Ben-Hur

by Carol Wallace

  It was all very satisfying.

  Ilderim had left the training entirely to Ben-Hur. They met in the evening for dinner, but conversation was general and, Ben-Hur often felt, quite dull. Only Iras’s presence gave the meals any interest. Ilderim asked, every evening, about the horses’ progress, and Ben-Hur knew he visited them daily in the stables near the track. Then, two nights before the race, Ilderim invited Ben-Hur to walk with him by the lake after dinner.

  “I have news,” he said in a low voice as soon as they were out of hearing of the tent. “You are listed in the program under your own name. We had entered you as the son of Arrius. Is there anyone else in Antioch who could know you?”

  CHARIOT CONSTRUCTION

  Roman chariot racers wanted their chariots as light as possible, so they used wicker, leather, and wood to construct, essentially, a rolling basket. Charioteers would sometimes balance on a bare axle. Most races involved four-horse chariots known as quadrigae.

  “No,” Ben-Hur said, startled. “It must be Messala’s doing, then! I suppose he did recognize me at the Grove of Daphne.”

  “Perhaps,” Ilderim answered. “I also assume he has been spying on us. As we have on him. And by the way, if there is any special information you would like that I might not think of, you must let me know.”

  “Truly? Then would you find out for me the measurements of Messala’s chariot? Every single measurement: the size of the wheels, the height of the floor, of the axle, the length of the pole, any details of the harness . . . Can that be done?”

  “Certainly,” Ilderim assured him.

  “Because one never knows when opportunity might appear,” Ben-Hur added quietly. “In the heat of the race. Contact between the chariots is not unknown.”

  “No. It is well to know as much as possible. I will add that the starting positions have been published as well, and you are to line up next to Messala.”

  Ben-Hur stopped walking and caught Ilderim’s arm. “I am? Do you think he made this happen?”

  “Possibly,” Ilderim replied. “But be sure that if he can make an advantage out of it, he will.”

  “Yes,” Ben-Hur agreed, nodding. The two men resumed their slow stroll across the grass to the lakeshore. “I wonder if there is a way this news could bring us an advantage.”

  “Well, I think there is,” Ilderim responded. “If you don’t object. Apparently there is much laughter in Antioch that I am allowing a Jew to drive my bays. I am seen widely as an old fool. This, of course, is good news. The weaker and more foolish we look, the less careful Messala will be.”

  “True,” Ben-Hur said. “We can surprise him.”

  “On the track, naturally,” Ilderim said. “But we may also be able to extend our advantage with the betting. Knowing you to be a Jew, people will be all the more eager to bet on Messala.”

  “Of course,” Ben-Hur answered. “The odds against my winning will be immense!”

  “Yes. A fortune could be made or lost. And better yet, this could be done very publicly. Now Messala is known to have debts,” Ilderim went on. “Do you think he will bet on himself?”

  “Oh, certainly. And if he lost enough money, and publicly enough, that would be a source of great shame.”

  “Yes. He could be ruined, in such a way that half the empire knows the story. With the new consul here, all eyes are on Antioch. I can manipulate the betting, but you must promise me to win the race.”

  “Oh, never fear,” Ben-Hur told him. “I will win the race. Or I will die trying.”

  “Then Simonides and I will do the rest,” the sheik said.

  CHAPTER 30

  ODDS

  One day more remained before the race. Out in the streets of Antioch, the excitement built. The entire day would be a holiday. At noon the procession to the stadium would take place, winding through the broad colonnaded streets: horses, soldiers, effigies of the various gods, musicians, banners, dancers, everything bold and shiny and noisy and brilliant would pass through Antioch on the way to the stadium. Once there, offerings to the gods would follow, then the usual sports: running, wrestling, leaping, boxing, javelin throwing, all the elements of battle that could be reduced to individual skills. The prizes, in honor of the new consul, were magnificent sums. Competitors had arrived from all over the empire.

