Ben-Hur: A tale of the Christ
“All Jerusalem is going out to the prophet, and with many people else
the shore on which he abides is like Mount Olivet in the last days of
the Passover.
“MALLUCH.”
Ben-Hur’s face flushed with joy.
“By this word, O my friends,” he said—“by this word, our waiting is at
end. The herald of the King has appeared and announced him.”
Upon hearing the letter read, they also rejoiced at the promise it held
out.
“Get ready now,” he added, “and in the morning set your faces homeward;
when arrived there, send word to those under you, and bid them be ready
to assemble as I may direct. For myself and you, I will go see if the
King be indeed at hand, and send you report. Let us, in the meantime,
live in the pleasure of the promise.”
Going into the cave, he addressed a letter to Ilderim, and another to
Simonides, giving notice of the news received, and of his purpose to go
up immediately to Jerusalem. The letters he despatched by swift
messengers. When night fell, and the stars of direction came out, he
mounted, and with an Arab guide set out for the Jordan, intending to
strike the track of the caravans between Rabbath-Ammon and Damascus.
The guide was sure, and Aldebaran swift; so by midnight the two were
out of the lava fastness speeding southward.
CHAPTER II
It was Ben-Hur’s purpose to turn aside at the break of day, and find a
safe place in which to rest; but the dawn overtook him while out in the
Desert, and he kept on, the guide promising to bring him afterwhile to
a vale shut in by great rocks, where there were a spring, some
mulberry-trees, and herbage in plenty for the horses.
As he rode thinking of the wondrous events so soon to happen, and of
the changes they were to bring about in the affairs of men and nations,
the guide, ever on the alert, called attention to an appearance of
strangers behind them. Everywhere around the Desert stretched away in
waves of sand, slowly yellowing in the growing light, and without any
green thing visible. Over on the left, but still far off, a range of
low mountains extended, apparently interminable. In the vacancy of such
a waste an object in motion could not long continue a mystery.
“It is a camel with riders,” the guide said, directly.
“Are there others behind?” said Ben-Hur.
“It is alone. No, there is a man on horseback—the driver, probably.”
A little later Ben-Hur himself could see the camel was white and
unusually large, reminding him of the wonderful animal he had seen
bring Balthasar and Iras to the fountain in the Grove of Daphne. There
could be no other like it. Thinking then of the fair Egyptian,
insensibly his gait became slower, and at length fell into the merest
loiter, until finally he could discern a curtained houdah, and two
persons seated within it. If they were Balthasar and Iras! Should he
make himself known to them? But it could not be: this was the
Desert—and they were alone. But while he debated the question the long
swinging stride of the camel brought its riders up to him. He heard the
ringing of the tiny bells, and beheld the rich housings which had been
so attractive to the crowd at the Castalian fount. He beheld also the
Ethiopian, always attendant upon the Egyptians. The tall brute stopped
close by his horse, and Ben-Hur, looking up, lo! Iras herself under the
raised curtain looking down at him, her great swimming eyes bright with
astonishment and inquiry!
“The blessing of the true God upon you!” said Balthasar, in his
tremulous voice.
“And to thee and thine be the peace of the Lord,” Ben-Hur replied.
“My eyes are weak with years,” said Balthasar; “but they approve you
that son of Hur whom lately I knew an honored guest in the tent of
Ilderim the Generous.”
“And thou art that Balthasar, the wise Egyptian, whose speech
concerning certain holy things in expectation is having so much to do
with the finding me in this waste place. What dost thou here?”
“He is never alone who is where God is—and God is everywhere,”
Balthasar answered, gravely; “but in the sense of your asking, there is
a caravan short way behind us going to Alexandria; and as it is to pass
through Jerusalem, I thought best to avail myself of its company as far
as the Holy City, whither I am journeying. This morning, however, in
discontent with its slow movement—slower because of a Roman cohort in
attendance upon it—we rose early, and ventured thus far in advance. As
to robbers along the way, we are not afraid, for I have here a signet
of Sheik Ilderim; against beasts of prey, God is our sufficient trust.”
Ben-Hur bowed and said, “The good sheik’s signet is a safeguard
wherever the wilderness extends, and the lion shall be swift that
overtakes this king of his kind.”
He patted the neck of the camel as he spoke.
“Yet,” said Iras, with a smile which was not lost upon the youth, whose
eyes, it must be admitted, had several times turned to her during the
interchange of speeches with the elder—“Yet even he would be better if
his fast were broken. Kings have hunger and headaches. If you be,
indeed, the Ben-Hur of whom my father has spoken, and whom it was my
pleasure to have known as well, you will be happy, I am sure, to show
us some near path to living water, that with its sparkle we may grace a
morning’s meal in the Desert.”
Ben-Hur, nothing loath, hastened to answer.
“Fair Egyptian, I give you sympathy. Can you bear suffering a little
longer, we will find the spring you ask for, and I promise that its
draught shall be as sweet and cooling as that of the more famous
Castalia. With leave, we will make haste.”
“I give you the blessing of the thirsty,” she replied; “and offer you
in return a bit of bread from the city ovens, dipped in fresh butter
from the dewy meadows of Damascus.”
“A most rare favor! Let us go on.”
