Ben-Hur: A tale of the Christ
Ilderim put an arm over his shoulder, and kissed him, saying,
passionately, “If thy God favor thee not, son of Hur, it is because he
is dead. Take thou this from me—sworn to, if so thy preference run:
thou shalt have my hands, and their fulness—men, horses, camels, and
the desert for preparation. I swear it! For the present, enough. Thou
shalt see or hear from me before night.”
Turning abruptly off, the sheik was speedily on the road to the city.
CHAPTER VI
The intercepted letter was conclusive upon a number of points of great
interest to Ben-Hur. It had all the effect of a confession that the
writer was a party to the putting-away of the family with murderous
intent; that he had sanctioned the plan adopted for the purpose; that
he had received a portion of the proceeds of the confiscation, and was
yet in enjoyment of his part; that he dreaded the unexpected appearance
of what he was pleased to call the chief malefactor, and accepted it as
a menace; that he contemplated such further action as would secure him
in the future, and was ready to do whatever his accomplice in Cæsarea
might advise.
And, now that the letter had reached the hand of him really its
subject, it was notice of danger to come, as well as a confession of
guilt. So when Ilderim left the tent, Ben-Hur had much to think about,
requiring immediate action. His enemies were as adroit and powerful as
any in the East. If they were afraid of him, he had greater reason to
be afraid of them. He strove earnestly to reflect upon the situation,
but could not; his feelings constantly overwhelmed him. There was a
certain qualified pleasure in the assurance that his mother and sister
were alive; and it mattered little that the foundation of the assurance
was a mere inference. That there was one person who could tell him
where they were seemed to his hope so long deferred as if discovery
were now close at hand. These were mere causes of feeling; underlying
them, it must be confessed he had a superstitious fancy that God was
about to make ordination in his behalf, in which event faith whispered
him to stand still.
Occasionally, referring to the words of Ilderim, he wondered whence the
Arab derived his information about him; not from Malluch certainly; nor
from Simonides, whose interests, all adverse, would hold him dumb.
Could Messala have been the informant? No, no: disclosure might be
dangerous in that quarter. Conjecture was vain; at the same time, often
as Ben-Hur was beaten back from the solution, he was consoled with the
thought that whoever the person with the knowledge might be, he was a
friend, and, being such, would reveal himself in good time. A little
more waiting—a little more patience. Possibly the errand of the sheik
was to see the worthy; possibly the letter might precipitate a full
disclosure.
And patient he would have been if only he could have believed Tirzah
and his mother were waiting for him under circumstances permitting hope
on their part strong as his; if, in other words, conscience had not
stung him with accusations respecting them.
To escape such accusations, he wandered far through the Orchard,
pausing now where the date-gatherers were busy, yet not too busy to
offer him of their fruit and talk with him; then, under the great
trees, to watch the nesting birds, or hear the bees swarming about the
berries bursting with honeyed sweetness, and filling all the green and
golden spaces with the music of their beating wings.
By the lake, however, he lingered longest. He might not look upon the
water and its sparkling ripples, so like sensuous life, without
thinking of the Egyptian and her marvellous beauty, and of floating
with her here and there through the night, made brilliant by her songs
and stories; he might not forget the charm of her manner, the lightness
of her laugh, the flattery of her attention, the warmth of her little
hand under his upon the tiller of the boat. From her it was for his
thought but a short way to Balthasar, and the strange things of which
he had been witness, unaccountable by any law of nature; and from him,
again, to the King of the Jews, whom the good man, with such pathos of
patience, was holding in holy promise, the distance was even nearer.
And there his mind stayed, finding in the mysteries of that personage a
satisfaction answering well for the rest he was seeking. Because, it
may have been, nothing is so easy as denial of an idea not agreeable to
our wishes, he rejected the definition given by Balthasar of the
kingdom the king was coming to establish. A kingdom of souls, if not
intolerable to his Sadducean faith, seemed to him but an abstraction
drawn from the depths of a devotion too fond and dreamy. A kingdom of
Judea, on the other hand, was more than comprehensible: such had been,
and, if only for that reason, might be again. And it suited his pride
to think of a new kingdom broader of domain, richer in power, and of a
more unapproachable splendor than the old one; of a new king wiser and
mightier than Solomon—a new king under whom, especially, he could find
both service and revenge. In that mood he resumed to the dowar.
The mid-day meal disposed of, still further to occupy himself, Ben-Hur
had the chariot rolled out into the sunlight for inspection. The word
but poorly conveys the careful study the vehicle underwent. No point or
part of it escaped him. With a pleasure which will be better understood
hereafter, he saw the pattern was Greek, in his judgment preferable to
the Roman in many respects; it was wider between the wheels, and lower
and stronger, and the disadvantage of greater weight would be more than
compensated by the greater endurance of his Arabs. Speaking generally,
the carriage-makers of Rome built for the games almost solely,
sacrificing safety to beauty, and durability to grace; while the
chariots of Achilles and “the king of men,” designed for war and all
its extreme tests, still ruled the tastes of those who met and
struggled for the crowns Isthmian and Olympic.
