Ben-Hur: A tale of the Christ
“That would be to make me a Jew. No, nothing but the grapes. Never
waters mixed so sweetly as the blood of the Greek and the blood of the
grape.”
The singer in the grimed and seething market, with all his airs of the
court, is a vision not easily shut out of mind by such as see him; as
if for the purpose, however, a person follows him challenging all our
wonder. He comes up the road slowly, his face towards the ground; at
intervals he stops, crosses his hands upon his breast, lengthens his
countenance, and turns his eyes towards heaven, as if about to break
into prayer. Nowhere, except in Jerusalem, can such a character be
found. On his forehead, attached to the band which keeps the mantle in
place, projects a leathern case, square in form; another similar case
is tied by a thong to the left arm; the borders of his robe are
decorated with deep fringe; and by such signs—the phylacteries, the
enlarged borders of the garment, and the savor of intense holiness
pervading the whole man—we know him to be a Pharisee, one of an
organization (in religion a sect, in politics a party) whose bigotry
and power will shortly bring the world to grief.
The densest of the throng outside the gate covers the road leading off
to Joppa. Turning from the Pharisee, we are attracted by some parties
who, as subjects of study, opportunely separate themselves from the
motley crowd. First among them a man of very noble appearance—clear,
healthful complexion; bright black eyes; beard long and flowing, and
rich with unguents; apparel well-fitting, costly, and suitable for the
season. He carries a staff, and wears, suspended by a cord from his
neck, a large golden seal. Several servants attend him, some of them
with short swords stuck through their sashes; when they address him, it
is with the utmost deference. The rest of the party consists of two
Arabs of the pure desert stock; thin, wiry men, deeply bronzed, and
with hollow cheeks, and eyes of almost evil brightness; on their heads
red tarbooshes; over their abas, and wrapping the left shoulder and the
body so as to leave the right arm free, brown woollen haicks, or
blankets. There is loud chaffering, for the Arabs are leading horses
and trying to sell them; and, in their eagerness, they speak in high,
shrill voices. The courtly person leaves the talking mostly to his
servants; occasionally he answers with much dignity; directly, seeing
the Cypriote, he stops and buys some figs. And when the whole party has
passed the portal, close after the Pharisee, if we betake ourselves to
the dealer in fruits, he will tell, with a wonderful salaam, that the
stranger is a Jew, one of the princes of the city, who has travelled,
and learned the difference between the common grapes of Syria and those
of Cyprus, so surpassingly rich with the dews of the sea.
And so, till towards noon, sometimes later, the steady currents of
business habitually flow in and out of the Joppa Gate, carrying with
them every variety of character; including representatives of all the
tribes of Israel, all the sects among whom the ancient faith has been
parcelled and refined away, all the religious and social divisions, all
the adventurous rabble who, as children of art and ministers of
pleasure, riot in the prodigalities of Herod, and all the peoples of
note at any time compassed by the Cæsars and their predecessors,
especially those dwelling within the circuit of the Mediterranean.
In other words, Jerusalem, rich in sacred history, richer in connection
with sacred prophecies—the Jerusalem of Solomon, in which silver was as
stones, and cedars as the sycamores of the vale—had come to be but a
copy of Rome, a center of unholy practises, a seat of pagan power. A
Jewish king one day put on priestly garments, and went into the Holy of
Holies of the first temple to offer incense, and he came out a leper;
but in the time of which we are reading, Pompey entered Herod’s temple
and the same Holy of Holies, and came out without harm, finding but an
empty chamber, and of God not a sign.
CHAPTER VIII
The reader is now besought to return to the court described as part of
the market at the Joppa Gate. It was the third hour of the day, and
many of the people had gone away; yet the press continued without
apparent abatement. Of the new-comers, there was a group over by the
south wall, consisting of a man, a woman, and a donkey, which requires
extended notice.
The man stood by the animal’s head, holding a leading-strap, and
leaning upon a stick which seemed to have been chosen for the double
purpose of goad and staff. His dress was like that of the ordinary Jews
around him, except that it had an appearance of newness. The mantle
dropping from his head, and the robe or frock which clothed his person
from neck to heel, were probably the garments he was accustomed to wear
to the synagogue on Sabbath days. His features were exposed, and they
told of fifty years of life, a surmise confirmed by the gray that
streaked his otherwise black beard. He looked around him with the
half-curious, half-vacant stare of a stranger and provincial.
The donkey ate leisurely from an armful of green grass, of which there
was an abundance in the market. In its sleepy content, the brute did
not admit of disturbance from the bustle and clamor about; no more was
it mindful of the woman sitting upon its back in a cushioned pillion.
An outer robe of dull woollen stuff completely covered her person,
while a white wimple veiled her head and neck. Once in a while,
impelled by curiosity to see or hear something passing, she drew the
wimple aside, but so slightly that the face remained invisible.
At length the man was accosted.
“Are you not Joseph of Nazareth?”
The speaker was standing close by.
“I am so called,” answered Joseph, turning gravely around; “And you—ah,
peace be unto you! my friend, Rabbi Samuel!”
“The same give I back to you.” The Rabbi paused, looking at the woman,
then added, “To you, and unto your house and all your helpers, be
peace.”
