with millions to choose from.”
“Millions!” cried Ben-Hur.
Simonides sat a moment thinking.
“The question of power should not trouble you,” he next said.
Ben-Hur looked at him inquiringly.
“You were seeing the lowly King in the act of coming to his own,”
Simonides answered—“seeing him on the right hand, as it were, and on
the left the brassy legions of Cæsar, and you were asking, What can he
do?”
“It was my very thought.”
“O my master!” Simonides continued. “You do not know how strong our
Israel is. You think of him as a sorrowful old man weeping by the
rivers of Babylon. But go up to Jerusalem next Passover, and stand on
the Xystus or in the Street of Barter, and see him as he is. The
promise of the Lord to father Jacob coming out of Padan-Aram was a law
under which our people have not ceased multiplying—not even in
captivity; they grew under foot of the Egyptian; the clench of the
Roman has been but wholesome nurture to them; now they are indeed ‘a
nation and a company of nations.’ Nor that only, my master; in fact, to
measure the strength of Israel—which is, in fact, measuring what the
King can do—you shall not bide solely by the rule of natural increase,
but add thereto the other—I mean the spread of the faith, which will
carry you to the far and near of the whole known earth. Further, the
habit is, I know, to think and speak of Jerusalem as Israel, which may
be likened to our finding an embroidered shred, and holding it up as a
magisterial robe of Cæsar’s. Jerusalem is but a stone of the Temple,
or the heart in the body. Turn from beholding the legions, strong
though they be, and count the hosts of the faithful waiting the old
alarm, ‘To your tents, O Israel!’—count the many in Persia, children of
those who chose not to return with the returning; count the brethren
who swarm the marts of Egypt and Farther Africa; count the Hebrew
colonists eking profit in the West—in Lodinum and the trade-courts of
Spain; count the pure of blood and the proselytes in Greece and in the
isles of the sea, and over in Pontus, and here in Antioch, and, for
that matter, those of that city lying accursed in the shadow of the
unclean walls of Rome herself; count the worshippers of the Lord
dwelling in tents along the deserts next us, as well as in the deserts
beyond the Nile: and in the regions across the Caspian, and up in the
old lands of Gog and Magog even, separate those who annually send gifts
to the Holy Temple in acknowledgment of God—separate them, that they
may be counted also. And when you have done counting, lo! my master, a
census of the sword hands that await you; lo! a kingdom ready fashioned
for him who is to do ‘judgment and justice in the whole earth’—in Rome
not less than in Zion. Have then the answer, What Israel can do, that
can the King.”
The picture was fervently given.
Upon Ilderim it operated like the blowing of a trumpet. “Oh that I had
back my youth!” he cried, starting to his feet.
Ben-Hur sat still. The speech, he saw, was an invitation to devote his
life and fortune to the mysterious Being who was palpably as much the
centre of a great hope with Simonides as with the devout Egyptian. The
idea, as we have seen, was not a new one, but had come to him
repeatedly; once while listening to Malluch in the Grove of Daphne;
afterwards more distinctly while Balthasar was giving his conception of
what the kingdom was to be; still later, in the walk through the old
Orchard, it had risen almost, if not quite, into a resolve. At such
times it had come and gone only an idea, attended with feelings more or
less acute. Not so now. A master had it in charge, a master was working
it up; already he had exalted it into a _cause_ brilliant with
possibilities and infinitely holy. The effect was as if a door
theretofore unseen had suddenly opened flooding Ben-Hur with light, and
admitting him to a service which had been his one perfect dream—a
service reaching far into the future, and rich with the rewards of duty
done, and prizes to sweeten and soothe his ambition. One touch more was
needed.
“Let us concede all you say, O Simonides,” said Ben-Hur—“that the King
will come, and his kingdom be as Solomon’s; say also I am ready to give
myself and all I have to him and his cause; yet more, say that I should
do as was God’s purpose in the ordering of my life and in your quick
amassment of astonishing fortune; then what? Shall we proceed like
blind men building? Shall we wait till the King comes? Or until he
sends for me? You have age and experience on your side. Answer.”
Simonides answered at once.
“We have no choice; none. This letter”—he produced Messala’s despatch
as he spoke—“this letter is the signal for action. The alliance
proposed between Messala and Gratus we are not strong enough to resist;
we have not the influence at Rome nor the force here. They will kill
you if we wait. How merciful they are, look at me and judge.”
He shuddered at the terrible recollection.
“O good my master,” he continued, recovering himself; “how strong are
you—in purpose, I mean?”
Ben-Hur did not understand him.
“I remember how pleasant the world was to me in my youth,” Simonides
proceeded.
“Yet,” said Ben-Hur, “you were capable of a great sacrifice.”
“Yes; for love.”
“Has not life other motives as strong?”
Simonides shook his head.
“There is ambition.”
“Ambition is forbidden a son of Israel.”
“What, then, of revenge?”
The spark dropped upon the inflammable passion; the man’s eyes gleamed;
his hands shook; he answered, quickly, “Revenge is a Jew’s of right; it
is the law.”
“A camel, even a dog, will remember a wrong,” cried Ilderim.
Directly Simonides picked up the broken thread of his thought.
“There is a work, a work for the King, which should be done in advance
of his coming. We may not doubt that Israel is to be his right hand;
but, alas! it is a hand of peace, without cunning in war. Of the
millions, there is not one trained band, not a captain. The mercenaries
of the Herods I do not count, for they are kept to crush us. The
condition is as the Roman would have it; his policy has fruited well
for his tyranny; but the time of change is at hand, when the shepherd
shall put on armor, and take to spear and sword, and the feeding flocks
be turned to fighting lions. Some one, my son, must have place next the
King at his right hand. Who shall it be if not he who does this work
well?”
Ben-Hur’s face flushed at the prospect, though he said, “I see; but
speak plainly. A deed to be done is one thing; how to do it is
another.”
Simonides sipped the wine Esther brought him, and replied,
“The sheik, and thou, my master, shall be principals, each with a part.
I will remain here, carrying on as now, and watchful that the spring go
not dry. Thou shalt betake thee to Jerusalem, and thence to the
wilderness, and begin numbering the fighting-men of Israel, and telling
them into tens and hundreds, and choosing captains and training them,
and in secret places hoarding arms, for which I shall keep thee
supplied. Commencing over in Perea, thou shalt go then to Galilee,
whence it is but a step to Jerusalem. In Perea, the desert will be at
thy back, and Ilderim in reach of thy hand. He will keep the roads, so
that nothing shall pass without thy knowledge. He will help thee in
many ways. Until the ripening time no one shall know what is here
contracted. Mine is but a servant’s part. I have spoken to Ilderim.
What sayest thou?”
Ben-Hur looked at the sheik.
“It is as he says, son of Hur,” the Arab responded. “I have given my
word, and he is content with it; but thou shalt have my oath, binding
me, and the ready hands of my tribe, and whatever serviceable thing I
have.”
The three—Simonides, Ilderim, Esther—gazed at Ben-Hur fixedly.
“Every man,” he answered, at first sadly, “has a cup of pleasure poured
for him, and soon or late it comes to his hand, and he tastes and
drinks—every man but me. I see, Simonides, and thou, O generous
sheik!—I see whither the proposal tends. If I accept, and enter upon
the course, farewell peace, and the hopes which cluster around it. The
doors I might enter and the gates of quiet life will shut behind me,
never to open again, for Rome keeps them all; and her outlawry will
follow me, and her hunters; and in the tombs near cities and the dismal
caverns of remotest hills, I must eat my crust and take my rest.”
The speech was broken by a sob. All turned to Esther, who hid her face
upon her father’s shoulder.
“I did not think of you, Esther,” said Simonides, gently, for he was
himself deeply moved.
“It is well enough, Simonides,” said Ben-Hur. “A man bears a hard doom
better, knowing there is pity for him. Let me go on.”
They gave him ear again.
“I was about to say,” he continued, “I have no choice, but take the
part you assign me; and as remaining here is to meet an ignoble death,
I will to the work at once.”
“Shall we have writings?” asked Simonides, moved by his habit of
business.
“I rest upon your word,” said Ben-Hur.
“And I,” Ilderim answered.
Thus simply was effected the treaty which was to alter Ben-Hur’s life.
And almost immediately the latter added,
“It is done, then.”
“May the God of Abraham help us!” Simonides exclaimed.
“One word now, my friends,” Ben-Hur said, more cheerfully. “By your
leave, I will be my own until after the games. It is not probable
Messala will set peril on foot for me until he has given the procurator
time to answer him; and that cannot be in less than seven days from the
despatch of his letter. The meeting him in the Circus is a pleasure I
would buy at whatever risk.”
Ilderim, well pleased, assented readily, and Simonides, intent on
business, added, “It is well; for look you, my master, the delay will
give me time to do you a good part. I understood you to speak of an
inheritance derived from Arrius. Is it in property?”
“A villa near Misenum, and houses in Rome.”
“I suggest, then, the sale of the property, and safe deposit of the
proceeds. Give me an account of it, and I will have authorities drawn,
and despatch an agent on the mission forthwith. We will forestall the
imperial robbers at least this once.”
“You shall have the account to-morrow.”
“Then, if there be nothing more, the work of the night is done,” said
Simonides.
Ilderim combed his beard complacently, saying, “And well done.”
“The bread and wine again, Esther. Sheik Ilderim will make us happy by
staying with us till to-morrow, or at his pleasure; and thou, my
master—”
“Let the horses be brought,” said Ben-Hur. “I will return to the
Orchard. The enemy will not discover me if I go now, and”—he glanced at
Ilderim—“the four will be glad to see me.”
As the day dawned, he and Malluch dismounted at the door of the tent.
CHAPTER IX
Next night, about the fourth hour, Ben-Hur stood on the terrace of the
great warehouse with Esther. Below them, on the landing, there was much
running about, and shifting of packages and boxes, and shouting of men,
whose figures, stooping, heaving, hauling, looked, in the light of the
crackling torches kindled in their aid, like the laboring genii of the
fantastic Eastern tales. A galley was being laden for instant
departure. Simonides had not yet come from his office, in which, at the
last moment, he would deliver to the captain of the vessel instructions
to proceed without stop to Ostia, the seaport of Rome, and, after
landing a passenger there, continue more leisurely to Valentia, on the
coast of Spain.
The passenger is the agent going to dispose of the estate derived from
Arrius the duumvir. When the lines of the vessel are cast off, and she
is put about, and her voyage begun, Ben-Hur will be committed
irrevocably to the work undertaken the night before. If he is disposed
to repent the agreement with Ilderim, a little time is allowed him to
give notice and break it off. He is master, and has only to say the
word.
Such may have been the thought at the moment in his mind. He was
standing with folded arms, looking upon the scene in the manner of a
man debating with himself. Young, handsome, rich, but recently from the
patrician circles of Roman society, it is easy to think of the world
besetting him with appeals not to give more to onerous duty or ambition
attended with outlawry and danger. We can even imagine the arguments
with which he was pressed; the hopelessness of contention with Cæsar;
the uncertainty veiling everything connected with the King and his
coming; the ease, honors, state, purchasable like goods in market; and,
strongest of all, the sense newly acquired of home, with friends to
make it delightful. Only those who have been wanderers long desolate
can know the power there was in the latter appeal.
Let us add now, the world—always cunning enough of itself; always
whispering to the weak, Stay, take thine ease; always presenting the
sunny side of life—the world was in this instance helped by Ben-Hur’s
companion.
“Were you ever at Rome?” he asked.
“No,” Esther replied.
“Would you like to go?”
“I think not.”
“Why?”
