“And when I rescued Arrius from the burning sea and returned to Rome with him, that change of circumstance also seemed meaningless. Except in that it gave me, I eventually realized, the only opportunity I wanted. The opportunity to seek vengeance.
“I wanted vengeance against Rome and against one Roman. I thought the best way to punish Rome would be to use its own methods against it, and that is why I spent my time as I did, in the palaestra to train my body, in the camps to train my mind. I turned myself into a weapon.
“Now you have shown me the way that weapon can be used. If the King who will come is the king of the Jews, he must throw off Rome. Jews will never thrive until Judea is our own again.
“So perhaps this is the answer to my own question. Why did I suffer so? If the result was to help the King to his throne, I can only be glad.”
LEW WALLACE AND WARFARE
As a young boy, Lew Wallace used to sneak off to watch his father, David, drill with the local militia—armed with umbrellas and cornstalks instead of muskets—in Covington, Indiana. “Nothing of military circumstances half so splendid and inspiring had ever taken place,” Lew later wrote in his autobiography. And thus began his lifelong fascination with wars and soldiers.
In 1842, when Lew learned Davy Crockett and James Bowie were fighting to free Texas from Mexico, he and a friend set off down the White River to join the war effort. Lew was fifteen. His grandfather caught up to them a few miles downriver and returned them home.
“It is a harsh enough fate,” Simonides spoke up. “You will have understood this: it is back to the parade ground and sword drill and long hours marching in the desert sun.”
“More than that, I think,” added Sheik Ilderim. “We should be sure Judah understands not just what he is taking on, but what he is giving up. You live here with your loving daughter and Malluch and your staff who care for you. I go nowhere without my wives and children and servants and followers. If Judah is to be a military leader, he will lead alone. That is the nature of it. And if he leads this army for the King who will come, he becomes an outlaw.” He turned to Simonides. “For a young man with his life before him, this is a grave choice. We should give him time to think about it.”
“I would have asked for that in any case,” Ben-Hur said. “You have not mentioned the most important element.” He smiled slightly. “Where are the men to come from?”
“You will raise them,” Simonides answered calmly.
“How can you be so sure?” Ben-Hur asked.
“You have the gift. Men will follow you,” Simonides replied. “Did you never talk about such matters with Arrius? He was an important figure among the Romans.”
“But to discuss is not to do,” Ben-Hur said.
“Like Simonides,” Ilderim said, “I believe you will be able to raise the forces you need. And like you, I think the hardships you have been through will prove valuable. But it is late and we old men need our rest. I think we should leave Judah with these thoughts and talk again in the morning.”
“Yes, I would be happy with that,” said Ben-Hur. “But one more point. I said I wanted vengeance against Rome, and you have offered me the means to secure it. But I also want vengeance against one Roman, Messala. What’s more, thanks to the sheik, I believe I can achieve it. Let us resume this discussion after the race. In the meanwhile I will think about what you have suggested.”
CHAPTER 28
A JEW
Was it Ben-Hur? Messala kept wondering. Wouldn’t he have known? He’d practically touched the fellow. How could he not have recognized him? Could he look that different, just eight years later? Messala kept remembering the chaos in the Hur palace: the women screaming, the blood pooling from the porter’s hand, the servants scurrying around, and surely there had been goats? He remembered goats anyway. And in the middle of it all, Judah, his eyes huge with alarm in a pale face. Tall, dark-haired. Not memorable. Not really.
And besides, he should be dead. He’d gone to the galleys. The galleys killed slaves; it was known.
But that son of Arrius. He’d survived the galleys.
Once again Messala went back to that moment by the Fountain of Castalia, where he’d gone to meet Iras. Whom he still had not seen, except for a brief glimpse. So much for that assignation!
Instead there’d been a tall, dark-haired man in a Jewish robe. It had all happened so fast! The idiots clustered around the spring like sheep, the impulse to disperse them—like sheep. The man moving fast, trapping the harness in a huge hand.
