The masses scattered in a flash, but no camel reacts that quickly. The Nubian dropped the chalice in the fountain, but before he could reach his master, Ben-Hur stepped forward. In two long strides he had reached the oncoming four-horse team and grasped the harness of the horse nearest him. He braced his legs and held firm while the horse reared, pulling its nearest fellow up with him.
The chariot’s yoke rose, upsetting the basket. In a flash, the driver cut the reins wrapped around his chest and leapt free of the wreckage. He glanced at Ben-Hur and walked boldly to the camel.
“Apologies!” he cried as he approached. “I did not see you in the crowd. I planned to pull up in time.” He smiled at the howdah’s occupants. “I admit I was hoping to have a joke on these good people. By frightening them a little, you know. Making them run like chickens. The joke is on me instead.” He looked at Ben-Hur and added, “Thank you, my man, for your quick action.”
Then he turned back to the howdah and said, “I am Messala, and I sincerely beg your pardon. Sir, I regret having disturbed you. And you, my fair lady, all the more for your beauty. Do tell me you forgive me!” Ben-Hur could see how the Roman’s eyes ran over the woman’s face and lingered on her bare arms, but she seemed unperturbed. Instead of answering him, she spoke to Ben-Hur, still standing at the horses’ heads.
“Sir,” she said, “my father is thirsty.” She produced another golden goblet, the twin of the one dropped in the fountain. “Could you fill this for him? We would both be grateful.”
Messala laughed. “I see I’m to be ignored. All right, my fair one. But I will seek you out and know more of you. There’s no lovelier woman in Antioch; I swear it.” He moved over to take the bridle of his horse from Ben-Hur. The two men were face-to-face, hands almost touching on the harness for an instant. Malluch was close enough to see that Ben-Hur stiffened as if holding himself back, and his face as he turned to the howdah was stony and pale. For a few seconds, he looked like a much older man. Then Ben-Hur relinquished the bridle and stepped over toward the camel.
“I’m happy to serve you,” he said to the woman and took the chalice. Malluch noticed that as Ben-Hur walked to the fountain, the woman watched Messala, now busy with his team’s harness. She did not seem the least bit embarrassed by his flirtatious manner. Malluch thought for a moment of Simonides’s daughter, Esther, who would never act so boldly, and wondered what country this beauty had come from.
When Ben-Hur returned to the camel with the full goblet, he handed it to the woman. She passed it to her father, steadying it as he drank with shaky hands. When he had finished, she held it out to Ben-Hur, saying, “Thank you. The chalice is yours, full of our blessings.” At a signal from the Nubian, the camel unfolded its legs and stood, impassive as ever, then began to move away.
“Halt,” the old man said in a quiet but steely voice. He peered out of the howdah to address Ben-Hur. “I am grateful for your intervention today and I thank you in the name of the one God. I am Balthasar the Egyptian. Not far from here lies the Great Orchard of the Palms. My daughter and I are the guests there of Sheik Ilderim. I hope you will come to see us so that I can express my gratitude more fully.”
An ancient drinking chalice
Then the camel moved off silently, following the Nubian slave on his horse. Ben-Hur noticed for the first time that the horse was another beautiful Arabian. He turned to Malluch.
“I think I will have to go to this Orchard of the Palms, don’t you? For Balthasar the Egyptian, if not for the sake of the sheik’s horses.”
Malluch smiled. But he thought the woman might have her own attractions for his new friend.
CHAPTER 17
DARKNESS
When one sense is useless, the others become stronger. Hearing, for instance. You would not think that bare skin on bare stone would make a noise. But it does.
Breathing. If you share a small space with another human, you know that person’s breath. In, out. Quiet. You can hear when they’re sleeping.
You can hear when they aren’t.
Hair has its own sound. Tirzah could not be sure, but she thought her mother’s hair might have gone white. How could she know that? It might sound heavier? Coarser?