“I am afraid of Rome,” she answered, with a perceptible tremor of the
voice.
He looked at her then—or rather down upon her, for at his side she
appeared little more than a child. In the dim light he could not see
her face distinctly; even the form was shadowy. But again he was
reminded of Tirzah, and a sudden tenderness fell upon him—just so the
lost sister stood with him on the house-top the calamitous morning of
the accident to Gratus. Poor Tirzah! Where was she now? Esther had the
benefit of the feeling evoked. If not his sister, he could never look
upon her as his servant; and that she was his servant in fact would
make him always the more considerate and gentle towards her.
“I cannot think of Rome,” she continued, recovering her voice, and
speaking in her quiet womanly way—“I cannot think of Rome as a city of
palaces and temples, and crowded with people; she is to me a monster
which has possession of one of the beautiful lands, and lies there
luring men to ruin and death—a monster which it is not possible to
resist—a ravenous beast gorging with blood. Why—”
She faltered, looked down, stopped.
“Go on,” said Ben-Hur, reassuringly.
She drew closer to him, looked up again, and said, “Why must you make
her your enemy? Why not rather make peace with her, and be at rest? You
have had many ills, and borne them; you have survived the snares laid
for you by foes. Sorrow has consumed your youth; is it well to give it
the remainder of your days?”
The girlish face under his eyes seemed to come nearer and get whiter as
the pleading went on; he stooped towards it, and asked, softly, “What
would you have me do, Esther?”
She hesitated a moment, then asked, in return, “Is the property near
Rome a residence?”
“Yes.”
“And pretty?”
“It is beautiful—a palace in the midst of gardens and shell-strewn
walks; fountains without and within; statuary in the shady nooks; hills
around covered with vines, and so high that Neapolis and Vesuvius are
in sight, and the sea an expanse of purpling blue dotted with restless
sails. Cæsar has a country-seat near-by, but in Rome they say the old
Arrian villa is the prettiest.”
“And the life there, is it quiet?”
“There was never a summer day, never a moonlit night, more quiet, save
when visitors come. Now that the old owner is gone, and I am here,
there is nothing to break its silence—nothing, unless it be the
whispering of servants, or the whistling of happy birds, or the noise
of fountains at play; it is changeless, except as day by day old
flowers fade and fall, and new ones bud and bloom, and the sunlight
gives place to the shadow of a passing cloud. The life, Esther, was all
too quiet for me. It made me restless by keeping always present a
feeling that I, who have so much to do, was dropping into idle habits,
and tying myself with silken chains, and after a while—and not a long
while either—would end with nothing done.”
She looked off over the river.
“Why did you ask?” he said.
“Good my master—”
“No, no, Esther—not that. Call me friend—brother, if you will; I am not
your master, and will not be. Call me brother.”
He could not see the flush of pleasure which reddened her face, and the
glow of the eyes that went out lost in the void above the river.
“I cannot understand,” she said, “the nature which prefers the life you
are going to—a life of—”
“Of violence, and it may be of blood,” he said, completing the
sentence.
“Yes,” she added, “the nature which could prefer that life to such as
might be in the beautiful villa.”
“Esther, you mistake. There is no preference. Alas! the Roman is not so
kind. I am going of necessity. To stay here is to die; and if I go
there, the end will be the same—a poisoned cup, a bravo’s blow, or a
judge’s sentence obtained by perjury. Messala and the procurator Gratus
are rich with plunder of my father’s estate, and it is more important
to them to keep their gains now than was their getting in the first
instance. A peaceable settlement is out of reach, because of the
confession it would imply. And then—then— Ah, Esther, if I could buy
them, I do not know that I would. I do not believe peace possible to
me; no, not even in the sleepy shade and sweet air of the marble
porches of the old villa—no matter who might be there to help me bear
the burden of the days, nor by what patience of love she made the
effort. Peace is not possible to me while my people are lost, for I
must be watchful to find them. If I find them, and they have suffered
wrong, shall not the guilty suffer for it? If they are dead by
violence, shall the murderers escape? Oh, I could not sleep for dreams!
Nor could the holiest love, by any stratagem, lull me to a rest which
conscience would not strangle.”
“Is it so bad then?” she asked, her voice tremulous with feeling. “Can
nothing, nothing, be done?”
Ben-Hur took her hand.
“Do you care so much for me?”
“Yes,” she answered, simply.
The hand was warm, and in the palm of his it was lost. He felt it
tremble. Then the Egyptian came, so the opposite of this little one; so
tall, so audacious, with a flattery so cunning, a wit so ready, a
beauty so wonderful, a manner so bewitching. He carried the hand to his
lips, and gave it back.
“You shall be another Tirzah to me, Esther.”
“Who is Tirzah?”
“The little sister the Roman stole from me, and whom I must find before
I can rest or be happy.”
Just then a gleam of light flashed athwart the terrace and fell upon
the two; and, looking round, they saw a servant roll Simonides in his
chair out of the door. They went to the merchant, and in the after-talk
he was principal.
Immediately the lines of the galley were cast off, and she swung round,
and, midst the flashing of torches and the shouting of joyous sailors,
hurried off to the sea—leaving Ben-Hur committed to the cause of the
KING WHO WAS TO COME.
CHAPTER X
The day before the games, in the afternoon, all Ilderim’s racing
property was taken to the city, and put in quarters adjoining the
Circus. Along with it the good man carried a great deal of property not
of that class; so with servants, retainers mounted and armed, horses in
leading, cattle driven, camels laden with baggage, his outgoing from
the Orchard was not unlike a tribal migration. The people along the
road failed not to laugh at his motley procession; on the other side,
it was observed that, with all his irascibility, he was not in the
least offended by their rudeness. If he was under surveillance, as he
had reason to believe, the informer would describe the semi-barbarous
show with which he came up to the races. The Romans would laugh; the
city would be amused; but what cared he? Next morning the pageant would
be far on the road to the desert, and going with it would be every
movable thing of value belonging to the Orchard—everything save such as
were essential to the success of his four. He was, in fact, started
home; his tents were all folded; the dowar was no more; in twelve hours
all would be out of reach, pursue who might. A man is never safer than
when he is under the laugh; and the shrewd old Arab knew it.
Neither he nor Ben-Hur overestimated the influence of Messala; it was
their opinion, however, that he would not begin active measures against
them until after the meeting in the Circus; if defeated there,
especially if defeated by Ben-Hur, they might instantly look for the
worst he could do; he might not even wait for advices from Gratus. With
this view, they shaped their course, and were prepared to betake
themselves out of harm’s way. They rode together now in good spirits,
calmly confident of success on the morrow.
On the way, they came upon Malluch in waiting for them. The faithful
fellow gave no sign by which it was possible to infer any knowledge on
his part of the relationship so recently admitted between Ben-Hur and
Simonides, or of the treaty between them and Ilderim. He exchanged
salutations as usual, and produced a paper, saying to the sheik, “I
have here the notice of the editor of the games, just issued, in which
you will find your horses published for the race. You will find in it
also the order of exercises. Without waiting, good sheik, I
congratulate you upon your victory.”
He gave the paper over, and, leaving the worthy to master it, turned to
Ben-Hur.
“To you also, son of Arrius, my congratulations. There is nothing now
to prevent your meeting Messala. Every condition preliminary to the
race is complied with. I have the assurance from the editor himself.”
“I thank you, Malluch,” said Ben-Hur.
Malluch proceeded:
“Your color is white, and Messala’s mixed scarlet and gold. The good
effects of the choice are visible already. Boys are now hawking white
ribbons along the streets; tomorrow every Arab and Jew in the city will
wear them. In the Circus you will see the white fairly divide the
galleries with the red.”
“The galleries—but not the tribunal over the Porta Pompae.”
“No; the scarlet and gold will rule there. But if we win”—Malluch
chuckled with the pleasure of the thought—“if we win, how the
dignitaries will tremble! They will bet, of course, according to their
scorn of everything not Roman—two, three, five to one on Messala,
because he is Roman.” Dropping his voice yet lower, he added, “It ill
becomes a Jew of good standing in the Temple to put his money at such a
hazard; yet, in confidence, I will have a friend next behind the
consul’s seat to accept offers of three to one, or five, or ten—the
madness may go to such height. I have put to his order six thousand
shekels for the purpose.”
“Nay, Malluch,” said Ben-Hur, “a Roman will wager only in his Roman
coin. Suppose you find your friend to-night, and place to his order
sestertii in such amount as you choose. And look you, Malluch—let him
be instructed to seek wagers with Messala and his supporters; Ilderim’s
four against Messala’s.”
Malluch reflected a moment.
“The effect will be to centre interest upon your contest.”
“The very thing I seek, Malluch.”
“I see, I see.”
“Ay, Malluch; would you serve me perfectly, help me to fix the public
eye upon our race—Messala’s and mine.”
Malluch spoke quickly—“It can be done.”
“Then let it be done,” said Ben-Hur.
“Enormous wagers offered will answer; if the offers are accepted, all
the better.”
Malluch turned his eyes watchfully upon Ben-Hur.
“Shall I not have back the equivalent of his robbery?” said Ben-Hur,
partly to himself. “Another opportunity may not come. And if I could
break him in fortune as well as in pride! Our father Jacob could take
no offence.”
A look of determined will knit his handsome face, giving emphasis to
his further speech.
“Yes, it shall be. Hark, Malluch! Stop not in thy offer of sestertii.
Advance them to talents, if any there be who dare so high. Five, ten,
twenty talents; ay, fifty, so the wager be with Messala himself.”
“It is a mighty sum,” said Malluch. “I must have security.”
“So thou shalt. Go to Simonides, and tell him I wish the matter
arranged. Tell him my heart is set on the ruin of my enemy, and that
the opportunity hath such excellent promise that I choose such hazards.
On our side be the God of our fathers. Go, good Malluch. Let this not
slip.”
And Malluch, greatly delighted, gave him parting salutation, and
started to ride away, but returned presently.
“Your pardon,” he said to Ben-Hur. “There was another matter. I could
not get near Messala’s chariot myself, but I had another measure it;
and, from his report, its hub stands quite a palm higher from the
ground than yours.”
“A palm! So much?” cried Ben-Hur, joyfully.
Then he leaned over to Malluch.
“As thou art a son of Judah, Malluch, and faithful to thy kin, get thee
a seat in the gallery over the Gate of Triumph, down close to the
balcony in front of the pillars, and watch well when we make the turns
there; watch well, for if I have favor at all, I will— Nay, Malluch,
let it go unsaid! Only get thee there, and watch well.”
At that moment a cry burst from Ilderim.
“Ha! By the splendor of God! what is this?”
He drew near Ben-Hur with a finger pointing on the face of the notice.
“Read,” said Ben-Hur.
“No; better thou.”
Ben-Hur took the paper, which, signed by the prefect of the province as
editor, performed the office of a modern programme, giving particularly
the several divertisements provided for the occasion. It informed the
public that there would be first a procession of extraordinary
splendor; that the procession would be succeeded by the customary
honors to the god Consus, whereupon the games would begin; running,
leaping, wrestling, boxing, each in the order stated. The names of the
competitors were given, with their several nationalities and schools of
training, the trials in which they had been engaged, the prizes won,
and the prizes now offered; under the latter head the sums of money
were stated in illuminated letters, telling of the departure of the day
when the simple chaplet of pine or laurel was fully enough for the
victor, hungering for glory as something better than riches, and
content with it.
