The Silver Chalice. Thomas B. Costain
commodity of which there was never any scarcity was erudition. This was quite true. The clay bins in the houses might lack cheese and honey and bread, and the limestone cisterns in the cellars might be dry, but the tongues of the household heads never failed to supply pearls of wisdom.
It was inevitable in a section such as this that the streets had not been cut straight through but had been allowed to follow the formation of the high ground, with the result that they were as crooked as the horns which the priests used in the Temple. This was fortunate, for it promised to make their escape easier.
“We must get down into the valley,” said Deborra, breathing hard. “I know my way through it.”
They were in a winding street that seemed as capable as a hoop snake of biting its own tail. Coming to a place where a low stone wall marked the edge of the cheesemakers’ domain, Deborra slowed her steps. The clamor of pursuit could be heard behind them, but none of the pursuers was yet in sight. There was a narrow gate in the wall, and behind this a woman was standing.
“Christ is risen,” whispered Deborra to the woman.
The latter seemed startled but answered quickly, “He sits on the right hand of God.”
“There has been trouble and we must get down into the valley.”
Without pausing to ask questions, the woman beckoned them to enter and closed the gate after them.
Deborra reached down and took the dog into her arms. “No barking now!” she commanded. “You must not give your mistress away.”
They found themselves on the flat roof of a small stone house, the topmost of a succession that climbed in humility up the steep slope. A trap door admitted them to its single room below. The woman reached under a pile of clothing and drew out a knotted rope.
“Quick!” she said, dropping one end out of the window. “God go with you.”
A man with a wasted face roused himself from a straw pallet on the roof of the house below. “Christ has risen,” whispered Deborra. He gave the customary answer and motioned to a rope dangling over the parapet. They climbed down in desperate haste, for they could now hear voices at the gate in the stone wall above. Basil had taken the dog under one arm, which made his climbing slow and laborious.
The same course was followed at each house in their downward climb. Deborra would say, “We are being followed and must get into the valley.” Help was given willingly and cheerfully in every case. No one hesitated; there was no tendency to count the cost, to consider what punishment might be their lot if they gave help. They ran instead to open trap doors for the fugitives and then to bar them against the oncoming officers, to get out the knotted ropes; always with earnest good will and a parting, “God go with you.”
When they reached the last of the houses and came out on the level into a poor little garden where lizards basked on the wall and a fig tree endeavored in disconsolate solitude to provide shelter for the door, Basil asked, “Are all the cheesemakers Christians?”
“Nearly all.”
“Is that the reason they are so poor?”
“Perhaps.” She spoke with sudden gravity. “Such things do not matter. A Christian thinks of the life after death, and so poverty in this life is borne without complaining. They are all happy, even those who are so poor they have their homes on the slopes.”
“Do they know they may be punished for this?”
They ran as they talked. “Christians live always on the threshold of punishment. None of them fear it. There is danger at all times. Right now, because the Zealots hate us so much, it is worse than ever. They attack us in the streets and sometimes they go about the city looking for victims. One night not long ago they went to many Christian homes and destroyed everything in them. Then they took the men and bound their arms and put crowns of thorns on their heads, and led them about the city, scourging them as they went. Two of the men died.”
They could now hear their pursuers climbing down laboriously from above. Deborra plunged into a dark alley, running at top speed. The dog, as though sensing trouble, followed her silently. She was so fleet of foot that Basil found it hard to keep up with her.
“Now you are involved in this as deep as I am,” she said over her shoulder. “I am sorry, Basil. I acted without thinking. And there will be trouble for many people.” A moment later she turned her head again to ask, “Did you do this to protect Grandfather?”
“I did it for you,” he protested.
The pursuit had reached the floor of the valley and was spreading out in all directions. They sought escape in a maze of dark streets, in which Deborra seemed completely at home, and the sounds grew fainter. Basil, feeling like a heavy-footed mortal in the company of a wood nymph, had scarcely enough breath to ask, “Didn’t you realize that Paul was safest in the hands of the Romans?”
She made it clear that she did not understand. “They had taken him prisoner,” she said. “They were leading him away.”
“They were protecting him from the daggers of the Zealots.”
They were traversing a street so narrow that housewives could exchange articles across it from the rooftops. Deborra spoke without looking back. “Then I was helping the Zealots when I threw that stone.”
“Yes, I am afraid you were.”
She stopped and faced him. “You called me a fool, and I see now that you were right. This has been a great folly.”
Basil reached out and touched her hand. “A folly, Deborra, but a brave one. Now that you are safe, I find myself admiring you for what you did.”
Their safety seemed less assured a moment later, for the dog raised his head and barked loudly in his anxiety to see them start again.
“Habby, Habby!” said Deborra. “You will lead them to us!” She reached down and took him up in her arms, holding a hand over his muzzle.
Finally they came to a low stone arch behind which there seemed no light at all. She reached back her free hand to take his, saying, “We must not get separated here.” A man, naked to the waist and with eyes that seemed distended in the gloom, emerged from the depths, shaking a grimy fist at them and crying, “Tooh! Tooh!” Disregarding his demand that they betake themselves elsewhere, they plunged deeper into the shadows.
They floundered through families of pigs and goats, they felt their way carefully by wooden troughs filled with warm milk, they breathed an atmosphere acrid with rennet, they encountered more strange figures with shrill voices repeating “Tooh!” Finally they came out at another stone arch and ahead of them saw bright sunshine and the walls of the market place. They had reached the upper end of the valley.
All sounds of pursuit had died away. “We are quite safe now,” said Deborra. She became aware that they were still holding hands and withdrew hers hastily. She dropped the dog at her feet.
They climbed the slope on the other side and progressed along the crest, passing the great Yard of the Doves, where Benaiah, son of Bimbal, sold the gentle birds by the hundreds each week for sacrifice in the Temple. Finally they came to the entrance of the house of Joseph and here, without a word being spoken, they paused. The noon sun was causing a shimmer so that even the outlines of the buildings seemed to move. The row of palm trees under which they stood were wilting, giving them only the poorest kind of shelter. The wood of their sandals was hot under the soles of their feet. Even the white splendor of the Temple looked sultry against the burnished glow of the sky.
Their glances met and held. At first it was with a consciousness of pleasure in a shared adventure that had come to a safe ending. Then their awareness of each other’s thoughts took on a deeper meaning. It became clear to each of them that the baked soil on which they stood might prove to be the threshold of the land of enchantment. Each looked into the depths of the other’s eyes so long that they lost all track of time. Finally, with an undeclared assent, they smiled.