Читать книгу The Silver Chalice - Thomas B. Costain - Страница 12

The heat had been intense on the road to Aleppo and yet, curiously enough, there had been something almost of benevolence about it, as though its sole purpose was to be good to living creatures, even to men. The old city had appeared at a distance like a saffron concoction on a shallow platter of green held out in welcome by the bronze hands of the gods of the hills. On close inspection the town proved to be a baffling maze of narrow lanes with astonishing bazaars comparable only to Time, which has no beginning and no end. Basil, child of the Ward of the Trades, lost himself in these vastnesses and only through the help of a beggar, whose sores were honest, found his way back, late and shamefaced, to the great khan inside the Antioch Gate.

He was there in time to witness the belated arrival of Adam ben Asher, to whom they had been directed. The latter proved to be a study in incongruities; a figure of bulging girth and yet obviously as tough as leather; his skin blackened by desert suns and his eyebrows the bushiest of black penthouses, while his lively and roving eyes were of a most unusual shade of gray. Contrasts were to be observed also in the matter of his dress. With a flowing tunic bearing the red stripe of the desert nomad, he wore high-laced shoes that suggested a Greek dandy and a belt that could have come from nowhere but the distant and fabulous Cathay. He talked in the high-pitched voice of the professional teller of tales, he gestured like a camel trader, he fell in and out of rages as easily as a player of parts. His talk never ceased, and it was amusing, blistering, and laudatory in turn. He was openly and professedly a friend of every man on the caravan trails.

He crossed the courtyard of the khan, his voice shrill in greeting of Luke the Physician. A clout on the chest knocked the latter off balance and an immediate thump between the shoulder blades saved him from falling. “You look as cool as the snows of Ararat,” Adam declaimed. What errand brings you here? Do you go to prepare the way for the Brave Voices in a conquest of Bavil?”^[1]

[1]	The name commonly applied to Bagdad.

Luke had accepted the buffeting in good grace, but he protested what Adam had said. “It hurts me to hear you speak in this way,” he said.

“Because I call Paul and Peter and the rest of your friends the Brave Voices? Come, what am I to call them? I stand by the old beliefs and the Law of Moses and I cannot bring myself to speak of these followers of the Nazarene as apostles. What then? Brave Voices is as good as any name. If it implies a small measure of disrespect, it indicates at the same time that the Christian leaders have courage. Can you expect me to do more?” He burst into a loud guffaw. Ending it abruptly, he shot a question at Luke. “What brings you to Aleppo?”

“I bring you this lad,” said Luke. “He goes to Jerusalem, and it is the wish of Joseph of Arimathea that he make the journey in your train.”

The light eyes of the mahogany-skinned nomad turned in Basil’s direction. They took in every detail of his appearance, the youthful thinness, the wide brow, noting also the short-sleeved colobium of the free man, which the youth wore with such gladness.

“Who is he?” demanded Adam ben Asher, not lowering his voice. “He’s too young, I think, to be one of the Brave Voices, but there’s a suspicious glitter in his eye. There’s something about him that makes me uneasy. What is it?”

“Adam ben Asher,” said Luke in an urgent tone, “it will be better if you refrain from shouting about us to the rooftops. This young man comes from Antioch. He is an artist and he goes to carry out a commission for Joseph of Arimathea.”

At this the caravan man gave over all other interests to a study of the youth. His manner lost all trace of joviality and became intense and critical.

“I think ill of artists,” he remarked. “There have been too many of them in the world, painting on walls and carving idols out of stone. So, this one is an artist and he goes to work for Joseph of Arimathea! I have worked for Joseph of Arimathea all my life, and this is a matter of some concern to me.”

The kindly eyes of Luke showed a faint trace of weariness. “My friend,” he said, “this is a very small matter. It does not concern you in any way.”

The curiously assorted trio sat down together in a corner of the courtyard with a copper dish between them, filled with rice and lamb and all manner of small surprises in the way of vegetables and nuts and spices from the Far East. Basil ate with the good appetite of youth. Adam ben Asher performed prodigiously, wiping his hands on a napkin each time he dipped into the dish but paying no immediate attention to the smearing of his lips and cheeks. Luke partook lightly and with a noticeable fastidiousness.

“You and I, O Luke,” declared Adam, probing into the dish with a forefinger, “are much alike. You are not counted among the bravest of the Brave Voices, but I have observed how they depend on you in all things. You arrange the meetings, you talk to the magistrates, you see that there is food. When money is needed, you go to Joseph of Arimathea. You talk to the captains of ships, and jailers and innkeepers and tax collectors. I wonder if there would be as many believers today had it not been for the quiet work of one Luke who sits beside me at this moment and frowns with disapproval of what I say. You, old friend, have made yourself indispensable to them, and what is your reward? You have become the—the Cart Horse of Christianity!” The caravan captain threw back his black-thatched head and roared with appreciation of his own cleverness. “And now on the other hand. That wise old man in Jerusalem, Joseph of Arimathea, is counted the great merchant of the world. But for the last ten years I, Adam ben Asher, have done much of the work. I buy, I sell, I fight, I contrive. I take out caravans, I go as far east as India. I work from sunrise to sunset. I am the Titan of the Trails, the Pilgrim of the Pe Lu. It is Joseph of Arimathea who dispenses the wealth with such a generous hand, so that the Brave Voices may go out and preach, but it is Adam who provides the dinars.”