Over these parts of the programme Ben-Hur sped with rapid eyes. At last
he came to the announcement of the race. He read it slowly. Attending
lovers of the heroic sports were assured they would certainly be
gratified by an Orestean struggle unparalleled in Antioch. The city
offered the spectacle in honor of the consul. One hundred thousand
sestertii and a crown of laurel were the prizes. Then followed the
particulars. The entries were six in all—fours only permitted; and, to
further interest in the performance, the competitors would be turned
into the course together. Each four then received description.
“I. A four of Lysippus the Corinthian—two grays, a bay, and a black;
entered at Alexandria last year, and again at Corinth, where they were
winners. Lysippus, driver. Color, yellow.
“II. A four of Messala of Rome—two white, two black; victors of the
Circensian as exhibited in the Circus Maximus last year. Messala,
driver. Colors, scarlet and gold.
“III. A four of Cleanthes the Athenian—three gray, one bay; winners at
the Isthmian last year. Cleanthes, driver. Color, green.
“IV. A four of Dicaeus the Byzantine—two black, one gray, one bay;
winners this year at Byzantium. Dicaeus, driver. Color, black.
“V. A four of Admetus the Sidonian—all grays. Thrice entered at
Cæsarea, and thrice victors. Admetus, driver. Color, blue.
“VI. A four of Ilderim, sheik of the Desert. All bays; first race.
Ben-Hur, a Jew, driver. Color, white.”
BEN-HUR, A JEW, DRIVER!
Why that name instead of Arrius?
Ben-Hur raised his eyes to Ilderim. He had found the cause of the
Arab’s outcry. Both rushed to the same conclusion.
The hand was the hand of Messala!
CHAPTER XI
Evening was hardly come upon Antioch, when the Omphalus, nearly in the
centre of the city, became a troubled fountain from which in every
direction, but chiefly down to the Nymphaeum and east and west along
the Colonnade of Herod, flowed currents of people, for the time given
up to Bacchus and Apollo.
For such indulgence anything more fitting cannot be imagined than the
great roofed streets, which were literally miles on miles of porticos
wrought of marble, polished to the last degree of finish, and all gifts
to the voluptuous city by princes careless of expenditure where, as in
this instance, they thought they were eternizing themselves. Darkness
was not permitted anywhere; and the singing, the laughter, the
shouting, were incessant, and in compound like the roar of waters
dashing through hollow grots, confused by a multitude of echoes.
The many nationalities represented, though they might have amazed a
stranger, were not peculiar to Antioch. Of the various missions of the
great empire, one seems to have been the fusion of men and the
introduction of strangers to each other; accordingly, whole peoples
rose up and went at pleasure, taking with them their costumes, customs,
speech, and gods; and where they chose, they stopped, engaged in
business, built houses, erected altars, and were what they had been at
home.
There was a peculiarity, however, which could not have failed the
notice of a looker-on this night in Antioch. Nearly everybody wore the
colors of one or other of the charioteers announced for the morrow’s
race. Sometimes it was in form of a scarf, sometimes a badge; often a
ribbon or a feather. Whatever the form, it signified merely the
wearer’s partiality; thus, green published a friend of Cleanthes the
Athenian, and black an adherent of the Byzantine. This was according to
a custom, old probably as the day of the race of Orestes—a custom, by
the way, worthy of study as a marvel of history, illustrative of the
absurd yet appalling extremities to which men frequently suffer their
follies to drag them.
The observer abroad on this occasion, once attracted to the wearing of
colors, would have very shortly decided that there were three in
predominance—green, white, and the mixed scarlet and gold.
But let us from the streets to the palace on the island.
The five great chandeliers in the saloon are freshly lighted. The
assemblage is much the same as that already noticed in connection with
the place. The divan has its corps of sleepers and burden of garments,
and the tables yet resound with the rattle and clash of dice. Yet the
greater part of the company are not doing anything. They walk about, or
yawn tremendously, or pause as they pass each other to exchange idle
nothings. Will the weather be fair to-morrow? Are the preparations for
the games complete? Do the laws of the Circus in Antioch differ from
the laws of the Circus in Rome? Truth is, the young fellows are
suffering from ennui. Their heavy work is done; that is, we would find
their tablets, could we look at them, covered with memoranda of
wagers—wagers on every contest; on the running, the wrestling, the
boxing; on everything but the chariot-race.
And why not on that?
Good reader, they cannot find anybody who will hazard so much as a
denarius with them against Messala.
There are no colors in the saloon but his.
No one thinks of his defeat.
Why, they say, is he not perfect in his training? Did he not graduate
from an imperial lanista? Were not his horses winners at the Circensian
in the Circus Maximus? And then—ah, yes! he is a Roman!
In a corner, at ease on the divan, Messala himself may be seen. Around
him, sitting or standing, are his courtierly admirers, plying him with
questions. There is, of course, but one topic.
Enter Drusus and Cecilius.
“Ah!” cries the young prince, throwing himself on the divan at
Messala’s feet, “Ah, by Bacchus, I am tired!”
“Whither away?” asks Messala.
“Up the street; up to the Omphalus, and beyond—who shall say how far?
Rivers of people; never so many in the city before. They say we will
see the whole world at the Circus to-morrow.”
Messala laughed scornfully.
“The idiots! Perpol! They never beheld a Circensian with Cæsar for
editor. But, my Drusus, what found you?”
“Nothing.”
“O—ah! You forget,” said Cecilius.
“What?” asked Drusus.
“The procession of whites.”
“Mirabile!” cried Drusus, half rising. “We met a faction of whites, and
they had a banner. But—ha, ha, ha!”
He fell back indolently.
“Cruel Drusus—not to go on,” said Messala.
“Scum of the desert were they, my Messala, and garbage-eaters from the
Jacob’s Temple in Jerusalem. What had I to do with them!”
“Nay,” said Cecilius, “Drusus is afraid of a laugh, but I am not, my
Messala.”
“Speak thou, then.”
“Well, we stopped the faction, and—”
“Offered them a wager,” said Drusus, relenting, and taking the word
from the shadow’s mouth. “And—ha, ha, ha!—one fellow with not enough
skin on his face to make a worm for a carp stepped forth, and—ha, ha,
ha!—said yes. I drew my tablets. ‘Who is your man?’ I asked. ‘Ben-Hur,
the Jew,’ said he. Then I: ‘What shall it be? How much?’ He answered,
‘A—a—’ Excuse me, Messala. By Jove’s thunder, I cannot go on for
laughter! Ha, ha, ha!”
The listeners leaned forward.
Messala looked to Cecilius.
“A shekel,” said the latter.
“A shekel! A shekel!”
A burst of scornful laughter ran fast upon the repetition.
“And what did Drusus?” asked Messala.
An outcry over about the door just then occasioned a rush to that
quarter; and, as the noise there continued, and grew louder, even
Cecilius betook himself off, pausing only to say, “The noble Drusus, my
Messala, put up his tablets and—lost the shekel.”
“A white! A white!”
“Let him come!”
“This way, this way!”
These and like exclamations filled the saloon, to the stoppage of other
speech. The dice-players quit their games; the sleepers awoke, rubbed
their eyes, drew their tablets, and hurried to the common centre.
“I offer you—”
“And I—”
“I—”
The person so warmly received was the respectable Jew, Ben-Hur’s
fellow-voyager from Cyprus. He entered grave, quiet, observant. His
robe was spotlessly white; so was the cloth of his turban. Bowing and
smiling at the welcome, he moved slowly towards the central table.
Arrived there, he drew his robe about him in a stately manner, took
seat, and waved his hand. The gleam of a jewel on a finger helped him
not a little to the silence which ensued.
“Romans—most noble Romans—I salute you!” he said.
“Easy, by Jupiter! Who is he?” asked Drusus.
“A dog of Israel—Sanballat by name—purveyor for the army; residence,
Rome; vastly rich; grown so as a contractor of furnishments which he
never furnishes. He spins mischiefs, nevertheless, finer than spiders
spin their webs. Come—by the girdle of Venus! let us catch him!”
Messala arose as he spoke, and, with Drusus, joined the mass crowded
about the purveyor.
“It came to me on the street,” said that person, producing his tablets,
and opening them on the table with an impressive air of business, “that
there was great discomfort in the palace because offers on Messala were
going without takers. The gods, you know, must have sacrifices; and
here am I. You see my color; let us to the matter. Odds first, amounts
next. What will you give me?”
The audacity seemed to stun his hearers.
“Haste!” he said. “I have an engagement with the consul.”
The spur was effective.
“Two to one,” cried half a dozen in a voice.
“What!” exclaimed the purveyor, astonished. “Only two to one, and yours
a Roman!”
“Take three, then.”
“Three say you—only three—and mine but a dog of a Jew! Give me four.”
“Four it is,” said a boy, stung by the taunt.
“Five—give me five,” cried the purveyor, instantly.
A profound stillness fell upon the assemblage.
“The consul—your master and mine—is waiting for me.”
The inaction became awkward to the many.
“Give me five—for the honor of Rome, five.”
“Five let it be,” said one in answer.
There was a sharp cheer—a commotion—and Messala himself appeared.
“Five let it be,” he said.
And Sanballat smiled, and made ready to write.
“If Cæsar die to-morrow,” he said, “Rome will not be all bereft. There
is at least one other with spirit to take his place. Give me six.”
“Six be it,” answered Messala.
There was another shout louder than the first.
“Six be it,” repeated Messala. “Six to one—the difference between a
Roman and a Jew. And, having found it, now, O redemptor of the flesh of
swine, let us on. The amount—and quickly. The consul may send for thee,
and I will then be bereft.”
Sanballat took the laugh against him coolly, and wrote, and offered the
writing to Messala.
“Read, read!” everybody demanded.
And Messala read:
“Mem.—Chariot-race. Messala of Rome, in wager with Sanballat, also of
Rome, says he will beat Ben-Hur, the Jew. Amount of wager, twenty
talents. Odds to Sanballat, six to one.
“Witnesses: SANBALLAT.”
There was no noise, no motion. Each person seemed held in the pose the
reading found him. Messala stared at the memorandum, while the eyes
which had him in view opened wide, and stared at him. He felt the gaze,
and thought rapidly. So lately he stood in the same place, and in the
same way hectored the countrymen around him. They would remember it. If
he refused to sign, his hero-ship was lost. And sign he could not; he
was not worth one hundred talents, nor the fifth part of the sum.
Suddenly his mind became a blank; he stood speechless; the color fled
his face. An idea at last came to his relief.
“Thou Jew!” he said, “where hast thou twenty talents? Show me.”
Sanballat’s provoking smile deepened.
“There,” he replied, offering Messala a paper.
“Read, read!” arose all around.
Again Messala read:
“AT ANTIOCH, Tammuz 16th day.
“The bearer, Sanballat of Rome, hath now to his order with me fifty
talents, coin of Cæsar.
SIMONIDES.”
“Fifty talents, fifty talents!” echoed the throng, in amazement.
Then Drusus came to the rescue.
“By Hercules!” he shouted, “the paper lies, and the Jew is a liar. Who
but Cæsar hath fifty talents at order? Down with the insolent white!”
The cry was angry, and it was angrily repeated; yet Sanballat kept his
seat, and his smile grew more exasperating the longer he waited. At
length Messala spoke.
“Hush! One to one, my countrymen—one to one, for love of our ancient
Roman name.”
The timely action recovered him his ascendancy.
“O thou circumcised dog!” he continued, to Sanballat, “I gave thee six
to one, did I not?”
“Yes,” said the Jew, quietly.
“Well, give me now the fixing of the amount.”
“With reserve, if the amount be trifling, have thy will,” answered
Sanballat.
“Write, then, five in place of twenty.”
“Hast thou so much?”
“By the mother of the gods, I will show you receipts.”
