Ben-Hur: A tale of the Christ
your mothers sang you. Oh, fool, fool that I was to put trust in a
Roman!”
Some of the shrewder of the old man’s friends planted themselves
between him and the horses. An opportune failure of breath on his part
helped the stratagem.
Ben-Hur, thinking he comprehended the sheik, sympathized with him. Far
more than mere pride of property—more than anxiety for the result of
the race—in his view it was within the possible for the patriarch,
according to his habits of thought and his ideas of the inestimable, to
love such animals with a tenderness akin to the most sensitive passion.
They were all bright bays, unspotted, perfectly matched, and so
proportioned as to seem less than they really were. Delicate ears
pointed small heads; the faces were broad and full between the eyes;
the nostrils in expansion disclosed membrane so deeply red as to
suggest the flashing of flame; the necks were arches, overlaid with
fine mane so abundant as to drape the shoulders and breast, while in
happy consonance the forelocks were like ravellings of silken veils;
between the knees and the fetlocks the legs were flat as an open hand,
but above the knees they were rounded with mighty muscles, needful to
upbear the shapely close-knit bodies; the hoofs were like cups of
polished agate; and in rearing and plunging they whipped the air, and
sometimes the earth, with tails glossy-black and thick and long. The
sheik spoke of them as the priceless, and it was a good saying.
In this second and closer look at the horses, Ben-Hur read the story of
their relation to their master. They had grown up under his eyes,
objects of his special care in the day, his visions of pride in the
night, with his family at home in the black tent out on the shadeless
bosom of the desert, as his children beloved. That they might win him a
triumph over the haughty and hated Roman, the old man had brought his
loves to the city, never doubting they would win, if only he could find
a trusty expert to take them in hand; not merely one with skill, but of
a spirit which their spirits would acknowledge. Unlike the colder
people of the West, he could not protest the driver’s inability, and
dismiss him civilly; an Arab and a sheik, he had to explode, and rive
the air about him with clamor.
Before the patriarch was done with his expletives, a dozen hands were
at the bits of the horses, and their quiet assured. About that time,
another chariot appeared upon the track; and, unlike the others,
driver, vehicle, and races were precisely as they would be presented in
the Circus the day of final trial. For a reason which will presently be
more apparent, it is desirable now to give this turnout plainly to the
reader.
There should be no difficulty in understanding the carriage known to us
all as the chariot of classical renown. One has but to picture to
himself a dray with low wheels and broad axle, surmounted by a box open
at the tail end. Such was the primitive pattern. Artistic genius came
along in time, and, touching the rude machine, raised it into a thing
of beauty—that, for instance, in which Aurora, riding in advance of the
dawn, is given to our fancy.
The jockeys of the ancients, quite as shrewd and ambitious as their
successors of the present, called their humblest turnout a two, and
their best in grade a four; in the latter, they contested the Olympics
and the other festal shows founded in imitation of them.
The same sharp gamesters preferred to put their horses to the chariot
all abreast; and for distinction they termed the two next the pole
yoke-steeds, and those on the right and left outside trace-mates. It
was their judgment, also, that, by allowing the fullest freedom of
action, the greatest speed was attainable; accordingly, the harness
resorted to was peculiarly simple; in fact, there was nothing of it
save a collar round the animal’s neck, and a trace fixed to the collar,
unless the lines and a halter fall within the term. Wanting to hitch
up, the masters pinned a narrow wooden yoke, or cross-tree, near the
end of the pole, and, by straps passed through rings at the end of the
yoke, buckled the latter to the collar. The traces of the yokesteeds
they hitched to the axle; those of the trace-mates to the top rim of
the chariot-bed. There remained then but the adjustment of the lines,
which, judged by the modern devices, was not the least curious part of
the method. For this there was a large ring at the forward extremity of
the pole; securing the ends to that ring first, they parted the lines
so as to give one to each horse, and proceeded to pass them to the
driver, slipping them separately through rings on the inner side of the
halters at the mouth.
With this plain generalization in mind, all further desirable knowledge
upon the subject can be had by following the incidents of the scene
occurring.
The other contestants had been received in silence; the last comer was
more fortunate. While moving towards the stand from which we are
viewing the scene, his progress was signalized by loud demonstrations,
by clapping of hands and cheers, the effect of which was to centre
attention upon him exclusively. His yoke-steeds, it was observed, were
black, while the trace-mates were snow-white. In conformity to the
exacting canons of Roman taste, they had all four been mutilated; that
is to say, their tails had been clipped, and, to complete the
barbarity, their shorn manes were divided into knots tied with flaring
red and yellow ribbons.
In advancing, the stranger at length reached a point where the chariot
came into view from the stand, and its appearance would of itself have
justified the shouting. The wheels were very marvels of construction.
Stout bands of burnished bronze reinforced the hubs, otherwise very
light; the spokes were sections of ivory tusks, set in with the natural
curve outward to perfect the dishing, considered important then as now;
bronze tires held the fellies, which were of shining ebony. The axle,
in keeping with the wheels, was tipped with heads of snarling tigers
done in brass, and the bed was woven of willow wands gilded with gold.
