Ben-Hur: A tale of the Christ
movements with those of his associates, the principle being that of
soldiers marching with cadenced step in close order. The arrangement
also allowed a multiplication of banks, limited only by the length of
the galley.
As to the rowers, those upon the first and second benches sat, while
those upon the third, having longer oars to work, were suffered to
stand. The oars were loaded with lead in the handles, and near the
point of balance hung to pliable thongs, making possible the delicate
touch called feathering, but, at the same time, increasing the need of
skill, since an eccentric wave might at any moment catch a heedless
fellow and hurl him from his seat. Each oar-hole was a vent through
which the laborer opposite it had his plenty of sweet air. Light
streamed down upon him from the grating which formed the floor of the
passage between the deck and the bulwark over his head. In some
respects, therefore, the condition of the men might have been much
worse. Still, it must not be imagined that there was any pleasantness
in their lives. Communication between them was not allowed. Day after
day they filled their places without speech; in hours of labor they
could not see each other’s faces; their short respites were given to
sleep and the snatching of food. They never laughed; no one ever heard
one of them sing. What is the use of tongues when a sigh or a groan
will tell all men feel while, perforce, they think in silence?
Existence with the poor wretches was like a stream under ground
sweeping slowly, laboriously on to its outlet, wherever that might
chance to be.
O Son of Mary! The sword has now a heart—and thine the glory! So now;
but, in the days of which we are writing, for captivity there was
drudgery on walls, and in the streets and mines, and the galleys both
of war and commerce were insatiable. When Druilius won the first
sea-fight for his country, Romans plied the oars, and the glory was to
the rower not less than the marine. These benches which now we are
trying to see as they were testified to the change come with conquest,
and illustrated both the policy and the prowess of Rome. Nearly all the
nations had sons there, mostly prisoners of war, chosen for their brawn
and endurance. In one place a Briton; before him a Libyan; behind him a
Crimean. Elsewhere a Scythian, a Gaul, and a Thebasite. Roman convicts
cast down to consort with Goths and Longobardi, Jews, Ethiopians, and
barbarians from the shores of Maeotis. Here an Athenian, there a
red-haired savage from Hibernia, yonder blue-eyed giants of the Cimbri.
In the labor of the rowers there was not enough art to give occupation
to their minds, rude and simple as they were. The reach forward, the
pull, the feathering the blade, the dip, were all there was of it;
motions most perfect when most automatic. Even the care forced upon
them by the sea outside grew in time to be a thing instinctive rather
than of thought. So, as the result of long service, the poor wretches
became imbruted—patient, spiritless, obedient—creatures of vast muscle
and exhausted intellects, who lived upon recollections generally few
but dear, and at last lowered into the semi-conscious alchemic state
wherein misery turns to habit, and the soul takes on incredible
endurance.
From right to left, hour after hour, the tribune, swaying in his
easy-chair, turned with thought of everything rather than the
wretchedness of the slaves upon the benches. Their motions, precise,
and exactly the same on both sides of the vessel, after a while became
monotonous; and then he amused himself singling out individuals. With
his stylus he made note of objections, thinking, if all went well, he
would find among the pirates of whom he was in search better men for
the places.
There was no need of keeping the proper names of the slaves brought to
the galleys as to their graves; so, for convenience, they were usually
identified by the numerals painted upon the benches to which they were
assigned. As the sharp eyes of the great man moved from seat to seat on
either hand, they came at last to number sixty, which, as has been
said, belonged properly to the last bank on the left-hand side, but,
wanting room aft, had been fixed above the first bench of the first
bank. There they rested.
The bench of number sixty was slightly above the level of the platform,
and but a few feet away. The light glinting through the grating over
his head gave the rower fairly to the tribune’s view—erect, and, like
all his fellows, naked, except a cincture about the loins. There were,
however, some points in his favor. He was very young, not more than
twenty. Furthermore, Arrius was not merely given to dice; he was a
connoisseur of men physically, and when ashore indulged a habit of
visiting the gymnasia to see and admire the most famous athletae. From
some professor, doubtless, he had caught the idea that strength was as
much of the quality as the quantity of the muscle, while superiority in
performance required a certain mind as well as strength. Having adopted
the doctrine, like most men with a hobby, he was always looking for
illustrations to support it.
The reader may well believe that while the tribune, in the search for
the perfect, was often called upon to stop and study, he was seldom
perfectly satisfied—in fact, very seldom held as long as on this
occasion.
In the beginning of each movement of the oar, the rower’s body and face
were brought into profile view from the platform; the movement ended
with the body reversed, and in a pushing posture. The grace and ease of
the action at first suggested a doubt of the honesty of the effort put
forth; but it was speedily dismissed; the firmness with which the oar
was held while in the reach forward, its bending under the push, were
proofs of the force applied; not that only, they as certainly proved
the rower’s art, and put the critic in the great arm-chair in search of
the combination of strength and cleverness which was the central idea
of his theory.