Next he brought the horses, and, hitching them to the chariot, drove to
the field of exercise, where, hour after hour, he practised them in
movement under the yoke. When he came away in the evening, it was with
restored spirit, and a fixed purpose to defer action in the matter of
Messala until the race was won or lost. He could not forego the
pleasure of meeting his adversary under the eyes of the East; that
there might be other competitors seemed not to enter his thought. His
confidence in the result was absolute; no doubt of his own skill; and
as to the four, they were his full partners in the glorious game.
“Let him look to it, let him look to it! Ha, Antares—Aldebaran! Shall
he not, O honest Rigel? and thou, Atair, king among coursers, shall he
not beware of us? Ha, ha! good hearts!”
So in rests he passed from horse to horse, speaking, not as a master,
but the senior of as many brethren.
After nightfall, Ben-Hur sat by the door of the tent waiting for
Ilderim, not yet returned from the city. He was not impatient, or
vexed, or doubtful. The sheik would be heard from, at least. Indeed,
whether it was from satisfaction with the performance of the four, or
the refreshment there is in cold water succeeding bodily exercise, or
supper partaken with royal appetite, or the reaction which, as a kindly
provision of nature, always follows depression, the young man was in
good-humor verging upon elation. He felt himself in the hands of
Providence no longer his enemy. At last there was a sound of horse’s
feet coming rapidly, and Malluch rode up.
“Son of Arrius,” he said, cheerily, after salutation, “I salute you for
Sheik Ilderim, who requests you to mount and go to the city. He is
waiting for you.”
Ben-Hur asked no questions, but went in where the horses were feeding.
Aldebaran came to him, as if offering his service. He played with him
lovingly, but passed on, and chose another, not of the four—they were
sacred to the race. Very shortly the two were on the road, going
swiftly and in silence.
Some distance below the Seleucian Bridge, they crossed the river by a
ferry, and, riding far round on the right bank, and recrossing by
another ferry, entered the city from the west. The detour was long, but
Ben-Hur accepted it as a precaution for which there was good reason.
Down to Simonides’ landing they rode, and in front of the great
warehouse, under the bridge, Malluch drew rein.
“We are come,” he said. “Dismount.”
Ben-Hur recognized the place.
“Where is the sheik?” he asked.
“Come with me. I will show you.”
A watchman took the horses, and almost before he realized it Ben-Hur
stood once more at the door of the house up on the greater one,
listening to the response from within—“In God’s name, enter.”
CHAPTER VII
Malluch stopped at the door; Ben-Hur entered alone.
The room was the same in which he had formerly interviewed Simonides,
and it had been in nowise changed, except now, close by the arm-chair,
a polished brazen rod, set on a broad wooden pedestal, arose higher
than a tall man, holding lamps of silver on sliding arms, half-a-dozen
or more in number, and all burning. The light was clear, bringing into
view the panelling on the walls, the cornice with its row of gilded
balls, and the dome dully tinted with violet mica.
Within a few steps, Ben-Hur stopped.
Three persons were present, looking at him—Simonides, Ilderim, and
Esther.
He glanced hurriedly from one to another, as if to find answer to the
question half formed in his mind, What business can these have with me?
He became calm, with every sense on the alert, for the question was
succeeded by another, Are they friends or enemies?
At length, his eyes rested upon Esther.
The men returned his look kindly; in her face there was something more
than kindness—something too _spirituel_ for definition, which yet went
to his inner consciousness without definition.
Shall it be said, good reader? Back of his gaze there was a comparison
in which the Egyptian arose and set herself over against the gentle
Jewess; but it lived an instant, and, as is the habit of such
comparisons, passed away without a conclusion.
“Son of Hur—”
The guest turned to the speaker.
“Son of Hur,” said Simonides, repeating the address slowly, and with
distinct emphasis, as if to impress all its meaning upon him most
interested in understanding it, “take thou the peace of the Lord God of
our fathers—take it from me.” He paused, then added, “From me and
mine.”
The speaker sat in his chair; there were the royal head, the bloodless
face, the masterful air, under the influence of which visitors forgot
the broken limbs and distorted body of the man. The full black eyes
gazed out under the white brows steadily, but not sternly. A moment
thus, then he crossed his hands upon his breast.
The action, taken with the salutation, could not be misunderstood, and
was not.
“Simonides,” Ben-Hur answered, much moved, “the holy peace you tender
is accepted. As son to father, I return it to you. Only let there be
perfect understanding between us.”
Thus delicately he sought to put aside the submission of the merchant,
and, in place of the relation of master and servant, substitute one
higher and holier.
Simonides let fall his hands, and, turning to Esther, said, “A seat for
the master, daughter.”
She hastened, and brought a stool, and stood, with suffused face,
looking from one to the other—from Ben-Hur to Simonides, from Simonides
to Ben-Hur; and they waited, each declining the superiority direction
would imply. When at length the pause began to be embarrassing, Ben-Hur
advanced, and gently took the stool from her, and, going to the chair,
placed it at the merchant’s feet.
“I will sit here,” he said.