“Is he here?”
The clerk raised both hands in the air, the fingers clenched in sudden anger. “He was the first to come. He said he was going into his room and did not want to be disturbed for half an hour. I took this to mean that he would resort to the only honorable way to conclude such—such an inglorious affair as this has been. No sounds came from behind the door and I said to myself, ‘He has opened his veins.’ I waited the half hour, but when I went in I did not find him on the floor in a pool of his own base blood. The room was empty and it had been ransacked from top to bottom!” The clerk’s face, which was usually void of expression, had become red with the intensity of his indignation. “He had seized everything of value he could get his hands on—money, bits of jewelry, documents—and had taken advantage of the absence of the servants to leave by the rear gate. A fitting end after all. He had made himself a common thief!”
“Whatever he managed to steal,” declared Basil, “is a small price to pay for the gift of his absence. He will never dare come back. And when we have been robbed of so much, does a little more matter?”
They had reached the door of the circular room. Quintus Annius motioned with his thumb. “They are in there,” he said. “Waiting for you. I suggest you come with me first. I have some documents to show you.”
In his own small room the clerk seated himself before a neat pile of documents. He looked at them and heaved a bitter sigh.
“Everything is listed here,” he said. “Here are the debts, as far as I have been able to compile them. The total will give you an unpleasant surprise. Here is the list of our assets. They have been dwindling fast. What a hopeless mess it has been!”
Basil glanced at the figures, and his heart went down again into the depths. It was worse, much worse, than he had feared. “There will be little left,” he said.
“Very little. Those fellows in there have been most demanding. They have been hovering over us like vultures, flapping their wings and screeching.” He picked up the documents and frowned over them. “I have done nothing for you. As you do not need to be told, I am a coward. I deserted you the first time——”
“I had refused to take your advice.”
“True. But when the second hearing was directed, I did not go into court. I knew the magistrate would look at me and ask, ‘Why did you not give this evidence the first time?’ The only answer I would be able to make was that I had been afraid. I lacked the courage to face that question, and so I stayed here and skulked in abasement. You will never forgive me. I do not deserve it.”
“Put it out of your mind,” said Basil. “I assure you that I have no hard feelings.”
The young Roman’s face flushed with a new resolution. “I shall try to make up for it. I will fight for you against these ravenous dogs. I will fight over every bone that is left. I may even be able to bury a few bones away where they will not find them.” He shook his head with a savage resentment. “He was out of his depth from the very first, a midget trying to fill the shoes of a giant. I have been in torment, watching him destroy with his fumbling hands the magnificent prosperity into which he stepped!”
There was a long moment of silence. Basil was realizing how badly shaken he had been. “This is a hollow victory,” he thought. “But I have one satisfaction. The stigma of slavery has been lifted from my name. Perhaps I should be content.” He asked aloud, “How many slaves are there?”
The clerk consulted a list. “Forty-two.”
“Would the balance in my favor allow me to keep ownership of them?”
Quintus Annius shook his head emphatically. “They constitute a very solid share of the estate. The vultures in there are probably figuring now on the prices they will get for them.”
Basil thought of the misery that would result if the slaves were sold to help satisfy the claims of the creditors. They would be auctioned off to the highest bidders. That would mean separation of families and the breaking of all ties. Many, without a doubt, would find themselves the property of cruel and demanding owners. He recalled his own sufferings. “Multiply that by forty-two,” he said to himself, “and one realizes what this will mean.”
He rose to his feet. “I shall go in now,” he said. “I think it will be necessary for me to face them alone.”
He realized as soon as he got inside that, if a search had been made for the seven flintiest hearts and the seven coldest faces in Antioch, the result would have been the group that now faced him. He recognized one of them only, a banker who had paid occasional visits to Ignatius. They had taken possession of all the seats the room provided and so he remained standing just inside the door.
“I am told that you all have claims against the estate,” he said. “It is proper then for me to join you. I am the biggest creditor.”
The banker, who occupied the chair Ignatius had always used, moved uneasily. “I do not understand what you mean by that,” he said.
Basil was fully aware of the frigid intentness with which all seven were watching him. He indulged in a silent prayer. “O Lord, look down on me and lend me Thy help,” he said. “I am without experience in matters such as this. Enable me, O Lord, to make the things I must say to them sound very convincing.”
He addressed himself then to the company. “That good man who adopted me as his son left a great estate when he died. There was this house, which was filled with rare objects of great value; there were the warehouses, the ships, the olive groves, the great reserves of money and supplies. I was to inherit everything. But, as you know, the law permitted a great injustice to be done. Everything was taken away from me. Now that injustice is being righted. The law has said to me, ‘You are the rightful heir.’ And so I come today to claim that great inheritance which should have been mine at first.”
The banker indulged in a sour smile. “How much of it will be left for you after all our claims have been met?” he asked.
