Ben-Hur: A tale of the Christ
offered the spectacle in honor of the consul. One hundred thousand
sestertii and a crown of laurel were the prizes. Then followed the
particulars. The entries were six in all—fours only permitted; and, to
further interest in the performance, the competitors would be turned
into the course together. Each four then received description.
“I. A four of Lysippus the Corinthian—two grays, a bay, and a black;
entered at Alexandria last year, and again at Corinth, where they were
winners. Lysippus, driver. Color, yellow.
“II. A four of Messala of Rome—two white, two black; victors of the
Circensian as exhibited in the Circus Maximus last year. Messala,
driver. Colors, scarlet and gold.
“III. A four of Cleanthes the Athenian—three gray, one bay; winners at
the Isthmian last year. Cleanthes, driver. Color, green.
“IV. A four of Dicaeus the Byzantine—two black, one gray, one bay;
winners this year at Byzantium. Dicaeus, driver. Color, black.
“V. A four of Admetus the Sidonian—all grays. Thrice entered at
Cæsarea, and thrice victors. Admetus, driver. Color, blue.
“VI. A four of Ilderim, sheik of the Desert. All bays; first race.
Ben-Hur, a Jew, driver. Color, white.”
BEN-HUR, A JEW, DRIVER!
Why that name instead of Arrius?
Ben-Hur raised his eyes to Ilderim. He had found the cause of the
Arab’s outcry. Both rushed to the same conclusion.
The hand was the hand of Messala!
CHAPTER XI
Evening was hardly come upon Antioch, when the Omphalus, nearly in the
centre of the city, became a troubled fountain from which in every
direction, but chiefly down to the Nymphaeum and east and west along
the Colonnade of Herod, flowed currents of people, for the time given
up to Bacchus and Apollo.
For such indulgence anything more fitting cannot be imagined than the
great roofed streets, which were literally miles on miles of porticos
wrought of marble, polished to the last degree of finish, and all gifts
to the voluptuous city by princes careless of expenditure where, as in
this instance, they thought they were eternizing themselves. Darkness
was not permitted anywhere; and the singing, the laughter, the
shouting, were incessant, and in compound like the roar of waters
dashing through hollow grots, confused by a multitude of echoes.
The many nationalities represented, though they might have amazed a
stranger, were not peculiar to Antioch. Of the various missions of the
great empire, one seems to have been the fusion of men and the
introduction of strangers to each other; accordingly, whole peoples
rose up and went at pleasure, taking with them their costumes, customs,
speech, and gods; and where they chose, they stopped, engaged in
business, built houses, erected altars, and were what they had been at
home.
There was a peculiarity, however, which could not have failed the
notice of a looker-on this night in Antioch. Nearly everybody wore the
colors of one or other of the charioteers announced for the morrow’s
race. Sometimes it was in form of a scarf, sometimes a badge; often a
ribbon or a feather. Whatever the form, it signified merely the
wearer’s partiality; thus, green published a friend of Cleanthes the
Athenian, and black an adherent of the Byzantine. This was according to
a custom, old probably as the day of the race of Orestes—a custom, by
the way, worthy of study as a marvel of history, illustrative of the
absurd yet appalling extremities to which men frequently suffer their
follies to drag them.
The observer abroad on this occasion, once attracted to the wearing of
colors, would have very shortly decided that there were three in
predominance—green, white, and the mixed scarlet and gold.
But let us from the streets to the palace on the island.
The five great chandeliers in the saloon are freshly lighted. The
assemblage is much the same as that already noticed in connection with
the place. The divan has its corps of sleepers and burden of garments,
and the tables yet resound with the rattle and clash of dice. Yet the
greater part of the company are not doing anything. They walk about, or
yawn tremendously, or pause as they pass each other to exchange idle
nothings. Will the weather be fair to-morrow? Are the preparations for
the games complete? Do the laws of the Circus in Antioch differ from
the laws of the Circus in Rome? Truth is, the young fellows are
suffering from ennui. Their heavy work is done; that is, we would find
their tablets, could we look at them, covered with memoranda of
wagers—wagers on every contest; on the running, the wrestling, the
boxing; on everything but the chariot-race.
And why not on that?
Good reader, they cannot find anybody who will hazard so much as a
denarius with them against Messala.
There are no colors in the saloon but his.
No one thinks of his defeat.
Why, they say, is he not perfect in his training? Did he not graduate
from an imperial lanista? Were not his horses winners at the Circensian
in the Circus Maximus? And then—ah, yes! he is a Roman!
In a corner, at ease on the divan, Messala himself may be seen. Around
him, sitting or standing, are his courtierly admirers, plying him with
questions. There is, of course, but one topic.
Enter Drusus and Cecilius.
“Ah!” cries the young prince, throwing himself on the divan at
Messala’s feet, “Ah, by Bacchus, I am tired!”
“Whither away?” asks Messala.
“Up the street; up to the Omphalus, and beyond—who shall say how far?
Rivers of people; never so many in the city before. They say we will
see the whole world at the Circus to-morrow.”
Messala laughed scornfully.
“The idiots! Perpol! They never beheld a Circensian with Cæsar for
editor. But, my Drusus, what found you?”
“Nothing.”
“O—ah! You forget,” said Cecilius.
“What?” asked Drusus.
“The procession of whites.”
“Mirabile!” cried Drusus, half rising. “We met a faction of whites, and
they had a banner. But—ha, ha, ha!”
He fell back indolently.
“Cruel Drusus—not to go on,” said Messala.
“Scum of the desert were they, my Messala, and garbage-eaters from the
Jacob’s Temple in Jerusalem. What had I to do with them!”
