Ben-Hur: A tale of the Christ
Three rugs were spread on the carpet within the space so nearly
enclosed by the divan; a table not more than a foot in height was
brought and set within the same place, and covered with a cloth. Off to
one side a portable earthenware oven was established under the
presidency of a woman whose duty it was to keep the company in bread,
or, more precisely, in hot cakes of flour from the handmills grinding
with constant sound in a neighboring tent.
Meanwhile Balthasar was conducted to the divan, where Ilderim and
Ben-Hur received him standing. A loose black gown covered his person;
his step was feeble, and his whole movement slow and cautious,
apparently dependent upon a long staff and the arm of a servant.
“Peace to you, my friend,” said Ilderim, respectfully. “Peace and
welcome.”
The Egyptian raised his head and replied, “And to thee, good sheik—to
thee and thine, peace and the blessing of the One God—God the true and
loving.”
The manner was gentle and devout, and impressed Ben-Hur with a feeling
of awe; besides which the blessing included in the answering salutation
had been partly addressed to him, and while that part was being spoken,
the eyes of the aged guest, hollow yet luminous, rested upon his face
long enough to stir an emotion new and mysterious, and so strong that
he again and again during the repast scanned the much wrinkled and
bloodless face for its meaning; but always there was the expression
bland, placid, and trustful as a child’s. A little later he found that
expression habitual.
“This is he, O Balthasar,” said the sheik, laying his hand on Ben-Hur’s
arm, “who will break bread with us this evening.”
The Egyptian glanced at the young man, and looked again surprised and
doubting; seeing which the sheik continued, “I have promised him my
horses for trial to-morrow; and if all goes well, he will drive them in
the Circus.”
Balthasar continued his gaze.
“He came well recommended,” Ilderim pursued, much puzzled. “You may
know him as the son of Arrius, who was a noble Roman sailor,
though”—the sheik hesitated, then resumed, with a laugh—“though he
declares himself an Israelite of the tribe of Judah; and, by the
splendor of God, I believe what he tells me!”
Balthasar could no longer withhold explanation.
“To-day, O most generous sheik, my life was in peril, and would have
been lost had not a youth, the counterpart of this one—if, indeed, he
be not the very same—intervened when all others fled, and saved me.”
Then he addressed Ben-Hur directly, “Art thou not he?”
“I cannot answer so far,” Ben-Hur replied, with modest deference. “I am
he who stopped the horses of the insolent Roman when they were rushing
upon thy camel at the Fountain of Castalia. Thy daughter left a cup
with me.”
From the bosom of his tunic he produced the cup, and gave it to
Balthasar.
A glow lighted the faded countenance of the Egyptian.
“The Lord sent thee to me at the Fountain to-day,” he said, in a
tremulous voice, stretching his hand towards Ben-Hur; “and he sends
thee to me now. I give him thanks; and praise him thou, for of his
favor I have wherewith to give thee great reward, and I will. The cup
is thine; keep it.”
Ben-Hur took back the gift, and Balthasar, seeing the inquiry upon
Ilderim’s face, related the occurrence at the Fountain.
“What!” said the sheik to Ben-Hur. “Thou saidst nothing of this to me,
when better recommendation thou couldst not have brought. Am I not an
Arab, and sheik of my tribe of tens of thousands? And is not he my
guest? And is it not in my guest-bond that the good or evil thou dost
him is good or evil done to me? Whither shouldst thou go for reward but
here? And whose the hand to give it but mine?”
His voice at the end of the speech rose to cutting shrillness.
“Good sheik, spare me, I pray. I came not for reward, great or small;
and that I may be acquitted of the thought, I say the help I gave this
excellent man would have been given as well to thy humblest servant.”
“But he is my friend, my guest—not my servant; and seest thou not in
the difference the favor of Fortune?” Then to Balthasar the sheik
subjoined, “Ah, by the splendor of God! I tell thee again he is not a
Roman.”
With that he turned away, and gave attention to the servants, whose
preparations for the supper were about complete.
The reader who recollects the history of Balthasar as given by himself
at the meeting in the desert will understand the effect of Ben-Hur’s
assertion of disinterestedness upon that worthy. In his devotion to men
there had been, it will be remembered, no distinctions; while the
redemption which had been promised him in the way of reward—the
redemption for which he was waiting—was universal. To him, therefore,
the assertion sounded somewhat like an echo of himself. He took a step
nearer Ben-Hur, and spoke to him in the childlike way.
“How did the sheik say I should call you? It was a Roman name, I
think.”
“Arrius, the son of Arrius.”
“Yet thou art not a Roman?”
“All my people were Jews.”
“Were, saidst thou? Are they not living?”
The question was subtle as well as simple; but Ilderim saved Ben-Hur
from reply.
“Come,” he said to them, “the meal is ready.”
Ben-Hur gave his arm to Balthasar, and conducted him to the table,
where shortly they were all seated on their rugs Eastern fashion. The
lavers were brought them, and they washed and dried their hands; then
the sheik made a sign, the servants stopped, and the voice of the
Egyptian arose tremulous with holy feeling.