“I have a first claim!” cried Basil. “You, my good sirs, have been dealing with a thief. Your claims are based on arrangements you made with an interloper. Do you believe that I am in any sense responsible for the mistakes this man made while in possession of my property, which is now declared to have been illegal and obtained by fraud?”
The banker’s smile developed into a laugh, a decidedly unpleasant laugh.
“Fine words,” he said. “Would they win you a decision from any judge?”
“I am sure of one thing,” declared Basil. “If it comes to a court decision, it will be delivered in Rome. Do you realize what that means, my good sirs and fellow creditors? I have wealth and influence behind me and, if necessary, I shall carry the fight all the way to Caesar.”
Six of the seven faces remained fixed and stolid, but that of the banker now showed a deep and resentful flush. “It would be an expensive fight!” he cried.
“Yes,” said Basil. “For all of us.”
There was a long silence. “I am sure,” he resumed, “that you all know how the appeals are mounting up in Rome. It would be at least two years before we could get a hearing in the imperial courts. In the meantime, my good sirs, what will happen to what is left of the magnificent trading concern my father built? If taken vigorously in hand now, it might be saved. It might be brought back to something of its former prosperity. But after two years of litigation and indecision it will not matter much who is given the verdict. There will be nothing left for the victor.”
The banker was combing his beard with nervous fingers. “What are you leading up to?” he asked. “What do you propose?”
“A division now,” answered Basil. “Give me ownership of the slaves and divide up everything else among you.”
The banker searched through some documents on the marble table of Ignatius with hands that trembled furiously. “The slaves!” he cried. “There are forty-two of them. See, here is the list. They are a valuable lot. What absurdity is this?”
“I have stated my terms,” said Basil quietly.
Immediately all seven
were shouting and waving their arms at him. They got up and surrounded him, gesticulating, threatening, screaming. He made no move except to fold his arms on his chest. He said nothing more and even smiled at the insults they heaped upon him.
When he emerged from the circular room he found Quintus Annius crouched uneasily in his chair. “I thought they were going to tear you to pieces,” said the latter.
Basil was carrying a document. He laid it down in front of the young Roman.
“We reached an agreement in spite of the noise,” he said. “This contains all their signatures. As you will see, I am to have the slaves. They divide the rest.”
Quintus Annius sprang to his feet. “This is a triumph!” he cried. “You have brought them to your terms. I did not think you would have a chance dealing with any one of the seven singly, let alone the lot of them together.” He reached for a slip of parchment. “See, I was making an estimate of the value of the slaves on the present market. It is a handsome amount.”
Basil did not look at the figures. “I want to visit their quarters now,” he said. “Will you come with me and hear what I have to say? I am giving them their freedom.”
The Roman looked at him with unbelieving eyes. “By all the laws of the Twelve Tables, you do not mean it!” he cried. “If you did this, you would strip yourself to the skin. There must be reason, even in generosity.”
“If you had ever been a slave as I have, you would understand the reason. Will you have the writs of manumission prepared?”
Quintus Annius said to himself: “He is mad! What other explanation can there be of such supreme folly?”
Not knowing the doubts of his sanity that had taken root in his companion’s mind, Basil proceeded to give further proof of an unsettled reason. On the way to the slave quarters he stopped suddenly and turned his eyes up to the ceiling. “Father, have you been listening?” he asked. “It is all I can do for you. I hope it will suffice.”
CHAPTER XXXV
1
The depression that gained possession of Basil’s spirits on his homeward journey was not due entirely to the loss of his inheritance. He had left the house reluctantly in the morning. It was the last day for showing the Chalice and he would have preferred to remain and share the watch with the two guards. He had paid a visit to the vigilant pair before taking his departure and had said to Elidad, who was standing at the door: “Keep your eyes open today. It is their last chance.” He was thinking of this as he strode vigorously through the streets of the city, which were emptying fast with the coming of dusk. “I wish,” he was thinking, “that some other day had been selected for the hearing.” He had spoken to Jehoahaz about the possibility of getting a postponement, but the man of law had been most emphatically against this, saying, “We must not tamper with our good fortune.”
The darkness of evening was beginning to settle down over the white houses and the small gardens when he approached his own neighborhood. He had been falling deeper into gloom with each step he took. There seemed to be something sinister about the tints in the sky as they turned from gray to black, in the rustling of the trees in the Grove, in the echo of activity from the city streets below that followed him on his climb. He was certain that something had gone wrong, and this put impatience into his feet. His gait had increased to a jog trot by the time he reached an angle of the road where a space had been provided for the turning of vehicles, but he slowed down when he saw that a number of chariots had turned in here. The drivers, waiting for the return of their passengers, stood in a knot by the side of the road and talked in loud and confident voices. The tenor of their talk was political and they spoke in Hebrew.
“Zealots!” thought Basil. His fears mounted to a sense of certainty.