A huge hand. So, yes, that was most likely the son of Arrius with the strength and limbs of a galley slave. Though why wearing the robe of a Jew? That was strange. He would be driving Sheik Ilderim’s horses. He was well-known in Rome as a driver. Messala tried to tell himself that was all that mattered. Competition! A challenge! There was an Athenian driver too, and one from Corinth. The son of Arrius would have his hands full with those horses of Ilderim’s, barely broken to the chariot as they were. He knew how hard his own team was to handle, and he’d been driving them for a full year.
He could beat Arrius. He could beat anyone. Especially a Jew. Especially Judah, the son of the house of Hur.
Messala’s wrist brace, worn in the 1925 MGM production’s chariot race scene
A day went by and another one. He trained; he idled away his evenings with the other Roman soldiers, each night drinking more than he intended. He was exempted from guard duty. All his fellow officers were betting on him, especially since the newcomer Cecilius had withdrawn his team. He claimed one of his horses was lame, but Messala was sure he had simply realized he couldn’t win.
Then three days before the race, a grubby youth sidled up to him as he left the stable. He was so busy thinking about the tension of the reins—Was he holding them too tight? Did his outside horse need a touch more slack?—that he didn’t notice the boy or hear him until he felt the touch on his elbow.
“I’m to tell you,” the boy said, “it’s Ben-Hur. Definitely.”
Messala whirled around. “How dare you! How dare you touch me!”
“Couldn’t get your attention, Your Honor. To deliver the message. I was supposed to tell you, ‘It’s Ben-Hur. No doubt about it.’”
Evening was falling and the street outside the stable was busy. Nobody paid any attention to them. “Who sent you?” Messala hissed, hauling the boy around the corner into an alley.
“You know. He said you’d pay.”
“This is ridiculous. Why should I trust him? Or you?”
“He said you would ask that. He said to tell you, the Jew at Simonides’s house is Judah Ben-Hur. He came here to see if he would know what happened to the women.” The boy pulled his arm out of Messala’s grasp.
“Wait. Repeat that?”
“He said you’d need to hear it twice. If not three times. The Jew at Simonides’s is called Ben-Hur, and he came to Antioch to see if Simonides knew where the women were. He didn’t say what women. If you need me to say it again, you need to pay more.”
“What! You dare . . .” Messala fumbled for a coin and threw it on the ground. The boy put his foot on it.
“Two,” he said. “And also, he’s done with you.”
“One, and I’m done with him!”
“No,” the youth said. “He told me to remind you he’s good with horses. And he’s taking care of yours. Two. In my hand.”
Messala knew he was bested. He put the second coin in the boy’s hand and turned away even before he’d picked up the first from the filthy dust in the alley.
But then . . . As his footsteps led him away from the stable, his mind was working furiously. Never mind the why, never mind the how. Ben-Hur, little Judah, was in Antioch. Had shamed him at the Fountain of Castalia. (And where was that Egyptian princess on the camel? Somehow she figured into Judah’s situation. Another thing to hold against him.) And planned to race against him, Messala. A Jew, driving a team of four horses? The prospect was laughable!
Yet the horses, M
essala knew, were a threat. If Judah could manage them . . . He almost laughed. It didn’t matter what anyone said about the “son of Arrius” and his time in Rome. Judah would not have the courage or the cunning to win the race. Well, he might have the cunning. But he would certainly not have the cruelty, Messala thought. Horse racing sometimes got rough. For the men as well as the horses. Crashes were common, often causing injuries. Even deaths. There were all kinds of useful possibilities.
In fact, this was good news. Any advantage was useful in a horse race, and as a Roman, Messala was in a position to increase it.
He glanced at the sky and made his plan. First he visited the stadium at the Grove of Daphne, where the race officials were about to create the official notice of the entrants: their names, their colors, their nationalities, the owners of their horses. Wait, Messala said, new information! Sheik Ilderim’s driver was not a Roman but Ben-Hur, a Jew!
