The Silver Chalice. Thomas B. Costain
misfortune that the one should be Hiram of Silenus.” He again ran a forefinger along the bridge of his nose. “Hiram of Silenus is a man of the most questionable character. I hear his financial standing at the moment is far from sound. If it entered the mind of Linus to dispute your right, this base Hiram might prove a very unsatisfactory witness. He might be persuaded to have lapses of memory, to have indeed a perversity of recollection to the undoing of your father’s intent.”
“Quintus!” cried Basil. “Why do you raise this terrible doubt?”
“The first lesson you must learn in the world of trade is to consider all possibilities. I may be alarming you without cause. But—I am afraid there is reason for fear. I would not be surprised if Linus had already begun his—his moves in the dark.”
Basil resumed his seat, allowing his head to fall forward into the support of his cupped hands. He had been completely happy when his only concern was the making of clay figures and the carving of silver vessels. This contentious existence into which he had now been plunged was so obnoxious to him that he found it hard to continue the discussion.
“What can I do?” he asked finally.
“You must establish safeguards,” declared Quintus briskly. He was now on familiar ground and quite sure of himself. “You must see Hiram of Silenus at once and sweeten his memory with a rich reward, richer than Linus can afford to offer. Then there are the magistrates. Their friendship will be necessary if Linus appeals to the law. They must be given presents at once. All this I can arrange for you if you have a reluctance to such matters.”
“Must I bribe men to tell the truth?” cried Basil, his mind revolted at the need to begin a new life by such methods. “This is dishonest, base, unclean!”
The secretary seemed unwilling to acquaint this unworldly youth with the full peril of his position. He paused a long time before saying anything more.
“You were sold to Ignatius,” he declared finally. “If Linus can convince the magistrates you were not sold for adoption, what, then, was the basis of the transaction? You were sold—as a slave.” Quintus looked steadily into the eyes of the new head of the family, his mouth drawn into a tight, straight line. “There is no middle ground for you. Either you are master here or a slave, subject to the orders of Linus. Think of this well! It would be a mistake, a terrible mistake, not to take every step to protect yourself against the”—his composure left him suddenly and he allowed his voice to rise—“against the greed of this man, this unworthy brother who is like to a boar’s snout, this hoof of a sick camel, this fester on a leper’s skull!”
5
Angry, incredulous, filled with the bitterness of self-blame, Basil rose and left the court. Heads were turned carefully in the other direction as he strode out through the crowded room. No one looked up or nodded to him. The decision had left him an outcast, one to whom free men did not speak.
One thought filled his mind to the exclusion of everything else, even of speculation as to what lay before him now. He could not escape from the face of the magistrate who had presided. It represented the forces which had led to his undoing. It seemed to him the embodiment of everything evil, the face of a satyr run to seed. The eyes of this evil old man had been fixed on him from the moment the hearing began, filled with scorn and ill will. They seemed to be saying: “You have been the luckiest of all men, raised from the gutter of the Ward to untold wealth; you have everything in your favor; you are heir to the greatest fortune in Antioch, and people scrape before you and agree with what you say and declare you to be handsome and gifted; you can have your pick of friends and your choice of wives. But I, Marius Antonius, represent the law, and because you have been too blind and too haughty to seek my favor and pay me what it is worth, I have it in my power to break your pride, to cast you from the heights to the depths; and that is what I propose to do, O Basil, son so-called of Ignatius, who shall be forevermore now Basil, son of Theron, seller of pens and ink.”
Whether Basil would have persuaded himself to the need of bribing the magistrates and the one important witness, as Quintus Annius had advised, was something he would never know himself. Linus, the brother of the dead merchant, had moved too fast. While the heir still debated the issue in his mind, rebelling at the dishonesty of it, the taurine brother had brought his action, claiming that he, Basil, was not an adopted son.
It had required no more than one glance at the face of Marius Antonius, who was called in the city the Bottomless Pocket, to convince the rightful heir that he had made a mistake. The magistrate was bitter and biting to him but affable to the plaintiff. He had shown himself from the first to be biased, directing the questions and prompting the witnesses when they seemed unsure of their answers. He had snapped off any tendency to give evidence friendly to the son of the house.
Hiram of Silenus was as unsatisfactory as a witness as the secretary had predicted. He remembered little, and everything he said was hostile to the son’s claim. The brass scales had not been struck by the ingot of lead and so he was certain that the transaction he witnessed had not been an adoption. Acquaintances of the dead Ignatius testified that he had made no effort to put authority of any kind in the hands of the man who claimed to be his adopted son and that the position of the latter had seemed to be that of a beneficiary being supported while he developed his talents. Men in trade reported their impressions of the relationship, always unfavorable to Basil. Persis had not been allowed to attend and, when Quintus Annius did not appear, Basil’s hopes expired. The young Roman, it seemed, had preferred at the last to consult his own interests.
Basil knew that his father had intended to summon a panel of witnesses and to acknowledge before them that he, Basil, was his adopted son. Because Ignatius had died too soon, it was now necessary to stand in court in front of a corrupt judge and listen to an unctuous statement of the decision.
He reached the street, where the sun blazed down on the white walls of the great buildings. “This is a world of cruelty and dishonesty,” he said to himself, staring tautly at the crowds which passed along the Colonnade. “I, who should have been the richest man in Antioch, am now a slave. I own nothing and I have no rights in life.”
Persis had dressed herself in the expectation of a rightful verdict. Over the intimate undergarment, which was white and sleeveless and of cool linen, she had draped her gayest palla. It was of Tyrian purple, the most prized of colors and the only one which aided her fading charms. Her hair had been curled and plaited and she wore a wreath of gold with precious stones in each leaf, the last gift of her uxorious husband.
But when she trailed her long draperies across the marble floor of her room to meet Basil on his return, her attire had fallen into sad disorder. Her hair hung on her forehead in straight, damp wisps. Her face looked wrinkled and thin.
“My poor boy, my poor boy!” she whispered, pressing her clenched knuckles to her lips. “What will become of you now? What—what will become of me?”
“I would have been a failure, Mother, as the head of the family.” Basil paused and achieved a feeble smile. “I must not call you that again. The court has ruled I am not your son.”
“You are my son!” She seemed to have taken fire at last. Her eyes lost their listlessness; she reached out to place a possessive hand on his shoulder. It was no more than a passing phase, and almost immediately she lapsed again into a mood of resignation. “He always resented you,” she said in a low voice, as though afraid of being heard by other ears. “I could see it in his face. He intended to do this from the very first. Prying into the books and bribing the servants!” Her eyes were now filled with tears of self-pity. “He hated me because I complained to my husband of him once. Basil, Basil, is there nothing you can do to help us both?”
The dispossessed heir looked down at her with burning eyes. “Not immediately, Mother. Linus has won. He will be master here.” His hands were so tightly clenched at his sides that he could feel the nails cut into his skin. “But I haven’t given up hope, Mother. I am going to fight him. There is still one chance. I shall go on fighting him if—if they kill me for it!”
Persis