  But these would not be the most important events. Citizens who had no interest in men running over hurdles were clustered on street corners arguing instead about the chariot race. Boys roamed the streets selling knots of ribbon or scarves with the colors of the competitors. Bawdy songs from the taverns were adapted with new words supporting Cleanthes the Athenian or Messala. Though Ben-Hur’s white colors could be seen along with Cleanthes’s green in some neighborhoods, the Roman red and gold predominated.

  Inside the great saloon of the government palace on the river, no other colors were seen at all, and if a man let a scrap of his white toga show, he was tossed a length of scarlet to cloak the white. Of course Messala would win—that was taken for granted. The only question was why Ilderim, who was known to be shrewd, had allowed that Jew to take the reins of his much-loved bays.

  Not that it mattered. The victory was assured, and the room hissed with Messala’s name. Bets passed back and forth on the other athletic contests, with Roman competitors favored, naturally. But there was little betting on the chariot race. On the margin of victory, of course, men would wager a few sestertii. One length? Six? Could Messala finish first by a whole lap? One could bet against the Jew finishing, but the odds weren’t satisfying. And no one would take a bet against Messala’s winning. It would have been like wagering that the sun would not rise the next day.

  In fact, the men were soon restless. So early in the evening and so little excitement to be had! There were some yawns, some murmuring. More wine was brought and the dice came out, but they seemed banal. Messala himself lounged on a divan, ostentatiously bored.

  “What it is to be so favored that no one will bet against you,” teased Flavius. “I could solve all of my money problems by offering immense odds against you—oh, but then you would have to lose. No, not a good plan.”

  “It’s no wonder you’re always in debt,” Messala commented, shaking a dice cup. “I wish something would happen. It’s going to be a long night without any entertainment.”

  “I’m sure we could find some dancing boys or girls.”

  “Yes, but that’s no fun if you have to stay sober.”

  “You could drive drunk. Now there’s an idea,” Flavius went on brightly. “Get publicly drunk. Spectacularly, loathsomely drunk. Insist on driving anyway. Then, at last, people would bet against you.”

  “Or simply bet with me,” said a deep voice.

  The two Romans, lolling side by side, sat up to examine the tall stranger. Unlike every other man in the vast saloon, he wore white—the long white robe of a Jew, made of heavy linen, closely tucked so that it swirled around him. Unlike the bareheaded Romans, he wore a pleated turban, and on one long finger gleamed a massive opal set in gold. But most importantly, he held a pair of ivory tablets. Tablets for keeping memoranda, perhaps. Records of bets?

  “And who are you?” Flavius thought Messala’s tone insolent, but it hardly mattered. A Jew, as this man obviously was, never took offense. Especially a Jew surrounded by Romans.

  “I am Sanballat. Some of you may know me as a supplier for the Roman army.” He looked around the room, scanning for familiar faces. “No, I see no acquaintances here, aside from the hero of the hour, Messala.”

  “And why have you come to disturb our festivities?” Messala asked.

  “Is that what they are? How disappointing. I had heard so much about Roman orgies, but you are as solemn as the Sanhedrin.”

  Someone in the gathering crowd snickered, against a background of murmurs. Had this man just compared them all to the Jewish council?

  First-century styluses and carrying cases

  “Still,” he went on, “I understand that I am more tolera
ted than welcomed here. So let me get to business. There is a similar lack of excitement on the streets outside. On this night before Antioch’s great festivities, the streets should be full of people shouting and wagering and arguing. Instead, there is agreement: Messala will win the race. It is known.”

  Looking around, Flavius saw the general nods of agreement. This Sanballat was clever, no question.

  “So I offer my services to you,” Sanballat went on. “As a man of business, that is my calling. I see a need and I fill it. The need here, as I understand it, is to accept bets that Messala will win. Since, clearly, no one else is taking these wagers.” He unfolded his tablets and took out a stylus, looking around brightly. “Gentlemen? I am ready. First name your odds, then your amount.”

  More murmuring. Was there a catch? Did this Sanballat not understand he would be giving money away?

