Ben-Hur

by Carol Wallace

  As she trotted down the stairs to the courtyard, where the slaves were beating the carpets, Esther liked to think she would do the same thing as her father. But who could say where their own courage ended? And who would wish for that trial?

  From the courtyard to the kitchen she bustled, from the kitchen back up to the rooftop, where her father worked in a small house surrounded by a garden, invisible from the hurly-burly of the docks. She squeezed a few oranges and poured the juice for her father and Malluch, serving it along with a dish of dates and another of blanched almonds. She and Malluch had an understanding: Malluch would eat, hoping that Simonides would absentmindedly do the same. So far it was only the assistant who got fat, but Esther did not give up easily.

  She ran back down the stairs and into the warehouse, where rats had been spotted in a dark corner. She threaded her way without thinking through the aisles of barrels and shelving, bolts of fabric and sacks of grain. In one corner a slave was sweeping a pile of peppercorns onto a paper, turning away to sneeze so as not to lose a single precious one.

  She almost ran into the man. He was wandering slowly, looking everywhere with visible fascination, as she came around a tall stack of carpets. She jumped back, startled, and instantly felt two large hands on her shoulders, steadying her.

  “Forgive me!” a deep voice said. “No one seems to be here to ask . . .”

  Esther moved out of his grasp and answered, “How can I help you?”

  “I was told I might find Simonides here,” the stranger answered. She looked past him, to where the watchman should have been standing at the warehouse entrance.

  “There was no one at the gate?” she said. “No one at the door?”

  “No, but many men gathered at the dock. Something seems to have gone wrong with the unloading. There was a donkey in the water.”

  Just then the watchman came into sight, followed by half a dozen other workmen, and Esther nodded. She took another half step away from the stranger and looked at him properly for the first time. “This is the house of Simonides. May I know who is seeking him?” He was tall, this man, and strikingly handsome. His dark hair and eyes suggested he was Jewish; his finely woven linen robe and soft leather sandals indicated wealth.

  “Forgive me,” the man said, “but I would rather save my tale for Simonides. It is complicated.”

  Esther hesitated. Her father hated to have strangers in his office. He claimed the Romans were still trying to spy on him to find his master’s fortune. But the man before her didn’t look Roman.

  ACTORS WHO HAVE PORTRAYED SIMONIDES

  Nigel de Brulier—1925

  Sam Jaffe—1959

  Simón Andreu—2010 (miniseries)

  Haluk Bilginer—2016

  “Come with me, then,” she said and led him to the stairs. As they climbed, Malluch came down and stopped on the landing so that they might pass. He raised his eyebrows at Esther, who simply kept climbing. She noticed that the man behind her was not breathing hard, though most newcomers found the stairs steep and long.

  Her father must have heard two sets of footsteps, one of which was new to him. When Esther and the stranger entered the rooftop office, Simonides’s chair was in the center of the room, below the wide purple-mica skylight. Esther happened to be watching as her father caught sight of the man’s face behind her, and for a moment he turned paler than usual, while his hand clenched a fold of his heavy silk robe. But he recovered instantly.

  “Who is this?” he asked mildly.

  Having brought the stranger upstairs, Esther went to stand behind her father’s chair and put a hand on his crooked shoulder. There was a tension in the room she did not understand. The tall man was staring at her father with a kind of hunger. “I am the son of Ithamar of the house of Hur, a prince of Jerusalem,” he said, and Esther felt a shock go through her father. “The peace of our God be upon you and yours.”

  “And peace be with you,” Simonides responded with a calm voice. “Esther, a seat for the young man?”

  She picked up a sandalwood stool inlaid with mother-of-pearl and moved to set it next to the man, but he took it from her hands and placed it himself, at a respectful distance from her father. He did not sit.

  “I apologize for coming here unexpectedly,” he said. “I arrived in Antioch last night. As we came up the river, we passed one of your ships, and a fellow passenger told me a great deal about you. So of course since you knew my father . . .” His voice faltered.

  “Certainly I knew Prince Hur,” Simonides said. “Please, won’t you sit down? And, Esther, would you pour a glass of wine for our visitor?”

