Ben-Hur: A tale of the Christ
The look with which he watched her was that of an enthusiast. At length
he tossed the loosened folds of his toga in the air; in reply to the
signal, over the aplustre, or fan-like fixture at the stern of the
vessel, a scarlet flag was displayed; while several sailors appeared
upon the bulwarks, and swung themselves hand over hand up the ropes to
the antenna, or yard, and furled the sail. The bow was put round, and
the time of the oars increased one half; so that at racing speed she
bore down directly towards him and his friends. He observed the
manoeuvring with a perceptible brightening of the eyes. Her instant
answer to the rudder, and the steadiness with which she kept her
course, were especially noticeable as virtues to be relied upon in
action.
“By the Nymphae!” said one of the friends, giving back the roll, “we
may not longer say our friend will be great; he is already great. Our
love will now have famous things to feed upon. What more hast thou for
us?”
“Nothing more,” Arrius replied. “What ye have of the affair is by this
time old news in Rome, especially between the palace and the Forum. The
duumvir is discreet; what I am to do, where go to find my fleet, he
will tell on the ship, where a sealed package is waiting me. If,
however, ye have offerings for any of the altars to-day, pray the gods
for a friend plying oar and sail somewhere in the direction of Sicily.
But she is here, and will come to,” he said, reverting to the vessel.
“I have interest in her masters; they will sail and fight with me. It
is not an easy thing to lay ship side on a shore like this; so let us
judge their training and skill.”
“What, is she new to thee?”
“I never saw her before; and, as yet, I know not if she will bring me
one acquaintance.”
“Is that well?”
“It matters but little. We of the sea come to know each other quickly;
our loves, like our hates, are born of sudden dangers.”
The vessel was of the class called naves liburnicae—long, narrow, low
in the water, and modelled for speed and quick manoeuvre. The bow was
beautiful. A jet of water spun from its foot as she came on, sprinkling
all the prow, which rose in graceful curvature twice a man’s stature
above the plane of the deck. Upon the bending of the sides were figures
of Triton blowing shells. Below the bow, fixed to the keel, and
projecting forward under the water-line, was the rostrum, or beak, a
device of solid wood, reinforced and armed with iron, in action used as
a ram. A stout molding extended from the bow the full length of the
ship’s sides, defining the bulwarks, which were tastefully crenelated;
below the molding, in three rows, each covered with a cap or shield of
bull-hide, were the holes in which the oars were worked—sixty on the
right, sixty on the left. In further ornamentation, caducei leaned
against the lofty prow. Two immense ropes passing across the bow marked
the number of anchors stowed on the foredeck.
The simplicity of the upper works declared the oars the chief
dependence of the crew. A mast, set a little forward of midship, was
held by fore and back stays and shrouds fixed to rings on the inner
side of the bulwarks. The tackle was that required for the management
of one great square sail and the yard to which it was hung. Above the
bulwarks the deck was visible.
Save the sailors who had reefed the sail, and yet lingered on the yard,
but one man was to be seen by the party on the mole, and he stood by
the prow helmeted and with a shield.
The hundred and twenty oaken blades, kept white and shining by pumice
and the constant wash of the waves, rose and fell as if operated by the
same hand, and drove the galley forward with a speed rivalling that of
a modern steamer.
So rapidly, and apparently, so rashly, did she come that the landsmen
of the tribune’s party were alarmed. Suddenly the man by the prow
raised his hand with a peculiar gesture; whereupon all the oars flew
up, poised a moment in air, then fell straight down. The water boiled
and bubbled about them; the galley shook in every timber, and stopped
as if scared. Another gesture of the hand, and again the oars arose,
feathered, and fell; but this time those on the right, dropping towards
the stern, pushed forward; while those on the left, dropping towards
the bow, pulled backwards. Three times the oars thus pushed and pulled
against each other. Round to the right the ship swung as upon a pivot;
then, caught by the wind, she settled gently broadside to the mole.
The movement brought the stern to view, with all its garniture—Tritons
like those at the bow; name in large raised letters; the rudder at the
side; the elevated platform upon which the helmsman sat, a stately
figure in full armor, his hand upon the rudder-rope; and the aplustre,
high, gilt, carved, and bent over the helmsman like a great runcinate
leaf.
In the midst of the rounding-to, a trumpet was blown brief and shrill,
and from the hatchways out poured the marines, all in superb equipment,
brazen helms, burnished shields and javelins. While the fighting-men
thus went to quarters as for action, the sailors proper climbed the
shrouds and perched themselves along the yard. The officers and
musicians took their posts. There was no shouting or needless noise.
When the oars touched the mole, a bridge was sent out from the
helmsman’s deck. Then the tribune turned to his party and said, with a
gravity he had not before shown:
“Duty now, O my friends.”
He took the chaplet from his head and gave it to the dice-player.
“Take thou the myrtle, O favorite of the tesserae!” he said. “If I
return, I will seek my sestertii again; if I am not victor, I will not
return. Hang the crown in thy atrium.”
To the company he opened his arms, and they came one by one and
received his parting embrace.
“The gods go with thee, O Quintus!” they said.
