Ben-Hur: A tale of the Christ
their demeanor was grave, dignified, even patriarchal. In brief, their
session was that of the Sanhedrim.
He who sat before the tripod, however, in the place which may be called
the head of the divan, having all the rest of his associates on his
right and left, and, at the same time, before him, evidently president
of the meeting, would have instantly absorbed the attention of a
spectator. He had been cast in large mould, but was now shrunken and
stooped to ghastliness; his white robe dropped from his shoulders in
folds that gave no hint of muscle or anything but an angular skeleton.
His hands, half concealed by sleeves of silk, white and crimson
striped, were clasped upon his knees. When he spoke, sometimes the
first finger of the right hand extended tremulously; he seemed
incapable of other gesture. But his head was a splendid dome. A few
hairs, whiter than fine-drawn silver, fringed the base; over a broad,
full-sphered skull the skin was drawn close, and shone in the light
with positive brilliance; the temples were deep hollows, from which the
forehead beetled like a wrinkled crag; the eyes were wan and dim; the
nose was pinched; and all the lower face was muffed in a beard flowing
and venerable as Aaron’s. Such was Hillel the Babylonian! The line of
prophets, long extinct in Israel, was now succeeded by a line of
scholars, of whom he was first in learning—a prophet in all but the
divine inspiration! At the age of one hundred and six, he was still
Rector of the Great College.
On the table before him lay outspread a roll or volume of parchment
inscribed with Hebrew characters; behind him, in waiting, stood a page
richly habited.
There had been discussion, but at this moment of introduction the
company had reached a conclusion; each one was in an attitude of rest,
and the venerable Hillel, without moving, called the page.
“Hist!”
The youth advanced respectfully.
“Go tell the king we are ready to give him answer.”
The boy hurried away.
After a time two officers entered and stopped, one on each side the
door; after them slowly followed a most striking personage—an old man
clad in a purple robe bordered with scarlet, and girt to his waist by a
band of gold linked so fine that it was pliable as leather; the
latchets of his shoes sparkled with precious stones; a narrow crown
wrought in filigree shone outside a tarbooshe of softest crimson plush,
which, encasing his head, fell down the neck and shoulders, leaving the
throat and neck exposed. Instead of a seal, a dagger dangled from his
belt. He walked with a halting step, leaning heavily upon a staff. Not
until he reached the opening of the divan, did he pause or look up from
the floor; then, as for the first time conscious of the company, and
roused by their presence, he raised himself, and looked haughtily
round, like one startled and searching for an enemy—so dark,
suspicious, and threatening was the glance. Such was Herod the Great—a
body broken by diseases, a conscience seared with crimes, a mind
magnificently capable, a soul fit for brotherhood with the Cæsars; now
seven-and-sixty years old, but guarding his throne with a jealousy
never so vigilant, a power never so despotic, and a cruelty never so
inexorable.
There was a general movement on the part of the assemblage—a bending
forward in salaam by the more aged, a rising-up by the more courtierly,
followed by low genuflections, hands upon the beard or breast.
His observations taken, Herod moved on until at the tripod opposite the
venerable Hillel, who met his cold glance with an inclination of the
head, and a slight lifting of the hands.
“The answer!” said the king, with imperious simplicity, addressing
Hillel, and planting his staff before him with both hands. “The
answer!”
The eyes of the patriarch glowed mildly, and, raising his head, and
looking the inquisitor full in the face, he answered, his associates
giving him closest attention,
“With thee, O king, be the peace of God, of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob!”
His manner was that of invocation; changing it, he resumed:
“Thou hast demanded of us where the Christ should be born.”
The king bowed, though the evil eyes remained fixed upon the sage’s
face.
“That is the question.”
“Then, O king, speaking for myself, and all my brethren here, not one
dissenting, I say, in Bethlehem of Judea.”
Hillel glanced at the parchment on the tripod; and, pointing with his
tremulous finger, continued, “In Bethlehem of Judea, for thus it is
written by the prophet, ‘And thou, Bethlehem, in the land of Judea, art
not the least among the princes of Judah; for out of thee shall come a
governor that shall rule my people Israel.’”
Herod’s face was troubled, and his eyes fell upon the parchment while
he thought. Those beholding him scarcely breathed; they spoke not, nor
did he. At length he turned about and left the chamber.
“Brethren,” said Hillel, “we are dismissed.”
The company then arose, and in groups departed.
“Simeon,” said Hillel again.
A man, quite fifty years old, but in the hearty prime of life, answered
and came to him.
“Take up the sacred parchment, my son; roll it tenderly.”
The order was obeyed.
“Now lend me thy arm; I will to the litter.”
The strong man stooped; with his withered hands the old one took the
offered support, and, rising, moved feebly to the door.
So departed the famous Rector, and Simeon, his son, who was to be his
successor in wisdom, learning, and office.
Yet later in the evening the wise men were lying in a lewen of the khan
awake. The stones which served them as pillows raised their heads so
they could look out of the open arch into the depths of the sky; and as
they watched the twinkling of the stars, they thought of the next
manifestation. How would it come? What would it be? They were in
Jerusalem at last; they had asked at the gate for Him they sought; they
had borne witness of his birth; it remained only to find him; and as to
that, they placed all trust in the Spirit. Men listening for the voice
of God, or waiting a sign from Heaven, cannot sleep.