  She moved to a nearby table and filled a silver cup with wine, which she gave to the young man. But he still stood, and he didn’t drink. “Am I right in understanding that you managed my father’s businesses?”

  Simonides paused before answering. Esther had gone back to stand beside him, facing the visitor. She saw that the man was studying her father’s face as if it might provide the answer to a puzzle. “I did manage Prince Hur’s business,” Simonides said.

  “And do you still?”

  “Why do you want to know this?”

  The visitor looked puzzled. “Because I am the son of Ithamar. If you were in charge of my father’s affairs . . .”

  “Then they are yours now?” Simonides broke in. “You don’t imagine you’re the first person to make this claim, do you?” Esther moved closer to her father’s chair. His voice—normally so clear, so measured—had gone up a notch. “The prince left substantial assets when he died,” Simonides went on. “And when misfortune came to the family, the Romans wanted to seize them. They . . .” Simonides broke off but gestured with a hand to his chair and his crooked body. “They tried to make me tell them where everything was,” he continued. “Twice.”

  The visitor looked at the cup in his hand and took two long steps to return it to the table with the pitcher. “Forgive me,” he said. “Of course I didn’t know. I have been in Rome for many years. I’ve made a mistake. I realize it looks as if I came to claim my father’s money, but I did not. I was adopted by a Roman tribune who made me his heir. I am already rich. I only came to see if you knew anything about my family.”

  “What family?” Simonides asked, casually curious.

  “When the Romans came and took me away, they took my mother and my sister, Tirzah, too. But I went to the galleys. And my family seems to have vanished completely.”

  “The galleys?”

  “That day, the day of our misfortune . . .” He paused. “I should explain. I was on the roof of our palace in Jerusalem, watching the new procurator’s entry. I knocked loose a tile and it hit the procurator. He was just slightly injured, but his guards broke into the palace and took us all into custody. I was hauled off to sea. I don’t know what’s become of my mother and sister.”

  “What about the palace?” Simonides asked. “Who owns it now?”

  “The emperor took it over. I was able to find that out. It apparently stands empty.” The stranger paused and looked around the room for a moment as if he had forgotten why he was there. “Forgive me,” he said. “I don’t understand. If you are Simonides, and if you served Prince Ithamar of Hur . . . why don’t you . . . ? I am his son,” the man said, clasping his hands at his chest.

  Esther was moved. He seemed so puzzled, even hurt. But she did not speak. In matters of business, her father always took the lead. “Do you have any proof?” Simonides asked mildly.

  The man dropped his hands to his sides and stared. It was obvious that he had not thought of this. “No,” he said, shaking his head slightly. Esther could almost see him running through the possibilities. “Arrius . . . He met me as a galley slave. I had already served for three years. I had nothing. Not even clothes. And before that, they took me away. . . .”

  “No one can vouch for you?” Simonides’s voice was still emotionless, and Esther began to feel impatience with him. Couldn’t he see that this man was in distress?

>   “No,” he answered. “No. I have no one from that life. If I could find my family, of course . . . Maybe the servants from our palace in Jerusalem, but they will have scattered, I’m sure. Those who weren’t killed by the Romans.”

  “Well,” Simonides said drily, “it is unfortunate. And I am sympathetic. But you see, I can’t take any chances. Ithamar of the house of Hur left an immense estate. The Romans took what they could—ships, trading stock, warehouses. But they could not locate the gold. A business of that kind must possess a great deal of various currencies, in various locations. If I knew where they were—and I do not say that I do know—I would only transfer them to a true heir of the house of Hur. The Romans,” he added, “are still looking for the gold. I know this for a fact.”

  The big man finally sat, suddenly, on the little stool. “Of course,” he said. “I understand that.”