Basil had finished his repast and was listening to this discourse with absorbed interest. Adam ceased talking at this point to give the youth another prolonged study.

“So, this boy is an artist!” he said finally. “I believe you, O Luke, because he could be nothing else with such useless hands. But what is this genius going to do for Joseph of Arimathea?”

“Your master is a very old man,” said Luke, “and his granddaughter, the little Deborra——”

“The little Deborra,” interrupted Adam with a loud and impatient snort, “is fifteen. The right age for marriage.”

“Has her age any bearing?” asked Luke. “This is how it came about. Deborra wants a likeness of Joseph in silver that she will always be able to keep. I was asked to find the best worker in silver in Antioch and I selected this young man.”

Adam ben Asher had finished his meal. He dipped both hands in a bowl of water and clapped them over his face, rubbing vigorously to remove all traces of the repast, blowing the while like a sea monster. When he had finished, he rested his elbows on his knees and gave Basil a still more protracted stare.

“How long will this foolishness take?” he demanded, addressing the youth for the first time.

“A few weeks,” answered Basil uneasily. It was not hard to read dislike in the shrewd eye of this strange individual. “Perhaps a little longer. It will depend on how much success I have. Sometimes the first attempts are not successful.”

Adam turned to the older man. “Was it not possible to select one who would be successful from the first? Is this a pindling apprentice you send to Jerusalem? Where will he live?”

“He will live in the house of Joseph. It is the rule because it gives him a chance to study his subject.”

“And for many other things. My venerable friend, do you consider this fellow good to look upon?”

“He is well favored.”

The caravan captain glanced at Basil again and frowned. He changed his position, stole another look, and frowned with still greater violence. Finally he commented in a grumbling tone: “As I have said, I think poorly of artists. They are a weak-kneed lot. I could take this one in my two hands and crack all his ribs. It would be a pleasant way of exercising the muscles.” He turned then and asked a question of Luke. “Where do you go when you have left this maker of images on my hands?”

“I return to join Paul,” answered the physician. “He is getting together a party, as perhaps you have heard. A collection has been made in Macedonia for the use of the poor of Jerusalem, and Paul is taking it there.”

A shrewd look came into the eyes of the caravan captain. “He uses it as an excuse,” he declared. “Paul has other reasons for going.”

Luke nodded. “You are right. Paul has other reasons.”

This set Adam ben Asher off on a long harangue. “It is a rash thing for him to do. There will be trouble if he appears there again. Fighting and bloodshed and killing.” He laid a hand on Luke’s arm and gave a vigorous shake to compel attention to what he was saying. “You, Luke, have been a healer of bodies and now have made yourself into a healer of souls. You are kind and unselfish and I am fond of you. But in some matters you are no more than a child in a world of wicked men. I do not think you have any conception of the actual situation. You know that the high priests of the Temple hate Paul. Do you realize, O Healer of Men, that there are fires of discontent banked in every Jewish soul and that while the world lies quietly under Roman rule the day is being planned when the Jews will rise to throw off the shackles? The Zealots sharpen their knives and whisper of rebellion, and they hate Christians because a Jew who turns to your Jesus the Christ becomes a lover of peace. They hate Paul because he has been preaching peace all over the world—peace under the rule of Rome. If he goes to Jerusalem, there will be a Zealot dagger between his ribs before he can say ‘Peace be with you.’ ”

“Paul is well aware of the danger,” asserted Luke. “The daggers of the Zealots follow him wherever he goes.”

“Keep him away!” exclaimed Adam. “There is trouble enough as it is. A riot over that master of indiscretion, Paul of Tarsus, might be the start of rebellion against Rome. I am a good Jew, I believe in the Law of Moses, but I am not a Zealot. I know how easily the Romans would crush an uprising in a great bath of Jewish blood.”

“The hand of Jehovah beckons Paul back to Jerusalem.”

“It is Paul himself who says so,” declared Adam bitterly. “How can the rest of us be sure that the hand is not motioning him to stay away? Well, he will come; and it will be a black day for all of us when he does.”

With an abruptness which startled his hearers, the caravan captain then jumped to another subject. “Simon the Magician was here last night. He appeared in the market place, and every man in Aleppo was out to see him perform his tricks.”

Luke glanced up with a grave air. “I hear of this Simon everywhere. He gives us much trouble. Did you see him?”

