So why not enjoy what was so plainly offered here? Why hold back from these pleasures so freely displayed and so apparently natural?
He stepped off the path. The grass was soft beneath his sandals, springy as a cushion but cool. A citron tree rose ahead of him, its smooth bark wrapping around a trunk naturally shaped into the form of a chair. Suddenly Ben-Hur was tired. The tension of his voyage from Rome, his anxiety to find Simonides, his disappointment all washed over him. The grass all around was dappled with sun and shade, the air moving just enough to create a soft current against the skin. He sat beneath the tree, stretching out his long legs before him. A glance upward showed blossoms, fruit, and tiny fragments of blue sky through the foliage. He leaned back and within moments was asleep.
Malluch had watched it all. The young man might or might not be young Prince Hur—either way he was conspicuous and unaware of it. Walking a few paces behind, Malluch had seen the passersby eyeing the young man with curiosity, admiration, and more. The women in particular could not tear their eyes away.
Not only that—Malluch could also read the man’s emotions from his very walk. First angry, unfocused, desperate to put distance behind him, heading anywhere. Then settling down, resigned, more curious about his surroundings. And now, in the Grove of Daphne . . . Well, the young man was succumbing, wasn’t he? It was almost funny how openly he stared. You might think he had never seen a naked woman. And he’d turned away from the couple on the tiger-skin rug with what seemed like shock.
It took some people that way, the grove. Any pleasure available, under the guise of worship. No wonder the young man had fallen asleep. It was one way to shut out the temptations. And not a bad idea in the heat of the day. So Malluch followed suit, lying in the grass a few yards away.
The trumpets woke them both. Malluch sat up slowly, clasping his skullcap to his head and pulling his robe down over his knees. The young man was staring at him, startled.
“Forgive me,” Malluch said. “I saw a man of my faith dozing beneath a tree and thought it was a wise idea. Peace be with you.”
“And with you also,” the man answered. “Did you hear trumpets? Or was I dreaming?” As he spoke, they sounded again, a sharp fanfare.
“As you hear,” Malluch said. “They’ll sound once more.”
“What for? That’s a military noise for a place like this.”
“It’s a summons to the stadium.” Malluch got to his feet and brushed off his robe. “We’ve slept through the heat of the day. Now that it’s cooler, they’ll start the contest.”
“What contest is that?”
Malluch was impressed to see how lightly the man stood up, almost leaping to his feet.
“The chariots. Is this your first visit to the grove?”
“It is. Do you know the way to the stadium?”
“Oh, of course. I live here in Antioch. My name is Malluch, and I am a merchant. I would be happy to have your company.”
“I am Judah,” the tall man said. “For the last five years I have lived in Rome, where I learned to drive, so of course I am curious about your Eastern horses.”
They made their way to the stadium through a belt of cypress trees in an open area between two hillsides. The sun of late afternoon gilded half of the dirt track, while the two pavilions for spectators nestled in shade.
“It’s laid out on Roman lines,” Judah said, sounding surprised.
“Oh yes. I believe the measurements were taken from the Circus Maximus. We are far from the empire’s center here, but Roman ways dominate.”
“So I see,” Judah commented as a chariot drawn by four horses abreast entered the circuit of the track. “They drive four horses? The drivers must be skillful,” he added.
“Roman sport, Roman standards,” Malluch said with a shrug. “Look, here come the other teams. Let’s sit.”
So the two men found a pair of seats high up in one of the stands, where the entire circuit of the track was visible. Malluch watched Judah, who was focused wholly on the teams, eyes ranging from one to another, comparing, admiring, doubting. Some trotted; some walked. One driver leapt down to adjust the simple harness, then walked slowly in front of his team, tweaking a rein here and a halter there, pulling a handful of mane from beneath a horse’s collar. “Those grays are too calm,” said Judah. “And too big. Military horses, maybe, trained for the field. Strong enough to carry an armed man, steady enough to tolerate battle. But they won’t be fast or nimble.”