  “I don’t have forever,” he said. “I’m on my way to the consul. I only stopped here as a matter of convenience to you all.” He looked around, waggling the stylus. “No? No takers?”

  “Two to one!” said a voice.

  “You are only offering two to one? And your driver a Roman? No,” he said, folding the tablets. “It’s not worth writing down.”

  “Four to one,” a very young man said, then blushed.

  “Do I have to remind you that my driver—? You do understand this? I am backing Ben-Hur. A Jew. Who ever heard of a Jew winning a chariot race?”

  “Why are you doing this?” Flavius asked. “You’re bound to lose it all.”

  “Consider it a sacrifice to the gods,” Sanballat said easily. “Not my God, of course, but . . .” He waved his hand toward the windows. “There are many gods out there. Some of them will be delighted. But not at four to one! I have heard nothing but Messala’s name all day, seen nothing but red and gold throughout the city! Where is the nobility in betting only four to one on him? Where is the honor to Rome?”

  Messala sat taller, looking from face to face. “Look at you all!” he finally said, springing to his feet. “I never thought you were cowards! I will bet on myself, at odds of six to one! You all make me ashamed!”

  “Except me,” drawled Flavius. “Everyone knows I never have any money.”

  Sanballat, ignoring this, was writing. “Listen, then: Messala of Rome bets Sanballat of Antioch that he will beat the Jew Ben-Hur in the chariot race. Odds, six to one. Amount, twenty talents.”

  “Twenty talents!” Messala exclaimed. “But . . .”

  Silence fell and lasted. Messala was a leader, admired for his courage and skills. But his arrogance had also made him enemies. From the back of the crowd, a voice called out, challenging Messala’s motto: “Who dares what I dare?” followed by laughter.

  His head whipped around as he looked for the speaker while scrambling for a response to Sanballat.

  He would win the race, he knew. But if, gods forbid, he should lose, he would owe Sanballat 120 talents. He didn’t possess five talents at that moment and had no way of finding 115 more. Yet he could not back down. He would never survive the shame. How had he let himself be maneuvered like this?

  “No,” he answered Sanballat firmly. “Not twenty. You set the odds; it’s for me to set the amount. And I do not choose to set a bad example for the younger men here.” There was a roar of laughter, but it was good-natured. “Some of them have been known to live beyond their means,” he added, poking Flavius. “So I will bet five talents.”

  Sanballat looked at him without expression, then nodded. “I trust that you have the sum?”

  Messala would have given anything not to feel the blood come to his face. “I do,” he said. “Shall I send someone for the receipts to show it? Or will you accept my word of honor?”

  “Oh, by all means, the word of honor, since you are a Roman,” Sanballat said, writing the terms of the bet. “And as to the rest of you,” he said in a louder voice, “I am backing the Jew, Ben-Hur. I offer you a collective bet against him, at odds of two to one. Five of my talents say he will win.”

  There was another roar and a tumult as men waved their red and gold colors in the air, but no one stepped up to offer his money.

  Flavius said to Sanballat, “Write the offer and sign it and leave it here. I am sure we will all agree to take your wager.”

  Sanballat stood and nodded, leaning over to sign the document. “That will do. I will be in the stadium tomorrow, sitting with the consul. If you get this to me before the race begins, the bet is good.”

  He folded up his tablets and bowed to Flavius and Messala. “Peace to you, and peace to everyone here. I must not keep the consul waiting.”

  The crowd parted as Sanballat left the room, his white robe billowing behind him.

  CHAPTER 31

  CROWDS

  Esther had never regretted the pattern of her life. She knew she was indispensable to her father. She was always busy, and every day she saw how important her efforts were to the business that supported them all. Until Ben-Hur had arrived, she had thought little about the future. She never remembered she was a slave.

