found in his hand when the need to rouse himself had caused him to strike the knee. There was blood on the floor where he had been sitting.
4
Joseph brought up the midday meal. A few moments after he left, four raps were repeated on the door to announce the arrival of Elishama ben Sheshbazzar. The gem merchant looked a little more stately in his person and a great deal easier in his mind. He seated himself near the table while Basil continued with his meal of kidneys stewed in wine and dressed with African figs.
“The turmoil at the palace has subsided somewhat,” reported Elishama. “No evidence of a conspiracy has been uncovered, and the Emperor is beginning to quiet down. It seems that no one came forward to support the charges of this infamous woman. A whisper did reach Nero’s ears about Selech, but at that point the Empress put her foot down. It is said that she spoke quite violently to her royal spouse. ‘These drafty halls in which we have to live are bare and shabby,’ she told him. I shudder at the ugliness of everything and at the smells about the place. All we have to make life supportable is the best cook in the world. Are you going to get rid of him on suspicions?’ Petronius, who knows the real value of Selech better than anyone, supported Poppaea. And so, after much grumbling and many loud outcries that he stood alone while assassins sharpened their daggers for him, Nero gave in.”
Basil sighed in an intensity of relief. “What happy news you have brought!” he exclaimed. “I was afraid that all who had helped me would be hopelessly entangled.”
“No one seems to know how you escaped from the hall,” said the merchant. “All eyes were on Nero. When he came to the end of his tantrum, they looked for you, and you were gone. The
possibility that you were carried out in the pastry cage does not seem to have occurred to anyone.” He was silent for a moment as he offered Basil a dish containing pheasant sausages prepared with garum. “Selech was not called up for questioning. Darius was examined and he showed himself of small resolution, protesting loudly that he was not a Christian. I hear that Nero came around to speaking of you with regret. ‘I shall miss my little genius,’ he said. ‘Unhappy man that I am, compelled to sacrifice friendships in the interests of the state!’ If he continues to feel this way, you might regain your standing with him in time. But he is as capricious of temper as a panther with a thorn in its paw, and I would not advise any effort to return until he gives more certain indications of forgiveness.”
“I must leave Rome at the first possible moment,” declared Basil. “I had little taste for court life at any time, and now I am completely cured of it.”
“Wisely spoken,” said the merchant, nodding his head approvingly. He gave vent to a sigh. “You speak of having no taste for the life of the court. I lack taste for any part of the life I live here. I think it is the same with all the Jews of the Diaspora. They exist in a state of melancholy, quite unreconciled to life so far from the Temple. It is inevitable that we must continue to leave Jerusalem, for the genius of the children of Israel is too strong to be confined to that small strip of land between the Jordan and the sea. It needs the whole world for its expression, and so we move about and set up colonies. We become successful and prosperous, but we are unhappy all the days of our lives. I do as many do who have become rich men; I surround myself with luxury and try to find compensation in that. The doors of my house are made of tortoise shell, the handles are of silver. I partake of food off plates of gold and silver. But it is a small recompense for what I have given up. I sometimes think that I would be happier living in Jerusalem in poverty and obscurity; but if I returned I would soon find myself longing for the fruits of my labors here. There is, in other words, a devil with a pitchfork on each side of me. I can never be happy.” He remained sunk in thought for some moments. Then he began speaking of other matters. “There will be a meeting of the leaders of the church here tonight to confer with Peter. It had been arranged before you came. Much as I dislike bringing more curious eyes into the house while your safety hangs in the balance, it is too late to think of postponement. There is this also, that the meeting was called to discuss the challenge of Simon the Magician. Further delay is impossible.”
“I saw Peter in a dream last night,” said Basil. “What I was shown confirmed a suspicion that has been in my mind.” Observing a look of apprehension in his host’s eye, he went on to make an explanation. “I know where he is living. I stayed at the inn where he works for a week before being summoned to the palace. I am still at a loss to understand why he chooses to exist under such difficulties.”
“It is easy to understand when you know how bitterly the tide of opinion has been running against us in Rome.” Elishama gave his head a shake of great gravity. “Peter lived at first in the Trans-Tiber, where there is a large Jewish colony. But some months ago Tigellinus adopted a more severe attitude. He began to send his officers throughout the city to ask questions and make lists. It was clear that he wanted the names of all the Christians in Rome. We felt it was unwise, under these circumstances, for Peter to remain openly where he was. It was agreed that he would either have to go into hiding or establish a new identity where he would be free of suspicion. He went to serve with Old Hannibal, whose connection with the faith had never been suspected. He has remained there ever since, content to serve in a menial capacity and to do the bidding of the guests who come and go. The authorities have no idea that this old man who works so patiently is the Peter who is our leader.” He filled his guest’s cup with wine, which was fragrant and well cooled. “You spoke of a dream. I am very much interested, having devoted some time to the study of dreams and trances. Did you see others in this dream?”
