Ben-Hur: A tale of the Christ
agitation, at one place inky-black, at another aflame with fiery
reflections. With their struggles he had nothing to do; they were all
his enemies: not one of them but would kill him for the plank upon
which he floated. He made haste to get away.
About that time he heard oars in quickest movement, and beheld a galley
coming down upon him. The tall prow seemed doubly tall, and the red
light playing upon its gilt and carving gave it an appearance of snaky
life. Under its foot the water churned to flying foam.
He struck out, pushing the plank, which was very broad and
unmanageable. Seconds were precious—half a second might save or lose
him. In the crisis of the effort, up from the sea, within arm’s reach,
a helmet shot like a gleam of gold. Next came two hands with fingers
extended—large hands were they, and strong—their hold once fixed, might
not be loosed. Ben-Hur swerved from them appalled. Up rose the helmet
and the head it encased—then two arms, which began to beat the water
wildly—the head turned back, and gave the face to the light. The mouth
gaping wide; the eyes open, but sightless, and the bloodless pallor of
a drowning man—never anything more ghastly! Yet he gave a cry of joy at
the sight, and as the face was going under again, he caught the
sufferer by the chain which passed from the helmet beneath the chin,
and drew him to the plank.
The man was Arrius, the tribune.
For a while the water foamed and eddied violently about Ben-Hur, taxing
all his strength to hold to the support and at the same time keep the
Roman’s head above the surface. The galley had passed, leaving the two
barely outside the stroke of its oars. Right through the floating men,
over heads helmeted as well as heads bare, she drove, in her wake
nothing but the sea sparkling with fire. A muffled crash, succeeded by
a great outcry, made the rescuer look again from his charge. A certain
savage pleasure touched his heart—the Astroea was avenged.
After that the battle moved on. Resistance turned to flight. But who
were the victors? Ben-Hur was sensible how much his freedom and the
life of the tribune depended upon that event. He pushed the plank under
the latter until it floated him, after which all his care was to keep
him there. The dawn came slowly. He watched its growing hopefully, yet
sometimes afraid. Would it bring the Romans or the pirates? If the
pirates, his charge was lost.
At last morning broke in full, the air without a breath. Off to the
left he saw the land, too far to think of attempting to make it. Here
and there men were adrift like himself. In spots the sea was blackened
by charred and sometimes smoking fragments. A galley up a long way was
lying to with a torn sail hanging from the tilted yard, and the oars
all idle. Still farther away he could discern moving specks, which he
thought might be ships in flight or pursuit, or they might be white
birds a-wing.
An hour passed thus. His anxiety increased. If relief came not
speedily, Arrius would die. Sometimes he seemed already dead, he lay so
still. He took the helmet off, and then, with greater difficulty, the
cuirass; the heart he found fluttering. He took hope at the sign, and
held on. There was nothing to do but wait, and, after the manner of his
people, pray.
CHAPTER VI
The throes of recovery from drowning are more painful than the
drowning. These Arrius passed through, and, at length, to Ben-Hur’s
delight, reached the point of speech.
Gradually, from incoherent questions as to where he was, and by whom
and how he had been saved, he reverted to the battle. The doubt of the
victory stimulated his faculties to full return, a result aided not a
little by a long rest—such as could be had on their frail support.
After a while he became talkative.
“Our rescue, I see, depends upon the result of the fight. I see also
what thou hast done for me. To speak fairly, thou hast saved my life at
the risk of thy own. I make the acknowledgment broadly; and, whatever
cometh, thou hast my thanks. More than that, if fortune doth but serve
me kindly, and we get well out of this peril, I will do thee such favor
as becometh a Roman who hath power and opportunity to prove his
gratitude. Yet, yet it is to be seen if, with thy good intent, thou
hast really done me a kindness; or, rather, speaking to thy
good-will”—he hesitated—“I would exact of thee a promise to do me, in a
certain event, the greatest favor one man can do another—and of that
let me have thy pledge now.”
“If the thing be not forbidden, I will do it,” Ben-Hur replied.
Arrius rested again.
“Art thou, indeed, a son of Hur, the Jew?” he next asked.
“It is as I have said.”
“I knew thy father—”
Judah drew himself nearer, for the tribune’s voice was weak—he drew
nearer, and listened eagerly—at last he thought to hear of home.
“I knew him, and loved him,” Arrius continued.
There was another pause, during which something diverted the speaker’s
thought.
“It cannot be,” he proceeded, “that thou, a son of his, hast not heard
of Cato and Brutus. They were very great men, and never as great as in
death. In their dying, they left this law—A Roman may not survive his
good-fortune. Art thou listening?”
“I hear.”
“It is a custom of gentlemen in Rome to wear a ring. There is one on my
hand. Take it now.”
He held the hand to Judah, who did as he asked.
“Now put it on thine own hand.”
Ben-Hur did so.
“The trinket hath its uses,” said Arrius next. “I have property and
money. I am accounted rich even in Rome. I have no family. Show the
ring to my freedman, who hath control in my absence; you will find him
in a villa near Misenum. Tell him how it came to thee, and ask
anything, or all he may have; he will not refuse the demand. If I live,
I will do better by thee. I will make thee free, and restore thee to
thy home and people; or thou mayst give thyself to the pursuit that
pleaseth thee most. Dost thou hear?”
“I could not choose but hear.”
“Then pledge me. By the gods—”
“Nay, good tribune, I am a Jew.”