“Farewell,” he replied.
To the slaves waving their torches he waved his hand; then he turned to
the waiting ship, beautiful with ordered ranks and crested helms, and
shields and javelins. As he stepped upon the bridge, the trumpets
sounded, and over the aplustre rose the vexillum purpureum, or pennant
of a commander of a fleet.
CHAPTER II
The tribune, standing upon the helmsman’s deck with the order of the
duumvir open in his hand, spoke to the chief of the rowers.[1]
[1] Called hortator.
“What force hast thou?”
“Of oarsmen, two hundred and fifty-two; ten supernumeraries.
“Making reliefs of—”
“Eighty-four.”
“And thy habit?”
“It has been to take off and put on every two hours.”
The tribune mused a moment.
“The division is hard, and I will reform it, but not now. The oars may
not rest day or night.”
Then to the sailing-master he said,
“The wind is fair. Let the sail help the oars.”
When the two thus addressed were gone, he turned to the chief pilot.[2]
[2] Called rector.
“What service hast thou had?”
“Two-and-thirty years.”
“In what seas chiefly?”
“Between our Rome and the East.”
“Thou art the man I would have chosen.”
The tribune looked at his orders again.
“Past the Camponellan cape, the course will be to Messina. Beyond that,
follow the bend of the Calabrian shore till Melito is on thy left,
then— Knowest thou the stars that govern in the Ionian Sea?”
“I know them well.”
“Then from Melito course eastward for Cythera. The gods willing, I will
not anchor until in the Bay of Antemona. The duty is urgent. I rely
upon thee.”
A prudent man was Arrius—prudent, and of the class which, while
enriching the altars at Praeneste and Antium, was of opinion,
nevertheless, that the favor of the blind goddess depended more upon
the votary’s care and judgment than upon his gifts and vows. All night
as master of the feast he had sat at table drinking and playing; yet
the odor of the sea returned him to the mood of the sailor, and he
would not rest until he knew his ship. Knowledge leaves no room for
chances. Having begun with the chief of the rowers, the sailing-master,
and the pilot, in company with the other officers—the commander of the
marines, the keeper of the stores, the master of the machines, the
overseer of the kitchen or fires—he passed through the several
quarters. Nothing escaped his inspection. When he was through, of the
community crowded within the narrow walls he alone knew perfectly all
there was of material preparation for the voyage and its possible
incidents; and, finding the preparation complete, there was left him
but one thing further—thorough knowledge of the personnel of his
command. As this was the most delicate and difficult part of his task,
requiring much time, he set about it his own way.
At noon that day the galley was skimming the sea off Paestum. The wind
was yet from the west, filling the sail to the master’s content. The
watches had been established. On the foredeck the altar had been set
and sprinkled with salt and barley, and before it the tribune had
offered solemn prayers to Jove and to Neptune and all the Oceanidæ,
and, with vows, poured the wine and burned the incense. And now, the
better to study his men, he was seated in the great cabin, a very
martial figure.
The cabin, it should be stated, was the central compartment of the
galley, in extent quite sixty-five by thirty feet, and lighted by three
broad hatchways. A row of stanchions ran from end to end, supporting
the roof, and near the centre the mast was visible, all bristling with
axes and spears and javelins. To each hatchway there were double stairs
descending right and left, with a pivotal arrangement at the top to
allow the lower ends to be hitched to the ceiling; and, as these were
now raised, the compartment had the appearance of a skylighted hall.
The reader will understand readily that this was the heart of the ship,
the home of all aboard—eating-room, sleeping-chamber, field of
exercise, lounging-place off duty—uses made possible by the laws which
reduced life there to minute details and a routine relentless as death.
At the after-end of the cabin there was a platform, reached by several
steps. Upon it the chief of the rowers sat; in front of him a
sounding-table, upon which, with a gavel, he beat time for the oarsmen;
at his right a clepsydra, or water-clock, to measure the reliefs and
watches. Above him, on a higher platform, well guarded by gilded
railing, the tribune had his quarters, overlooking everything, and
furnished with a couch, a table, and a cathedra, or chair, cushioned,
and with arms and high back—articles which the imperial dispensation
permitted of the utmost elegance.
Thus at ease, lounging in the great chair, swaying with the motion of
the vessel, the military cloak half draping his tunic, sword in belt,
Arrius kept watchful eye over his command, and was as closely watched
by them. He saw critically everything in view, but dwelt longest upon
the rowers. The reader would doubtless have done the same: only he
would have looked with much sympathy, while, as is the habit with
masters, the tribune’s mind ran forward of what he saw, inquiring for
results.
The spectacle was simple enough of itself. Along the sides of the
cabin, fixed to the ship’s timbers, were what at first appeared to be
three rows of benches; a closer view, however, showed them a succession
of rising banks, in each of which the second bench was behind and above
the first one, and the third above and behind the second. To
accommodate the sixty rowers on a side, the space devoted to them
permitted nineteen banks separated by intervals of one yard, with a
twentieth bank divided so that what would have been its upper seat or
bench was directly above the lower seat of the first bank. The
arrangement gave each rower when at work ample room, if he timed his