With the last word, he placed one hand upon his breast, and inclined
his head to the woman, who, to see him, had by this time withdrawn the
wimple enough to show the face of one but a short time out of girlhood.
Thereupon the acquaintances grasped right hands, as if to carry them to
their lips; at the last moment, however, the clasp was let go, and each
kissed his own hand, then put its palm upon his forehead.
“There is so little dust upon your garments,” the Rabbi said,
familiarly, “that I infer you passed the night in this city of our
fathers.”
“No,” Joseph replied, “as we could only make Bethany before the night
came, we stayed in the khan there, and took the road again at
daybreak.”
“The journey before you is long, then—not to Joppa, I hope.”
“Only to Bethlehem.”
The countenance of the Rabbi, theretofore open and friendly, became
lowering and sinister, and he cleared his throat with a growl instead
of a cough.
“Yes, yes—I see,” he said. “You were born in Bethlehem, and wend
thither now, with your daughter, to be counted for taxation, as ordered
by Cæsar. The children of Jacob are as the tribes in Egypt were—only
they have neither a Moses nor a Joshua. How are the mighty fallen!”
Joseph answered, without change of posture or countenance,
“The woman is not my daughter.”
But the Rabbi clung to the political idea; and he went on, without
noticing the explanation, “What are the Zealots doing down in Galilee?”
“I am a carpenter, and Nazareth is a village,” said Joseph, cautiously.
“The street on which my bench stands is not a road leading to any city.
Hewing wood and sawing plank leave me no time to take part in the
disputes of parties.”
“But you are a Jew,” said the Rabbi, earnestly. “You are a Jew, and of
the line of David. It is not possible you can find pleasure in the
payment of any tax except the shekel given by ancient custom to
Jehovah.”
Joseph held his peace.
“I do not complain,” his friend continued, “of the amount of the tax—a
denarius is a trifle. Oh no! The imposition of the tax is the offense.
And, besides, what is paying it but submission to tyranny? Tell me, is
it true that Judas claims to be the Messiah? You live in the midst of
his followers.”
“I have heard his followers say he was the Messiah,” Joseph replied.
At this point the wimple was drawn aside, and for an instant the whole
face of the woman was exposed. The eyes of the Rabbi wandered that way,
and he had time to see a countenance of rare beauty, kindled by a look
of intense interest; then a blush overspread her cheeks and brow, and
the veil was returned to its place.
The politician forgot his subject.
“Your daughter is comely,” he said, speaking lower.
“She is not my daughter,” Joseph repeated.
The curiosity of the Rabbi was aroused; seeing which, the Nazarene
hastened to say further, “She is the child of Joachim and Anna of
Bethlehem, of whom you have at least heard, for they were of great
repute—”
“Yes,” remarked the Rabbi, deferentially, “I know them. They were
lineally descended from David. I knew them well.”
“Well, they are dead now,” the Nazarene proceeded. “They died in
Nazareth. Joachim was not rich, yet he left a house and garden to be
divided between his daughters Marian and Mary. This is one of them; and
to save her portion of the property, the law required her to marry her
next of kin. She is now my wife.”
“And you were—”
“Her uncle.”
“Yes, yes! And as you were both born in Bethlehem, the Roman compels
you to take her there with you to be also counted.”
The Rabbi clasped his hands, and looked indignantly to heaven,
exclaiming, “The God of Israel still lives! The vengeance is his!”
With that he turned and abruptly departed. A stranger near by,
observing Joseph’s amazement, said, quietly, “Rabbi Samuel is a zealot.
Judas himself is not more fierce.”
Joseph, not wishing to talk with the man, appeared not to hear, and
busied himself gathering in a little heap the grass which the donkey
had tossed abroad; after which he leaned upon his staff again, and
waited.
In another hour the party passed out the gate, and, turning to the
left, took the road into Bethlehem. The descent into the valley of
Hinnom was quite broken, garnished here and there with straggling wild
olive-trees. Carefully, tenderly, the Nazarene walked by the woman’s
side, leading-strap in hand. On their left, reaching to the south and
east round Mount Zion, rose the city wall, and on their right the steep
prominences which form the western boundary of the valley.
Slowly they passed the Lower Pool of Gihon, out of which the sun was
fast driving the lessening shadow of the royal hill; slowly they
proceeded, keeping parallel with the aqueduct from the Pools of
Solomon, until near the site of the country-house on what is now called
the Hill of Evil Counsel; there they began to ascend to the plain of
Rephaim. The sun streamed garishly over the stony face of the famous
locality, and under its influence Mary, the daughter of Joachim,
dropped the wimple entirely, and bared her head. Joseph told the story
of the Philistines surprised in their camp there by David. He was
tedious in the narrative, speaking with the solemn countenance and
lifeless manner of a dull man. She did not always hear him.
Wherever on the land men go, and on the sea ships, the face and figure
of the Jew are familiar. The physical type of the race has always been
the same; yet there have been some individual variations. “Now he was
ruddy, and withal of a beautiful countenance, and goodly to look to.”
Such was the son of Jesse when brought before Samuel. The fancies of
men have been ever since ruled by the description. Poetic license has
extended the peculiarities of the ancestor to his notable descendants.