“Nay, the word of so brave a Roman must pass. Only make the sum
even—six make it, and I will write.”
“Write it so.”
And forthwith they exchanged writings.
Sanballat immediately arose and looked around him, a sneer in place of
his smile. No man better than he knew those with whom he was dealing.
“Romans,” he said, “another wager, if you dare! Five talents against
five talents that the white will win. I challenge you collectively.”
They were again surprised.
“What!” he cried, louder. “Shall it be said in the Circus to-morrow
that a dog of Israel went into the saloon of the palace full of Roman
nobles—among them the scion of a Cæsar—and laid five talents before
them in challenge, and they had not the courage to take it up?”
The sting was unendurable.
“Have done, O insolent!” said Drusus, “write the challenge, and leave
it on the table; and to-morrow, if we find thou hast indeed so much
money to put at such hopeless hazard, I, Drusus, promise it shall be
taken.”
Sanballat wrote again, and, rising, said, unmoved as ever, “See,
Drusus, I leave the offer with you. When it is signed, send it to me
any time before the race begins. I will be found with the consul in a
seat over the Porta Pompae. Peace to you; peace to all.”
He bowed, and departed, careless of the shout of derision with which
they pursued him out of the door.
In the night the story of the prodigious wager flew along the streets
and over the city; and Ben-Hur, lying with his four, was told of it,
and also that Messala’s whole fortune was on the hazard.
And he slept never so soundly.
CHAPTER XII
The Circus at Antioch stood on the south bank of the river, nearly
opposite the island, differing in no respect from the plan of such
buildings in general.
In the purest sense, the games were a gift to the public; consequently,
everybody was free to attend; and, vast as the holding capacity of the
structure was, so fearful were the people, on this occasion, lest there
should not be room for them, that, early the day before the opening of
the exhibition, they took up all the vacant spaces in the vicinity,
where their temporary shelter suggested an army in waiting.
At midnight the entrances were thrown wide, and the rabble, surging in,
occupied the quarters assigned to them, from which nothing less than an
earthquake or an army with spears could have dislodged them. They dozed
the night away on the benches, and breakfasted there; and there the
close of the exercises found them, patient and sight-hungry as in the
beginning.
The better people, their seats secured, began moving towards the Circus
about the first hour of the morning, the noble and very rich among them
distinguished by litters and retinues of liveried servants.
By the second hour, the efflux from the city was a stream unbroken and
innumerable.
Exactly as the gnomon of the official dial up in the citadel pointed
the second hour half gone, the legion, in full panoply, and with all
its standards on exhibit, descended from Mount Sulpius; and when the
rear of the last cohort disappeared in the bridge, Antioch was
literally abandoned—not that the Circus could hold the multitude, but
that the multitude was gone out to it, nevertheless.
A great concourse on the river shore witnessed the consul come over
from the island in a barge of state. As the great man landed, and was
received by the legion, the martial show for one brief moment
transcended the attraction of the Circus.
At the third hour, the audience, if such it may be termed, was
assembled; at last, a flourish of trumpets called for silence, and
instantly the gaze of over a hundred thousand persons was directed
towards a pile forming the eastern section of the building.
There was a basement first, broken in the middle by a broad arched
passage, called the Porta Pompae, over which, on an elevated tribunal
magnificently decorated with insignia and legionary standards, the
consul sat in the place of honor. On both sides of the passage the
basement was divided into stalls termed carceres, each protected in
front by massive gates swung to statuesque pilasters. Over the stalls
next was a cornice crowned by a low balustrade; back of which the seats
arose in theatre arrangement, all occupied by a throng of dignitaries
superbly attired. The pile extended the width of the Circus, and was
flanked on both sides by towers which, besides helping the architects
give grace to their work, served the velaria, or purple awnings,
stretched between them so as to throw the whole quarter in a shade that
became exceedingly grateful as the day advanced.
This structure, it is now thought, can be made useful in helping the
reader to a sufficient understanding of the arrangement of the rest of
the interior of the Circus. He has only to fancy himself seated on the
tribunal with the consul, facing to the west, where everything is under
his eye.
On the right and left, if he will look, he will see the main entrances,
very ample, and guarded by gates hinged to the towers.
Directly below him is the arena—a level plane of considerable extent,
covered with fine white sand. There all the trials will take place
except the running.
Looking across this sanded arena westwardly still, there is a pedestal
of marble supporting three low conical pillars of gray stone, much
carven. Many an eye will hunt for those pillars before the day is done,
for they are the first goal, and mark the beginning and end of the
race-course. Behind the pedestal, leaving a passage-way and space for
an altar, commences a wall ten or twelve feet in breadth and five or
six in height, extending thence exactly two hundred yards, or one
Olympic stadium. At the farther, or westward, extremity of the wall
there is another pedestal, surmounted with pillars which mark the
second goal.
The racers will enter the course on the right of the first goal, and
keep the wall all the time to their left. The beginning and ending
points of the contest lie, consequently, directly in front of the
consul across the arena; and for that reason his seat was admittedly
the most desirable in the Circus.
Now if the reader, who is still supposed to be seated on the consular
tribunal over the Porta Pompae, will look up from the ground
arrangement of the interior, the first point to attract his notice will
be the marking of the outer boundary-line of the course—that is, a
plain-faced, solid wall, fifteen or twenty feet in height, with a
balustrade on its cope, like that over the carceres, or stalls, in the
east. This balcony, if followed round the course, will be found broken
in three places to allow passages of exit and entrance, two in the
north and one in the west; the latter very ornate, and called the Gate
of Triumph, because, when all is over, the victors will pass out that
way, crowned, and with triumphal escort and ceremonies.
At the west end the balcony encloses the course in the form of a half
circle, and is made to uphold two great galleries.
Directly behind the balustrade on the coping of the balcony is the
first seat, from which ascend the succeeding benches, each higher than
the one in front of it; giving to view a spectacle of surpassing
interest—the spectacle of a vast space ruddy and glistening with human
faces, and rich with varicolored costumes.
The commonalty occupy quarters over in the west, beginning at the point
of termination of an awning, stretched, it would seem, for the
accommodation of the better classes exclusively.
Having thus the whole interior of the Circus under view at the moment
of the sounding of the trumpets, let the reader next imagine the
multitude seated and sunk to sudden silence, and motionless in its
intensity of interest.
Out of the Porta Pompae over in the east rises a sound mixed of voices
and instruments harmonized. Presently, forth issues the chorus of the
procession with which the celebration begins; the editor and civic
authorities of the city, givers of the games, follow in robes and
garlands; then the gods, some on platforms borne by men, others in
great four-wheel carriages gorgeously decorated; next them, again, the
contestants of the day, each in costume exactly as he will run,
wrestle, leap, box, or drive.
Slowly crossing the arena, the procession proceeds to make circuit of
the course. The display is beautiful and imposing. Approval runs before
it in a shout, as the water rises and swells in front of a boat in
motion. If the dumb, figured gods make no sign of appreciation of the
welcome, the editor and his associates are not so backward.
The reception of the athletes is even more demonstrative, for there is
not a man in the assemblage who has not something in wager upon them,
though but a mite or farthing. And it is noticeable, as the classes
move by, that the favorites among them are speedily singled out: either
their names are loudest in the uproar, or they are more profusely
showered with wreaths and garlands tossed to them from the balcony.
If there is a question as to the popularity with the public of the
several games, it is now put to rest. To the splendor of the chariots
and the superexcellent beauty of the horses, the charioteers add the
personality necessary to perfect the charm of their display. Their
tunics, short, sleeveless, and of the finest woollen texture, are of
the assigned colors. A horseman accompanies each one of them except
Ben-Hur, who, for some reason—possibly distrust—has chosen to go alone;
so, too, they are all helmeted but him. As they approach, the
spectators stand upon the benches, and there is a sensible deepening of
the clamor, in which a sharp listener may detect the shrill piping of
women and children; at the same time, the things roseate flying from
the balcony thicken into a storm, and, striking the men, drop into the
chariot-beds, which are threatened with filling to the tops. Even the
horses have a share in the ovation; nor may it be said they are less
conscious than their masters of the honors they receive.
Very soon, as with the other contestants, it is made apparent that some
of the drivers are more in favor than others; and then the discovery
follows that nearly every individual on the benches, women and children
as well as men, wears a color, most frequently a ribbon upon the breast
or in the hair: now it is green, now yellow, now blue; but, searching
the great body carefully, it is manifest that there is a preponderance
of white, and scarlet and gold.
In a modern assemblage called together as this one is, particularly
where there are sums at hazard upon the race, a preference would be
decided by the qualities or performance of the horses; here, however,
nationality was the rule. If the Byzantine and Sidonian found small
support, it was because their cities were scarcely represented on the
benches. On their side, the Greeks, though very numerous, were divided
between the Corinthian and the Athenian, leaving but a scant showing of
green and yellow. Messala’s scarlet and gold would have been but little
better had not the citizens of Antioch, proverbially a race of
courtiers, joined the Romans by adopting the color of their favorite.
There were left then the country people, or Syrians, the Jews, and the
Arabs; and they, from faith in the blood of the sheik’s four, blent
largely with hate of the Romans, whom they desired, above all things,
to see beaten and humbled, mounted the white, making the most noisy,
and probably the most numerous, faction of all.
As the charioteers move on in the circuit, the excitement increases; at
the second goal, where, especially in the galleries, the white is the
ruling color, the people exhaust their flowers and rive the air with
screams.
“Messala! Messala!”
“Ben-Hur! Ben-Hur!”
Such are the cries.
Upon the passage of the procession, the factionists take their seats
and resume conversation.
“Ah, by Bacchus! was he not handsome?” exclaims a woman, whose Romanism
is betrayed by the colors flying in her hair.
“And how splendid his chariot!” replies a neighbor, of the same
proclivities. “It is all ivory and gold. Jupiter grant he wins!”
The notes on the bench behind them were entirely different.
“A hundred shekels on the Jew!”
The voice is high and shrill.
“Nay, be thou not rash,” whispers a moderating friend to the speaker.
“The children of Jacob are not much given to Gentile sports, which are
too often accursed in the sight of the Lord.”
“True, but saw you ever one more cool and assured? And what an arm he
has!”
“And what horses!” says a third.
“And for that,” a fourth one adds, “they say he has all the tricks of
the Romans.”
A woman completes the eulogium:
“Yes, and he is even handsomer than the Roman.”
Thus encouraged, the enthusiast shrieks again, “A hundred shekels on
the Jew!”
“Thou fool!” answers an Antiochian, from a bench well forward on the
balcony. “Knowest thou not there are fifty talents laid against him,
six to one, on Messala? Put up thy shekels, lest Abraham rise and smite
thee.”
“Ha, ha! thou ass of Antioch! Cease thy bray. Knowest thou not it was
Messala betting on himself?”
Such the reply.
And so ran the controversy, not always good-natured.
When at length the march was ended and the Porta Pompae received back
the procession, Ben-Hur knew he had his prayer.
The eyes of the East were upon his contest with Messala.
CHAPTER XIII
About three o’clock, speaking in modern style, the program was
concluded except the chariot-race. The editor, wisely considerate of
the comfort of the people, chose that time for a recess. At once the
vomitoria were thrown open, and all who could hastened to the portico
outside where the restaurateurs had their quarters. Those who remained
yawned, talked, gossiped, consulted their tablets, and, all
distinctions else forgotten, merged into but two classes—the winners,
who were happy, and the losers, who were grum and captious.
Now, however, a third class of spectators, composed of citizens who
desired only to witness the chariot-race, availed themselves of the
recess to come in and take their reserved seats; by so doing they
thought to attract the least attention and give the least offence.
