Ben-Hur

by Carol Wallace

  Sheik Ilderim sat still as a stone. His hands gripped the bench on each side of his haunches, and he leaned forward as if trying to close the distance between himself and the bays. Whipped! That dog of a Roman had dared to whip the Sons of the Wind! The beautiful creatures who were dearer to him than his children, who knew his voice, his touch, his scent, who came to his call and read his moods—whipped!

  And yet disaster held off. There had been a bad moment. From behind, as the chariots shot up the track toward the curve, it had looked as if Ben-Hur would lose control. Now they turned into the straightaway and the bays were running as one.

  But they had lost ground. They were running last again. Still running strongly, Ilderim told himself. Smoothly. There was plenty of time.

  The second dolphin fell to the ground.

  The noise in the consul’s box was deafening. “Mess-a-la! Mess-a-la!” the young men shouted, leaping in the air and waving scarlet-and-gold banners as the chariots passed. The entire section of seats nearby was equally noisy, but so were other parts of the stadium. There were not many rules in chariot racing. Like the other sports, it was akin to combat. What succeeded on the field of battle succeeded on the field of competition. Yet striking another man’s horses was going too far. That, at least, was the opinion in boxes full of Phrygians and Cilicians and Syrians and Cypriots and all the cultural miscellany of Antioch. They might not have begun as supporters of the Jew. They might have been hesitant to claim allegiance. Most of them had to do business with Rome, and to do business with Rome meant visibly to conform to Roman habits. To do as Rome wished. But on this day, in this place, to see the Jewish man driving those Arabian horses—and Sheik Ilderim’s horses were famous all over the eastern half of the empire—was not just a novelty. It was a new idea. Could Rome, in fact, be defeated? If on the track, then in battle? In the marketplace?

  Maybe Rome itself thought so. Maybe that was why the Roman driver had whipped the Arabians.

  Could the audience with white banners have increased? Weren’t there more of them than before? Sanballat thought so. He did sums in his head at lightning speed. If this, then that. If Ben-Hur won, so much money. If Messala, a different sum. Could Ben-Hur win? Sanballat’s losses were guaranteed by Simonides, so for the sake of his purse alone, the winner didn’t matter. But he began to think about that possibility: a Jewish victory. A Roman defeat.

  The second ball fell. As the chariots hurtled past, Esther tracked Ben-Hur’s face again. He was last except for the Sidonian, whose horses were already beginning to droop. In front of Ben-Hur ran the Athenian and the Corinthian, their teams galloping stride for stride, and out in front was Messala, handsome and proud and alone.

  “He is magnificent, isn’t he?” Iras breathed in Esther’s ear. Esther turned and was surprised to understand: Iras was talking about Messala, not Ben-Hur. Iras caught Esther’s eye and shrugged. “They are both handsome men,” she explained. “But I prefer a hero.”

  So do I, Esther thought but kept silent. Ben-Hur’s was a different kind of heroism; that was all. Easy enough to be a conqueror if other people had done the conquering for you. Harder if you were running near last, with blood in your eye and dust all over your face. Looking calm. Looking—could it be? Happy?

  Strangely, he was happy.

  It always came in a race, this moment of well-being, unless it was one of those races where nothing at all went right. This was not one of those races. Despite the loss of the whip, despite Messala, despite the blood dripping into his eye. The blood had slowed down. It stung less. And the Sons of the Wind galloped along like music. Two laps finished, five to go. Plenty of time. The bays could run and run. The air rushed past and every sound faded but the constant rhythmic thud of their hooves. He anticipated the transition into shadow, when vision for a moment was confused. Past the dolphins. Now the curve: a hint of pressure on the reins. The bays collected themselves. In front of them the Athenian and the Corinthian ran neck and neck. Was this the moment? Should he pull out beyond them? Put an end to this phase of the race?

  The horses read his thoughts. They made the decision for him. At the top of the curve as they dropped into their fastest pace, they shifted outward. Oh, it was splendid to feel that power and that union. Their wills and his traveled up and down the leather strips of reins, shifting and speaking through touch alone. Here on the curve, shadows flickered now from the tips of the cypresses at the top of the stadium. Each time around, the shade was slightly deeper. Something to think about for the next lap.

  On they galloped, past the consul’s box again. As they passed the purple awning and the highborn Romans, Flavius wondered if Sanballat would take a bet on Ben-Hur. A big bet. If the Jew won, Flavius thought, his money problems would be solved for a while. He stood and cheered with everyone else, shouting, “Mess-a-la” while watching the team of Arabians driven by the Jew. They ran smoothly, eagerly still. Flavius cast a sidelong look at Sanballat. No, he decided; a highborn Roman could not bet on a Jew in full view of Rome’s consul.

  Third ball down.

  Cleanthes the Athenian pulled in front of the Corinthian. They were all strung out now, each chariot running along the inside, with space between them. The spy stood on the inside of the track watching them approach. Messala’s team—were they straining a little? He watched as their feet met the ground, turned and watched their hindquarters, caught a glimpse of Messala’s face. How he hated that man.