Hair was important. They tried to keep it controlled. They had no combs, of course. But they spent some time each day grooming each other. It was something to do. It was some comfort. Each woman took her turn leaning back against the other woman’s knees. They curled up their fingers and ran their hands through the tangled locks, working patiently to unravel knots and snarls.
Patiently, my God! Patience! There was no hurry in here.
Wherever here was.
They had talked about it at first. How far they’d been taken. How big it seemed. The thickness of the walls. They’d been blindfolded as they were taken from the Hur palace, but Tirzah almost laughed to think how much she and her mother could have learned, if only they’d understood how. They could have counted the steps. They could have listened for echoes. They could have taken notice of the commands.
They hadn’t been put on horseback. Naomi thought she’d heard hooves on the street, but Tirzah wasn’t sure. After all, they hadn’t been listening carefully. Had someone mentioned the Antonia Tower? Shouldn’t they remember? It didn’t feel like a tower, where they were. But every memory of that violent moment was confused.
It had all been so sudden, a sunny morning in Jerusalem shattered. Lives upended. Blood on the tiles. Just as well to be blindfolded. After all, it didn’t matter where they were. Because wherever it was, they were not getting out.
Steps coming. Tirzah heard her mother wake up.
Maybe you didn’t hear things as much as you felt them: the door of the next cell opening sent a tiny current of air through the sliding hatch between them. Tirzah heard Naomi pad, skin on stone, to the hatch and put down the wooden plate. And the pitcher.
The hatch slid open. The plate skidded through. The smell changed with the air from the next cell. And the food. On the wooden plate pushed through in exchange. Fish, possibly.
Tirzah felt saliva come into her mouth. It was amazing, really. After all this time. Years at least—they had calculated that much. All this time, and her body still wanted to survive.
For herself, Tirzah was not at all sure.
But she had not yet worked out a way to kill herself in the dark.
CHAPTER 18
SECRET
Where there is a port, there are taverns. Some are cheerful, bright, clean. Aboveboard. Others are not. Because where there is a port, there is money changing hands in an incessant stream. It takes many forms, only one of which is coin. It could be cargo ending up in the wrong place. It could be humans—their bodies or their minds—sold or selling themselves. It could be information. Taverns provide a marketplace free of scrutiny. Any man can go to one and meet any other man. By chance, as it were.
Any man could sit down at a splintered table with a rough pottery cup before him. He could lean into a corner, see and not be seen. Watch.
A Roman coin from the first century
Only a Roman, though, would stride into such a place as if he owned it. Only a Roman would carelessly throw a cloak over a fine woolen tunic to visit the seedy side of town. In a port, where everyone knew how to judge fabric at a glance. Or the outline of a dagger making angles beneath the cloak. Or a gold ring. Real gold—nothing shines like it.
The Roman spotted his man and threaded through the tables to him. Sat down, his back to the room. The man suppressed a sigh and hoped he got paid before the Roman got knifed.
He was agitated. That wasn’t good either. Spying is a job best done without emotion, for people who are similarly controlled. This Roman, Messala, had already shown himself to be vain and heedless. The spy was wondering if he wasn’t also stupid.
“Simonides had a visitor,” the spy announced.
“Is that all? From what you’ve told me, he has visitors all the time,” Messala answered testily.
&
nbsp; “True, but I’ve figured out who they all are by now. This one was unusual.”
“And?”
“And you have no idea how hard this job is. I’ve told you over and over, Simonides is cautious. Most of the time I’m in a room in the warehouse with my slate, counting things. What is it exactly you’re looking for, anyway? I could do the job better if I knew.”
Without looking up, the Roman signaled to a serving man. Two fingers: two cups of wine. They arrived, slopping onto the table. The serving man hovered, waiting for payment. Messala looked up. The man was tall, with deep-set eyes and a broken nose. Messala found a few coins and slapped them down on the table. He pushed a cup toward the spy, then took a deep swallow from his own. From the face he made, the spy thought it wasn’t the kind of wine he was used to.
