Ben-Hur: A tale of the Christ
length Messala spoke.
“Hush! One to one, my countrymen—one to one, for love of our ancient
Roman name.”
The timely action recovered him his ascendancy.
“O thou circumcised dog!” he continued, to Sanballat, “I gave thee six
to one, did I not?”
“Yes,” said the Jew, quietly.
“Well, give me now the fixing of the amount.”
“With reserve, if the amount be trifling, have thy will,” answered
Sanballat.
“Write, then, five in place of twenty.”
“Hast thou so much?”
“By the mother of the gods, I will show you receipts.”
“Nay, the word of so brave a Roman must pass. Only make the sum
even—six make it, and I will write.”
“Write it so.”
And forthwith they exchanged writings.
Sanballat immediately arose and looked around him, a sneer in place of
his smile. No man better than he knew those with whom he was dealing.
“Romans,” he said, “another wager, if you dare! Five talents against
five talents that the white will win. I challenge you collectively.”
They were again surprised.
“What!” he cried, louder. “Shall it be said in the Circus to-morrow
that a dog of Israel went into the saloon of the palace full of Roman
nobles—among them the scion of a Cæsar—and laid five talents before
them in challenge, and they had not the courage to take it up?”
The sting was unendurable.
“Have done, O insolent!” said Drusus, “write the challenge, and leave
it on the table; and to-morrow, if we find thou hast indeed so much
money to put at such hopeless hazard, I, Drusus, promise it shall be
taken.”
Sanballat wrote again, and, rising, said, unmoved as ever, “See,
Drusus, I leave the offer with you. When it is signed, send it to me
any time before the race begins. I will be found with the consul in a
seat over the Porta Pompae. Peace to you; peace to all.”
He bowed, and departed, careless of the shout of derision with which
they pursued him out of the door.
In the night the story of the prodigious wager flew along the streets
and over the city; and Ben-Hur, lying with his four, was told of it,
and also that Messala’s whole fortune was on the hazard.
And he slept never so soundly.
CHAPTER XII
The Circus at Antioch stood on the south bank of the river, nearly
opposite the island, differing in no respect from the plan of such
buildings in general.
In the purest sense, the games were a gift to the public; consequently,
everybody was free to attend; and, vast as the holding capacity of the
structure was, so fearful were the people, on this occasion, lest there
should not be room for them, that, early the day before the opening of
the exhibition, they took up all the vacant spaces in the vicinity,
where their temporary shelter suggested an army in waiting.
At midnight the entrances were thrown wide, and the rabble, surging in,
occupied the quarters assigned to them, from which nothing less than an
earthquake or an army with spears could have dislodged them. They dozed
the night away on the benches, and breakfasted there; and there the
close of the exercises found them, patient and sight-hungry as in the
beginning.
The better people, their seats secured, began moving towards the Circus
about the first hour of the morning, the noble and very rich among them
distinguished by litters and retinues of liveried servants.
By the second hour, the efflux from the city was a stream unbroken and
innumerable.
Exactly as the gnomon of the official dial up in the citadel pointed
the second hour half gone, the legion, in full panoply, and with all
its standards on exhibit, descended from Mount Sulpius; and when the
rear of the last cohort disappeared in the bridge, Antioch was
literally abandoned—not that the Circus could hold the multitude, but
that the multitude was gone out to it, nevertheless.
A great concourse on the river shore witnessed the consul come over
from the island in a barge of state. As the great man landed, and was
received by the legion, the martial show for one brief moment
transcended the attraction of the Circus.
At the third hour, the audience, if such it may be termed, was
assembled; at last, a flourish of trumpets called for silence, and
instantly the gaze of over a hundred thousand persons was directed
towards a pile forming the eastern section of the building.
There was a basement first, broken in the middle by a broad arched
passage, called the Porta Pompae, over which, on an elevated tribunal
magnificently decorated with insignia and legionary standards, the
consul sat in the place of honor. On both sides of the passage the
basement was divided into stalls termed carceres, each protected in
front by massive gates swung to statuesque pilasters. Over the stalls
next was a cornice crowned by a low balustrade; back of which the seats
arose in theatre arrangement, all occupied by a throng of dignitaries
superbly attired. The pile extended the width of the Circus, and was
flanked on both sides by towers which, besides helping the architects
give grace to their work, served the velaria, or purple awnings,
stretched between them so as to throw the whole quarter in a shade that
became exceedingly grateful as the day advanced.
This structure, it is now thought, can be made useful in helping the
reader to a sufficient understanding of the arrangement of the rest of
the interior of the Circus. He has only to fancy himself seated on the
tribunal with the consul, facing to the west, where everything is under
his eye.
On the right and left, if he will look, he will see the main entrances,
very ample, and guarded by gates hinged to the towers.
Directly below him is the arena—a level plane of considerable extent,
covered with fine white sand. There all the trials will take place
except the running.
