Ben-Hur: A tale of the Christ
loaded the air; and as this was the occasion when every son of Israel
was full brother to every other son of Israel, and hospitality was
without bounds, Ben-Hur was saluted at every step, while the groups by
the fires insisted, “Stay and partake with us. We are brethren in the
love of the Lord.” But with thanks to them he hurried on, intending to
take horse at the khan and return to the tents on the Cedron.
To make the place, it was necessary for him to cross the thoroughfare
so soon to receive sorrowful Christian perpetuation. There also the
pious celebration was at its height. Looking up the street, he noticed
the flames of torches in motion streaming out like pennons; then he
observed that the singing ceased where the torches came. His wonder
rose to its highest, however, when he became certain that amidst the
smoke and dancing sparks he saw the keener sparkling of burnished
spear-tips, arguing the presence of Roman soldiers. What were they, the
scoffing legionaries, doing in a Jewish religious procession? The
circumstance was unheard of, and he stayed to see the meaning of it.
The moon was shining its best; yet, as if the moon and the torches, and
the fires in the street, and the rays streaming from windows and open
doors were not enough to make the way clear, some of the processionists
carried lighted lanterns; and fancying he discovered a special purpose
in the use of such equipments, Ben-Hur stepped into the street so close
to the line of march as to bring every one of the company under view
while passing. The torches and the lanterns were being borne by
servants, each of whom was armed with a bludgeon or a sharpened stave.
Their present duty seemed to be to pick out the smoothest paths among
the rocks in the street for certain dignitaries among them—elders and
priests; rabbis with long beards, heavy brows, and beaked noses; men of
the class potential in the councils of Caiaphas and Hannas. Where could
they be going? Not to the Temple, certainly, for the route to the
sacred house from Zion, whence these appeared to be coming, was by the
Xystus. And their business—if peaceful, why the soldiers?
As the procession began to go by Ben-Hur, his attention was
particularly called to three persons walking together. They were well
towards the front, and the servants who went before them with lanterns
appeared unusually careful in the service. In the person moving on the
left of this group he recognized a chief policeman of the Temple; the
one on the right was a priest; the middle man was not at first so
easily placed, as he walked leaning heavily upon the arms of the
others, and carried his head so low upon his breast as to hide his
face. His appearance was that of a prisoner not yet recovered from the
fright of arrest, or being taken to something dreadful—to torture or
death. The dignitaries helping him on the right and left, and the
attention they gave him, made it clear that if he were not himself the
object moving the party, he was at least in some way connected with the
object—a witness or a guide, possibly an informer. So if it could be
found who he was the business in hand might be shrewdly guessed. With
great assurance, Ben-Hur fell in on the right of the priest, and walked
along with him. Now if the man would lift his head! And presently he
did so, letting the light of the lanterns strike full in his face,
pale, dazed, pinched with dread; the beard roughed; the eyes filmy,
sunken, and despairing. In much going about following the Nazarene,
Ben-Hur had come to know his disciples as well as the Master; and now,
at sight of the dismal countenance, he cried out,
“The ’Scariot!”
Slowly the head of the man turned until his eyes settled upon Ben-Hur,
and his lips moved as if he were about to speak; but the priest
interfered.
“Who art thou? Begone!” he said to Ben-Hur, pushing him away.
The young man took the push good-naturedly, and, waiting an
opportunity, fell into the procession again. Thus he was carried
passively along down the street, through the crowded lowlands between
the hill Bezetha and the Castle of Antonia, and on by the Bethesda
reservoir to the Sheep Gate. There were people everywhere, and
everywhere the people were engaged in sacred observances.
It being Passover night, the valves of the Gate stood open. The keepers
were off somewhere feasting. In front of the procession as it passed
out unchallenged was the deep gorge of the Cedron, with Olivet beyond,
its dressing of cedar and olive trees darker of the moonlight silvering
all the heavens. Two roads met and merged into the street at the
gate—one from the northeast, the other from Bethany. Ere Ben-Hur could
finish wondering whether he were to go farther, and if so, which road
was to be taken, he was led off down into the gorge. And still no hint
of the purpose of the midnight march.
Down the gorge and over the bridge at the bottom of it. There was a
great clatter on the floor as the crowd, now a straggling rabble,
passed over beating and pounding with their clubs and staves. A little
farther, and they turned off to the left in the direction of an olive
orchard enclosed by a stone wall in view from the road. Ben-Hur knew
there was nothing in the place but old gnarled trees, the grass, and a
trough hewn out of a rock for the treading of oil after the fashion of
the country. While, yet more wonder-struck, he was thinking what could
bring such a company at such an hour to a quarter so lonesome, they
were all brought to a standstill. Voices called out excitedly in front;
a chill sensation ran from man to man; there was a rapid falling-back,
and a blind stumbling over each other. The soldiers alone kept their
order.
It took Ben-Hur but a moment to disengage himself from the mob and run
forward. There he found a gateway without a gate admitting to the
orchard, and he halted to take in the scene.