  “And there’s something else as well,” Simonides added. “You may not have thought of this either.” He took a deep breath and straightened his spine to the extent that he could. “Prince Ithamar owned me. I was his slave. My daughter, Esther, is also a slave. Since you have served in the galleys, you may understand this better than most men who come here from Rome. But think about this: if a true heir of the house of Hur did survive, he would own me. He would own my daughter, who is all that is left of my family. He would own my house, my warehouse, every one of my ships, and everything they contain down to the last nail. Not to mention every single one of my slaves. So, you see, it is not very simple. You are asking me to give you everything. And I don’t know who you are.”

  The stranger sat there for a long moment. Then he nodded and slowly stood. “Yes. I had not thought of that.” There was a baffled look on his face. He bowed politely and said, “Forgive me. I will have to think . . .” He seemed to lose his train of thought, and his voice trailed off. Then he resumed, “I will have to think of something. May I call on you again if I do?”

  “Of course,” Simonides said, and this time Esther thought she heard a note of sympathy in his voice. “I am always here.”

  The younger man stood still for a few seconds, lost in thought. Esther felt she could almost see him recovering from the shock of his reception. Then he straightened up and turned to go.

  After a few steps, he turned back. “Peace be with you and yours,” he said to Simonides and bowed his head. “Thank you for talking to me.”

  “And peace be with you,” Simonides answered.

  As the man’s footsteps receded down the stairs, Esther moved around to face her father. “Why were you so cruel to him?” she asked. “And so harsh?”

  Lew Wallace’s chair and lap desk, where he wrote most of Ben-Hur

  To her stupefaction, her father’s face was aglow. “Dear Esther, only because I had to be. I must be absolutely certain. If that young man is who I think he is, he will find a way to prove his identity. But he gave me a terrible shock when he came in. He is the very image of his father.”

  “Couldn’t you have been more sympathetic?”

  “Come here,” he said. “To my side. Sit.” She pulled over the stool that the stranger had used and sat at her father’s knees. He took both of her hands in his and she felt the crookedness of his fingers. “I have been waiting for this day. I never thought it would really come, but everything I have done for the last eight years was in hope of the moment that just passed. Everything!” He dropped her hands and clasped his own. Esther was alarmed to see a pair of tears trickling down his cheeks, but he wiped them away. “It’s hard to grasp,” he said. “I never really thought young Judah could have survived. What that man must have been through!”

  “Young Judah?” Esther repeated. “He didn’t tell you his name.”

  “His father spoke of him often. He was very proud of the boy.”

  Esther began to protest again. “But—”

  “No.” Her father cut her off, shaking his head. “Think, Esther. If that man is who I think he is, he owns you. And me and everything we see here and downstairs and out on the dock and in the harbor and as far away as the western seas. He owns you. For myself, I don’t mind. If he is truly Judah Ben-Hur, my work is done. But for your sake I must assure myself that he is his father’s son in character as well as looks. Ring for Malluch. I will send him after young Judah. He is new to Antioch. I expect he will visit the Grove of Daphne. There could hardly be a better test of a man’s moral fiber.”

  CHAPTER 15

  MANY GODS

  Ben-Hur ran down the steep stairs as quickly as he could and threaded his way through the warehouse out to the docks. Without thought, he cut through the crowded narrow streets, heading away from the waterfront. Away from the smells, from the creak of the hulls against the docks, from the clatter of rigging and constant chorus of shouts and the half-naked bodies of the slaves loading and unloading the cargoes. From anything that reminded him of his own years of slavery. When his only escape had been thoughts of his family.

  He kept going, walking aimlessly but quickly. Walking so as not to think. Scanning the streets, taking note of the crowds. Antioch was the trading center of this end of the Inland Sea. The silk roads from the East ended here, at the port on the Orontes River. Ben-Hur was used to the bustle and crowds of Rome, but Antioch had a different flavor, a richer palette. Fur-trimmed hats passed him, along with turbans and headscarves and skullcaps. Here a magenta sleeve, there a voluminous black robe. Every man absorbed, pursuing his own business.

  And what should his business be? Ben-Hur wondered. What could he do next? How could he prove who he was?

  He could not blame Simonides, he told himself, but a pulse of anger raced through him all the same. Was his word not good enough? Was this the end of his hope?

