Ben-Hur

by Carol Wallace

  MESSIANIC PROPHECIES

  The Jewish Scriptures included dozens of prophecies of the coming Messiah, such as that he would be of the line of King David and would be born in Bethlehem. Jesus fulfilled these prophecies by being born of a virgin, having to flee for his life to Egypt to survive a massacre in his birthplace, being called a Nazarene. Other prophecies related to Jesus’ time of ministry were also fulfilled.

  “But you mean . . .” Ben-Hur paused. “Could you mean the Messiah?”

  Balthasar nodded soberly. “We in Egypt do not have that belief. Nor do the Greeks, nor the Hindus. The three of us, we all came from lands where many gods are worshiped. We had all come to believe, though, in one God. Like the God of the Jews,” he added, gesturing toward Ben-Hur. “One God, a great and all-powerful God. Who was grieved by his people and wanted to lead them out of their evil ways. And we had, all three, been sent to find the new leader he had given us.

  “Which we did. I believe this most firmly. The Savior was an infant who had just been born to a Jewish couple in a khan in Bethlehem. We saw the baby. They were in a stable. We worshiped the baby. I cannot describe it. But I would give my life to be in his presence again.”

  There was another long silence. Neither Ilderim nor Ben-Hur moved. Then Balthasar drew a breath and said, “Instead, here I am. In a dream we had received a message while we were still in Jerusalem. We were to see Herod and inquire, ‘Where is he who has been born king of the Jews?’”

  “Wait,” Ben-Hur broke in. “Could you say that again? It was ‘he who is king of the Jews’?”

  “No.” Balthasar shook his head. “‘He who has been born king of the Jews.’”

  “And Herod, who was king of the Jews, was appointed by Rome. You said this in front of him?”

  Balthasar shrugged. “We were told to. What could we do? And after we worshiped the baby, we left.”

  “When was this?” Ben-Hur asked.

  “How old are you?” asked Balthasar.

  “Twenty-five,” Ben-Hur answered.

  Balthasar nodded. “He should be just about your age, this king of the Jews. If he is going to lead us, now is the time, don’t you think? He is a mature man, but young enough to establish a lengthy reign. I believe he must declare himself soon, and I could not stay in Egypt while he might be coming. Iras is furious. She believes I am a senile old man, going mad before I die. She came with me to be sure I didn’t do anything foolish. But of course the whole venture is foolish,” he added with a creaky laugh. “I believe his time is coming, the time when he will make himself known. And it will not happen in Egypt. It will be somewhere in Judea. I want to be there. I want to see him again before I die.”

  CHAPTER 21

  DUST

  As dusk unfurled across the Orchard of the Palms, it caught up with Malluch on the outskirts of Antioch with the two scruffy camels. At Simonides’s house the doors were all locked against the night, but the owner himself still sat on the rooftop, watching the last shards of sun glitter on the surface of the river. Quiet settled on the Grove of Daphne, broken by snatches of song and muffled laughter.

  Miles away in Jerusalem, the courtyard of the Hur palace was nearly silent. Birds were settling into their nests on the rooftop, but it was a windless evening. Not even a palm frond moved—until a regular scratching sounded on the stairs.

  It had become routine for Amrah by now. Every evening, brush the stairs. Just enough to keep the cobwebs away so that she could pass up and down without leaving a trace. From time to time a Roman detachment would come from the fortress to look through the rooms. They broke the seals on the front gate, posted guards, tramped around shouting at each other, and sealed the gate again when they left.

  They never took anything or broke anything. There was always an officer in charge to see to that. The orders on that count must have been very strict. Aside from the wreckage of that first day, the palace lay as it had for years, undisturbed. Almost as if it were ready for someone to move into it.

  Only it wasn’t really undisturbed. The soldiers didn’t know that. There were attics and storage rooms they’d never found that showed what an empty house really looked like after years of abandonment. They had that dead smell. The floors would crunch if you walked on them. And the cobwebs would veil your face so that you spent long minutes trying to brush away something that almost wasn’t there.