A man in white clothes, and bareheaded, was standing outside the
entrance, his hands crossed before him—a slender, stooping figure, with
long hair and thin face—in an attitude of resignation and waiting.
It was the Nazarene!
Behind him, next the gateway, were the disciples in a group; they were
excited, but no man was ever calmer than he. The torchlight beat redly
upon him, giving his hair a tint ruddier than was natural to it; yet
the expression of the countenance was as usual all gentleness and pity.
Opposite this most unmartial figure stood the rabble, gaping, silent,
awed, cowering—ready at a sign of anger from him to break and run. And
from him to them—then at Judas, conspicuous in their midst—Ben-Hur
looked—one quick glance, and the object of the visit lay open to his
understanding. Here was the betrayer, there the betrayed; and these
with clubs and staves, and the legionaries, were brought to take him.
A man may not always tell what he will do until the trial is upon him.
This was the emergency for which Ben-Hur had been for years preparing.
The man to whose security he had devoted himself, and upon whose life
he had been building so largely, was in personal peril; yet he stood
still. Such contradictions are there in human nature! To say truth, O
reader, he was not entirely recovered from the picture of the Christ
before the Gate Beautiful as it had been given by the Egyptian; and,
besides that, the very calmness with which the mysterious person
confronted the mob held him in restraint by suggesting the possession
of a power in reserve more than sufficient for the peril. Peace and
good-will, and love and non-resistance, had been the burden of the
Nazarene’s teaching; would he put his preaching into practice? He was
master of life; he could restore it when lost; he could take it at
pleasure. What use would he make of the power now? Defend himself? And
how? A word—a breath—a thought were sufficient. That there would be
some signal exhibition of astonishing force beyond the natural Ben-Hur
believed, and in that faith waited. And in all this he was still
measuring the Nazarene by himself—by the human standard.
Presently the clear voice of the Christ arose.
“Whom seek ye?”
“Jesus of Nazareth,” the priest replied.
“I am he.”
At these simplest of words, spoken without passion or alarm, the
assailants fell back several steps, the timid among them cowering to
the ground; and they might have let him alone and gone away had not
Judas walked over to him.
“Hail, master!”
With this friendly speech, he kissed him.
“Judas,” said the Nazarene, mildly, “betrayest thou the Son of man with
a kiss? Wherefore art thou come?”
Receiving no reply, the Master spoke to the crowd again.
“Whom seek ye?”
“Jesus of Nazareth.”
“I have told you that I am he. If, therefore, you seek me, let these go
their way.”
At these words of entreaty the rabbis advanced upon him; and, seeing
their intent, some of the disciples for whom he interceded drew nearer;
one of them cut off a man’s ear, but without saving the Master from
being taken. And yet Ben-Hur stood still! Nay, while the officers were
making ready with their ropes the Nazarene was doing his greatest
charity—not the greatest in deed, but the very greatest in illustration
of his forbearance, so far surpassing that of men.
“Suffer ye thus far,” he said to the wounded man, and healed him with a
touch.
Both friends and enemies were confounded—one side that he could do such
a thing, the other that he would do it under the circumstances.
“Surely he will not allow them to bind him!”
Thus thought Ben-Hur.
“Put up thy sword into the sheath; the cup which my Father hath given
me, shall I not drink it?” From the offending follower, the Nazarene
turned to his captors. “Are you come out as against a thief, with
swords and staves to take me? I was daily with you in the Temple, and
you took me not; but this is your hour, and the power of darkness.”
The posse plucked up courage and closed about him; and when Ben-Hur
looked for the faithful they were gone—not one of them remained.
The crowd about the deserted man seemed very busy with tongue, hand,
and foot. Over their heads, between the torch-sticks, through the
smoke, sometimes in openings between the restless men, Ben-Hur caught
momentary glimpses of the prisoner. Never had anything struck him as so
piteous, so unfriended, so forsaken! Yet, he thought, the man could
have defended himself—he could have slain his enemies with a breath,
but he would not. What was the cup his father had given him to drink?
And who was the father to be so obeyed? Mystery upon mystery—not one,
but many.
Directly the mob started in return to the city, the soldiers in the
lead. Ben-Hur became anxious; he was not satisfied with himself. Where
the torches were in the midst of the rabble he knew the Nazarene was to
be found. Suddenly he resolved to see him again. He would ask him one
question.
Taking off his long outer garment and the handkerchief from his head,
he threw them upon the orchard wall, and started after the posse, which
he boldly joined. Through the stragglers he made way, and by littles at
length reached the man who carried the ends of the rope with which the
prisoner was bound.
The Nazarene was walking slowly, his head down, his hands bound behind
him; the hair fell thickly over his face, and he stooped more than
usual; apparently he was oblivious to all going on around him. In
advance a few steps were priests and elders talking and occasionally
looking back. When, at length, they were all near the bridge in the
gorge, Ben-Hur took the rope from the servant who had it, and stepped
past him.
“Master, master!” he said, hurriedly, speaking close to the Nazarene’s
ear. “Dost thou hear, master? A word—one word. Tell me—”
The fellow from whom he had taken the rope now claimed it.