“All right. So who was this visitor you’re so excited about?”
“A tall Jew, possibly new to Antioch. He had to ask the way. He went down to the dock first. Then to the warehouse. The watchman wasn’t at the gate—and he heard about that later from that dog Malluch. So the man went right in.”
“Did you watch him? Follow him?”
“Of course I did. What are you paying me for?”
“And?”
“He just looked around. Like he’d never seen a warehouse before. Didn’t touch anything. Then the daughter found him. He asked for her father by name. And she took him right upstairs.”
“What’s upstairs?”
“The rooftop, where Simonides mostly stays. Hardly anyone gets up there. He’s no fool, the old man.”
“Did you follow them? Hear anything?” Messala had drained his cup and was looking around to find the server.
“No, that’s what I’m telling you! There’s no way to get close to him!”
Messala turned back and looked directly at the spy. “Well, what good are you, anyway?”
“Do you want to wait and let me tell you what I did find out?” the spy asked. “Or maybe you should pay me first.” He finished his first cup of wine and took a swallow from the second.
Messala moved. Perhaps he was going to stand up and leave. The spy sat still, considering. Now he had some new information. Messala was a nervy, difficult client. The spy was tired of him. And what Messala was looking for didn’t seem to be there anyway. Gold that didn’t belong to the shipping business? Records relating to an enterprise in Jerusalem? The spy was good at his job, and those things did not exist in the house on the river.
So what did it mean that this Roman soldier was so . . . ? What was he? the spy wondered, watching Messala toss back his second cup of wine. Tense? Excited, really. Excited about this tall Jew who had visited Simonides. Jew. Jerusalem. Hmm.
ROMAN CURRENCY IN THE FIRST CENTURY
Currency
Metal
Relative Value
as
bronze
dupondius
bronze or copper
2 asses
sestertius
metal alloy
4 asses; 2 dupondii
denarius
silver alloy
8 dupondii; 4 sestertii
aureus
gold
100 sestertii; 25 denarii
sestertium
1000 sestertii; 250 denarii
He just sat still while all these thoughts ran swiftly through his head. Really it didn’t matter whether Messala listened to him or not; he would get paid for what he had learned. “You’re not the only person looking for him,” he improvised. A lie, but one that might squeeze more money out of Messala. “And he stands out.” Not that it mattered, but Messala didn’t know that.
“All right.” Messala slapped a coin on the table. The spy picked it up and held it in a shaft of light. Caesar’s face on it. Always good to be paid in Roman coin, he thought. Say what you would about them, their money held its value.
“Your fellow just arrived in Antioch today. So that was the first thing he did, right? Go to see the Jewish merchant. I happened to be outside when he left. Whatever he came for, he didn’t get it. He stormed out of there.” He stopped and drank more wine.
“That’s all?” Messala asked, pushing back the bench to leave.
“No,” the spy answered tranquilly. “Because I waited around for a little while. Counting barrels outside. Looking busy. So when Malluch left five minutes later, he didn’t even see me. But he took off after the tall Jewish man.”
“Describe him.”
“Malluch? He doesn’t look like anything. Honestly that fellow disappears—”
“No, you fool, the Jew. What did he look like?”
A repeated question. Interesting. “I wasn’t close to him, you know, but in general—very tall. Dark hair. Young—maybe about your age. Simple clothes, linen robe and sandals, but high quality. Looks rich, but doesn’t care about it, I would guess. Moves well. Strong.”
“Looks rich?” Messala asked. “What do you mean by that?”
“Well, like you. Clean, strong. Stands up straight, steps out like he owns the road.”
Messala stood. “Not possible. No Jew could own the road,” he snarled. He looked down at the spy. “All right. Let me know if anything else happens.”
The spy nodded and leaned back, then watched his client leave. He watched the faces of the men who looked after Messala. A few of them narrowed their eyes, and one of them spat. It was not a tavern where Romans were welcome. The spy wondered if, as a Roman, you just got used to being hated.