  Amrah wasn’t keeping the house clean for the family. She knew it would take a miracle to bring them back. Judah was dead for sure. Nobody survived the galleys. The mistress and Tirzah—dead too. Or so she hoped.

  But the Romans hadn’t claimed the palace completely. Had they planned to sell it? If so, no buyer had stepped forward. So the house remained empty except for Amrah. And just in case, she told herself, just in case something changed, she stayed. To tell the story, maybe. Tell someone about the family who had lived there, prospered, taken care of their people, loved each other, and been torn apart by the harsh hand of Rome. She didn’t often allow herself to think about it, but the vision crept into her head from time to time. Someone would knock on the door. Not just wrench off the seal and enter, but knock politely. Someone would call out—“Hello?” So as not to disturb whoever might live there. Someone would walk around openly, looking but not touching, continually calling.

  Ben-Hur dishes with a chariot race pattern

  Not like Messala. How he had frightened her those years ago, creeping in like that! For weeks afterward her heart pounded whenever she approached the postern door, to enter or to leave. She had almost given herself away, nearly stumbling over him as he climbed the stairs to the roof.

  But he had not expected to see her, so he had not seen her.

  Just as, on that terrible day when it happened, a careless soldier had overlooked her crouching behind a row of barrels in a storeroom. He had been bored by then, she could tell—how many storerooms had he looked into? There would be no plunder for him, no hidden swallows of wine or silver coins to sweep up. Just a tramp along endless corridors of stout wooden doors and a cursory glance inside to make sure all the occupants of the palace had been driven out.

  She had stayed in that storeroom for several days. Or maybe not. The waiting had felt long, but it was dark. All the time. And after that, it was definitely another day before she crept up the stairs. She only took the chance because she needed to eat.

  An ad for Ben-Hur branded flour

  She needed to eat because she needed to stay alive. That was clear. Eat and drink and remain hidden. Just in case. Fortunately she didn’t need much. The mistress had always laughed at how little she ate: “Amrah, you are like a bird!” she would say. That turned out to be a good thing. For a long time she lived on what was left in the kitchen, grains and dried fruits and nuts. There was water—the Romans had not poisoned the cistern. She roamed around the palace in those days. Just looking at what the Romans had done. What they’d broken, what they’d taken. Things, really. None of it mattered, compared to the family.

  But one day she saw a footprint in a dusty corner and was terrified until she realized that it was her own. After that, her routine changed. She roamed with a purpose. She swept, roughly, so that she could pass without a trace. She let the spiders have their way but kept the centers of doorways clear. She let the mice burrow into cushions but tidied away most of their skeletons.

  Eventually she had to leave the palace. She had eaten most of the supplies that were left, and her robe was tattered. She crept out just before dawn, startled by the openness, the enormous sky, the sounds, the pure rush of air around her. She visited a modest market, bought what she needed with some of the coins she’d found in hidden corners of the palace, then returned home.

  In, out, drifting as quietly as a breeze, Amrah grew used to her invisible life. Sometimes she felt despair, but there was always something to do. She tried not to look forward or to look back. She simply needed to be there. Just in case.

  CHAPTER 22

  LUCK

&
nbsp; On Simonides’s side of the broad Orontes River, trade dominated, with its wharves and warehouses and constant traffic of boats. But on the opposite side stood a massive palace, as imposing as any in the East. It was there, naturally, that the Romans in Antioch made their headquarters. It held stables and armories, a vast hall for official ceremonies, courtyards and sleeping rooms, storage and kitchens. There were timbers and tile, marble and bronze, sawdust on the surface of the indoor training ground for the horses.

  And in one large room on an upper floor, there were five bronze chandeliers shedding a hot glow from a high vaulted ceiling. Tall windows would have let in a breeze, if there had been one. Slave boys carried fans, but the men in the room wouldn’t stay still to be fanned. Soldiers need to move.