  But now, lurching along on Balthasar’s camel in the green silk howdah, with Iras by her side, Esther felt ill at ease. She was pleased that they were going to the chariot race and grateful to be moving through the streets of Antioch at a speed (and a height) apart from the enormous crowd. Balthasar had been very courteous to her, but now he seemed to be asleep, despite the camel’s gait. Iras had greeted her with a smile but said nothing else, merely fanning herself and gazing around with calm effrontery. The farther Iras’s spangled veil slipped down her shoulders, the more tightly Esther wanted to clutch her gray linen veil across her face. Though it really didn’t matter. Men in the crowd below looked at Iras, glanced at Esther, looked back at Iras.

  A decorative metallic chariot race piece

  Which was as it should be. There was only one man whose attention Esther wanted. And to him, she was invisible.

  She sighed. Invisible. It was right. It was proper. He owned her. She was his property as clearly as the chairs he sat on and the ships at anchor outside her father’s warehouse.

  And besides, he was going to be a soldier. If he survived this race, he would vanish into the desert and dedicate himself to violence on behalf of the King who would come.

  “Are you excited, little Esther?” Iras’s voice broke into her thoughts.

  “I suppose I will be,” Esther answered. “I have never seen a chariot race.”

  “Do you know anything about the rules?”

  “No. Are they complicated?”

  Iras laughed. “No, no. But the races can be brutal, you know. They are quite dangerous.”

  “Yes, I can imagine,” Esther said gravely. “Crashes and so on.”

  “Yes.” Iras smothered a yawn with pink-tipped fingers. “I saw a race once in Alexandria where the yoke of the chariot splintered and impaled . . . Oh, I’m sorry. You would probably prefer not to know.”

  “Yes, you are right. Don’t you find the heat oppressive? I think I will follow your father’s example and rest until we reach the stadium.” Esther pulled her veil down over her face and leaned back onto one of the down-filled cushions. It was a pity everything smelled so strongly of sandalwood, she thought. A lighter scent might have been more alluring on Iras. She entertained herself for the rest of the voyage by mentally creating a perfume for the Egyptian out of the spices and aromatic woods in her father’s warehouse.

  But the noise coming from the stadium, once they arrived, was so loud that she was spared conversation with Iras. The athletic contests had just finished as they negotiated the steps toward their seats. The tall Nubian held a parasol over Iras, and Esther was aware that, following behind, she must look like a maidservant. She would have liked to pretend, coolly, that she had seen everything before, but curiosity got the better of her.

  The stadium itself was immense. Built of stone, rising sharply from the level ground, it held more human beings than she had ever imagin
ed existed. The faces in the distance were nothing but thousands of pinpricks. Beneath a broad purple awning just above the porta pompae lay the seats for the consul and the high-ranking Romans. There the benches were covered with cushions and shawls, and palm fans moved over the toga-clad viewers, all of whom wore bits of scarlet and gold to announce their allegiance to Messala.

  The porta pompae lay on the curve of the stadium, with a fine view of the track’s two straightaway sections. Esther found, as she followed the Nubian down a steep aisle, that the spot chosen by Simonides and Ilderim was close to the front row. The Roman consul might see the whole of the stadium from a distance, but she would see a portion of it very clearly. As she sat next to her father, whose wheeled chair had somehow been brought into the stadium, the parade of victors passed below, so close that she could see the straw-colored hair and round blue eyes of the Saxon wrestler, followed by the stocky, dark Damascene whom he had beaten.

  The entrance to the circus, or the porta pompae

  “That was a very pretty fight,” her father said as she settled next to him. “The Saxon has the advantage of height and reach, but the Damascene knew some very interesting throws.”

  Esther looked at him with surprise, and he laughed, an unfamiliar rasping sound. “Long ago, I was quite devoted to the sport. I find it has not changed very much. I suppose there are not so many ways for one man to topple another to the ground. Did you enjoy your camel ride?”

  “Moderately,” Esther said, aware she sounded prim.

  Her father reached out his hand and patted her on the arm. “You’ll come back with me on the boat. I’d forgotten you would have to ride with Iras. I don’t like that woman, and I think she has designs on Judah.”