The Silver Chalice. Thomas B. Costain
THE SILVER CHALICE
©2020 Librorium Editions
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Since The Silver Chalice was published in July of last year there has been much speculation as to whether the story is based on the Chalice of Antioch, now owned by the Metropolitan Museum in New York and on display in the Cloisters in that city. This famous and much-discussed article of rare antiquity was found in the ruins of ancient Antioch in 1910 and came into the possession of the house of Kouchakji, being sent to the United States at the outbreak of the First World War. Mr. Fahim Kouchakji in New York, convinced that it was of the utmost importance, engaged the services of Dr. Gustavus Augustus Eisen, a Swedish scholar and authority on Christian art, to study it. After nine years of research and with the assistance of a circle of helpers, Dr. Eisen produced a book, which was published in two large volumes under the title of The Great Chalice of Antioch, and in which the conviction was developed that the inner part of the chalice could be the cup which had been used at the Last Supper. Three years ago the chalice was purchased by the Metropolitan with funds donated by Mr. John D. Rockefeller, Jr.
As The Silver Chalice is a work of fiction and is no more than my own conception of how the cup might have come into existence, it was published as such and no reference was made to the Chalice of Antioch. As my book has been in circulation now for over eight months and many readers have wondered about the conception of it, it seems proper to repeat what I have said in print elsewhere many times, that it was the Chalice of Antioch which prompted me to begin the story in the first place. I desire to add that I am indebted to Dr. Eisen’s work, under the sponsorship of Mr. Fahim Kouchakji, for much of the information about the cup itself.
THOMAS B. COSTAIN
March 26, 1953
PROLOGUE
1
The richest man in Antioch, by common report, was Ignatius, the dealer in olive oil. He had groves that extended as far as the eye could see in every direction and he lived in a marble palace on the Colonnade. He had been born in the same Pisidian village as Theron, who supported his family by selling ink and pens made of the split ends of reed. Theron found it hard to support his family in a one-room lodging a quite considerable distance away from the Colonnade.
One day in the heat of summer, when no one ventured out to engage in trade, least of all to buy pens, the great man came on foot to the hole in the wall where Theron sat with his unwanted wares. The latter could not be convinced at first that he was being paid this great honor and was slow in returning the salutation, “Peace be with you.”
The oil merchant, gasping for breath and slightly purple of cheek, stepped inside to escape the sun, which was beating down on the street with all the fury of the fires of atonement. Making room for himself beside his one-time friend, he went directly to the object of his visit.
“Theron, you have three sons. I have none.”
Theron nodded. He realized that he was singularly blessed in the possession of three sons who had survived the hazards of childhood.
“Is my memory to be lost through lack of children?” asked Ignatius, his voice rising to an unhappy pitch. “Is my spirit to wander after death with no one to come back to, as a moth flies to the flame?”
The awe Theron had felt at the start was giving place to the ease of old acquaintance. After all, had not he and this corpulent merchant been raised in houses of equal size? Had they not stolen fruit together and fished in the same stream?
“It is perhaps your thought to adopt a son,” said the seller of pens.
“My old friend,” said Ignatius, “if you are willing, I shall buy one of your sons and adopt him as my own. He shall have as much love as though he came from my own loins. When the time comes for me to die, he shall inherit everything I possess.”
Theron’s heart gave an exultant tug, although he did not allow any of the excitement that had taken possession of him to show on the surface. What a wonderful chance for his first-born! To become a man of substance and wealth, to eat his meals off plate of gold and silver, to drink wine cooled by snow from the mountains of the north! Or would it be the second son on whom the favor of the great merchant had descended?
“Is it Theodore you want?” he asked. “My first-born is a boy of fine parts. He will make a strong man.”
Ignatius shook his head. “Your Theodore will grow big and have a bulging stomach on him before he is thirty. No, it is not Theodore.”
“It is Denis, then. My second son is a tall and handsome fellow. And also he is obedient and industrious.”
The wealthy merchant shook his head a second time. Theron’s heart sank and he said to himself, “It is my good little Ambrose he wants!” Ambrose was turning ten and lived in a thoughtful world of his own, never so happy as when modeling figures out of clay or carving bits of wood. The seller of pens had always known that in his heart he had a preference for Ambrose. The thought of losing him was like a dagger thrust.
There was nothing unusual about the proposal Ignatius was making. Men without sons sought to remedy the deficiency in this way. The law, as laid down in the Twelve Tables, made no distinction in the matter of inheritance between sons of the flesh and sons by adoption. It was unusual, however, for a man of wealth to think of an alliance with one as poor as a seller of pens. Ignatius could have found a willing candidate in any of the best families of Antioch. Theron, nevertheless, sought feverishly in his mind for some excuse to refuse the offer, saying to himself, “How sad life would be if I parted with my good little Ambrose!”
After a moment he shook his head. “My third son would not suit you. He is a dreamer, that Ambrose. He has no head on him for figuring. Oh, he is a fine boy and I am overly partial to him; but I can see his faults as well as his good points. He has only one desire in life, and that is to make his little statues out of clay and chalk and wood.” Theron gave his head an emphatic shake as though to conclude the matter. “No, my Ambrose would not suit you.”
The merchant was a thickset man, as broad across the shoulders as a carrier of water. His head was square, his features rugged. A man who fights his way to the top in trade, and stays there, sees more of warfare than a soldier; for life to him is one long battle, a continual round of buffeting and coming to grips, of tugging and sweating and scheming and hating, with none of the pleasant interludes a soldier enjoys around the campfire in the company of other soldiers, with a wineskin handy and the talk easy and vainglorious. Ignatius carried no scars on his body, but if it had been possible to hold up his soul for inspection like a garment, it would have been revealed as a thing of black bruises and scars, ridged and welted and as callused as a penitent’s knee.
He leaned forward and placed a hand on the forearm of the seller of pens. If the latter had not been so concerned with the threat to his own happiness, he might have detected a note of supplication in the attitude of the great man.
“That, friend of my youth, is why I want him.” Ignatius drew his brows into a troubled frown, because the need had now been reached of explaining himself and he doubted his ability to do so adequately. “The Greek nation was great when it had artists to make figures of marble and build beautiful temples of stone. It had men who wrote noble thoughts and who told the history of our race in—in glowing words. Is it not so?”
Theron nodded. “It is so.” This was the thought that consoled him when troubles gathered around his head, when no one wanted to buy pens and the mother of his three sons railed at him as a good-for-nothing.
“But now,” went on Ignatius, “we are traders, we are dealers in cattle and corn and ivory and olive oil. Koine has become the language of the world’s trade. I suppose that when people think of Greece today, they think first of men like me.” His eyes, usually so withdrawn and shrewd, had taken fire. “That is wrong,