  They were a handsome group—young, healthy, prosperous. They had spent the day marching or drilling or riding or driving or throwing javelins or shouting at recruits or battling each other with their swords. It was fashionable to ignore wounds or injuries, but some of the tanned limbs and faces bore scars or bandages.

  They were noisy, too: the hard surfaces in the room threw back the sound of their voices, and these were voices trained to be heard across a parade ground. There was some singing, though it was early for that. Beneath the voices the sharp clack of dice came from the tables around the room. Servants circulated with pitchers of wine and platters of fruit, but the fruit was largely ignored.

  Messala stood at a table near the window, tossing a pair of dice from hand to hand. “No takers?” he said. “Come on, that’s why they call it gambling! Flavius?”

  The man next to him said, “I could manage a denarius, but I know you won’t bother to shake the dice for that.”

  A first-century Roman die

  “Of course not; where is your courage? Myrtilus, bring me some more wine for Flavius. I’m determined to separate this man from his caution tonight.”

  “Separate me from my paltry soldier’s pay is what you mean,” Flavius answered.

  “I’d take that sword belt with the handsome clasp,” Messala offered.

  “Have to get it back from the moneylender first,” Flavius told him.

  “I know; you don’t trust your hand with the dice. Let’s bet on what time Consul Maxentius arrives tomorrow. I’m saying high noon, so those fops in his guard keel over in the heat while they wait for the ship to dock.”

  A cheer rose from the men who heard him. The newly arrived Roman troops had not made friends with the men stationed on the Orontes.

  “Let’s bet on how many of them faint before the consul disembarks!” cried a voice. There was laughter, but it died away as a new group of men joined those at the table.

  They looked subtly different. Less browned, less knotty with muscle. Messala and his friends all wore the lightest of tunics with sleeves and skirts as short as was decent. The newcomers were hot; it was obvious. They had not anticipated the humidity of Antioch, and their tunics clung to them. They were older, on the whole, and watchful. They smiled, but not with merriment.

  “I was hoping we’d find some wagering here,” said the tallest, a man whose hair was already thinning. “I am Cecilius, with the consul’s staff. We could bet that I will be the first to keel over in tomorrow’s sun.” His smile turned into a grin, but his teeth were bared.

  “Not I,” said Flavius. “You long, stringy men can stand anything. You’ll be standing there upright till the sun sets.”

  The group around Cecilius laughed. Flavius had evidently hit on the truth.

  “Dice, then?” Cecilius suggested. “I don’t want to bet on the race until I’ve seen some of the competition.”

  Messala straightened. “You drive?” he asked.

  Cecilius nodded. “Yes, but I don’t expect to win.”

  Laughter erupted all around. “He certainly does expect to win,” a quiet voice said.

  “I don’t recognize you,” Messala said. “I know most of the Roman drivers.”

  “Ah! You must be Messala, then!” Cecilius said. “I bring you greetings from all of the horsemen in Rome. They said you were the man to beat here. I arrived in Rome just after you left.”

  “And where did you drive before?”

  “In Thessalonica, in Greece. I had a lot to learn when I came home.” The smile flashed again. Definitely not friendly, but Messala did not seem to notice.

  “Is your team here?” he asked.

  Cecilius nodded. “I sent them around by land. That’s the best thing about being on the consul’s staff. Anything that adds to his consequence—done! Yes, sir! Extra horses? A chariot? Fodder? To join the wagon train to Antioch? Yes, sir!”

  An extra’s costume from the 1959 MGM film

  “Cecilius likes to be sir,” added the quiet voice. That got a real smile.

  Messala looked around the room, suddenly restless. “Well, we will meet on the track, then. Maybe have a friendly gallop or two before the race next week.”

  Cecilius nodded. “Friendly. Good. I may need pointers.”

  Messala tried his own mirthless grin. “I don’t give pointers. I race to win.”

  His friends laughed in their turn.

  “Too bad Arrius isn’t here,” said one of the newcomers. “That would have been something to see.”

  “A race worthy of the consul,” agreed another. “Three of the best drivers in the empire!”