The coming of the beautiful horses and resplendent chariot drew Ben-Hur
to look at the driver with increased interest.
Who was he?
When Ben-Hur asked himself the question first, he could not see the
man’s face, or even his full figure; yet the air and manner were
familiar, and pricked him keenly with a reminder of a period long gone.
Who could it be?
Nearer now, and the horses approaching at a trot. From the shouting and
the gorgeousness of the turnout, it was thought he might be some
official favorite or famous prince. Such an appearance was not
inconsistent with exalted rank. Kings often struggled for the crown of
leaves which was the prize of victory. Nero and Commodus, it will be
remembered, devoted themselves to the chariot. Ben-Hur arose and forced
a passage down nearly to the railing in front of the lower seat of the
stand. His face was earnest, his manner eager.
And directly the whole person of the driver was in view. A companion
rode with him, in classic description a Myrtilus, permitted men of high
estate indulging their passion for the race-course. Ben-Hur could see
only the driver, standing erect in the chariot, with the reins passed
several times round his body—a handsome figure, scantily covered by a
tunic of light-red cloth; in the right hand a whip; in the other, the
arm raised and lightly extended, the four lines. The pose was
exceedingly graceful and animated. The cheers and clapping of hands
were received with statuesque indifference. Ben-Hur stood
transfixed—his instinct and memory had served him faithfully—THE DRIVER
WAS MESSALA.
By the selection of horses, the magnificence of the chariot, the
attitude, and display of person—above all, by the expression of the
cold, sharp, eagle features, imperialized in his countrymen by sway of
the world through so many generations, Ben-Hur knew Messala unchanged,
as haughty, confident, and audacious as ever, the same in ambition,
cynicism, and mocking insouciance.
CHAPTER VIII
As Ben-Hur descended the steps of the stand, an Arab arose upon the
last one at the foot, and cried out,
“Men of the East and West—hearken! The good Sheik Ilderim giveth
greeting. With four horses, sons of the favorites of Solomon the Wise,
he hath come up against the best. Needs he most a mighty man to drive
them. Whoso will take them to his satisfaction, to him he promiseth
enrichment forever. Here—there—in the city and in the Circuses, and
wherever the strong most do congregate, tell ye this his offer. So
saith my master, Sheik Ilderim the Generous.”
The proclamation awakened a great buzz among the people under the
awning. By night it would be repeated and discussed in all the sporting
circles of Antioch. Ben-Hur, hearing it, stopped and looked
hesitatingly from the herald to the sheik. Malluch thought he was about
to accept the offer, but was relieved when he presently turned to him,
and asked, “Good Malluch, where to now?”
The worthy replied, with a laugh, “Would you liken yourself to others
visiting the Grove for the first time, you will straightway to hear
your fortune told.”
“My fortune, said you? Though the suggestion has in it a flavor of
unbelief, let us to the goddess at once.”
“Nay, son of Arrius, these Apollonians have a better trick than that.
Instead of speech with a Pythia or a Sibyl, they will sell you a plain
papyrus leaf, hardly dry from the stalk, and bid you dip it in the
water of a certain fountain, when it will show you a verse in which you
may hear of your future.”
The glow of interest departed from Ben-Hur’s face.
“There are people who have no need to vex themselves about their
future,” he said, gloomily.
“Then you prefer to go to the temples?”
“The temples are Greek, are they not?”
“They call them Greek.”
“The Hellenes were masters of the beautiful in art; but in architecture
they sacrificed variety to unbending beauty. Their temples are all
alike. How call you the fountain?”
“Castalia.”
“Oh! it has repute throughout the world. Let us thither.”
Malluch kept watch on his companion as they went, and saw that for the
moment at least his good spirits were out. To the people passing he
gave no attention; over the wonders they came upon there were no
exclamations; silently, even sullenly, he kept a slow pace.
The truth was, the sight of Messala had set Ben-Hur to thinking. It
seemed scarce an hour ago that the strong hands had torn him from his
mother, scarce an hour ago that the Roman had put seal upon the gates
of his father’s house. He recounted how, in the hopeless misery of the
life—if such it might be called—in the galleys, he had had little else
to do, aside from labor, than dream dreams of vengeance, in all of
which Messala was the principal. There might be, he used to say to
himself, escape for Gratus, but for Messala—never! And to strengthen
and harden his resolution, he was accustomed to repeat over and over,
Who pointed us out to the persecutors? And when I begged him for
help—not for myself—who mocked me, and went away laughing? And always
the dream had the same ending. The day I meet him, help me, thou good
God of my people!—help me to some fitting special vengeance!
And now the meeting was at hand.
Perhaps, if he had found Messala poor and suffering, Ben-Hur’s feeling
had been different; but it was not so. He found him more than
prosperous; in the prosperity there was a dash and glitter—gleam of sun
on gilt of gold.
So it happened that what Malluch accounted a passing loss of spirit was
pondering when the meeting should be, and in what manner he could make
it most memorable.
They turned after a while into an avenue of oaks, where the people were