“Of course I saw him.” Adam nodded his head with gusto. “He is the greatest magician in the world and he makes miracles seem easy. Let me tell you this, O Luke: he wins followers wherever he goes and he takes them away from the Nazarene.” He made an expansive gesture. “What can you expect? People believe Jesus to be the Messiah because He performed miracles. Then along comes Simon the Magician, who says to them: ‘See, I can do miracles too. I can do greater miracles than He did.’ So of course people begin to wonder and they say to themselves, ‘It is true. Why, therefore, have we believed in the Nazarene?’ ”

Luke’s manner had become graver with each word spoken. He had listened to Adam with a saddened air as one might take in the thoughtless chatter of a child.

“My son,” he said, “you have not become one of us, and sometimes I fear you never will. You have lived under the influence of your saintly master all the years of your life. You know the apostles and you have heard them speak. It is possible that you saw Jesus when you were very young.”

Adam shook his head. “It was after His death that my master engaged me as a camel driver. I heard then that He had been buried in Joseph’s tomb and that He was supposed to have risen from the dead.”

“It is true that He rose from the dead. Many of His followers saw Him.”

“I am a Jew and I live by the Law of Moses,” declared Adam. He grinned broadly and rapped his head with his knuckles. “My head is hard. Very hard.”

“And, I fear, your heart.”

“As hard,” supplied the caravan man, “as the back of Ah-big, the crocodile.”

Luke sighed deeply. “The comparison is only too accurate. None of us has been able to reach your soul.” He fell into silence for a moment and then resumed speaking with passionate conviction. “You are not a Christian and so you do not understand that a belief in the miracles of Jesus is a very small matter indeed. I was denied the privilege of seeing Him, but it would make no difference to me if He had performed no miracles at all. It is what He taught, Adam ben Asher. He brought us the sublime truth that our God is the God of charity and forgiveness and that we may be redeemed and washed of our sins by the blood that was spilled on Calvary. When you ride on your camel, Adam, it is not the amulet around the animal’s neck that supplies the strength to carry you from Aleppo to Jerusalem. This talk of miracles has no more importance to us than the amulet has to you.”

“Then why do people come out in such crowds to see Simon the Magician? Why are they beginning to say he is the Messiah and not Jesus of Nazareth?”

“The number of deserters is small. No true Christian pays any attention to this trickster, this mountebank.”

“It is not wise to pass him over lightly. There may be more than keshef in what he does. Oh, he is a wise one, that Simon. What do you suppose he did last night to make all the roving eyes of Aleppo pop right out of their sockets? He used a girl as a helper on the platform. Yes, O Luke, in full view of everyone and without even a veil over her face. A beautiful girl, with eyes like the stars and hair as black as midnight. She had a shape which turned the amorous bones of Aleppo to water. At first it seemed there might be a riot because women are not allowed to show their faces in public. But after a few moments it was apparent they were licking their lips and enjoying it.”

“His heart is black with wickedness!” declared Luke. “I am surprised he was not struck down by a thunderbolt from the angry hand of Jehovah.”

“Where do you suppose this man of black heart goes next to display his tricks? To Jerusalem.”

“I cannot believe it!” cried Luke. “Simon is a Samaritan. He would not be allowed to appear publicly in the Holy City.”

“I am not as sure of that as you. His aim is to make light of Jesus of Nazareth, and it may very well be that the high priests will welcome him. I would not be at all surprised if the great men of the Temple allowed him to do his tricks outside the very Gate of the Golden Bars.”

Luke gave his head an anxious shake. “It is fortunate, then,” he said, “that Paul is going to Jerusalem. Something must be done to prove this Simon a trickster and a cheat—this Bad Samaritan!”

That night, after Adam had fallen to snoring like the slow beat of a native fist on a taut drum, Luke said to Basil, who was stretched out beside him: “I shall stop in Antioch on my way to rejoin Paul and give notification to the courts of your release, and the terms. You are freer than is allowed under the Roman laws, but in Antioch, as in other provinces of the empire, they have begun to wink at such relaxations. Then I shall apply under a writ of postliminium to have your citizenship restored to you. I think it will be allowed because there is a general belief in the city that you were infamously treated. They have resented the corrupt methods that Linus used and they have nothing but contempt for him.”

“I thought freedmen were held in scorn,” said Basil.

“In Rome it is so. That city is filled with ex-slaves, and the old Romans resent their wealth and insolence. They still speak angrily of the marriage of Drusilla, a granddaughter of Antony and Cleopatra, to a freedman of Judea named Felix. They mutter a great deal because Nero admits so many freedmen to posts of authority under him. But outside of Rome it is different. Have you ever seen a pileus worn on the head of a freedman in Antioch?”

Basil shook his head. “I do not think so.”

“They must still wear it in Rome.” Luke paused reflectively. “In your case we have a definite advantage, for you were born free and your father was a citizen of Rome. I am sure, my son, that you may sleep easily and in full confidence that you will never have to don the pileus!”