Climbing the hill, he heard a loud shouting from behind the walls of the house. Then he noticed that the front gates were swinging wide open and that no one was standing guard over them. He saw two men climb in great haste over a side wall and vanish into the woods.
“Mijamin has struck!” he cried, racing up the steep road in furious haste.
When he arrived, he saw a distracted group of visitors and servants in the outer court. Running through into the inner garden, he found Luke bending over the unconscious figure of Elidad. The young guard, it was apparent, had sustained serious injuries in defending his trust. Fearing the worst now, and filled with a furious and rebellious despair, Basil entered the house and reached the stairway at the head of which the guards were supposed to stand. There was no sign of Irijah. The stair, in fact, was empty, as was the landing above. He took the steps three at a time and came to the small room where the Chalice was kept. It also was empty. It was empty in another sense than in the mere absence of the men assigned to protect the Chalice. The Chalice was gone.
Basil stood for several moments and stared at the space on the table where the sacred Cup had stood. He was too stunned to think, too unhappy to have any coherent reactions to the disaster.
“It will be taken to the High Priest and he will break it with his own hands,” he said to himself. “Nothing can be done about it now. All our efforts have gone for naught.”
He began then to link what had happened to his personal misfortunes. On the long walk from his old home on the Colonnade, after disposing of it to the creditors, he had become reconciled to the loss of everything he had won in court, but the final victory of the Zealots suggested to him now that there was a pattern in this succession of blows. “Are we being tested?” he asked himself. “As Job was tested in the land of Uz?”
But there was another respect in which the room was empty. From the first he had been conscious of something different about the twelve models on the table, and now he realized that this was due to a gap in the row. He turned quickly and counted them. There were only eleven.
He walked to the table in deep fear of what he would find. The fear became certainty. It was the head of Jesus that was missing.
At first he was conscious only of what seemed a tragic coincidence, that if one had to be destroyed it would prove to be the most sacred of them all. Then he realized that chance had played no part in this. The model had not been broken in the haste with which the invaders had taken possession of the Chalice; it had been carried away. None of the others had been moved. It had been the purpose clearly of Mijamin and his men to steal it as well as the Chalice.
Basil’s next reaction was one of resolution. He would make another model of that sad and wonderful face while his memory was still fresh. That much at least must be salvaged from the disaster, for he knew that there was in every Christian heart an unquenchable desire to gaze on the face of the Saviour. He must set to work as soon as the trouble and confusion had died down.
Then a sense of fear and defeat swept over him. His recollection of the sacred face had already become dim! Would he be able to call back the clarity with which he had worked after waking from his dream? Would he be able to replace the lost model with one of equal fidelity? He could not be sure.
He strove to find reassurance by saying to himself that the vagueness of his memory was due to the anxieties that filled him. Later he would be able to put demands on his mind and reclaim the clear recollection of the sacred face. He felt so much urgency about it, however, that he could not wait for this to happen. He must know at once; and he set himself with deliberate effort to re-create in his mind the room in the Wall of David.
It came back slowly. There was no relief for him in the result, for the scene that gradually grew in his mind was clear in every respect save one. As on the first two occasions when it had been shown to him, the space in the center was empty! He waited with the most intense concentration, hoping to see the face of Jesus emerge; but it soon became evident that this was to be denied him.
A sense of irrevocability took possession of him. “Why,” he asked himself, “should I have expected that I would be granted a second glimpse of His face? It was given me once, and such a great reward will not be repeated.” Then the m
eaning of this second loss came back to him in full measure. “It is a great misfortune, for I have been the only one in a position to preserve for mankind a vision of how Jesus looked. They will destroy everything, these men from Jerusalem, and the memory of His face will be lost for all time.”
He had been a few moments only in the room. In a state of deep despair he descended the stairs and reached the inner court, where Luke was tending the wounds of Elidad. The physician’s hands, already stained a deep red with the blood, were working with a sure but at the same time an almost frantic haste. He had cut a soft sponge into pieces and was applying them to the many wounds.
“I must act quickly if his life is to be saved,” he said to Basil without allowing himself to pause. “Cataplasms may be necessary, but I am not yet sure. I may be able to check the loss of blood without them. I hope so, for it is a cleaner way and surer to lead to a recovery. The cataplasms sometimes clog the wound and keep it from healing.”
An excited voice was heard at this point in the outer court. “It is Irijah,” said one of the maids. “I saw him go over the wall after them. Perhaps he has come back with the Cup.”
Basil crossed to the outer court and found that Irijah, who was surrounded by what was left of the visitors and by anxious servants, had come off badly in the struggle also. There were wounds on his cheeks and neck from which blood was flowing down over his shoulders. His tunic was so badly torn that he was almost naked to the waist.
“They got away,” he said. There were tears of resentment and grief in his eyes. “I followed them over the wall, but they scattered in the woods and I lost track of all of them.”
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