As he finished speaking, a new team entered the stadium and began trotting along the outside of the track. “Now those horses!” Judah said. “Will you look at them? Those are the true Arabs. I doubt the emperor himself has anything finer.” Even Malluch, who often went for days without seeing a horse, could appreciate how splendid they were. Perfectly matched bays, with dark-brown coats shading to black at the legs and muzzle, they seemed almost too small for their task. But what they lacked in height, they made up for in curved muscle: the lavishly arched necks, the deep chests, the rounded quarters—all spoke of power compressed, while their gleaming coats and long, untrimmed manes signaled perfect condition.
Indeed, they were hard to hold back. The driver stood braced on the chariot’s floor, the reins stretched tight in his hand with the ends wrapped around his body, but despite his hold on them, the two inner horses began cantering. One on the outside joined in; one still trotted, then gave in. In a flash all four were galloping, but their strides did not match. The driver leaned back farther, hauling on the reins with all his weight. Even so, he could not control the speed. Down the track, the slower chariots scattered. Judah left Malluch and ran down the bank of seats to the rope slung between upright javelins that marked the edge of the stands. Around the curve they came, the runaway bays, now matching strides, eating up the ground, but the driver was utterly helpless.
“Aiiiieeee!” came a voice from the other end of the stand. “Stop them!”
Judah glanced over to see a small figure, a white-bearded Arab in black robes. “Go! Go to their heads,” he shouted to the group of men around him. “They won’t make the next turn!” In an instant half a dozen tall young men had run onto the track, fanning out across its width.
“They’ll be killed!” Malluch exclaimed, arriving at Judah’s elbow.
“No, look,” the taller man answered. “They know him.” The heaviest of the men—a sturdy, short-haired fellow in white—had caught the bridle of the bay on the outside. Running alongside for just a few seconds, he had broken the momentum of its flight. In an instant, each of the horses had a man at its side, running along, then trotting, speaking soothing words.
By the time the chariot drew level with where the old man had sat, he was down on the track. He stood before the team, and the other men all drew back. One by one the horses came to him, completely calm now, rubbing his chest with their heads, nuzzling his shoulders. He spoke to each of them quietly and ran his hand down their slender legs. Then he stood back. The horses did not move but watched him attentively.
Then their owner walked back to the chariot, where the driver stood panting in the dirt. His left arm, which had held the reins, hung loose as if damaged. He dug a toe into a print left by a hoof.
Nobody could hear what the Arab said to him, but Malluch and Judah were close enough to see the driver’s face redden. He nodded, then handed the whip to the Arab and walked away. The Arab snapped his fingers, and one of his men leapt into the chariot, moving the horses off at a decorous walk.
“Who is he?” Judah asked. “Some desert chieftain?”
“Exactly,” Malluch answered. “Sheik Ilderim. He controls a huge territory beyond Moab, along with immense herds of camels and access to the important oases. As you can imagine, he’s rich . . . oh, vastly rich. His horses are legendary. Their lineage goes back to the stable of the first pharaoh. The horses live in the same tent as the sheik, and he treats them almost like his own children.”
A carving of a driverless horse-drawn chariot
“And do you know the unfortunate driver?”
“No. Roman horsemen sometimes end up here, hoping to make a living by racing. Army veterans, most of them. And speaking of Romans, here is another.”
Even at a distance, you could tell. Was it the gilding of the chariot? Certainly these were the only horses with cropped tails and manes, giving them a severe, almost-artificial appearance, like prancing sculptures on a frieze. The center two were black, the outer pair snow-white, and all wore red-and-yellow ribbons knotted into the short bristles of their manes. Applause had begun in the stands as the chariot came closer. Bronze flashed on the wheel hubs while each spoke was formed of an elephant’s tusk. The chariot’s basket was woven of gilded willow twigs, which Judah was admiring when something about the driver caught his gaze. His posture? The set of his shoulders? He rode easily, balancing with the movement of the light carriage, his fine red wool tunic fluttering around his knees. With a flick of his long whip, he urged the horses into a trot and then a canter.
