Ben-Hur: A tale of the Christ
patted the neck of the old horse as he spoke. “I will give him back,
and take to the chariot.”
“So soon?” Ilderim asked.
“With such as these, good sheik, one day suffices. They are not afraid;
they have a man’s intelligence, and they love the exercise. This one,”
he shook a rein over the back of the youngest of the four—“you called
him Aldebaran, I believe—is the swiftest; in once round a stadium he
would lead the others thrice his length.”
Ilderim pulled his beard, and said, with twinkling eyes, “Aldebaran is
the swiftest; but what of the slowest?”
“This is he.” Ben-Hur shook the rein over Antares. “This is he: but he
will win, for, look you, sheik, he will run his utmost all day—all day;
and, as the sun goes down, he will reach his swiftest.”
“Right again,” said Ilderim.
“I have but one fear, O sheik.”
The sheik became doubly serious.
“In his greed of triumph, a Roman cannot keep honor pure. In the
games—all of them, mark you—their tricks are infinite; in chariot
racing their knavery extends to everything—from horse to driver, from
driver to master. Wherefore, good sheik, look well to all thou hast;
from this till the trial is over, let no stranger so much as see the
horses. Would you be perfectly safe, do more—keep watch over them with
armed hand as well as sleepless eye; then I will have no fear of the
end.”
At the door of the tent they dismounted.
“What you say shall be attended to. By the splendor of God, no hand
shall come near them except it belong to one of the faithful. To-night
I will set watches. But, son of Arrius”—Ilderim drew forth the package,
and opened it slowly, while they walked to the divan and seated
themselves—“son of Arrius, see thou here, and help me with thy Latin.”
He passed the despatch to Ben-Hur.
“There; read—and read aloud, rendering what thou findest into the
tongue of thy fathers. Latin is an abomination.”
Ben-Hur was in good spirits, and began the reading carelessly.
“‘MESSALA TO GRATUS!’” He paused. A premonition drove the blood to his
heart. Ilderim observed his agitation.
“Well; I am waiting.”
Ben-Hur prayed pardon, and recommenced the paper, which, it is
sufficient to say, was one of the duplicates of the letter despatched
so carefully to Gratus by Messala the morning after the revel in the
palace.
The paragraphs in the beginning were remarkable only as proof that the
writer had not outgrown his habit of mockery; when they were passed,
and the reader came to the parts intended to refresh the memory of
Gratus, his voice trembled, and twice he stopped to regain his
self-control. By a strong effort he continued. “‘I recall further,’” he
read, “‘that thou didst make disposition of the family of Hur’”—there
the reader again paused and drew a long breath—“‘both of us at the time
supposing the plan hit upon to be the most effective possible for the
purposes in view, which were silence and delivery over to inevitable
but natural death.’”
Here Ben-Hur broke down utterly. The paper fell from his hands, and he
covered his face.
“They are dead—dead. I alone am left.”
The sheik had been a silent, but not unsympathetic, witness of the
young man’s suffering; now he arose and said, “Son of Arrius, it is for
me to beg thy pardon. Read the paper by thyself. When thou art strong
enough to give the rest of it to me, send word, and I will return.”
He went out of the tent, and nothing in all his life became him better.
Ben-Hur flung himself on the divan and gave way to his feelings. When
somewhat recovered, he recollected that a portion of the letter
remained unread, and, taking it up, he resumed the reading. “Thou wilt
remember,” the missive ran, “what thou didst with the mother and sister
of the malefactor; yet, if now I yield to a desire to learn if they be
living or dead”—Ben-Hur started, and read again, and then again, and at
last broke into exclamation. “He does not know they are dead; he does
not know it! Blessed be the name of the Lord! there is yet hope.” He
finished the sentence, and was strengthened by it, and went on bravely
to the end of the letter.
“They are not dead,” he said, after reflection; “they are not dead, or
he would have heard of it.”
A second reading, more careful than the first, confirmed him in the
opinion. Then he sent for the sheik.
“In coming to your hospitable tent, O sheik,” he said, calmly, when the
Arab was seated and they were alone, “it was not in my mind to speak of
myself further than to assure you I had sufficient training to be
intrusted with your horses. I declined to tell you my history. But the
chances which have sent this paper to my hand and given it to me to be
read are so strange that I feel bidden to trust you with everything.
And I am the more inclined to do so by knowledge here conveyed that we
are both of us threatened by the same enemy, against whom it is needful
that we make common cause. I will read the letter and give you
explanation; after which you will not wonder I was so moved. If you
thought me weak or childish, you will then excuse me.”
The sheik held his peace, listening closely, until Ben-Hur came to the
paragraph in which he was particularly mentioned: “‘I saw the Jew
yesterday in the Grove of Daphne;’” so ran the part, “‘and if he be not
there now, he is certainly in the neighborhood, making it easy for me
to keep him in eye. Indeed, wert thou to ask me where he is now, I
should say, with the most positive assurance, he is to be found at the
old Orchard of Palms.’”
“A—h!” exclaimed Ilderim, in such a tone one might hardly say he was
more surprised than angry; at the same time, he clutched his beard.
“‘At the old Orchard of Palms,’” Ben-Hur repeated, “‘under the tent of
the traitor Shiek Ilderim.’”
“Traitor!—I?” the old man cried, in his shrillest tone, while lip and
beard curled with ire, and on his forehead and neck the veins swelled
and beat as they would burst.