  Then the image of the daughter came to him. The daughter, also a slave. His slave, if he could prove his identity. Modest, soft-spoken, competent. She had a beautiful voice. And green eyes. Her father had been crippled to protect the Hur property. Crippled by the Romans.

  Unaware, Ben-Hur lengthened his stride. More than once he jostled someone in the crowd, but one look at his forbidding face stifled any protest. He found himself clenching his fists and forced himself to relax them. He and Simonides had so much in common! Why would the man not acknowledge it?

  He walked on, more slowly now. The streets had opened up, and he was on a straight paved highway worthy of Rome itself, with balustraded lanes marked out for pedestrians, chariots, and men on horseback. The roadways themselves were punctuated with marble statuary, and in the distance rose a green hill crowned by a temple.

  The crowd around him had changed too. These were not individuals intent on business, but groups on holiday. There was singing. Some danced. Pipes and drums and bells competed with each other. A pair of young girls slipped past him, wearing nothing but a layer or two of rosy gauze and leading two snowy goats. Of course—he had found his way to the famous Grove of Daphne.

  The Appian Way and one of the road’s stone pavers (inset), which Lew Wallace took home as a souvenir

  He’d heard about it in Rome. Sometimes young men in the palaestra would brag about days on end spent there, singing and drinking and consorting with the servants of the temples. There were no limits to the pleasures, it seemed. Tales were told of those who never returned, choosing to spend their lives in the service of this god or that. The grove was dedicated to Apollo, but the entire Roman pantheon was worshiped, as well as some of the earlier deities, spirits of wood and water. Pan was said to roam the grounds with his satyrs. Bacchus was celebrated.

  Bacchus, god of wine. Pan, who led his followers into wild adventures, running free to satisfy all desires. What would that be like?

  Not like the galleys, Ben-Hur thought savagely. Not like the dark, brutal, hopeless years at the oar. His eye fell on a white bull ahead of him, laden with wicker baskets of grapes. A pudgy blond boy rode easily on its back, squeezing the grapes into a golden goblet and offering the goblet to all who passed.

&nbs
p; Even in Rome, Ben-Hur had led a measured life. A manly life, with hours of military drill, increasing skill with weapons, constant striving toward greater strength. Conversation at Arrius’s table had been serious. Rome’s domination of the Inland Sea, the governance of the colonies, naval tactics, the problems of supplying troops, financing exploration—these were the subjects Arrius had enjoyed. Some people felt Rome was creeping toward decadence, but Arrius’s Rome was stern and upright. Antioch appeared to be its opposite.

  The road to the grove ended at a lush meadow furred over with grass of an eye-searing green. Ben-Hur lifted his eyes to the tall trees and saw dozens he could not name. Some bloomed vivid pink or white. A cool breeze carried an intensely sweet odor, almost too heavy to be pleasant. Streams meandered among the trees, pausing to gather into ponds or rushing downward over artful waterfalls. A young man wearing only a loincloth dashed from a glade, followed by three long-haired girls carrying garlands of flowers. They shrieked; he laughed. They captured him and toppled into a pile of gleaming limbs. The young man looked up and caught Ben-Hur’s eye. “Come join us!” he called.

  And why not? What else was there? Ben-Hur walked on but kept wondering. Who would know if he did? What if he spent an afternoon lolling on that soft grass? What if some golden-haired girl played the lyre for him and fed him grapes? What if he slept on moss, woke at twilight, followed Pan? Who would care?

  No one. He knew no one in Antioch—and apparently no one knew him. Simonides had been the last link to his family. Simonides refused to acknowledge him as Judah Ben-Hur. Enough, then! Enough of the Roman rectitude, the Jewish patience and faith in a future. All around, the crowds were dissolving along the winding paths, vanishing among the trees, joining dances. If he was not recognized as Judah Ben-Hur, just who was he? And why stay true to the faith of his fathers? Ten commandments! How many of them had he broken, anyway, while living as a Roman? Worshiping multiple gods, ignoring the Sabbath . . . and killing. He’d killed without hesitation, floating on that slippery plank in the burning sea.