It was as the chariot rounded the curve and headed directly toward him that Judah saw the driver’s face. It was Messala.
CHAPTER 16
A DAMSEL
Messala! Judah couldn’t take his eyes off the man. Dark-haired, handsome, slender, he steered his horses with what looked almost like carelessness. Yet he also had an air of command, as if he wore an invisible wreath of laurels. The crowd continued to applaud, and now, as his team passed the stands at a slow canter, many of them stood and cried his name: “Mess-a-la! Mess-a-la!”
“This man is quite a favorite here,” Judah remarked, pleased that his voice sounded casual.
“So it would seem,” Malluch answered. “Another wealthy Roman. What do you think of his horses?”
“They’re impressive. I see he has Arabians as well, though it’s a pity he crops their manes and tails. He’s a good driver. The chariot is somewhat showy.”
“Showy. A good way to put it! Worthy of Apollo himself,” Malluch muttered.
But at that moment one of Sheik Ilderim’s men stepped onto the empty track and called up to the stands. “Men of the East and West, I have a message from Sheik Ilderim! You have just seen his beautiful bays. You have seen that the driver could not control them. The sheik seeks a new driver for the race six days hence. As a prize he offers untold riches. Tell this news to men all over Antioch: The man who believes he can control the Sons of the Wind should make himself known to Sheik Ilderim the Generous.”
The crowd buzzed in reaction, but Malluch noticed that his new friend Judah went still instead. As if he were thinking. As if the message were meant for him.
But Judah turned to Malluch and said, “Is there something more I should see? What else is the grove famous for?”
“There’s a tradition that the first-time visitor should not leave without having his fortune told,” Malluch answered.
“My fortune!” Judah answered. “What, should I go consult some ancient sibyl in a temple and receive an answer I can’t understand?”
“No, no, there’s nothing so ordinary here at the grove. Here we have the Fountain of Castalia. You buy a fresh piece of papyrus from a priest and dip it into the spring. Immediately writing appears on it, telling you your future. In verse.”
“Well, I’ve heard of the spring. And I suppose the verse is worth a few pennies. Though I wonder if I believe such things. This is not a case where one can put a question to a deity?”
“No,” Malluch conceded. “That’s not the way it works.”
“All right,” Judah said, beginning to descend the grandstand steps. “I might as well see the famous fountain.”
But he was silent as they walked. The way took them past a steep hillside, where a series of fountains spilled water from the highest level to end in a small lake, where tiny boats could be paddled with immense palm leaves. Judah did not seem to notice. Nor did he notice the band of priestesses walking in procession behind a pair of tambourines played by little girls. His open interest and enjoyment in the sights of the grove had vanished, and Malluch was concerned. In the brief time they’d been together, he had warmed to this stranger. Simonides had wanted to know what the man did in the grove, whether he met anyone, how he reacted. It was the horses, Malluch decided, that had turned his mood of enjoyment. Was he considering taking up Sheik Ilderim’s challenge? Malluch’s heart sank a little bit. From what he could tell, those bays could not be driven, least of all in a race. The competition in chariot racing was vicious, injuries frequent. Deaths, even, were not uncommon. Was it the money this young man sought?
Judah would have laughed if he’d known Malluch’s thoughts. Money! What use was that to him? As Arrius’s adopted son, he possessed lands and gold in Rome, and Arrius’s villa in Misenum waited ready for him, with servants prepared to welcome him at any moment. He would spend any amount to find his mother and sister. That was his only goal.
And now he had seen Messala! So his mind, as he and Malluch navigated the lovely trails through the Grove of Daphne, was focused entirely on his Roman enemy.