“Father of All—God! What we have is of thee; take our thanks, and bless
us, that we may continue to do thy will.”
It was the grace the good man had said simultaneously with his brethren
Gaspar the Greek and Melchior the Hindoo, the utterance in diverse
tongues out of which had come the miracle attesting the Divine Presence
at the meal in the desert years before.
The table to which they immediately addressed themselves was, as may be
thought, rich in the substantials and delicacies favorite in the
East—in cakes hot from the oven, vegetables from the gardens, meats
singly, compounds of meats and vegetables, milk of kine, and honey and
butter—all eaten or drunk, it should be remarked, without any of the
modern accessories—knives, forks, spoons, cups, or plates; and in this
part of the repast but little was said, for they were hungry. But when
the dessert was in course it was otherwise. They laved their hands
again, had the lap-cloths shaken out, and with a renewed table and the
sharp edge of their appetites gone they were disposed to talk and
listen.
With such a company—an Arab, a Jew, and an Egyptian, all believers
alike in one God—there could be at that age but one subject of
conversation; and of the three, which should be speaker but he to whom
the Deity had been so nearly a personal appearance, who had seen him in
a star, had heard his voice in direction, had been led so far and so
miraculously by his Spirit? And of what should he talk but that of
which he had been called to testify?
CHAPTER XV
The shadows cast over the Orchard of Palms by the mountains at set of
sun left no sweet margin time of violet sky and drowsing earth between
the day and night. The latter came early and swift; and against its
glooming in the tent this evening the servants brought four
candlesticks of brass, and set them by the corners of the table. To
each candlestick there were four branches, and on each branch a lighted
silver lamp and a supply cup of olive-oil. In light ample, even
brilliant, the group at dessert continued their conversation, speaking
in the Syriac dialect, familiar to all peoples in that part of the
world.
The Egyptian told his story of the meeting of the three in the desert,
and agreed with the sheik that it was in December, twenty-seven years
before, when he and his companions fleeing from Herod arrived at the
tent praying shelter. The narrative was heard with intense interest;
even the servants lingering when they could to catch its details.
Ben-Hur received it as became a man listening to a revelation of deep
concern to all humanity, and to none of more concern than the people of
Israel. In his mind, as we shall presently see, there was crystallizing
an idea which was to change his course of life, if not absorb it
absolutely.
As the recital proceeded, the impression made by Balthasar upon the
young Jew increased; at its conclusion, his feeling was too profound to
permit a doubt of its truth; indeed, there was nothing left him
desirable in the connection but assurances, if such were to be had,
pertaining exclusively to the consequences of the amazing event.
And now there is wanting an explanation which the very discerning may
have heretofore demanded; certainly it can be no longer delayed. Our
tale begins, in point of date not less than fact, to trench close upon
the opening of the ministry of the Son of Mary, whom we have seen but
once since this same Balthasar left him worshipfully in his mother’s
lap in the cave by Bethlehem. Henceforth to the end the mysterious
Child will be a subject of continual reference; and slowly though
surely the current of events with which we are dealing will bring us
nearer and nearer to him, until finally we see him a man—we would like,
if armed contrariety of opinion would permit it, to add—A MAN WHOM THE
WORLD COULD NOT DO WITHOUT. Of this declaration, apparently so simple,
a shrewd mind inspired by faith will make much—and in welcome. Before
his time, and since, there have been men indispensable to particular
people and periods; but his indispensability was to the whole race, and
for all time—a respect in which it is unique, solitary, divine.
To Sheik Ilderim the story was not new. He had heard it from the three
wise men together under circumstances which left no room for doubt; he
had acted upon it seriously, for the helping a fugitive escape from the
anger of the first Herod was dangerous. Now one of the three sat at his
table again, a welcome guest and revered friend. Sheik Ilderim
certainly believed the story; yet, in the nature of things, its mighty
central fact could not come home to him with the force and absorbing
effect it came to Ben-Hur. He was an Arab, whose interest in the
consequences was but general; on the other hand, Ben-Hur was an
Israelite and a Jew, with more than a special interest in—if the
solecism can be pardoned—the truth of the fact. He laid hold of the
circumstance with a purely Jewish mind.
From his cradle, let it be remembered, he had heard of the Messiah; at
the colleges he had been made familiar with all that was known of that
Being at once the hope, the fear, and the peculiar glory of the chosen
people; the prophets from the first to the last of the heroic line
foretold him; and the coming had been, and yet was, the theme of
endless exposition with the rabbis—in the synagogues, in the schools,
in the Temple, of fast-days and feast-days, in public and in private,
the national teachers expounded and kept expounding until all the
children of Abraham, wherever their lots were cast, bore the Messiah in
expectation, and by it literally, and with iron severity, ruled and
moulded their lives.
Doubtless, it will be understood from this that there was much argument
among the Jews themselves about the Messiah, and so there was; but the
disputation was all limited to one point, and one only—when would he
come?
Disquisition is for the preacher; whereas the writer is but telling a
tale, and that he may not lose his character, the explanation he is
making requires notice merely of a point connected with the Messiah
about which the unanimity among the chosen people was matter of
marvellous astonishment: he was to be, when come, the KING OF THE