CHAPTER 19
OASIS
The Orchard of the Palms lay east of the Grove of Daphne. As Malluch explained it to Ben-Hur, the distance could be covered in two hours on horseback or one hour on camelback.
Ben-Hur looked up at the sky. “Faster is better, I would say, wouldn’t you? Do we risk being benighted?”
“Oh no,” Malluch said. “I will go back to Antioch afterward and I’ll get there before it’s truly dark.”
“But you can’t—why would you go all the way to the oasis, just to leave again?”
“Because I’ve never seen it,” Malluch said. “Not everyone gets invited to visit the sheik. And besides, Jews help each other.”
Ben-Hur slapped him on the back, and Malluch stumbled a little. The man didn’t know his own strength, apparently. And when it came time to haggle with the man who hired out camels, Ben-Hur expertly brought the price down to what Malluch knew was appropriate. Useful skills, Malluch thought.
The two beasts available were undistinguished, resembling the tall white camel from the grove only in the basic features: large eyes, a haughty expression, and a plunging, uncomfortable gait. Ben-Hur sat uneasily in the saddle at first. Malluch watched as he concentrated, shifting his weight, resisting or accommodating the long, lurching strides. Ben-Hur caught his eye. “Not much like riding a horse, is it?”
“You never rode a camel in Rome?”
“Why bother, when you can sit comfortably on the fastest horses in the world? The emperor’s stables are famous, and what he cares for, all Romans care for.” Ben-Hur adjusted his position on the wooden saddle, then said, “And speaking of horses, what more can you tell me about Sheik Ilderim?”
Malluch nodded. He had been anticipating the question. “As you may expect, his people are nomads. They control huge tracts of land. They don’t own it as we do. In fact, the land is valuable only because it provides grazing for their herds and because people have to pay him to cross it.”
“Why would Ilderim be entering his horses in this race if he doesn’t have a driver for them?”
“You ask good questions,” Malluch said with a sideways glance. “We all have our weaknesses. By reputation Ilderim is canny, making only the decisions that will benefit his tribe. But when it comes to Rome, he is different.”
This souvenir album from 1900 contains photographs of different scenes from the stage adaptation of Ben-Hur.
“I wonder if that isn’t true of everyone in this part of the world,” Ben-Hur s
uggested.
“Of course it’s not,” Malluch answered. “Many people do very well under Roman rule. The roads are magnificent; the taxes are collected; the little wars among neighboring peoples are suppressed. Trade flourishes. You can get anything, anywhere.” He did not continue, and Ben-Hur now looked curiously at him.
“But?” he asked. “Many people do well, but what?” Malluch didn’t answer, and Ben-Hur went on. “Oh, I understand. I have been living as a Roman! So you believe I think like one?” He laughed, but there was a bitter tone to it. “No, Malluch. I assure you, I love the Romans even less than your sheik. Finish his story. And then, if we still have time, I will tell you mine. But if Rome is your villain, I will not be dismayed. Or surprised.”
“All right. When I say that Ilderim controls territory, part of that control means that he guarantees the safety of people passing through. At his oases, in the passes between his hills, in the long, flat stretches of desert, travelers need not fear brigands if they are under the sheik’s protection. For a price, of course. So of course the Roman tax collectors voyage through his lands if possible. You can imagine the temptation they present: trains of camels laden with boxes of gold. It takes the strength of a Sheik Ilderim to keep them safe.”
“What would happen if, for example, a group of Parthians happened to capture such a camel train?”
“Ilderim has his . . . You cannot call it an army, because to me that means lines of Romans marching behind their flags. Ilderim arms and trains and maintains these groups of—well, to be honest, they are brigands themselves. Only they are Ilderim’s brigands, fierce and disciplined. Usually the consequence of a raid within Ilderim’s land would be an answering raid inside the territory of the raider.”
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