“Nay,” said Cecilius, “Drusus is afraid of a laugh, but I am not, my
Messala.”
“Speak thou, then.”
“Well, we stopped the faction, and—”
“Offered them a wager,” said Drusus, relenting, and taking the word
from the shadow’s mouth. “And—ha, ha, ha!—one fellow with not enough
skin on his face to make a worm for a carp stepped forth, and—ha, ha,
ha!—said yes. I drew my tablets. ‘Who is your man?’ I asked. ‘Ben-Hur,
the Jew,’ said he. Then I: ‘What shall it be? How much?’ He answered,
‘A—a—’ Excuse me, Messala. By Jove’s thunder, I cannot go on for
laughter! Ha, ha, ha!”
The listeners leaned forward.
Messala looked to Cecilius.
“A shekel,” said the latter.
“A shekel! A shekel!”
A burst of scornful laughter ran fast upon the repetition.
“And what did Drusus?” asked Messala.
An outcry over about the door just then occasioned a rush to that
quarter; and, as the noise there continued, and grew louder, even
Cecilius betook himself off, pausing only to say, “The noble Drusus, my
Messala, put up his tablets and—lost the shekel.”
“A white! A white!”
“Let him come!”
“This way, this way!”
These and like exclamations filled the saloon, to the stoppage of other
speech. The dice-players quit their games; the sleepers awoke, rubbed
their eyes, drew their tablets, and hurried to the common centre.
“I offer you—”
“And I—”
“I—”
The person so warmly received was the respectable Jew, Ben-Hur’s
fellow-voyager from Cyprus. He entered grave, quiet, observant. His
robe was spotlessly white; so was the cloth of his turban. Bowing and
smiling at the welcome, he moved slowly towards the central table.
Arrived there, he drew his robe about him in a stately manner, took
seat, and waved his hand. The gleam of a jewel on a finger helped him
not a little to the silence which ensued.
“Romans—most noble Romans—I salute you!” he said.
“Easy, by Jupiter! Who is he?” asked Drusus.
“A dog of Israel—Sanballat by name—purveyor for the army; residence,
Rome; vastly rich; grown so as a contractor of furnishments which he
never furnishes. He spins mischiefs, nevertheless, finer than spiders
spin their webs. Come—by the girdle of Venus! let us catch him!”
Messala arose as he spoke, and, with Drusus, joined the mass crowded
about the purveyor.
“It came to me on the street,” said that person, producing his tablets,
and opening them on the table with an impressive air of business, “that
there was great discomfort in the palace because offers on Messala were
going without takers. The gods, you know, must have sacrifices; and
here am I. You see my color; let us to the matter. Odds first, amounts
next. What will you give me?”
The audacity seemed to stun his hearers.
“Haste!” he said. “I have an engagement with the consul.”
The spur was effective.
“Two to one,” cried half a dozen in a voice.
“What!” exclaimed the purveyor, astonished. “Only two to one, and yours
a Roman!”
“Take three, then.”
“Three say you—only three—and mine but a dog of a Jew! Give me four.”
“Four it is,” said a boy, stung by the taunt.
“Five—give me five,” cried the purveyor, instantly.
A profound stillness fell upon the assemblage.
“The consul—your master and mine—is waiting for me.”
The inaction became awkward to the many.
“Give me five—for the honor of Rome, five.”
“Five let it be,” said one in answer.
There was a sharp cheer—a commotion—and Messala himself appeared.
“Five let it be,” he said.
And Sanballat smiled, and made ready to write.
“If Cæsar die to-morrow,” he said, “Rome will not be all bereft. There
is at least one other with spirit to take his place. Give me six.”
“Six be it,” answered Messala.
There was another shout louder than the first.
“Six be it,” repeated Messala. “Six to one—the difference between a
Roman and a Jew. And, having found it, now, O redemptor of the flesh of
swine, let us on. The amount—and quickly. The consul may send for thee,
and I will then be bereft.”
Sanballat took the laugh against him coolly, and wrote, and offered the
writing to Messala.
“Read, read!” everybody demanded.
And Messala read:
“Mem.—Chariot-race. Messala of Rome, in wager with Sanballat, also of
Rome, says he will beat Ben-Hur, the Jew. Amount of wager, twenty
talents. Odds to Sanballat, six to one.
“Witnesses: SANBALLAT.”
There was no noise, no motion. Each person seemed held in the pose the
reading found him. Messala stared at the memorandum, while the eyes
which had him in view opened wide, and stared at him. He felt the gaze,
and thought rapidly. So lately he stood in the same place, and in the
same way hectored the countrymen around him. They would remember it. If
he refused to sign, his hero-ship was lost. And sign he could not; he
was not worth one hundred talents, nor the fifth part of the sum.
Suddenly his mind became a blank; he stood speechless; the color fled
his face. An idea at last came to his relief.
“Thou Jew!” he said, “where hast thou twenty talents? Show me.”
Sanballat’s provoking smile deepened.
“There,” he replied, offering Messala a paper.
“Read, read!” arose all around.
Again Messala read:
“AT ANTIOCH, Tammuz 16th day.
“The bearer, Sanballat of Rome, hath now to his order with me fifty
talents, coin of Cæsar.
SIMONIDES.”
“Fifty talents, fifty talents!” echoed the throng, in amazement.
Then Drusus came to the rescue.
“By Hercules!” he shouted, “the paper lies, and the Jew is a liar. Who
but Cæsar hath fifty talents at order? Down with the insolent white!”
The cry was angry, and it was angrily repeated; yet Sanballat kept his
seat, and his smile grew more exasperating the longer he waited. At