Among these were Simonides and his party, whose places were in the
vicinity of the main entrance on the north side, opposite the consul.
As the four stout servants carried the merchant in his chair up the
aisle, curiosity was much excited. Presently some one called his name.
Those about caught it and passed it on along the benches to the west;
and there was hurried climbing on seats to get sight of the man about
whom common report had coined and put in circulation a romance so mixed
of good fortune and bad that the like had never been known or heard of
before.
Ilderim was also recognized and warmly greeted; but nobody knew
Balthasar or the two women who followed him closely veiled.
The people made way for the party respectfully, and the ushers seated
them in easy speaking distance of each other down by the balustrade
overlooking the arena. In providence of comfort, they sat upon cushions
and had stools for footrests.
The women were Iras and Esther.
Upon being seated, the latter cast a frightened look over the Circus,
and drew the veil closer about her face; while the Egyptian, letting
her veil fall upon her shoulders, gave herself to view, and gazed at
the scene with the seeming unconsciousness of being stared at, which,
in a woman, is usually the result of long social habitude.
The new-comers generally were yet making their first examination of the
great spectacle, beginning with the consul and his attendants, when
some workmen ran in and commenced to stretch a chalked rope across the
arena from balcony to balcony in front of the pillars of the first
goal.
About the same time, also, six men came in through the Porta Pompae and
took post, one in front of each occupied stall; whereat there was a
prolonged hum of voices in every quarter.
“See, see! The green goes to number four on the right; the Athenian is
there.”
“And Messala—yes, he is in number two.”
“The Corinthian—”
“Watch the white! See, he crosses over, he stops; number one it
is—number one on the left.”
“No, the black stops there, and the white at number two.”
“So it is.”
These gate-keepers, it should be understood, were dressed in tunics
colored like those of the competing charioteers; so, when they took
their stations, everybody knew the particular stall in which his
favorite was that moment waiting.
“Did you ever see Messala?” the Egyptian asked Esther.
The Jewess shuddered as she answered no. If not her father’s enemy, the
Roman was Ben-Hur’s.
“He is beautiful as Apollo.”
As Iras spoke, her large eyes brightened and she shook her jeweled fan.
Esther looked at her with the thought, “Is he, then, so much handsomer
than Ben-Hur?” Next moment she heard Ilderim say to her father, “Yes,
his stall is number two on the left of the Porta Pompae;” and, thinking
it was of Ben-Hur he spoke, her eyes turned that way. Taking but the
briefest glance at the wattled face of the gate, she drew the veil
close and muttered a little prayer.
Presently Sanballat came to the party.
“I am just from the stalls, O sheik,” he said, bowing gravely to
Ilderim, who began combing his beard, while his eyes glittered with
eager inquiry. “The horses are in perfect condition.”
Ilderim replied simply, “If they are beaten, I pray it be by some other
than Messala.”
Turning then to Simonides, Sanballat drew out a tablet, saying, “I
bring you also something of interest. I reported, you will remember,
the wager concluded with Messala last night, and stated that I left
another which, if taken, was to be delivered to me in writing to-day
before the race began. Here it is.”
Simonides took the tablet and read the memorandum carefully.
“Yes,” he said, “their emissary came to ask me if you had so much money
with me. Keep the tablet close. If you lose, you know where to come; if
you win”—his face knit hard—“if you win—ah, friend, see to it! See the
signers escape not; hold them to the last shekel. That is what they
would with us.”
“Trust me,” replied the purveyor.
“Will you not sit with us?” asked Simonides.
“You are very good,” the other returned; “but if I leave the consul,
young Rome yonder will boil over. Peace to you; peace to all.”
At length the recess came to an end.
The trumpeters blew a call at which the absentees rushed back to their
places. At the same time, some attendants appeared in the arena, and,
climbing upon the division wall, went to an entablature near the second
goal at the west end, and placed upon it seven wooden balls; then
returning to the first goal, upon an entablature there they set up
seven other pieces of wood hewn to represent dolphins.
“What shall they do with the balls and fishes, O sheik?” asked
Balthasar.
“Hast thou never attended a race?”
“Never before; and hardly know I why I am here.”
“Well, they are to keep the count. At the end of each round run thou
shalt see one ball and one fish taken down.”
The preparations were now complete, and presently a trumpeter in gaudy
uniform arose by the editor, ready to blow the signal of commencement
promptly at his order. Straightway the stir of the people and the hum
of their conversation died away. Every face near-by, and every face in
the lessening perspective, turned to the east, as all eyes settled upon
the gates of the six stalls which shut in the competitors.
The unusual flush upon his face gave proof that even Simonides had
caught the universal excitement. Ilderim pulled his beard fast and
furious.
“Look now for the Roman,” said the fair Egyptian to Esther, who did not
hear her, for, with close-drawn veil and beating heart, she sat
watching for Ben-Hur.
The structure containing the stalls, it should be observed, was in form
of the segment of a circle, retired on the right so that its central
point was projected forward, and midway the course, on the starting
side of the first goal. Every stall, consequently, was equally distant
from the starting-line or chalked rope above mentioned.
The trumpet sounded short and sharp; whereupon the starters, one for
each chariot, leaped down from behind the pillars of the goal, ready to
give assistance if any of the fours proved unmanageable.
Again the trumpet blew, and simultaneously the gate-keepers threw the
stalls open.
First appeared the mounted attendants of the charioteers, five in all,
Ben-Hur having rejected the service. The chalked line was lowered to
let them pass, then raised again. They were beautifully mounted, yet
scarcely observed as they rode forward; for all the time the trampling
of eager horses, and the voices of drivers scarcely less eager, were
heard behind in the stalls, so that one might not look away an instant
from the gaping doors.
The chalked line up again, the gate-keepers called their men; instantly
the ushers on the balcony waved their hands, and shouted with all their
strength, “Down! down!”
As well have whistled to stay a storm.
Forth from each stall, like missiles in a volley from so many great
guns, rushed the six fours; and up the vast assemblage arose,
electrified and irrepressible, and, leaping upon the benches, filled
the Circus and the air above it with yells and screams. This was the
time for which they had so patiently waited!—this the moment of supreme
interest treasured up in talk and dreams since the proclamation of the
games!
“He is come—there—look!” cried Iras, pointing to Messala.
“I see him,” answered Esther, looking at Ben-Hur.
The veil was withdrawn. For an instant the little Jewess was brave. An
idea of the joy there is in doing an heroic deed under the eyes of a
multitude came to her, and she understood ever after how, at such
times, the souls of men, in the frenzy of performance, laugh at death
or forget it utterly.
The competitors were now under view from nearly every part of the
Circus, yet the race was not begun; they had first to make the chalked
line successfully.
The line was stretched for the purpose of equalizing the start. If it
were dashed upon, discomfiture of man and horses might be apprehended;
on the other hand, to approach it timidly was to incur the hazard of
being thrown behind in the beginning of the race; and that was certain
forfeit of the great advantage always striven for—the position next the
division wall on the inner line of the course.
This trial, its perils and consequences, the spectators knew
thoroughly; and if the opinion of old Nestor, uttered that time he
handed the reins to his son, were true—
“It is not strength, but art, obtained the prize,
And to be swift is less than to be wise”—
all on the benches might well look for warning of the winner to be now
given, justifying the interest with which they breathlessly watched for
the result.
The arena swam in a dazzle of light; yet each driver looked first thing
for the rope, then for the coveted inner line. So, all six aiming at
the same point and speeding furiously, a collision seemed inevitable;
nor that merely. What if the editor, at the last moment, dissatisfied
with the start, should withhold the signal to drop the rope? Or if he
should not give it in time?
The crossing was about two hundred and fifty feet in width. Quick the
eye, steady the hand, unerring the judgment required. If now one look
away! or his mind wander! or a rein slip! And what attraction in the
ensemble of the thousands over the spreading balcony! Calculating upon
the natural impulse to give one glance—just one—in sooth of curiosity
or vanity, malice might be there with an artifice; while friendship and
love, did they serve the same result, might be as deadly as malice.
The divine last touch in perfecting the beautiful is animation. Can we
accept the saying, then these latter days, so tame in pastime and dull
in sports, have scarcely anything to compare to the spectacle offered
by the six contestants. Let the reader try to fancy it; let him first
look down upon the arena, and see it glistening in its frame of
dull-gray granite walls; let him then, in this perfect field, see the
chariots, light of wheel, very graceful, and ornate as paint and
burnishing can make them—Messala’s rich with ivory and gold; let him
see the drivers, erect and statuesque, undisturbed by the motion of the
cars, their limbs naked, and fresh and ruddy with the healthful polish
of the baths—in their right hands goads, suggestive of torture dreadful
to the thought—in their left hands, held in careful separation, and
high, that they may not interfere with view of the steeds, the reins
passing taut from the fore ends of the carriage-poles; let him see the
fours, chosen for beauty as well as speed; let him see them in
magnificent action, their masters not more conscious of the situation
and all that is asked and hoped from them—their heads tossing, nostrils
in play, now distent, now contracted—limbs too dainty for the sand
which they touch but to spurn—limbs slender, yet with impact crushing
as hammers—every muscle of the rounded bodies instinct with glorious
life, swelling, diminishing, justifying the world in taking from them
its ultimate measure of force; finally, along with chariots, drivers,
horses, let the reader see the accompanying shadows fly; and, with such
distinctness as the picture comes, he may share the satisfaction and
deeper pleasure of those to whom it was a thrilling fact, not a feeble
fancy. Every age has its plenty of sorrows; Heaven help where there are
no pleasures!
The competitors having started each on the shortest line for the
position next the wall, yielding would be like giving up the race; and
who dared yield? It is not in common nature to change a purpose in
mid-career; and the cries of encouragement from the balcony were
indistinguishable and indescribable: a roar which had the same effect
upon all the drivers.
The fours neared the rope together. Then the trumpeter by the editor’s
side blew a signal vigorously. Twenty feet away it was not heard.
Seeing the action, however, the judges dropped the rope, and not an
instant too soon, for the hoof of one of Messala’s horses struck it as
it fell. Nothing daunted, the Roman shook out his long lash, loosed the
reins, leaned forward, and, with a triumphant shout, took the wall.
“Jove with us! Jove with us!” yelled all the Roman faction, in a frenzy
of delight.
As Messala turned in, the bronze lion’s head at the end of his axle
caught the fore-leg of the Athenian’s right-hand trace-mate, flinging
the brute over against its yoke-fellow. Both staggered, struggled, and
lost their headway. The ushers had their will at least in part. The
thousands held their breath with horror; only up where the consul sat
was there shouting.
“Jove with us!” screamed Drusus, frantically.
“He wins! Jove with us!” answered his associates, seeing Messala speed
on.
Tablet in hand, Sanballat turned to them; a crash from the course below
stopped his speech, and he could not but look that way.
Messala having passed, the Corinthian was the only contestant on the
Athenian’s right, and to that side the latter tried to turn his broken
four; and then; as ill-fortune would have it, the wheel of the
Byzantine, who was next on the left, struck the tail-piece of his
chariot, knocking his feet from under him. There was a crash, a scream
of rage and fear, and the unfortunate Cleanthes fell under the hoofs of
his own steeds: a terrible sight, against which Esther covered her
eyes.
On swept the Corinthian, on the Byzantine, on the Sidonian.
Sanballat looked for Ben-Hur, and turned again to Drusus and his
coterie.
“A hundred sestertii on the Jew!” he cried.
“Taken!” answered Drusus.
“Another hundred on the Jew!” shouted Sanballat.
