Читать книгу The Silver Chalice - Thomas B. Costain - Страница 17

For a week Basil saw nothing more of Joseph of Arimathea or his granddaughter. Adam ben Asher, he learned, had departed from the city. He worked a little on the wax bust from memory but found it unwise to attempt much, fearing he might lose the likeness. It was at best an elusive thing and could be destroyed by the indiscreet pressure of a fingertip.

He had been consigned to a small room on what obviously was the wrong side of the house, an airless space within sound of warehousing activities and on a dark hall that swarmed with workmen at all hours of the day. He washed with the domestic staff, waiting in a long line for his turn at a stream of water spouting sluggishly from a pipe, and sharing a piece of soap with the others. At intervals he visited an open and somewhat malodorous trench in the slave quarters. This treatment was so different from the warmth of his reception that he could not understand it. Had Joseph, on second thoughts, been less pleased with the start he had made? Was the parsimonious son of the house responsible for this unfriendly accommodation?

He took his meals alone in a small underground room lighted by an oil lamp in a bracket close to a ceiling that dripped moisture. The food was wholesome but decidedly plain and by the third day had become monotonous. Through an open door he looked on a long and dark chamber where the slaves of the household sat down to meat at the same hours. They gathered around a table large enough to accommodate forty or more at a time. He watched them as they ate (their food the same as his) and was surprised at the cheerfulness they displayed. They were a motley gathering, with skins of many colors, but dressed without exception in the plain gray tunic and the brass collar of servitude. There was much chaffing and laughing and, as both sexes shared the table, a tendency to ogle and flirt. An official sat at the head; the overseer, no doubt, for a whip was tucked into his belt, which he wore outside his tunic. He was a heavyish individual but not without good nature. He indulged in much humor of a heavy, bludgeoning variety and did a great deal of winking at the women.

The food on which the servants subsisted was in ample quantity; there was always something left over, at any rate. As soon as they had filed out of the room, the doors would be opened and beggars who had gathered at the rear door in readiness would be brought in to finish it. They were always an unclean and gluttonous lot, eating with a savage relish and disputing bitterly over the filling of the wine cups.

Basil spent his mornings in rambles about the city, finding himself involved in the busiest phase of life in the Holy City. It was crowded with visitors who had come for Pentecost. They filled the streets at all hours of the day and far into the night. Every house was filled to overflowing and tents had been set up outside the walls for the accommodation of the earnest men and women from all parts of the Diaspora^[2] who asked no more than two things: to watch the paschal moon rise over Jerusalem and to bow their heads in reverence in the Temple. It was difficult for him under these circumstances to pursue his quest for information about Kester of Zanthus, but he did not allow himself to become discouraged.

[2]	The Diaspora is a term applied to the Jewish people who had left Jerusalem in the dispersal.

His first jaunt carried him down into the Cheesemakers’ Valley to a gate in the Southern wall of the city; surely the busiest of all the gates, he thought, for its iron-plated doors were swung far back to permit the crowds to stream through. For the most part, those who used it were farmers bringing leban to the city, the thickened milk which did not sour quickly and which, therefore, was used instead of sweet milk. They were a hairy-chested, black-skinned lot, unfriendly in manner and loud of tongue.

The first vendor of leban to whom Basil put his inquiry regarded him with a slight hint of good nature. “Kester of Zanthus?” he said. “No, I have not heard of such a one. What is his occupation?”

“He is concerned with supplies for the Roman army.”

The tolerance of the native turned at once to scoffing. “A contractor! Aiy, aiy! Have you lost your wits? Even a Greek should know that the Dung Gate is not the place to seek word of an army contractor.” The farmer pointed with his elbow toward the northwest. “Go and ask your questions there. Go to that insult in stone which Herod the Accursed raised to flout the children of Israel.”

So Basil went to Castle Antonia standing on a great stone escarpment, its four towers frowning high above the city. As he climbed the graded approach he could hear the sharp call of military orders and the tramp of feet in unison from the walled-in courtyard. A sentry stopped him at the gate.

“You seek word of an army contractor?” said the latter. “It is lucky for you, my foolhardy youth, that I am a man of kindly heart. Anyone who comes here seeking information about army matters is like to be carried within and treated to a questioning that is not pleasant at all and that a sliver of flesh like you might not survive. Get you gone!”

He had no better luck in the vicinity of the Temple. Penetrating into the Court of the Gentiles, from which he could see as far inside as the narrow terrace of the Hel, he found himself face to face with a forbidding notice, which read:

LET NO STRANGER ENTER

WITHIN THE BALUSTRADE

AND THE ENCLOSING WALL

SURROUNDING THE SANCTUARY.

WHOEVER MAY BE CAUGHT,

OF HIMSELF SHALL BE THE

BLAME FOR HIS CERTAIN DEATH.

The colonnade about the Temple was thronged at all times, mostly with Jews who never seemed to walk alone but in argumentative pairs or groups. Their eyes would be fixed straight ahead, their tongues clicking in rapid controversy; and they would brush by him as though saying, “Make way, young Greek, for those whose thoughts are far above your comprehension.” His question unanswered, he would be forced to the side of the street by the brusque passage of the men of Jerusalem. The region surrounding the Temple was devoted to the priesthood and the work of the schools of philosophy and it was a hive of activity at all hours of the day, but only on rare occasions was he able to corner anyone to ask his unvarying query. The result was always the same. “Kester of Zanthus?” the impatient passer-by would say. “A Greek? No knowledge have I of Greeks and no concern in them.” Or perhaps the reply would be more straight to the point. “Betake yourself and your quest for foreigners out of sight of the House of the One God!”

He went up and down the Streets of the Glassblowers, the Waterskin Makers, the Meat Sellers, the Goldsmiths, the Spice Dealers. He haunted the neighborhood of the great palace of Herod; he went to the Gate of Ephraim, through which flowed most of the northern traffic; he patrolled the market on the floor of the valley, asking his question of anyone who could be persuaded to halt for a moment, “Know you aught of one Kester of Zanthus?” He had no success at all.

Despite this lack of results, he continued his quest with undiminished zeal. He was so persistent that even in his dreams he pursued the elusive purveyor of army supplies. Where is one Kester of Zanthus? Where, tell me, I beg of you, where is he now?