Looking across this sanded arena westwardly still, there is a pedestal
of marble supporting three low conical pillars of gray stone, much
carven. Many an eye will hunt for those pillars before the day is done,
for they are the first goal, and mark the beginning and end of the
race-course. Behind the pedestal, leaving a passage-way and space for
an altar, commences a wall ten or twelve feet in breadth and five or
six in height, extending thence exactly two hundred yards, or one
Olympic stadium. At the farther, or westward, extremity of the wall
there is another pedestal, surmounted with pillars which mark the
second goal.
The racers will enter the course on the right of the first goal, and
keep the wall all the time to their left. The beginning and ending
points of the contest lie, consequently, directly in front of the
consul across the arena; and for that reason his seat was admittedly
the most desirable in the Circus.
Now if the reader, who is still supposed to be seated on the consular
tribunal over the Porta Pompae, will look up from the ground
arrangement of the interior, the first point to attract his notice will
be the marking of the outer boundary-line of the course—that is, a
plain-faced, solid wall, fifteen or twenty feet in height, with a
balustrade on its cope, like that over the carceres, or stalls, in the
east. This balcony, if followed round the course, will be found broken
in three places to allow passages of exit and entrance, two in the
north and one in the west; the latter very ornate, and called the Gate
of Triumph, because, when all is over, the victors will pass out that
way, crowned, and with triumphal escort and ceremonies.
At the west end the balcony encloses the course in the form of a half
circle, and is made to uphold two great galleries.
Directly behind the balustrade on the coping of the balcony is the
first seat, from which ascend the succeeding benches, each higher than
the one in front of it; giving to view a spectacle of surpassing
interest—the spectacle of a vast space ruddy and glistening with human
faces, and rich with varicolored costumes.
The commonalty occupy quarters over in the west, beginning at the point
of termination of an awning, stretched, it would seem, for the
accommodation of the better classes exclusively.
Having thus the whole interior of the Circus under view at the moment
of the sounding of the trumpets, let the reader next imagine the
multitude seated and sunk to sudden silence, and motionless in its
intensity of interest.
Out of the Porta Pompae over in the east rises a sound mixed of voices
and instruments harmonized. Presently, forth issues the chorus of the
procession with which the celebration begins; the editor and civic
authorities of the city, givers of the games, follow in robes and
garlands; then the gods, some on platforms borne by men, others in
great four-wheel carriages gorgeously decorated; next them, again, the
contestants of the day, each in costume exactly as he will run,
wrestle, leap, box, or drive.
Slowly crossing the arena, the procession proceeds to make circuit of
the course. The display is beautiful and imposing. Approval runs before
it in a shout, as the water rises and swells in front of a boat in
motion. If the dumb, figured gods make no sign of appreciation of the
welcome, the editor and his associates are not so backward.
The reception of the athletes is even more demonstrative, for there is
not a man in the assemblage who has not something in wager upon them,
though but a mite or farthing. And it is noticeable, as the classes
move by, that the favorites among them are speedily singled out: either
their names are loudest in the uproar, or they are more profusely
showered with wreaths and garlands tossed to them from the balcony.
If there is a question as to the popularity with the public of the
several games, it is now put to rest. To the splendor of the chariots
and the superexcellent beauty of the horses, the charioteers add the
personality necessary to perfect the charm of their display. Their
tunics, short, sleeveless, and of the finest woollen texture, are of
the assigned colors. A horseman accompanies each one of them except
Ben-Hur, who, for some reason—possibly distrust—has chosen to go alone;
so, too, they are all helmeted but him. As they approach, the
spectators stand upon the benches, and there is a sensible deepening of
the clamor, in which a sharp listener may detect the shrill piping of
women and children; at the same time, the things roseate flying from
the balcony thicken into a storm, and, striking the men, drop into the
chariot-beds, which are threatened with filling to the tops. Even the
horses have a share in the ovation; nor may it be said they are less
conscious than their masters of the honors they receive.
Very soon, as with the other contestants, it is made apparent that some
of the drivers are more in favor than others; and then the discovery
follows that nearly every individual on the benches, women and children
as well as men, wears a color, most frequently a ribbon upon the breast
or in the hair: now it is green, now yellow, now blue; but, searching
the great body carefully, it is manifest that there is a preponderance
of white, and scarlet and gold.
In a modern assemblage called together as this one is, particularly
where there are sums at hazard upon the race, a preference would be
decided by the qualities or performance of the horses; here, however,
nationality was the rule. If the Byzantine and Sidonian found small
support, it was because their cities were scarcely represented on the
benches. On their side, the Greeks, though very numerous, were divided
between the Corinthian and the Athenian, leaving but a scant showing of
green and yellow. Messala’s scarlet and gold would have been but little
better had not the citizens of Antioch, proverbially a race of
courtiers, joined the Romans by adopting the color of their favorite.
There were left then the country people, or Syrians, the Jews, and the