Nobody appeared to hear him. He called again; the situation below was
too absorbing, and they were too busy shouting, “Messala! Messala! Jove
with us!”
When the Jewess ventured to look again, a party of workmen were
removing the horses and broken car; another party were taking off the
man himself; and every bench upon which there was a Greek was vocal
with execrations and prayers for vengeance. Suddenly she dropped her
hands; Ben-Hur, unhurt, was to the front, coursing freely forward along
with the Roman! Behind them, in a group, followed the Sidonian, the
Corinthian, and the Byzantine.
The race was on; the souls of the racers were in it; over them bent the
myriads.
CHAPTER XIV
When the dash for position began, Ben-Hur, as we have seen, was on the
extreme left of the six. For a moment, like the others, he was half
blinded by the light in the arena; yet he managed to catch sight of his
antagonists and divine their purpose. At Messala, who was more than an
antagonist to him, he gave one searching look. The air of passionless
hauteur characteristic of the fine patrician face was there as of old,
and so was the Italian beauty, which the helmet rather increased; but
more—it may have been a jealous fancy, or the effect of the brassy
shadow in which the features were at the moment cast, still the
Israelite thought he saw the soul of the man as through a glass,
darkly: cruel, cunning, desperate; not so excited as determined—a soul
in a tension of watchfulness and fierce resolve.
In a time not longer than was required to turn to his four again,
Ben-Hur felt his own resolution harden to a like temper. At whatever
cost, at all hazards, he would humble this enemy! Prize, friends,
wagers, honor—everything that can be thought of as a possible interest
in the race was lost in the one deliberate purpose. Regard for life
even should not hold him back. Yet there was no passion, on his part;
no blinding rush of heated blood from heart to brain, and back again;
no impulse to fling himself upon Fortune: he did not believe in
Fortune; far otherwise. He had his plan, and, confiding in himself, he
settled to the task never more observant, never more capable. The air
about him seemed aglow with a renewed and perfect transparency.
When not half-way across the arena, he saw that Messala’s rush would,
if there was no collision, and the rope fell, give him the wall; that
the rope would fall, he ceased as soon to doubt; and, further, it came
to him, a sudden flash-like insight, that Messala knew it was to be let
drop at the last moment (prearrangement with the editor could safely
reach that point in the contest); and it suggested, what more
Roman-like than for the official to lend himself to a countryman who,
besides being so popular, had also so much at stake? There could be no
other accounting for the confidence with which Messala pushed his four
forward the instant his competitors were prudentially checking their
fours in front of the obstruction—no other except madness.
It is one thing to see a necessity and another to act upon it. Ben-Hur
yielded the wall for the time.
The rope fell, and all the fours but his sprang into the course under
urgency of voice and lash. He drew head to the right, and, with all the
speed of his Arabs, darted across the trails of his opponents, the
angle of movement being such as to lose the least time and gain the
greatest possible advance. So, while the spectators were shivering at
the Athenian’s mishap, and the Sidonian, Byzantine, and Corinthian were
striving, with such skill as they possessed, to avoid involvement in
the ruin, Ben-Hur swept around and took the course neck and neck with
Messala, though on the outside. The marvellous skill shown in making
the change thus from the extreme left across to the right without
appreciable loss did not fail the sharp eyes upon the benches; the
Circus seemed to rock and rock again with prolonged applause. Then
Esther clasped her hands in glad surprise; then Sanballat, smiling,
offered his hundred sestertii a second time without a taker; and then
the Romans began to doubt, thinking Messala might have found an equal,
if not a master, and that in an Israelite!
And now, racing together side by side, a narrow interval between them,
the two neared the second goal.
The pedestal of the three pillars there, viewed from the west, was a
stone wall in the form of a half-circle, around which the course and
opposite balcony were bent in exact parallelism. Making this turn was
considered in all respects the most telling test of a charioteer; it
was, in fact, the very feat in which Oraetes failed. As an involuntary
admission of interest on the part of the spectators, a hush fell over
all the Circus, so that for the first time in the race the rattle and
clang of the cars plunging after the tugging steeds were distinctly
heard. Then, it would seem, Messala observed Ben-Hur, and recognized
him; and at once the audacity of the man flamed out in an astonishing
manner.
“Down Eros, up Mars!” he shouted, whirling his lash with practised
hand—“Down Eros, up Mars!” he repeated, and caught the well-doing Arabs
of Ben-Hur a cut the like of which they had never known.
The blow was seen in every quarter, and the amazement was universal.
The silence deepened; up on the benches behind the consul the boldest
held his breath, waiting for the outcome. Only a moment thus: then,
involuntarily, down from the balcony, as thunder falls, burst the
indignant cry of the people.
The four sprang forward affrighted. No hand had ever been laid upon
them except in love; they had been nurtured ever so tenderly; and as
they grew, their confidence in man became a lesson to men beautiful to
see. What should such dainty natures do under such indignity but leap
as from death?
Forward they sprang as with one impulse, and forward leaped the car.
Past question, every experience is serviceable to us. Where got Ben-Hur
the large hand and mighty grip which helped him now so well? Where but
from the oar with which so long he fought the sea? And what was this
spring of the floor under his feet to the dizzy eccentric lurch with
which in the old time the trembling ship yielded to the beat of
staggering billows, drunk with their power? So he kept his place, and
gave the four free rein, and called to them in soothing voice, trying
merely to guide them round the dangerous turn; and before the fever of
the people began to abate, he had back the mastery. Nor that only: on
approaching the first goal, he was again side by side with Messala,
bearing with him the sympathy and admiration of every one not a Roman.
So clearly was the feeling shown, so vigorous its manifestation, that
Messala, with all his boldness, felt it unsafe to trifle further.
As the cars whirled round the goal, Esther caught sight of Ben-Hur’s
face—a little pale, a little higher raised, otherwise calm, even
placid.
Immediately a man climbed on the entablature at the west end of the
division wall, and took down one of the conical wooden balls. A dolphin
on the east entablature was taken down at the same time.
In like manner, the second ball and second dolphin disappeared.
And then the third ball and third dolphin.
Three rounds concluded: still Messala held the inside position; still
Ben-Hur moved with him side by side; still the other competitors
followed as before. The contest began to have the appearance of one of
the double races which became so popular in Rome during the later
Cæsarean period—Messala and Ben-Hur in the first, the Corinthian,
Sidonian, and Byzantine in the second. Meantime the ushers succeeded in
returning the multitude to their seats, though the clamor continued to
run the rounds, keeping, as it were, even pace with the rivals in the
course below.
In the fifth round the Sidonian succeeded in getting a place outside
Ben-Hur, but lost it directly.
The sixth round was entered upon without change of relative position.
Gradually the speed had been quickened—gradually the blood of the
competitors warmed with the work. Men and beasts seemed to know alike
that the final crisis was near, bringing the time for the winner to
assert himself.
The interest which from the beginning had centred chiefly in the
struggle between the Roman and the Jew, with an intense and general
sympathy for the latter, was fast changing to anxiety on his account.
On all the benches the spectators bent forward motionless, except as
their faces turned following the contestants. Ilderim quitted combing
his beard, and Esther forgot her fears.
“A hundred sestertii on the Jew!” cried Sanballat to the Romans under
the consul’s awning.
There was no reply.
“A talent—or five talents, or ten; choose ye!”
He shook his tablets at them defiantly.
“I will take thy sestertii,” answered a Roman youth, preparing to
write.
“Do not so,” interposed a friend.
“Why?”
“Messala hath reached his utmost speed. See him lean over his chariot
rim, the reins loose as flying ribbons. Look then at the Jew.”
The first one looked.
“By Hercules!” he replied, his countenance falling. “The dog throws all
his weight on the bits. I see, I see! If the gods help not our friend,
he will be run away with by the Israelite. No, not yet. Look! Jove with
us, Jove with us!”
The cry, swelled by every Latin tongue, shook the velaria over the
consul’s head.
If it were true that Messala had attained his utmost speed, the effort
was with effect; slowly but certainly he was beginning to forge ahead.
His horses were running with their heads low down; from the balcony
their bodies appeared actually to skim the earth; their nostrils showed
blood red in expansion; their eyes seemed straining in their sockets.
Certainly the good steeds were doing their best! How long could they
keep the pace? It was but the commencement of the sixth round. On they
dashed. As they neared the second goal, Ben-Hur turned in behind the
Roman’s car.
The joy of the Messala faction reached its bound: they screamed and
howled, and tossed their colors; and Sanballat filled his tablets with
wagers of their tendering.
Malluch, in the lower gallery over the Gate of Triumph, found it hard
to keep his cheer. He had cherished the vague hint dropped to him by
Ben-Hur of something to happen in the turning of the western pillars.
It was the fifth round, yet the something had not come; and he had said
to himself, the sixth will bring it; but, lo! Ben-Hur was hardly
holding a place at the tail of his enemy’s car.
Over in the east end, Simonides’ party held their peace. The merchant’s
head was bent low. Ilderim tugged at his beard, and dropped his brows
till there was nothing of his eyes but an occasional sparkle of light.
Esther scarcely breathed. Iras alone appeared glad.
Along the home-stretch—sixth round—Messala leading, next him Ben-Hur,
and so close it was the old story:
“First flew Eumelus on Pheretian steeds;
With those of Tros bold Diomed succeeds;
Close on Eumelus’ back they puff the wind,
And seem just mounting on his car behind;
Full on his neck he feels the sultry breeze,
And, hovering o’er, their stretching shadow sees.”
Thus to the first goal, and round it. Messala, fearful of losing his
place, hugged the stony wall with perilous clasp; a foot to the left,
and he had been dashed to pieces; yet, when the turn was finished, no
man, looking at the wheel-tracks of the two cars, could have said, here
went Messala, there the Jew. They left but one trace behind them.
As they whirled by, Esther saw Ben-Hur’s face again, and it was whiter
than before.
Simonides, shrewder than Esther, said to Ilderim, the moment the rivals
turned into the course, “I am no judge, good sheik, if Ben-Hur be not
about to execute some design. His face hath that look.”
To which Ilderim answered, “Saw you how clean they were and fresh? By
the splendor of God, friend, they have not been running! But now
watch!”
One ball and one dolphin remained on the entablatures; and all the
people drew a long breath, for the beginning of the end was at hand.
First, the Sidonian gave the scourge to his four, and, smarting with
fear and pain, they dashed desperately forward, promising for a brief
time to go to the front. The effort ended in promise. Next, the
Byzantine and the Corinthian each made the trial with like result,
after which they were practically out of the race. Thereupon, with a
readiness perfectly explicable, all the factions except the Romans
joined hope in Ben-Hur, and openly indulged their feeling.
“Ben-Hur! Ben-Hur!” they shouted, and the blent voices of the many
rolled overwhelmingly against the consular stand.
From the benches above him as he passed, the favor descended in fierce
injunctions.
“Speed thee, Jew!”
“Take the wall now!”
“On! loose the Arabs! Give them rein and scourge!”
“Let him not have the turn on thee again. Now or never!”
Over the balustrade they stooped low, stretching their hands
imploringly to him.
Either he did not hear, or could not do better, for halfway round the
course and he was still following; at the second goal even still no
change!