  He had been dispatched to pick up Ben-Hur’s dropped whip from the track, and it lay on the ground beside him. Could he use it? As Messala had used it? A stinging blow across Messala’s face? A satisfying thought, but a stupid one. He’d be caught, overpowered, and killed before the horses ran another lap.

  And an intervention like that might not be necessary. The Arabians looked like they could run all day.

  But Cleanthes felt a tremor. Or was it something else? Friction? Something had stopped moving smoothly, and at his elbow, with horror, he saw what it was—the wheel. It no longer ran straight. He glanced ahead, glanced down again. Was it real?

  It was. The wheel was wavering. And as he watched, wavering more widely. He tried to pull to the outside, tried to haul on the reins to slow his horses and drag them out of the way of the other chariots. He could hear the Corinthian on his heels, shouting, then saw the noses of the Corinthian’s three chestnuts and one gray. They were at his elbow. At his wheel. His horses knew they were coming and leaned against the reins, stubborn and fierce.

  The Corinthian driver was level with him, pointing at the wheel. Cleanthes hauled harder on the harness, but the wheel was slewing back and forth and would come off any—

  A gasp came from one hundred thousand throats, followed by cries of horror. The wheel came free, rolling wildly across the track. The body of the chariot hit the ground hard and fell apart, strewing shards of wood and metal into the air. Cleanthes was tossed clear and lay, stunned, on the dirt of the track while the team dragged the shattered remains of the chariot along the rail. The horses were terrified, desperate to escape the lumpy, broken, noisy thing behind them.

  The Corinthian had managed to run clear, but just yards away, Ben-Hur and the Sidonian pelted toward the wreckage. Cleanthes rolled over, sat up, and leapt for the rail, where the hands of the spy and other officials hauled him out of the way.

  Ben-Hur barely noticed. His field of vision had narrowed. He was aware only of his horses and the track in front of them. Off to the right somewhere the Athenian’s team had come to a halt, shuddering and rearing, their coats flecked with foam. But the track was littered with debris. How to get the Arabians through it?

  He looked ahead. There was a path, almost clear. Coming up fast. The horses’ feet must not get entangled. At this speed a false step would break a leg. But there was a way . . . As they galloped together, for instants they were free of the ground. Perhaps they could leap; it was only a board, almost flat, wouldn’t reach the chariot floor, if they met it right . . . No time . . . The
wheels . . .

  The wheels hit the board. The chariot flew. He grasped the rail, leapt with the chariot. Landed as lightly as he could.

  The Arabians galloped onward.

  Esther buried her head in her father’s shoulder, forgetting for once in her life his physical fragility. He managed to reach his arm up to her shoulder and said, in her ear, “It’s all right. Judah is all right. The only damage was to the Athenian’s chariot. The driver got free.”

  “I hate this!” Esther whispered to her father. “Why do people come and watch it?”

  “They crave the excitement, I suppose,” he said. “And it distracts them from their quarrels and discontents.”

  Esther sat up and pulled her veil more tightly around her shoulders. “People are horrible.”

  “Yes,” Simonides answered, “quite often they are.”

  The fourth dolphin fell. Of the original six teams, only four were left. As Messala, the Corinthian, Ben-Hur, and—far behind—the Sidonian rounded the curve, every fragment of the Athenian’s chariot was plucked from the dirt. The spy was sent out to help calm the Greek horses, which he did so effectively that they were soon unharnessed and walked into the tunnel to be examined for injuries. By the time the competitors came back around the consul’s box, the track was clear.

  “Only four chariots now,” the consul said to Sanballat.

  In this scene from the 1959 MGM movie, the stunt driver was supposed to coax the horses to jump over the wreckage of another chariot. Instead he flew up and over the chariot, falling clear.

  “Two—and two extras,” Sanballat answered. “But surely you agree with me that the Sidonian is out of the race.”

  In fact, he was half the length of the track behind. “I agree that without another disaster, he cannot win,” said the consul.

  “And another disaster would be remarkably unfortunate,” Sanballat commented.

  “Luck plays its part in the races,” the consul countered. “Just as in war. The goddess Fortuna is known to be fickle.”

  Sanballat only inclined his head. One must be polite to one’s customers, but one need not agree with them.

  Another ball fell.

  As the Arabians rounded the curve, Ben-Hur’s mind was also on luck. Two of the chariots were out of the race. The Sidonian was hardly a threat. The Corinthian, though . . . he had spent the race in front of Ben-Hur. There was nothing apparently remarkable about him, his team, his chariot. The race was more than halfway over. It was time to start winning.

