Ben-Hur: A tale of the Christ
could he but think of the King Who Was Coming, to whom he was himself
devoted, whose path he had undertaken to smooth, whose empty hands he
dreamed of filling? And forward ran his fancy to the day the new King
should come to claim his own and take possession of it—of Moriah and
its Temple; of Zion and its towers and palaces; of Antonia, frowning
darkly there just to the right of the Temple; of the new unwalled city
of Bezetha; of the millions of Israel to assemble with palm-branches
and banners, to sing rejoicing because the Lord had conquered and given
them the world.
Men speak of dreaming as if it were a phenomenon of night and sleep.
They should know better. All results achieved by us are self-promised,
and all self-promises are made in dreams awake. Dreaming is the relief
of labor, the wine that sustains us in act. We learn to love labor, not
for itself, but for the opportunity it furnishes for dreaming, which is
the great under-monotone of real life, unheard, unnoticed, because of
its constancy. Living is dreaming. Only in the grave are there no
dreams. Let no one smile at Ben-Hur for doing that which he himself
would have done at that time and place under the same circumstances.
The sun stooped low in its course. Awhile the flaring disk seemed to
perch itself on the far summit of the mountains in the west, brazening
all the sky above the city, and rimming the walls and towers with the
brightness of gold. Then it disappeared as with a plunge. The quiet
turned Ben-Hur’s thought homeward. There was a point in the sky a
little north of the peerless front of the Holy of Holies upon which he
fixed his gaze: under it, straight as a leadline would have dropped,
lay his father’s house, if yet the house endured.
The mellowing influences of the evening mellowed his feelings, and,
putting his ambitions aside, he thought of the duty that was bringing
him to Jerusalem.
Out in the desert while with Ilderim, looking for strong places and
acquainting himself with it generally, as a soldier studies a country
in which he has projected a campaign, a messenger came one evening with
the news that Gratus was removed, and Pontius Pilate sent to take his
place.
Messala was disabled and believed him dead; Gratus was powerless and
gone; why should Ben-Hur longer defer the search for his mother and
sister? There was nothing to fear now. If he could not himself see into
the prisons of Judea, he could examine them with the eyes of others. If
the lost were found, Pilate could have no motive in holding them in
custody—none, at least, which could not be overcome by purchase. If
found, he would carry them to a place of safety, and then, in calmer
mind, his conscience at rest, this one first duty done, he could give
himself more entirely to the King Who Was Coming. He resolved at once.
That night he counselled with Ilderim, and obtained his assent. Three
Arabs came with him to Jericho, where he left them and the horses, and
proceeded alone and on foot. Malluch was to meet him in Jerusalem.
Ben-Hur’s scheme, be it observed, was as yet a generality.
In view of the future, it was advisable to keep himself in hiding from
the authorities, particularly the Romans. Malluch was shrewd and
trusty; the very man to charge with the conduct of the investigation.
Where to begin was the first point. He had no clear idea about it. His
wish was to commence with the Tower of Antonia. Tradition not of long
standing planted the gloomy pile over a labyrinth of prison-cells,
which, more even than the strong garrison, kept it a terror to the
Jewish fancy. A burial, such as his people had been subjected to, might
be possible there. Besides, in such a strait, the natural inclination
is to start search at the place where the loss occurred, and he could
not forget that his last sight of the loved ones was as the guard
pushed them along the street in the direction to the Tower. If they
were not there now, but had been, some record of the fact must remain,
a clew which had only to be followed faithfully to the end.
Under this inclination, moreover, there was a hope which he could not
forego. From Simonides he knew Amrah, the Egyptian nurse, was living.
It will be remembered, doubtless, that the faithful creature, the
morning the calamity overtook the Hurs, broke from the guard and ran
back into the palace, where, along with other chattels, she had been
sealed up. During the years following, Simonides kept her supplied; so
she was there now, sole occupant of the great house, which, with all
his offers, Gratus had not been able to sell. The story of its rightful
owners sufficed to secure the property from strangers, whether
purchasers or mere occupants. People going to and fro passed it with
whispers. Its reputation was that of a haunted house; derived probably
from the infrequent glimpses of poor old Amrah, sometimes on the roof,
sometimes in a latticed window. Certainly no more constant spirit ever
abided than she; nor was there ever a tenement so shunned and fitted
for ghostly habitation. Now, if he could get to her, Ben-Hur fancied
she could help him to knowledge which, though faint, might yet be
serviceable. Anyhow, sight of her in that place, so endeared by
recollection, would be to him a pleasure next to finding the objects of
his solicitude.
So, first of all things, he would go to the old house, and look for
Amrah.
Thus resolved, he arose shortly after the going-down of the sun, and
began descent of the Mount by the road which, from the summit, bends a
little north of east. Down nearly at the foot, close by the bed of the
Cedron, he came to the intersection with the road leading south to the
village of Siloam and the pool of that name. There he fell in with a
herdsman driving some sheep to market. He spoke to the man, and joined
him, and in his company passed by Gethsemane on into the city through
the Fish Gate.