And now, to make the turn, Messala began to draw in his left-hand
steeds, an act which necessarily slackened their speed. His spirit was
high; more than one altar was richer of his vows; the Roman genius was
still president. On the three pillars only six hundred feet away were
fame, increase of fortune, promotions, and a triumph ineffably
sweetened by hate, all in store for him! That moment Malluch, in the
gallery, saw Ben-Hur lean forward over his Arabs, and give them the
reins. Out flew the many-folded lash in his hand; over the backs of the
startled steeds it writhed and hissed, and hissed and writhed again and
again; and though it fell not, there were both sting and menace in its
quick report; and as the man passed thus from quiet to resistless
action, his face suffused, his eyes gleaming, along the reins he seemed
to flash his will; and instantly not one, but the four as one, answered
with a leap that landed them alongside the Roman’s car. Messala, on the
perilous edge of the goal, heard, but dared not look to see what the
awakening portended. From the people he received no sign. Above the
noises of the race there was but one voice, and that was Ben-Hur’s. In
the old Aramaic, as the sheik himself, he called to the Arabs,
“On, Atair! On, Rigel! What, Antares! dost thou linger now? Good
horse—oho, Aldebaran! I hear them singing in the tents. I hear the
children singing and the women—singing of the stars, of Atair, Antares,
Rigel, Aldebaran, victory!—and the song will never end. Well done! Home
to-morrow, under the black tent—home! On, Antares! The tribe is waiting
for us, and the master is waiting! ’Tis done! ’tis done! Ha, ha! We
have overthrown the proud. The hand that smote us is in the dust. Ours
the glory! Ha, ha!—steady! The work is done—soho! Rest!”
There had never been anything of the kind more simple; seldom anything
so instantaneous.
At the moment chosen for the dash, Messala was moving in a circle round
the goal. To pass him, Ben-Hur had to cross the track, and good
strategy required the movement to be in a forward direction; that is,
on a like circle limited to the least possible increase. The thousands
on the benches understood it all: they saw the signal given—the
magnificent response; the four close outside Messala’s outer wheel;
Ben-Hur’s inner wheel behind the other’s car—all this they saw. Then
they heard a crash loud enough to send a thrill through the Circus,
and, quicker than thought, out over the course a spray of shining white
and yellow flinders flew. Down on its right side toppled the bed of the
Roman’s chariot. There was a rebound as of the axle hitting the hard
earth; another and another; then the car went to pieces; and Messala,
entangled in the reins, pitched forward headlong.
To increase the horror of the sight by making death certain, the
Sidonian, who had the wall next behind, could not stop or turn out.
Into the wreck full speed he drove; then over the Roman, and into the
latter’s four, all mad with fear. Presently, out of the turmoil, the
fighting of horses, the resound of blows, the murky cloud of dust and
sand, he crawled, in time to see the Corinthian and Byzantine go on
down the course after Ben-Hur, who had not been an instant delayed.
The people arose, and leaped upon the benches, and shouted and
screamed. Those who looked that way caught glimpses of Messala, now
under the trampling of the fours, now under the abandoned cars. He was
still; they thought him dead; but far the greater number followed
Ben-Hur in his career. They had not seen the cunning touch of the reins
by which, turning a little to the left, he caught Messala’s wheel with
the iron-shod point of his axle, and crushed it; but they had seen the
transformation of the man, and themselves felt the heat and glow of his
spirit, the heroic resolution, the maddening energy of action with
which, by look, word, and gesture, he so suddenly inspired his Arabs.
And such running! It was rather the long leaping of lions in harness;
but for the lumbering chariot, it seemed the four were flying. When the
Byzantine and Corinthian were halfway down the course, Ben-Hur turned
the first goal.
AND THE RACE WAS WON!
The consul arose; the people shouted themselves hoarse; the editor came
down from his seat, and crowned the victors.
The fortunate man among the boxers was a low-browed, yellow-haired
Saxon, of such brutalized face as to attract a second look from
Ben-Hur, who recognized a teacher with whom he himself had been a
favorite at Rome. From him the young Jew looked up and beheld Simonides
and his party on the balcony. They waved their hands to him. Esther
kept her seat; but Iras arose, and gave him a smile and a wave of her
fan—favors not the less intoxicating to him because we know, O reader,
they would have fallen to Messala had he been the victor.
The procession was then formed, and, midst the shouting of the
multitude which had had its will, passed out of the Gate of Triumph.
And the day was over.
CHAPTER XV
Ben-Hur tarried across the river with Ilderim; for at midnight, as
previously determined, they would take the road which the caravan, then
thirty hours out, had pursued.
The sheik was happy; his offers of gifts had been royal; but Ben-Hur
had refused everything, insisting that he was satisfied with the
humiliation of his enemy. The generous dispute was long continued.
“Think,” the sheik would say, “what thou hast done for me. In every
black tent down to the Akaba and to the ocean, and across to the
Euphrates, and beyond to the sea of the Scythians, the renown of my
Mira and her children will go; and they who sing of them will magnify
me, and forget that I am in the wane of life; and all the spears now
masterless will come to me, and my sword-hands multiply past counting.
Thou dost not know what it is to have sway of the desert such as will
now be mine. I tell thee it will bring tribute incalculable from
commerce, and immunity from kings. Ay, by the sword of Solomon! doth my
messenger seek favor for me of Cæsar, that will he get. Yet
nothing—nothing?”
And Ben-Hur would answer,
“Nay, sheik, have I not thy hand and heart? Let thy increase of power
and influence inure to the King who comes. Who shall say it was not
allowed thee for him? In the work I am going to, I may have great need.
Saying no now will leave me to ask of thee with better grace
hereafter.”
In the midst of a controversy of the kind, two messengers
arrived—Malluch and one unknown. The former was admitted first.
The good fellow did not attempt to hide his joy over the event of the
day.
“But, coming to that with which I am charged,” he said, “the master
Simonides sends me to say that, upon the adjournment of the games, some
of the Roman faction made haste to protest against payment of the money
prize.”
Ilderim started up, crying, in his shrillest tones,
“By the splendor of God! the East shall decide whether the race was
fairly won.”
“Nay, good sheik,” said Malluch, “the editor has paid the money.”
“’Tis well.”
“When they said Ben-Hur struck Messala’s wheel, the editor laughed, and
reminded them of the blow the Arabs had at the turn of the goal.”
“And what of the Athenian?”
“He is dead.”
“Dead!” cried Ben-Hur.
“Dead!” echoed Ilderim. “What fortune these Roman monsters have!
Messala escaped?”
“Escaped—yes, O sheik, with life; but it shall be a burden to him. The
physicians say he will live, but never walk again.”
Ben-Hur looked silently up to heaven. He had a vision of Messala,
chairbound like Simonides, and, like him, going abroad on the shoulders
of servants. The good man had abode well; but what would this one with
his pride and ambition?
“Simonides bade me say, further,” Malluch continued, “Sanballat is
having trouble. Drusus, and those who signed with him, referred the
question of paying the five talents they lost to the Consul Maxentius,
and he has referred it to Cæsar. Messala also refused his losses, and
Sanballat, in imitation of Drusus, went to the consul, where the matter
is still in advisement. The better Romans say the protestants shall not
be excused; and all the adverse factions join with them. The city rings
with the scandal.”
“What says Simonides?” asked Ben-Hur.
“The master laughs, and is well pleased. If the Roman pays, he is
ruined; if he refuses to pay, he is dishonored. The imperial policy
will decide the matter. To offend the East would be a bad beginning
with the Parthians; to offend Sheik Ilderim would be to antagonize the
Desert, over which lie all Maxentius’s lines of operation. Wherefore
Simonides bade me tell you to have no disquiet; Messala will pay.”
Ilderim was at once restored to his good-humor.
“Let us be off now,” he said, rubbing his hands. “The business will do
well with Simonides. The glory is ours. I will order the horses.”
“Stay,” said Malluch. “I left a messenger outside. Will you see him?”
“By the splendor of God! I forgot him.”
Malluch retired, and was succeeded by a lad of gentle manners and
delicate appearance, who knelt upon one knee, and said, winningly,
“Iras, the daughter of Balthasar, well known to good Sheik Ilderim,
hath intrusted me with a message to the sheik, who, she saith, will do
her great favor so he receive her congratulations on account of the
victory of his four.”
“The daughter of my friend is kind,” said Ilderim, with sparkling eyes.
“Do thou give her this jewel, in sign of the pleasure I have from her
message.”
He took a ring from his finger as he spoke.
“I will as thou sayest, O sheik,” the lad replied, and continued, “The
daughter of the Egyptian charged me further. She prays the good Sheik
Ilderim to send word to the youth Ben-Hur that her father hath taken
residence for a time in the palace of Idernee, where she will receive
the youth after the fourth hour to-morrow. And if, with her
congratulations, Sheik Ilderim will accept her gratitude for this other
favor done, she will be ever so pleased.”
The sheik looked at Ben-Hur, whose face was suffused with pleasure.
“What will you?” he asked.
“By your leave, O sheik, I will see the fair Egyptian.”
Ilderim laughed, and said, “Shall not a man enjoy his youth?”
Then Ben-Hur answered the messenger.
“Say to her who sent you that I, Ben-Hur, will see her at the palace of
Idernee, wherever that may be, to-morrow at noon.”
The lad arose, and, with silent salute, departed.
At midnight Ilderim took the road, having arranged to leave a horse and
a guide for Ben-Hur, who was to follow him.
CHAPTER XVI
Going next day to fill his appointment with Iras, Ben-Hur turned from
the Omphalus, which was in the heart of the city, into the Colonnade of
Herod, and came shortly to the palace of Idernee.
From the street he passed first into a vestibule, on the sides of which
were stairways under cover, leading up to a portico. Winged lions sat
by the stairs; in the middle there was a gigantic ibis spouting water
over the floor; the lions, ibis, walls, and floor were reminders of the
Egyptians: everything, even the balustrading of the stairs, was of
massive gray stone.
Above the vestibule, and covering the landing of the steps, arose the
portico, a pillared grace, so light, so exquisitely proportioned, it
was at that period hardly possible of conception except by a Greek. Of
marble snowy white, its effect was that of a lily dropped carelessly
upon a great bare rock.
Ben-Hur paused in the shade of the portico to admire its tracery and
finish, and the purity of its marble; then he passed on into the
palace. Ample folding-doors stood open to receive him. The passage into
which he first entered was high, but somewhat narrow; red tiling formed
the floor, and the walls were tinted to correspond. Yet this plainness
was a warning of something beautiful to come.
He moved on slowly, all his faculties in repose. Presently he would be
in the presence of Iras; she was waiting for him; waiting with song and
story and badinage, sparkling, fanciful, capricious—with smiles which
glorified her glance, and glances which lent voluptuous suggestion to
her whisper. She had sent for him the evening of the boat-ride on the
lake in the Orchard of Palms; she had sent for him now; and he was
going to her in the beautiful palace of Idernee. He was happy and
dreamful rather than thoughtless.
The passage brought him to a closed door, in front of which he paused;
and, as he did so, the broad leaves began to open of themselves,
without creak or sound of lock or latch, or touch of foot or finger.
The singularity was lost in the view that broke upon him.
Standing in the shade of the dull passage, and looking through the
doorway, he beheld the atrium of a Roman house, roomy and rich to a
fabulous degree of magnificence.
How large the chamber was cannot be stated, because of the deceit there
is in exact proportions; its depth was vista-like, something never to
be said of an equal interior. When he stopped to make survey, and
looked down upon the floor, he was standing upon the breast of a Leda,
represented as caressing a swan; and, looking farther, he saw the whole
floor was similarly laid in mosaic pictures of mythological subjects.