“Yet a moment, sheik,” said Ben-Hur, with a deprecatory gesture. “Such
is Messala’s opinion of you. Hear his threat.” And he read on—“‘under
the tent of the traitor Sheik Ilderim, who cannot long escape our
strong hand. Be not surprised if Maxentius, as his first measure,
places the Arab on ship for forwarding to Rome.’”
“To Rome! Me—Ilderim—sheik of ten thousand horsemen with spears—me to
Rome!”
He leaped rather than rose to his feet, his arms outstretched, his
fingers spread and curved like claws, his eyes glittering like a
serpent’s.
“O God!—nay, by all the gods except of Rome!—when shall this insolence
end? A freeman am I; free are my people. Must we die slaves? Or, worse,
must I live a dog, crawling to a master’s feet? Must I lick his hand,
lest he lash me? What is mine is not mine; I am not my own; for breath
of body I must be beholden to a Roman. Oh, if I were young again! Oh,
could I shake off twenty years—or ten—or five!”
He ground his teeth and shook his hands overhead; then, under the
impulse of another idea, he walked away and back again to Ben-Hur
swiftly, and caught his shoulder with a strong grasp.
“If I were as thou, son of Arrius—as young, as strong, as practised in
arms; if I had a motive hissing me to revenge—a motive, like thine,
great enough to make hate holy— Away with disguise on thy part and on
mine! Son of Hur, son of Hur, I say—”
At that name all the currents of Ben-Hur’s blood stopped; surprised,
bewildered, he gazed into the Arab’s eyes, now close to his, and
fiercely bright.
“Son of Hur, I say, were I as thou, with half thy wrongs, bearing about
with me memories like thine, I would not, I could not, rest.” Never
pausing, his words following each other torrent-like, the old man swept
on. “To all my grievances, I would add those of the world, and devote
myself to vengeance. From land to land I would go firing all mankind.
No war for freedom but should find me engaged; no battle against Rome
in which I would not bear a part. I would turn Parthian, if I could not
better. If men failed me, still I would not give over the effort—ha,
ha, ha! By the splendor of God! I would herd with wolves, and make
friends of lions and tigers, in hope of marshalling them against the
common enemy. I would use every weapon. So my victims were Romans, I
would rejoice in slaughter. Quarter I would not ask; quarter I would
not give. To the flames everything Roman; to the sword every Roman
born. Of nights I would pray the gods, the good and the bad alike, to
lend me their special terrors—tempests, drought, heat, cold, and all
the nameless poisons they let loose in air, all the thousand things of
which men die on sea and on land. Oh, I could not sleep. I—I—”
The sheik stopped for want of breath, panting, wringing his hands. And,
sooth to say, of all the passionate burst Ben-Hur retained but a vague
impression wrought by fiery eyes, a piercing voice, and a rage too
intense for coherent expression.
For the first time in years, the desolate youth heard himself addressed
by his proper name. One man at least knew him, and acknowledged it
without demand of identity; and he an Arab fresh from the desert!
How came the man by his knowledge? The letter? No. It told the
cruelties from which his family had suffered; it told the story of his
own misfortunes, but it did not say he was the very victim whose escape
from doom was the theme of the heartless narrative. That was the point
of explanation he had notified the sheik would follow the reading of
the letter. He was pleased, and thrilled with hope restored, yet kept
an air of calmness.
“Good sheik, tell me how you came by this letter.”
“My people keep the roads between cities,” Ilderim answered, bluntly.
“They took it from a courier.”
“Are they known to be thy people?”
“No. To the world they are robbers, whom it is mine to catch and slay.”
“Again, sheik. You call me son of Hur—my father’s name. I did not think
myself known to a person on earth. How came you by the knowledge?”
Ilderim hesitated; but, rallying, he answered, “I know you, yet I am
not free to tell you more.”
“Some one holds you in restraint?”
The sheik closed his mouth, and walked away; but, observing Ben-Hur’s
disappointment, he came back, and said, “Let us say no more about the
matter now. I will go to town; when I return, I may talk to you fully.
Give me the letter.”
Ilderim rolled the papyrus carefully, restored it to its envelopes, and
became once more all energy.
“What sayest thou?” he asked, while waiting for his horse and retinue.
“I told what I would do, were I thou, and thou hast made no answer.”
“I intended to answer, sheik, and I will.” Ben-Hur’s countenance and
voice changed with the feeling invoked. “All thou hast said, I will
do—all at least in the power of a man. I devoted myself to vengeance
long ago. Every hour of the five years passed, I have lived with no
other thought. I have taken no respite. I have had no pleasures of
youth. The blandishments of Rome were not for me. I wanted her to
educate me for revenge. I resorted to her most famous masters and
professors—not those of rhetoric or philosophy: alas! I had no time for
them. The arts essential to a fighting-man were my desire. I associated
with gladiators, and with winners of prizes in the Circus; and they
were my teachers. The drill-masters in the great camp accepted me as a
scholar, and were proud of my attainments in their line. O sheik, I am
a soldier; but the things of which I dream require me to be a captain.
With that thought, I have taken part in the campaign against the
Parthians; when it is over, then, if the Lord spare my life and
strength—then”—he raised his clenched hands, and spoke vehemently—“then
I will be an enemy Roman-taught in all things; then Rome shall account
to me in Roman lives for her ills. You have my answer, sheik.”