CHAPTER IV
It was dark when, parting with the drover inside the gate, Ben-Hur
turned into a narrow lane leading to the south. A few of the people
whom he met saluted him. The bouldering of the pavement was rough. The
houses on both sides were low, dark, and cheerless; the doors all
closed: from the roofs, occasionally, he heard women crooning to
children. The loneliness of his situation, the night, the uncertainty
cloaking the object of his coming, all affected him cheerlessly. With
feelings sinking lower and lower, he came directly to the deep
reservoir now known as the Pool of Bethesda, in which the water
reflected the over-pending sky. Looking up, he beheld the northern wall
of the Tower of Antonia, a black frowning heap reared into the dim
steel-gray sky. He halted as if challenged by a threatening sentinel.
The Tower stood up so high, and seemed so vast, resting apparently upon
foundations so sure, that he was constrained to acknowledge its
strength. If his mother were there in living burial, what could he do
for her? By the strong hand, nothing. An army might beat the stony face
with ballista and ram, and be laughed at. Against him alone, the
gigantic southeast turret looked down in the self-containment of a
hill. And he thought, cunning is so easily baffled; and God, always the
last resort of the helpless—God is sometimes so slow to act!
In doubt and misgiving, he turned into the street in front of the
Tower, and followed it slowly on to the west.
Over in Bezetha he knew there was a khan, where it was his intention to
seek lodging while in the city; but just now he could not resist the
impulse to go home. His heart drew him that way.
The old formal salutation which he received from the few people who
passed him had never sounded so pleasantly. Presently, all the eastern
sky began to silver and shine, and objects before invisible in the
west—chiefly the tall towers on Mount Zion—emerged as from a shadowy
depth, and put on spectral distinctness, floating, as it were, above
the yawning blackness of the valley below, very castles in the air.
He came, at length, to his father’s house.
Of those who read this page, some there will be to divine his feelings
without prompting. They are such as had happy homes in their youth, no
matter how far that may have been back in time—homes which are now the
starting-points of all recollection; paradises from which they went
forth in tears, and which they would now return to, if they could, as
little children; places of laughter and singing, and associations
dearer than any or all the triumphs of after-life.
At the gate on the north side of the old house Ben-Hur stopped. In the
corners the wax used in the sealing-up was still plainly seen, and
across the valves was the board with the inscription—
“THIS IS THE PROPERTY OF
THE EMPEROR.”
Nobody had gone in or out the gate since the dreadful day of the
separation. Should he knock as of old? It was useless, he knew; yet he
could not resist the temptation. Amrah might hear, and look out of one
of the windows on that side. Taking a stone, he mounted the broad stone
step, and tapped three times. A dull echo replied. He tried again,
louder than before; and again, pausing each time to listen. The silence
was mocking. Retiring into the street, he watched the windows; but
they, too, were lifeless. The parapet on the roof was defined sharply
against the brightening sky; nothing could have stirred upon it unseen
by him, and nothing did stir.
From the north side he passed to the west, where there were four
windows which he watched long and anxiously, but with as little effect.
At times his heart swelled with impotent wishes; at others, he trembled
at the deceptions of his own fancy. Amrah made no sign—not even a ghost
stirred.
Silently, then, he stole round to the south. There, too, the gate was
sealed and inscribed. The mellow splendor of the August moon, pouring
over the crest of Olivet, since termed the Mount of Offence, brought
the lettering boldly out; and he read, and was filled with rage. All he
could do was to wrench the board from its nailing, and hurl it into the
ditch. Then he sat upon the step, and prayed for the New King, and that
his coming might be hastened. As his blood cooled, insensibly he
yielded to the fatigue of long travel in the summer heat, and sank down
lower, and, at last, slept.
About that time two women came down the street from the direction of
the Tower of Antonia, approaching the palace of the Hurs. They advanced
stealthily, with timid steps, pausing often to listen. At the corner of
the rugged pile, one said to the other, in a low voice,
“This is it, Tirzah!”
And Tirzah, after a look, caught her mother’s hand, and leaned upon her
heavily, sobbing, but silent.
“Let us go on, my child, because”—the mother hesitated and trembled;
then, with an effort to be calm, continued—“because when morning comes
they will put us out of the gate of the city to—return no more.”
Tirzah sank almost to the stones.
“Ah, yes!” she said, between sobs; “I forgot. I had the feeling of
going home. But we are lepers, and have no homes; we belong to the
dead!”
The mother stooped and raised her tenderly, saying, “We have nothing to
fear. Let us go on.”
Indeed, lifting their empty hands, they could have run upon a legion
and put it to flight.
And, creeping in close to the rough wall, they glided on, like two
ghosts, till they came to the gate, before which they also paused.
Seeing the board, they stepped upon the stone in the scarce cold tracks
of Ben-Hur, and read the inscription—“This is the Property of the
Emperor.”
Then the mother clasped her hands, and, with upraised eyes, moaned in
unutterable anguish.
“What now, mother? You scare me!”
And the answer was, presently, “Oh, Tirzah, the poor are dead! He is
dead!”
“Who, mother?”