So saying, Ben-Hur rode forward with the guide, one of the
inconveniences of travelling with camels being that it is necessarily
an interdiction of polite conversation.
Afterwhile the party came to a shallow wady, down which, turning to the
right hand, the guide led them. The bed of the cut was somewhat soft
from recent rains, and quite bold in its descent. Momentarily, however,
it widened; and erelong the sides became bluffs ribbed with rocks much
scarred by floods rushing to lower depths ahead. Finally, from a narrow
passage, the travellers entered a spreading vale which was very
delightful; but come upon suddenly from the yellow, unrelieved,
verdureless plain, it had the effect of a freshly discovered Paradise.
The water-channels winding here and there, definable by crisp white
shingling, appeared like threads tangled among islands green with
grasses and fringed with reeds. Up from the final depths of the valley
of the Jordan some venturous oleanders had crept, and with their large
bloom now starred the sunken place. One palm-tree arose in royal
assertion. The bases of the boundary-walls were cloaked with clambering
vines, and under a leaning cliff over on the left the mulberry grove
had planted itself, proclaiming the spring which the party were
seeking. And thither the guide conducted them, careless of whistling
partridges and lesser birds of brighter hues roused whirring from the
reedy coverts.
The water started from a crack in the cliff which some loving hand had
enlarged into an arched cavity. Graven over it in bold Hebraic letters
was the word GOD. The graver had no doubt drunk there, and tarried many
days, and given thanks in that durable form. From the arch the stream
ran merrily over a flag spotted with bright moss, and leaped into a
pool glassy clear; thence it stole away between grassy banks, nursing
the trees before it vanished in the thirsty sand. A few narrow paths
were noticeable about the margin of the pool; otherwise the space
around was untrodden turf, at sight of which the guide was assured of
rest free from intrusion by men. The horses were presently turned
loose, and from the kneeling camel the Ethiopian assisted Balthasar and
Iras; whereupon the old man, turning his face to the east, crossed his
hands reverently upon his breast and prayed.
“Bring me a cup,” Iras said, with some impatience.
From the houdah the slave brought her a crystal goblet; then she said
to Ben-Hur,
“I will be your servant at the fountain.”
They walked to the pool together. He would have dipped the water for
her, but she refused his offer, and kneeling, held the cup to be filled
by the stream itself; nor yet content, when it was cooled and
overrunning, she tendered him the first draught.
“No,” he said, putting the graceful hand aside, and seeing only the
large eyes half hidden beneath the arches of the upraised brows, “be
the service mine, I pray.”
She persisted in having her way.
“In my country, O son of Hur, we have a saying, ‘Better a cupbearer to
the fortunate than minister to a king.’”
“Fortunate!” he said.
There were both surprise and inquiry in the tone of his voice and in
his look, and she said quickly,
“The gods give us success as a sign by which we may know them on our
side. Were you not winner in the Circus?”
His cheeks began to flush.
“That was one sign. There is another. In a combat with swords you slew
a Roman.”
The flush deepened—not so much for the triumphs themselves as the
flattery there was in the thought that she had followed his career with
interest. A moment, and the pleasure was succeeded by a reflection. The
combat, he knew, was matter of report throughout the East; but the name
of the victor had been committed to a very few—Malluch, Ilderim, and
Simonides. Could they have made a confidante of the woman? So with
wonder and gratification he was confused; and seeing it, she arose and
said, holding the cup over the pool,
“O gods of Egypt! I give thanks for a hero discovered—thanks that the
victim in the Palace of Idernee was not my king of men. And so, O holy
gods, I pour and drink.”
Part of the contents of the cup she returned to the stream, the rest
she drank. When she took the crystal from her lips, she laughed at him.
“O son of Hur, is it a fashion of the very brave to be so easily
overcome by a woman? Take the cup now, and see if you cannot find a
happy word in it for me.”
He took the cup, and stooped to refill it.
“A son of Israel has no gods whom he can libate,” he said, playing with
the water to hide his amazement, now greater than before. What more did
the Egyptian know about him? Had she been told of his relations with
Simonides? And there was the treaty with Ilderim—had she knowledge of
that also? He was struck with mistrust. Somebody had betrayed his
secrets, and they were serious. And, besides, he was going to
Jerusalem, just then of all the world the place where such intelligence
possessed by an enemy might be most dangerous to him, his associates,
and the cause. But was she an enemy? It is well for us that, while
writing is slow, thought is instantaneous. When the cup was fairly
cooled, he filled it and arose, saying, with indifference well
affected,
“Most fair, were I an Egyptian or a Greek or a Roman, I would say”—he
raised the goblet overhead as he spoke—“O ye better gods! I give thanks
that there are yet left to the world, despite its wrongs and
sufferings, the charm of beauty and the solace of love, and I drink to
her who best represents them—to Iras, loveliest of the daughters of the
Nile!”
She laid her hand softly upon his shoulder.
“You have offended against the law. The gods you have drunk to are
false gods. Why shall I not tell the rabbis on you?”
“Oh!” he replied, laughing, “that is very little to tell for one who
knows so much else that is really important.”
“I will go further—I will go to the little Jewess who makes the roses
grow and the shadows flame in the house of the great merchant over in