And there were stools and chairs, each a separate design, and a work of
art exquisitely composed, and tables much carven, and here and there
couches which were invitations of themselves. The articles of
furniture, which stood out from the walls, were duplicated on the floor
distinctly as if they floated unrippled water; even the panelling of
the walls, the figures upon them in painting and bas-relief, and the
fresco of the ceiling were reflected on the floor. The ceiling curved
up towards the centre, where there was an opening through which the
sunlight poured without hindrance, and the sky, ever so blue, seemed in
hand-reach; the impluvium under the opening was guarded by bronzed
rails; the gilded pillars supporting the roof at the edges of the
opening shone like flame where the sun struck them, and their
reflections beneath seemed to stretch to infinite depth. And there were
candelabra quaint and curious, and statuary and vases; the whole making
an interior that would have befitted well the house on the Palatine
Hill which Cicero bought of Crassus, or that other, yet more famous for
extravagance, the Tusculan villa of Scaurus.
Still in his dreamful mood, Ben-Hur sauntered about, charmed by all he
beheld, and waiting. He did not mind a little delay; when Iras was
ready, she would come or send a servant. In every well-regulated Roman
house the atrium was the reception chamber for visitors.
Twice, thrice, he made the round. As often he stood under the opening
in the roof, and pondered the sky and its azure depth; then, leaning
against a pillar, he studied the distribution of light and shade, and
its effects; here a veil diminishing objects, there a brilliance
exaggerating others; yet nobody came. Time, or rather the passage of
time, began at length to impress itself upon him, and he wondered why
Iras stayed so long. Again he traced out the figures upon the floor,
but not with the satisfaction the first inspection gave him. He paused
often to listen: directly impatience blew a little fevered breath upon
his spirit; next time it blew stronger and hotter; and at last he woke
to a consciousness of the silence which held the house in thrall, and
the thought of it made him uneasy and distrustful. Still he put the
feeling off with a smile and a promise. “Oh, she is giving the last
touch to her eyelids, or she is arranging a chaplet for me; she will
come presently, more beautiful of the delay!” He sat down then to
admire a candelabrum—a bronze plinth on rollers, filigree on the sides
and edges; the post at one end, and on the end opposite it an altar and
a female celebrant; the lamp-rests swinging by delicate chains from the
extremities of drooping palm-branches; altogether a wonder in its way.
But the silence would obtrude itself: he listened even as he looked at
the pretty object—he listened, but there was not a sound; the palace
was still as a tomb.
There might be a mistake. No, the messenger had come from the Egyptian,
and this was the palace of Idernee. Then he remembered how mysteriously
the door had opened so soundlessly, so of itself. He would see!
He went to the same door. Though he walked ever so lightly the sound of
his stepping was loud and harsh, and he shrank from it. He was getting
nervous. The cumbrous Roman lock resisted his first effort to raise it;
and the second—the blood chilled in his cheeks—he wrenched with all his
might: in vain—the door was not even shaken. A sense of danger seized
him, and for a moment he stood irresolute.
Who in Antioch had the motive to do him harm?
Messala!
And this palace of Idernee? He had seen Egypt in the vestibule, Athens
in the snowy portico; but here, in the atrium, was Rome; everything
about him betrayed Roman ownership. True, the site was on the great
thoroughfare of the city, a very public place in which to do him
violence; but for that reason it was more accordant with the audacious
genius of his enemy. The atrium underwent a change; with all its
elegance and beauty, it was no more than a trap. Apprehension always
paints in black.
The idea irritated Ben-Hur.
There were many doors on the right and left of the atrium, leading,
doubtless, to sleeping-chambers; he tried them, but they were all
firmly fastened. Knocking might bring response. Ashamed to make outcry,
he betook himself to a couch, and, lying down, tried to reflect.
All too plainly he was a prisoner; but for what purpose? and by whom?
If the work were Messala’s! He sat up, looked about, and smiled
defiantly. There were weapons in every table. But birds had been
starved in golden cages; not so would he—the couches would serve him as
battering-rams; and he was strong, and there was such increase of might
in rage and despair!
Messala himself could not come. He would never walk again; he was a
cripple like Simonides; still he could move others. And where were
there not others to be moved by him? Ben-Hur arose, and tried the doors
again. Once he called out; the room echoed so that he was startled.
With such calmness as he could assume, he made up his mind to wait a
time before attempting to break a way out.
In such a situation the mind has its ebb and flow of disquiet, with
intervals of peace between. At length—how long, though, he could not
have said—he came to the conclusion that the affair was an accident or
mistake. The palace certainly belonged to somebody; it must have care
and keeping: and the keeper would come; the evening or the night would
bring him. Patience!
So concluding, he waited.
Half an hour passed—a much longer period to Ben-Hur—when the door which
had admitted him opened and closed noiselessly as before, and without
attracting his attention.
The moment of the occurrence he was sitting at the farther end of the
room. A footstep startled him.
“At last she has come!” he thought, with a throb of relief and
pleasure, and arose.
The step was heavy, and accompanied with the gride and clang of coarse
sandals. The gilded pillars were between him and the door; he advanced
quietly, and leaned against one of them. Presently he heard voices—the
voices of men—one of them rough and guttural. What was said he could
not understand, as the language was not of the East or South of Europe.
After a general survey of the room, the strangers crossed to their
left, and were brought into Ben-Hur’s view—two men, one very stout,
both tall, and both in short tunics. They had not the air of masters of
the house or domestics. Everything they saw appeared wonderful to them;
everything they stopped to examine they touched. They were vulgarians.
The atrium seemed profaned by their presence. At the same time, their
leisurely manner and the assurance with which they proceeded pointed to
some right or business; if business, with whom?
With much jargon they sauntered this way and that, all the time
gradually approaching the pillar by which Ben-Hur was standing. Off a
little way, where a slanted gleam of the sun fell with a glare upon the
mosaic of the floor, there was a statue which attracted their notice.
In examining it, they stopped in the light.
The mystery surrounding his own presence in the palace tended, as we
have seen, to make Ben-Hur nervous; so now, when in the tall stout
stranger he recognized the Northman whom he had known in Rome, and seen
crowned only the day before in the Circus as the winning pugilist; when
he saw the man’s face, scarred with the wounds of many battles, and
imbruted by ferocious passions; when he surveyed the fellow’s naked
limbs, very marvels of exercise and training, and his shoulders of
Herculean breadth, a thought of personal danger started a chill along
every vein. A sure instinct warned him that the opportunity for murder
was too perfect to have come by chance; and here now were the
myrmidons, and their business was with him. He turned an anxious eye
upon the Northman’s comrade—young, black-eyed, black-haired, and
altogether Jewish in appearance; he observed, also, that both the men
were in costume exactly such as professionals of their class were in
the habit of wearing in the arena. Putting the several circumstances
together, Ben-Hur could not be longer in doubt: he had been lured into
the palace with design. Out of reach of aid, in this splendid privacy,
he was to die!
At a loss what to do, he gazed from man to man, while there was enacted
within him that miracle of mind by which life is passed before us in
awful detail, to be looked at by ourselves as if it were another’s; and
from the evolvement, from a hidden depth, cast up, as it were, by a
hidden hand, he was given to see that he had entered upon a new life,
different from the old one in this: whereas, in that, he had been the
victim of violences done to him, henceforth he was to be the aggressor.
Only yesterday he had found his first victim! To the purely Christian
nature the presentation would have brought the weakness of remorse. Not
so with Ben-Hur; his spirit had its emotions from the teachings of the
first lawgiver, not the last and greatest one. He had dealt punishment,
not wrong, to Messala. By permission of the Lord, he had triumphed; and
he derived faith from the circumstance—faith the source of all rational
strength, especially strength in peril.
Nor did the influence stop there. The new life was made appear to him a
mission just begun, and holy as the King to come was holy, and certain
as the coming of the King was certain—a mission in which force was
lawful if only because it was unavoidable. Should he, on the very
threshold of such an errand, be afraid?
He undid the sash around his waist, and, baring his head and casting
off his white Jewish gown, stood forth in an undertunic not unlike
those of the enemy, and was ready, body and mind. Folding his arms, he
placed his back against the pillar, and calmly waited.
The examination of the statue was brief. Directly the Northman turned,
and said something in the unknown tongue; then both looked at Ben-Hur.
A few more words, and they advanced towards him.
“Who are you?” he asked, in Latin.
The Northman fetched a smile which did not relieve his face of its
brutalism, and answered,
“Barbarians.”
“This is the palace of Idernee. Whom seek you? Stand and answer.”
The words were spoken with earnestness. The strangers stopped; and in
his turn the Northman asked, “Who are you?”
“A Roman.”
The giant laid his head back upon his shoulders.
“Ha, ha, ha! I have heard how a god once came from a cow licking a
salted stone; but not even a god can make a Roman of a Jew.”
The laugh over, he spoke to his companion again, and they moved nearer.
“Hold!” said Ben-Hur, quitting the pillar. “One word.”
They stopped again.
“A word!” replied the Saxon, folding his immense arms across his
breast, and relaxing the menace beginning to blacken his face. “A word!
Speak.”
“You are Thord the Northman.”
The giant opened his blue eyes.
“You were lanista in Rome.”
Thord nodded.
“I was your scholar.”
“No,” said Thord, shaking his head. “By the beard of Irmin, I had never
a Jew to make a fighting-man of.”
“But I will prove my saying.”
“How?”
“You came here to kill me.”
“That is true.”
“Then let this man fight me singly, and I will make the proof on his
body.”
A gleam of humor shone in the Northman’s face. He spoke to his
companion, who made answer; then he replied with the naivete of a
diverted child,
“Wait till I say begin.”
By repeated touches of his foot, he pushed a couch out on the floor,
and proceeded leisurely to stretch his burly form upon it; when
perfectly at ease, he said, simply, “Now begin.”
Without ado, Ben-Hur walked to his antagonist.
“Defend thyself,” he said.
The man, nothing loath, put up his hands.
As the two thus confronted each other in approved position, there was
no discernible inequality between them; on the contrary, they were as
like as brothers. To the stranger’s confident smile, Ben-Hur opposed an
earnestness which, had his skill been known, would have been accepted
fair warning of danger. Both knew the combat was to be mortal.
Ben-Hur feinted with his right hand. The stranger warded, slightly
advancing his left arm. Ere he could return to guard, Ben-Hur caught
him by the wrist in a grip which years at the oar had made terrible as
a vise. The surprise was complete, and no time given. To throw himself
forward; to push the arm across the man’s throat and over his right
shoulder, and turn him left side front; to strike surely with the ready
left hand; to strike the bare neck under the ear—were but petty
divisions of the same act. No need of a second blow. The myrmidon fell
heavily, and without a cry, and lay still.
Ben-Hur turned to Thord.
“Ha! What! By the beard of Irmin!” the latter cried, in astonishment,
rising to a sitting posture. Then he laughed.
“Ha, ha, ha! I could not have done it better myself.”
He viewed Ben-Hur coolly from head to foot, and, rising, faced him with
undisguised admiration.
“It was my trick—the trick I have practised for ten years in the
schools of Rome. You are not a Jew. Who are you?”
“You knew Arrius the duumvir.”
“Quintus Arrius? Yes, he was my patron.”
“He had a son.”
“Yes,” said Thord, his battered features lighting dully, “I knew the
boy; he would have made a king gladiator. Cæsar offered him his
patronage. I taught him the very trick you played on this one here—a
trick impossible except to a hand and arm like mine. It has won me many
a crown.”
“I am that son of Arrius.”
Thord drew nearer, and viewed him carefully; then his eyes brightened
with genuine pleasure, and, laughing, he held out his hand.
“Ha, ha, ha! He told me I would find a Jew here—a Jew—a dog of a
Jew—killing whom was serving the gods.”
“Who told you so?” asked Ben-Hur, taking the hand.
“He—Messala—ha, ha, ha!”
“When, Thord?”
“Last night.”
“I thought he was hurt.”
“He will never walk again. On his bed he told me between groans.”