Imagine, a Jew driving against the best teams in the East! The temerity, the folly! The program was changed amid laughter and jokes about Jewish dogs driving horses. They were all grateful to Messala for the correction. How shaming if a Jew had successfully masqueraded as a Roman! This would certainly change the betting odds!
Messala nodded. The fact had not escaped him. And what about the post positions? The race managers exchanged a glance. Normally, there would be a lottery. Each driver’s name on an ivory plaque, the plaques mixed together and drawn one by one at random from a box . . . as was usual wherever Romans raced. Oh, the rules were very strict, very. There was so much advantage to the man on the inside of the track, whose horses traveled the shortest distance. Oh no, bribery? What a question! No one ever attempted to bribe the officials at an imperial stadium. Why, the games were put on in honor of the consul! What kind of honor would that be, if the results were not scrupulously fair? Of course it would be a wonderful thing if a serving officer in the imperial army should win. Naturally.
True, if the Roman driver had the inside position, that would be an advantage. A way to show the superiority of Rome, especially in the East. Oh, really? There were to be special rewards for officials if the race was satisfying? No, they had not heard. Unofficial, naturally. Understood. Everyone nodded. Some gold was found on a table after Messala left, in coins that divided nicely among the men.
A Ben-Hur branded cigar box
His next errand was to the stabling in the stadium. To examine the stalls for his horses, he told the head groom. No detail too small, for a race as important as this.
The groom was flattered and perhaps influenced by the clatter of silver that drifted into his palm. Yes, the stadium was magnificent. Yes, plenty of room for all the teams. Yes, they would all spend the night before the race at the stadium. With their own grooms, that went without saying. A request? To have Sheik Ilderim’s horses stabled next to his own? It could be managed. As the officer wished.
Messala was pleased.
He was even more pleased the next day when the official race lineup was released to the public. A Jew, a Jew! Driving the horses of that desert chieftain Ilderim! Gossip flew. Ilderim and his Sons of the Wind were well-known in Antioch. Swift and unmanageable, even by a Roman. What a joke, that a Jew should make the attempt! And he would line up by Messala’s side at the start! Oh, how perfect.
Shoulder to shoulder. Eyes level. Braced on the light chariots, arms straining to hold the teams, Messala would meet Ben-Hur. After all those years. As boys they had fought with toy swords, raced each other through Jerusalem’s streets on foot. Messala, the older, always won. The older and a Roman.
No reason why he would not win the chariot race.
CHAPTER 29
SONS OF THE WIND
Meanwhile Ben-Hur stayed at the Orchard of the Palms. He told himself he was not thinking about the proposition from Ilderim and Simonides. He was sure he had given up all hope of finding his mother and his sister. He was focused on one thing: beating Messala in this race. He was training the horses. He was single-minded. There was room for nothing else.
The 1959 MGM movie poster in Italian
Iras actually helped with that. She was so often where he was! He would hear the chimes of her jewelry; then she would appear—always with a servant, always nominally veiled, so there was nothing improper about their meeting. Nothing anyone could precisely criticize. If she frequently leaned very close to him, what did that mean? He couldn’t move away; she would laugh at him. She often teased him about being prudish. Shy, awkward, unused to women: those were some of the terms she used. And she was right, of course. He was unused to women. Aside from servants, he had barely spoken to one since the days in Jerusalem. Iras knew about that time. She had asked him about his boyhood. She wanted him to describe Tirzah and Naomi, curious, she said, about Jewish women. Though her questions made him uncomfortable, he did not know how to deflect her curiosity. Somehow, he did not like sharing his precious few memories with her, yet she kept asking: How did they dress? How did they do their hair? How did they pass their days? Could they go out unveiled? Could they meet men who were not their relatives? Ben-Hur was surprised at how little he knew of their lives. How had his mother managed the family palace, with all of its tenants, its storage rooms, and the animals and the staff? Had she had an office somewhere or a manager? Was she like Simonides’s daughter, Esther, modest yet competent? Probably, but he had not paid attention. He had just been an oblivious boy. That was the phrase Iras had used.