“I saw all the disciples who broke bread with Jesus on the last night,” declared Basil. “John was there. I heard him preach at Ephesus and so I was able to recognize him at once. At first there was one vacant place, but as I watched it gradually filled and I—I saw Jesus! I beg of you, O Elishama, not to think I am inventing a tale. I saw the room in the Wall of David and I saw the face of Jesus as clearly as I see yours now. He smiled at me. I looked into His eyes, His grave and understanding eyes.” Basil came to a stop. He must convince his host of the need to see and speak to Peter. “I hesitate to put such an idea into words, but it is necessary for me to see Cephas when he comes. I have things to tell him. Things that are very important.”
Elishama ben Sheshbazzar considered the matter carefully. “This much I can promise,” he said finally. “That you will see him. The meeting is to be held in my showroom, which is the largest in the house. It has a watching gallery. You see, human nature is frail. Women of wealth and high station are particularly frail when they see beautiful things spread out before them in great profusion. Some of them are certain to become what we call light-fingered. And so it has been the rule with merchants who have large stocks of jewels to have a hidden gallery where watchers can keep an eye on these fashionable customers. My showroom has its gallery, and it will be your privilege to stand there and watch when Peter sits down in consultation with the princes of the church in Rome. I shall whisper in his ear that you are a witness and so you can feel guiltless of eavesdropping.” He paused. “As to speaking with him, that will be for Peter to decide.”
A question had been on the tip of Basil’s tongue from the moment the merchant entered. He had feared to ask it, but now he forced himself to the risk of hearing what he dreaded. “What of Juli-Juli?”
The face of the gem merchant became grave. “The dancer displayed a courage and fortitude in contrast to the weakness of her instructor,” he said. “She refused to give any information. They got nothing from her at all, not a name, not a hint.”
“But——” began Basil, and then stopped. He found it almost impossible to articulate a further question. “But—did she come through the ordeal safely?”
Elishama shook his head. “No,” he answered. “No. That was not to be expected. She refused to yield—and so she died under the torture.”
“Dead!” cried Basil. A feeling of horror had taken possession of him. “How can there be such cruelty in the world?”
“She has been the first to suffer martyrdom. There will be many more as time goes on. We are preparing ourselves for it.”
When he was alone Basil took a few steps blindly in the direction of the window. With unseeing eyes he gazed out over the rooftops shimmering in the midday heat. Everything seemed black and hopeless. Juli-Juli had died to save others from the fate that had overtaken her. That brave little spirit was no more. The light feet that had performed with such gaiety the Dance of the Sandals of Caesar were still.
“O Lord Jehovah,” he whispered in a choked voice, “I hope You did not let her suffer too much, that brave little girl.” Then he raised an arm in a gesture of farewell and called, “Vale!”
5
Peering down through the narrow slot in the stone wall, Basil saw Peter seated at the head of the room. The space about the apostle was crowded with people who had eyes for no one else. Since his dream he had known that Cephas was Peter, but in the appearance of the leader of the church there was some room for surprise. The hair and beard of the apostle were snow-white and most benevolently tended and curled. He was dressed in linen of a matching whiteness. But it was a change in his attitude that was most to be remarked. This was not the self-effacing old man of the inn; it was an acknowledged leader, a man who knew how to command, how to make his will accepted. The earnest-faced people who filled the room waited on his words and listened to him as though the departed Jesus spoke with his tongue.
It became apparent that they had been discussing the challenge of Simon Magus, for Peter now said: “We have been too much concerned with this
wicked man. He and his knavish tricks will soon cease to be of any consequence.”
“But, Peter,” protested a voice from the end of the room, “you must agree that he has been doing us much harm. People have been wondering, whispering, asking questions. Some have been won away. If we let him do his flying from the high tower he has built without anything being heard from us, men will indeed begin to ask if he has greater powers than those whom Jesus named to act in His stead.”
Another voice spoke earnestly. “It was you, Peter, who said to the lame beggar sitting for alms at the Beautiful Gate, ‘Rise up and walk.’ It was you who raised Tabitha from the dead. Can you not find it in your heart to perform a miracle for the confounding of this persistent gadfly, this wicked Simon? We know that with the mere stretching out of a hand——”
“My brothers,” said Peter, “do you think it the will of the Lord that I so demean the power that has been given to me, among others, that I would use it to put a mere trickster out of countenance before Caesar?”
“All the world will be watching!” cried a third voice. “Watching and listening and drawing conclusions.”
There was a brief silence before Peter spoke again. “Know this, my brethren, that I have never attempted to use the power unless the Lord spoke in my ear and commanded me to do so. Since that night when Simon stood before Nero and said, ‘Pit me against these Christians,’ I have listened. But the Lord has not spoken. I have not heard Him say to me, ‘Arise, Peter, and do that which I command thee, that this man from Samaria shall no longer utter his boasts.’ And, my friends, I have been happy that the Voice has not spoken. I see clearly that it would be wrong to match ourselves against a man who utters abominations and deals in the wicked use of charms and potions.”
The Silver Chalice Page 57