“By thy God, then, or in the form most sacred to those of thy
faith—pledge me to do what I tell thee now, and as I tell thee; I am
waiting, let me have thy promise.”
“Noble Arrius, I am warned by thy manner to expect something of gravest
concern. Tell me thy wish first.”
“Wilt thou promise then?”
“That were to give the pledge, and— Blessed be the God of my fathers!
yonder cometh a ship!”
“In what direction?”
“From the north.”
“Canst thou tell her nationality by outward signs?”
“No. My service hath been at the oars.”
“Hath she a flag?”
“I cannot see one.”
Arrius remained quiet some time, apparently in deep reflection.
“Does the ship hold this way yet?” he at length asked.
“Still this way.”
“Look for the flag now.”
“She hath none.”
“Nor any other sign?”
“She hath a sail set, and is of three banks, and cometh swiftly—that is
all I can say of her.”
“A Roman in triumph would have out many flags. She must be an enemy.
Hear now,” said Arrius, becoming grave again, “hear, while yet I may
speak. If the galley be a pirate, thy life is safe; they may not give
thee freedom; they may put thee to the oar again; but they will not
kill thee. On the other hand, I—”
The tribune faltered.
“Perpol!” he continued, resolutely. “I am too old to submit to
dishonor. In Rome, let them tell how Quintus Arrius, as became a Roman
tribune, went down with his ship in the midst of the foe. This is what
I would have thee do. If the galley prove a pirate, push me from the
plank and drown me. Dost thou hear? Swear thou wilt do it.”
“I will not swear,” said Ben-Hur, firmly; “neither will I do the deed.
The Law, which is to me most binding, O tribune, would make me
answerable for thy life. Take back the ring”—he took the seal from his
finger—“take it back, and all thy promises of favor in the event of
delivery from this peril. The judgment which sent me to the oar for
life made me a slave, yet I am not a slave; no more am I thy freedman.
I am a son of Israel, and this moment, at least, my own master. Take
back the ring.”
Arrius remained passive.
“Thou wilt not?” Judah continued. “Not in anger, then, nor in any
despite, but to free myself from a hateful obligation, I will give thy
gift to the sea. See, O tribune!”
He tossed the ring away. Arrius heard the splash where it struck and
sank, though he did not look.
“Thou hast done a foolish thing,” he said; “foolish for one placed as
thou art. I am not dependent upon thee for death. Life is a thread I
can break without thy help; and, if I do, what will become of thee? Men
determined on death prefer it at the hands of others, for the reason
that the soul which Plato giveth us is rebellious at the thought of
self-destruction; that is all. If the ship be a pirate, I will escape
from the world. My mind is fixed. I am a Roman. Success and honor are
all in all. Yet I would have served thee; thou wouldst not. The ring
was the only witness of my will available in this situation. We are
both lost. I will die regretting the victory and glory wrested from me;
thou wilt live to die a little later, mourning the pious duties undone
because of this folly. I pity thee.”
Ben-Hur saw the consequences of his act more distinctly than before,
yet he did not falter.
“In the three years of my servitude, O tribune, thou wert the first to
look upon me kindly. No, no! There was another.” The voice dropped, the
eyes became humid, and he saw plainly as if it were then before him the
face of the boy who helped him to a drink by the old well at Nazareth.
“At least,” he proceeded, “thou wert the first to ask me who I was; and
if, when I reached out and caught thee, blind and sinking the last
time, I, too, had thought of the many ways in which thou couldst be
useful to me in my wretchedness, still the act was not all selfish;
this I pray you to believe. Moreover, seeing as God giveth me to know,
the ends I dream of are to be wrought by fair means alone. As a thing
of conscience, I would rather die with thee than be thy slayer. My mind
is firmly set as thine; though thou wert to offer me all Rome, O
tribune, and it belonged to thee to make the gift good, I would not
kill thee. Thy Cato and Brutus were as little children compared to the
Hebrew whose law a Jew must obey.”
“But my request. Hast—”
“Thy command would be of more weight, and that would not move me. I
have said.”
Both became silent, waiting.
Ben-Hur looked often at the coming ship. Arrius rested with closed
eyes, indifferent.
“Art thou sure she is an enemy?” Ben-Hur asked.
“I think so,” was the reply.
“She stops, and puts a boat over the side.”
“Dost thou see her flag?”
“Is there no other sign by which she may be known if Roman?”
“If Roman, she hath a helmet over the mast’s top.”
“Then be of cheer. I see the helmet.”
Still Arrius was not assured.
“The men in the small boat are taking in the people afloat. Pirates are
not humane.”
“They may need rowers,” Arrius replied, recurring, possibly, to times
when he had made rescues for the purpose.
Ben-Hur was very watchful of the actions of the strangers.
“The ship moves off,” he said.
“Whither?”
“Over on our right there is a galley which I take to be deserted. The
new-comer heads towards it. Now she is alongside. Now she is sending
men aboard.”
Then Arrius opened his eyes and threw off his calm.
“Thank thou thy God,” he said to Ben-Hur, after a look at the galleys,
“thank thou thy God, as I do my many gods. A pirate would sink, not
save, yon ship. By the act and the helmet on the mast I know a Roman.
The victory is mine. Fortune hath not deserted me. We are saved. Wave
thy hand—call to them—bring them quickly. I shall be duumvir, and thou!