Oblivious no more. He thought of her far too much. His eyes would catch on her wrist, her hair, the contour of her waist all too visible beneath the sheer gowns she affected. The damp heat, she said. It made her feel unwell. She would lift the glossy black river of her hair off her neck to let the air reach back there. Ben-Hur thought she might know how alluring the gesture was, with her round arms uplifted, showing the soft skin . . .
What was it she wanted, anyway? Was she just bored? He thought back to Tirzah and his mother. They had always been busy. Reading, making music, organizing, learning. There seemed to be little to interest Iras at the Orchard of the Palms. She did not seem to read or play an instrument or do much besides fan herself and linger by the lakeside. Balthasar rested a great deal. The sheik’s women regarded Iras with wild eyes, as if she were an alien creature. As indeed she was.
The horses, unlike Iras, Ben-Hur understood. He spent as much time as possible with them. It was too hot to train in the middle of the day, so he would wake in the darkness and pad barefoot through the encampment to the stabling near the hills. The stars would fade to pinpricks as the sky became gray, then violet. By the time the first fingers of sunlight skimmed the hilltops, he would have the horses harnessed.
In the stable and on the track, there were no questions. No women, no enemies, no King who might be coming but might not. The horses liked him. He never found them asleep—they were always awake, ears cocked forward, eyes bright when he reached their enclosure. He supposed they heard his step. Or perhaps they knew his smell, as distinctive to them as Iras’s to him. Sometimes as he led them outdoors, he would pause for a moment in the cool dawn and close his eyes and just feel them, breathing around him, glossy hides warm, velvet muzzles bumping him gently to keep him moving forward.
They loved to run. Much as they seemed to enjoy his presence, he knew they loved running more. He was almost certain that they liked him because he helped them to run better. And then he would decide he was foolish. They were horses, not men.
But the fact remained that they trusted him. They backed readily into their places, Aldebaran and Rigel, Antares and Atair, and stood still as the various leather straps and buckles were fastened. At first grooms had come out to help him, but now they knew better: it was faster to let him harness the four alone.
When he leapt lightly into the chariot, they picked up their heads, but they didn’t step forward until he gathered the reins. Gathered the eight strips of leather, wrapped them up his arm, and then loosed them slightly. They understood.
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nbsp; Oh, it felt good! The damp air that Iras disliked so much often lay in a thin mist on the ground, and the smell was wonderful. Grass, herbs, horse—nothing finer. They would walk around the track at first. He let the horses play, snorting and snuffling, one breaking into a trot for a few steps, one tossing its head at a swallow winging its way to its nest. Then they would trot in earnest, around and around, faster each time. The breeze against Ben-Hur’s face grew stronger.
Then with a shake of the reins, he would urge them into a gallop. They ran as one now, legs moving in the same rhythm. Aldebaran on the outside might set the pace, but Atair was the one with the stamina. He could go on forever.
They did sprints, galloping all out one length of the track. They ran around the curves over and over again, on the outside and on the inside. Sometimes Ben-Hur was almost alarmed to see Atair’s hindquarters skim the track’s fencing, but he knew he might have to cut that close to the edge of the track in the race. If there was going to be a disaster, better here, without teams piling up behind him. Better here than in the public eye.
And as much as he was training the horses, Ben-Hur was also training himself. The balance required was stupendous. Chariots had rails to grasp, of course. Some men wrapped the reins around their bodies to leave a hand free for the rail and one for a whip. But Ben-Hur needed to feel the horses’ mouths—and they needed the contact with him. How else would they communicate?
So his legs had to be strong. And his back, to brace himself against the horses. His hands grew callused again, as they had been in the galley, and his face grew brown, and twice a day he swam in the lake to remove the dust from circling the dirt track behind four galloping horses.
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