While they were in this condition, a man stepped in under the arch,
darkening the lewen.
“Awake!” he said to them; “I bring you a message which will not be put
off.”
They all sat up.
“From whom?” asked the Egyptian.
“Herod the king.”
Each one felt his spirit thrill.
“Are you not the steward of the khan?” Balthasar asked next.
“I am.”
“What would the king with us?”
“His messenger is without; let him answer.”
“Tell him, then, to abide our coming.”
“You were right, O my brother!” said the Greek, when the steward was
gone. “The question put to the people on the road, and to the guard at
the gate, has given us quick notoriety. I am impatient; let us up
quickly.”
They arose, put on their sandals, girt their mantles about them, and
went out.
“I salute you, and give you peace, and pray your pardon; but my master,
the king, has sent me to invite you to the palace, where he would have
speech with you privately.”
Thus the messenger discharged his duty.
A lamp hung in the entrance, and by its light they looked at each
other, and knew the Spirit was upon them. Then the Egyptian stepped to
the steward, and said, so as not to be heard by the others, “You know
where our goods are stored in the court, and where our camels are
resting. While we are gone, make all things ready for our departure, if
it should be needful.”
“Go your way assured; trust me,” the steward replied.
“The king’s will is our will,” said Balthasar to the messenger. “We
will follow you.”
The streets of the Holy City were narrow then as now, but not so rough
and foul; for the great builder, not content with beauty, enforced
cleanliness and convenience also. Following their guide, the brethren
proceeded without a word. Through the dim starlight, made dimmer by the
walls on both sides, sometimes almost lost under bridges connecting the
house-tops, out of a low ground they ascended a hill. At last they came
to a portal reared across the way. In the light of fires blazing before
it in two great braziers, they caught a glimpse of the structure, and
also of some guards leaning motionlessly upon their arms. They passed
into a building unchallenged. Then by passages and arched halls;
through courts, and under colonnades not always lighted; up long
flights of stairs, past innumerable cloisters and chambers, they were
conducted into a tower of great height. Suddenly the guide halted, and,
pointing through an open door, said to them,
“Enter. The king is there.”
The air of the chamber was heavy with the perfume of sandal-wood, and
all the appointments within were effeminately rich. Upon the floor,
covering the central space, a tufted rug was spread, and upon that a
throne was set. The visitors had but time, however, to catch a confused
idea of the place—of carved and gilt ottomans and couches; of fans and
jars and musical instruments; of golden candlesticks glittering in
their own lights; of walls painted in the style of the voluptuous
Grecian school, one look at which had made a Pharisee hide his head
with holy horror. Herod, sitting upon the throne to receive them, clad
as when at the conference with the doctors and lawyers, claimed all
their minds.
At the edge of the rug, to which they advanced uninvited, they
prostrated themselves. The king touched a bell. An attendant came in,
and placed three stools before the throne.
“Seat yourselves,” said the monarch, graciously.
“From the North Gate,” he continued, when they were at rest, “I had
this afternoon report of the arrival of three strangers, curiously
mounted, and appearing as if from far countries. Are you the men?”
The Egyptian took the sign from the Greek and the Hindoo, and answered,
with the profoundest salaam, “Were we other than we are, the mighty
Herod, whose fame is as incense to the whole world, would not have sent
for us. We may not doubt that we are the strangers.”
Herod acknowledged the speech with a wave of the hand.
“Who are you? Whence do you come?” he asked, adding significantly, “Let
each speak for himself.”
In turn they gave him account, referring simply to the cities and lands
of their birth, and the routes by which they came to Jerusalem.
Somewhat disappointed, Herod plied them more directly.
“What was the question you put to the officer at the gate?”
“We asked him, Where is he that is born King of the Jews.”
“I see now why the people were so curious. You excite me no less. Is
there another King of the Jews?”
The Egyptian did not blanch.
“There is one newly born.”
An expression of pain knit the dark face of the monarch, as if his mind
were swept by a harrowing recollection.
“Not to me, not to me!” he exclaimed.
Possibly the accusing images of his murdered children flitted before
him; recovering from the emotion, whatever it was, he asked, steadily,
“Where is the new king?”
“That, O king, is what we would ask.”
“You bring me a wonder—a riddle surpassing any of Solomon’s,” the
inquisitor said next. “As you see, I am in the time of life when
curiosity is as ungovernable as it was in childhood, when to trifle
with it is cruelty. Tell me further, and I will honor you as kings
honor each other. Give me all you know about the newly born, and I will
join you in the search for him; and when we have found him, I will do
what you wish; I will bring him to Jerusalem, and train him in
kingcraft; I will use my grace with Cæsar for his promotion and glory.
Jealousy shall not come between us, so I swear. But tell me first how,
so widely separated by seas and deserts, you all came to hear of him.”
“I will tell you truly, O king.”
“Speak on,” said Herod.
Balthasar raised himself erect, and said, solemnly,