  Messala frowned. “Who is this Arrius? There was no driver by that name when I was in Rome.”

  “How long have you been in Antioch?” Cecilius asked politely.

  “Four years,” Messala answered. “Much too long. I’m just waiting for a transfer.”

  “That’s a long time to be so far from Rome,” Cecilius said with apparent sympathy. “They must need you here, then. And before that?”

  “In Tarraco,” said Messala, tossing his dice from hand to hand.

  “Brave man! They’ll certainly bring you back to the capital now. They need men who’ve seen what it’s really like to administer an empire. But that explains why you don’t know Arrius. You two would have a lot in common, I think.”

  “They even look alike,” said one of the men from Rome. “Dark hair, strong build, about the same age . . .”

  “Like most of the men in this room,” Messala said. “Still, I’m surprised. I had been racing for several years when I left. I thought I knew all the drivers, even the young ones just starting to train.”

  “The strange thing about this Arrius,” said Cecilius, “was that he just appeared. He’d been rescued off some ship by the duumvir Quintus Arrius. You must remember him.”

  Myrtilus nodded. “Something about a sea battle . . . I don’t recall exactly—the younger man saved Arrius’s life and the duumvir adopted him, though he was obviously a Jew. Not that he ever made an attempt to hide that. But he learned our language and our ways. Won all the races in the circus for several years and then devoted himself to the palaestra. I lost track of him after that.”

  “He learned to fight like the gladiators,” said a willowy youth in a tunic with a broad purple border at the hem.

  “And how would you know that?” Cecilius asked, laughing.

  The youth blushed. “My father said. The gladiators all liked him because he was so brave. They said they wished he could fight a lion.”

  “Who is this paragon you’re talking about?” asked Flavius, who had drifted away in search of more wine. “Who should fight a lion? Aside from Messala here, of course.”

  “Did you ever hear of young Arrius in Rome?” Messala asked his friend.

  “Of course,” Flavius answered. “He really was a paragon. What’s more, he’s here in Antioch.” He went on, pleased by everyone’s surprise. “You see, I’m not the best driver or the best swordsman, but I do always have the best gossip.”

  “Well, it hardly matters,” Messala said restlessly. He looked around the room. “We’re here to gamble, not to gossip! If I can’t persuade any of you to bet against me, I’ll have to find some
one else.”

  “Oh, I’ll happily play,” Cecilius said. “But tell me—” he turned to Flavius—“what else do you know about young Arrius? Is he here for the race?”

  “This was the interesting part,” Flavius answered. “He arrived very quietly on a cargo ship, dressed in Jewish robes. If he’d come with the consul, that would not have been surprising. But he’s not staying here at the palace.”

  “Well, didn’t the duumvir die?” Messala asked. “So maybe this fellow he adopted has gone back to his people. Quite a comedown, though. I don’t even know why we’re talking about him; none of us has met him.”

  “The thing is,” said Cecilius, “he was the duumvir’s heir. He could buy and sell all of us together. I have to say, I envy the man.”

  Messala looked at him. “But why? He’s just another rich Jew.”

  “Maybe,” Cecilius replied with raised eyebrows. “But he drives like a demon. I admire his courage.”

  Messala shook the dice again. “All right. The game is calling. What will we play for? A sestertium?”

  Cecilius looked coolly at him. “They said the stakes were high here in Antioch, but I had no idea how high. You’re a brave man to risk so much on the fall of the dice.”

  Messala met Cecilius’s gaze. “It’s my motto: no one dares what I dare.” And he threw the dice.

  CHAPTER 23

  HORSES

  There were no dice in Ilderim’s tent. No dice, no noise, no wine, no shouting, no drunkenness, no songs, no vomiting, no blood on the floor after someone hit his head when falling, no slender serving boys, no men turning pale as their bets went bad. The tent flap stayed open and the moon rose over the lake, spilling a gleaming white ribbon on the black water. Dinner was served, eaten, cleared. Balthasar went off to his tent on the arm of the tall Nubian, who could more easily have simply carried him.