In course of the study, Arrius observed the subject’s youth; wholly
unconscious of tenderness on that account, he also observed that he
seemed of good height, and that his limbs, upper and nether, were
singularly perfect. The arms, perhaps, were too long, but the objection
was well hidden under a mass of muscle, which, in some movements,
swelled and knotted like kinking cords. Every rib in the round body was
discernible; yet the leanness was the healthful reduction so strained
after in the palaestrae. And altogether there was in the rower’s action
a certain harmony which, besides addressing itself to the tribune’s
theory, stimulated both his curiosity and general interest.
Very soon he found himself waiting to catch a view of the man’s face in
full. The head was shapely, and balanced upon a neck broad at the base,
but of exceeding pliancy and grace. The features in profile were of
Oriental outline, and of that delicacy of expression which has always
been thought a sign of blood and sensitive spirit. With these
observations, the tribune’s interest in the subject deepened.
“By the gods,” he said to himself, “the fellow impresses me! He
promises well. I will know more of him.”
Directly the tribune caught the view he wished—the rower turned and
looked at him.
“A Jew! and a boy!”
Under the gaze then fixed steadily upon him, the large eyes of the
slave grew larger—the blood surged to his very brows—the blade lingered
in his hands. But instantly, with an angry crash, down fell the gavel
of the hortator. The rower started, withdrew his face from the
inquisitor, and, as if personally chidden, dropped the oar half
feathered. When he glanced again at the tribune, he was vastly more
astonished—he was met with a kindly smile.
Meantime the galley entered the Straits of Messina, and, skimming past
the city of that name, was after a while turned eastward, leaving the
cloud over Ætna in the sky astern.
Often as Arrius resumed to his platform in the cabin he returned to
study the rower, and he kept saying to himself, “The fellow hath a
spirit. A Jew is not a barbarian. I will know more of him.”
CHAPTER III
The fourth day out, and the Astroea—so the galley was named—speeding
through the Ionian Sea. The sky was clear, and the wind blew as if
bearing the good-will of all the gods.
As it was possible to overtake the fleet before reaching the bay east
of the island of Cythera, designated for assemblage, Arrius, somewhat
impatient, spent much time on deck. He took note diligently of matters
pertaining to his ship, and as a rule was well pleased. In the cabin,
swinging in the great chair, his thought continually reverted to the
rower on number sixty.
“Knowest thou the man just come from yon bench?” he at length asked of
the hortator.
A relief was going on at the moment.
“From number sixty?” returned the chief.
“Yes.”
The chief looked sharply at the rower then going forward.
“As thou knowest,” he replied “the ship is but a month from the maker’s
hand, and the men are as new to me as the ship.”
“He is a Jew,” Arrius remarked, thoughtfully.
“The noble Quintus is shrewd.”
“He is very young,” Arrius continued.
“But our best rower,” said the other. “I have seen his oar bend almost
to breaking.”
“Of what disposition is he?”
“He is obedient; further I know not. Once he made request of me.”
“For what?”
“He wished me to change him alternately from the right to the left.”
“Did he give a reason?”
“He had observed that the men who are confined to one side become
misshapen. He also said that some day of storm or battle there might be
sudden need to change him, and he might then be unserviceable.”
“Perpol! The idea is new. What else hast thou observed of him?”
“He is cleanly above his companions.”
“In that he is Roman,” said Arrius, approvingly. “Have you nothing of
his history?”
“Not a word.”
The tribune reflected awhile, and turned to go to his own seat.
“If I should be on deck when his time is up,” he paused to say, “send
him to me. Let him come alone.”
About two hours later Arrius stood under the aplustre of the galley; in
the mood of one who, seeing himself carried swiftly towards an event of
mighty import, has nothing to do but wait—the mood in which philosophy
vests an even-minded man with the utmost calm, and is ever so
serviceable. The pilot sat with a hand upon the rope by which the
rudder paddles, one on each side of the vessel, were managed. In the
shade of the sail some sailors lay asleep, and up on the yard there was
a lookout. Lifting his eyes from the solarium set under the aplustre
for reference in keeping the course, Arrius beheld the rower
approaching.
“The chief called thee the noble Arrius, and said it was thy will that
I should seek thee here. I have come.”
Arrius surveyed the figure, tall, sinewy, glistening in the sun, and
tinted by the rich red blood within—surveyed it admiringly, and with a
thought of the arena; yet the manner was not without effect upon him:
there was in the voice a suggestion of life at least partly spent under
refining influences; the eyes were clear and open, and more curious
than defiant. To the shrewd, demanding, masterful glance bent upon it,
the face gave back nothing to mar its youthful comeliness—nothing of
accusation or sullenness or menace, only the signs which a great sorrow
long borne imprints, as time mellows the surface of pictures. In tacit
acknowledgment of the effect, the Roman spoke as an older man to a
younger, not as a master to a slave.
“The hortator tells me thou art his best rower.”
“The hortator is very kind,” the rower answered.
“Hast thou seen much service?”
“About three years.”
“At the oars?”
“I cannot recall a day of rest from them.”