His enemy who thrived. The years had obviously been kind to Messala. Judah knew what horses like those cost and knew also that for the four on the track there were many more in training or recovering from injuries. The gilded wicker basket of Messala’s chariot was light, but flimsy—he must need a new one almost every time the horses were exercised. The stables, the grooms, the trainers, the harnesses were all inordinately costly. And Messala enjoyed them; that was clear. He enjoyed the public’s admiration. He looked like a man who had never known doubt.
Or pain. Or danger he hadn’t chosen.
Let alone slavery.
Let alone terrible loneliness.
The guilt of having brought catastrophe on his mother and sister.
Except that it was Messala who had done that! Messala had stood in the courtyard of the Hur palace in Jerusalem and accused his friend Judah of murder, allowed him to be chained. Messala—who alone might know the fate of his mother and sister.
And as Judah Ben-Hur paced through the Grove of Daphne at Malluch’s side, he barely saw the trees, the fountains, the lawns, the temples, the beauty and seduction. His mind was wholly set on vengeance.
Finally the two reached the Fountain of Castalia and Judah’s interest in his surroundings revived. He joined the crowd around the fountain, examining the steep granite face from which flowed a jet of water. Below it stood a shell-shaped basin of black marble, where the water whirled and bubbled before draining away, and at its side, an old man who was accepting coins and plucking leaves of papyrus, which he would hand to the buyer. Apparently fortunes did appear, because time after time, a man would dip a leaf into the water and read, then exclaim and share his fortune with a friend.
Judah and Malluch had edged close to the priest, and Judah handed him a few small coins. He accepted the papyrus leaf and dipped it in the clear water of the fountain. But just at that moment, a distraction appeared. At the crest of the road leading down to the spring, a haughty, black-eyed face approached at a languid pace. Instants later, a long neck, a massive chest, and a gorgeous howdah followed—it was the largest white camel anyone had ever seen.
Tall, silky, dignified, the camel trod silently down to the fountain, and the people fell back. Camels were nasty; everyone knew that—and this camel, superlative in every other sense, was probably nastier as well. It was led by an enormous Nubian on horseback, who kept well out of range of that mobile mouth. And as the group came closer, it was possible to see the occupants of the howdah. Even Judah stared.
The man was old. That was the first thing you would say about him. You could barely add anything else, he was so tiny and wrinkled and frail-looking. He wore an immense green silk turban that looked as if it would crush his head. But his eyes, Judah noticed, were bright, as dark as the camel’s and far livelier.
Ben-Hur branded bobby pins
Judah’s eyes lingered on the old man, but no one else paid atten
tion, for the other passenger was a woman. And even in Daphne, where female charms were casually displayed, she was remarkable. Women of her rank were not as a rule seen in public. Their beauties were saved for their families. Judah’s mother had never left the palace of Hur without covering her hair and drawing her veil across her face. But this woman was bold. She sat tall in the howdah, looking out with careless interest at the crowd, her eyes passing from face to face, noting the fountain and the priest, apparently unconscious of the stares. Straight blue-black hair framed her face, then poured over her back and shoulders. Her skin was pale yet still somehow warm, her eyes dark, her features fine, emphasized by kohl around her eyes and cochineal on her lips and cheeks. Gold armlets shaped like asps clasped their tails in their mouths high above her elbows, and tiny golden coins woven into a glittering web draped over her hair in what could have been called a veil. But it displayed rather than hid her beauty.
She spoke a few words to the Nubian, who reined in his horse and dismounted. The camel halted, then collapsed to its knees with indolent grace. The woman reached out, holding a golden chalice to the slave. Someone was thirsty.
The crowd around the spring had fallen silent to enjoy this unusual spectacle. They parted to let the Nubian approach the fountain. Even the priest watched him fill the chalice. But as the Nubian turned back to the camel and its riders, his horse whinnied and shifted its weight.
Ben-Hur turned quickly, frowning, and the crowd followed suit. They all heard the same sound, then saw its source: a chariot racing toward them, drawn by four horses at a gallop. Two white, two black, and the driver cracking his whip over their heads.
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