  Messala’s team galloped on in front. They preferred to run in the lead. Some people thought he didn’t understand his horses, but he did; he was an excellent horseman. These creatures didn’t like to have dirt flung in their faces from other horses’ hooves. And they pulled against the driver. It had to be said, they were a man’s team—not everyone could control them. But set them going on the rail, get them out before the pack, and all would be well. He would make money from that grotesque bet with Sanballat. What an unfortunate wager for the Jew!

  The curve came. He steadied the horses, then released the reins a fraction to let them speed up as they ran around it. Were they a little bit less responsive? Tiring, perhaps. Though they shouldn’t be. They were as fit as any team on the track, he knew.

  Still, there were just over two laps to go. He cracked the whip near the ear of the white horse next to the yoke. Just a reminder of that source of pain. There—they all picked up the pace.

  But did he feel something new? Or hear it? Another team. Well, the Corinthian had stayed close. Maybe this was his final push. Messala leaned forward slightly and cracked the whip again. No reason to make winning easy for anyone else.

  Five dolphins down.

  As the teams approached the porta pompae, a very young Roman in a spotless tunic approached Sanballat. “Is it too late to bet against the Jew?” he asked. “A hundred sestertii?”

  Flavius stood and put a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Forgive me, Sanballat, for intervening. I am young Tertius’s commanding officer and I feel I need to offer him a lesson here. Is this your first chariot race?” he asked.

  “Yes,” the youth answered, blushing.

  “And since I know what your pay is, and I know your father’s circumstances, I think someone has persuaded you this is a good idea? That the Jew is sure to lose?”

  The young man nodded. “They all said so.”

  “And they may be right,” Flavius answered. “But look now, as they approach. Tell me what you see. Do Messala’s horses look fresh? Is he holding them back?”

  “No, he has used the whip. Twice.”

  “And this Ben-Hur. Here he comes. What do you see there?”

  Everyone in earshot looked down, as Flavius suggested, and they all noticed the same thing: the bay Arabians running smoothly, eagerly, and Ben-Hur in his bloodstained tunic, leaning back, still holding them in.

  “I understand,” the young man answered, crestfallen. “The Jew’s horses look almost fresh.”

  Flavius nodded. “He will pass the Corinthian. There is only the Roman left. And I will tell you, as part of your military education, what lesson you should learn here. A good soldier never underestimates the enemy.”

  “But you don’t think the Jew could win, do you?”

  “I think two laps remain and it is a close race. If you are overspending your allowance, consider betting less at dice tonight.”

  As Flavius sat down again, Sanballat nodded to him. “That was well done. I did not need his sestertii.”

  Flavius smiled. “I’m just warning him away from my own bad habits.”

  The drivers were all tiring now. Blisters were forming on their hands, filling, breaking, bleeding. Their backs and shoulders screamed with the effort of holding the reins against their teams. The Corinthian had avoided the litter from Cleanthes’s crash, he thought, but somehow a splinter of wood had worked its way beneath his left foot and deep, deep into his heel. The Sidonian, Ben-Hur, and the Corinthian were all covered with dust: dust in their eyes, their hair, their mouths, gritty between their teeth. Sweat ran down their chests and backs, sliding down their legs. Even the muscles on their faces were tired from the natural grimace: eyes squinted against the sun and dust, foreheads furrowed in concentration.

  On they went. Five balls down. Six dolphins. Six balls.

  Now? Always the question in a race. Is this the moment to go all out? What if the leader pulls away, out of reach? What if you make the effort and have nothing left? What if you sprint too soon? Ben-Hur watched the bays, absorbing information. Ears pricked forward. They were sweating. Not bobbing their heads. Running evenly—not one was favoring a leg. And they were still eager. From their mouths to his hand he sensed . . . appetite. The Sons of the Wind were competitors. All the training at the Orchard of the Palms had not tested that quality.

  But now they wanted to pass the Corinthian. He hesitated to let them. They had already had to run more on the outside than he would have wished. Once more, they’d have to move to an outside lane. But there was no other way. The Corinthian must be eliminated. Ultimately the race was going to come down to a duel between him and Messala.

  And wasn’t that what he’d wanted all along?

  So he lowered the hand gripping the reins. Now, he thought, leaning forward, as if he could speak to the horses aloud. You were born to run. Go. Run as fast as your Creator intended. Show these people what it is to be the Sons of the Wind.

  They heard him, somehow. Pulling out to the right, they passed the Corinthian’s chestnuts and gray. The driver saluted as Ben-Hur glanced at him. His horses were finished. The remaining laps would be a match between the Roman and the Jew, which seemed right. His task now was to get his horses safely back to the stable. And if the opportunity came, to lend the Jew a helping hand. He had no love for Romans.

  Seven dolphins down. Half a lap. No time. An eternity.

  Everyone in the stadium was standing, even Simonides, held up between Ilderim and Balthasa
r’s Nubian slave. The noise was tremendous, hanging almost solidly in the air. Esther clambered onto a bench and craned her neck. In the consul’s box, protocol had dissolved completely. The most junior soldiers and officials elbowed their superiors aside and leaned over the railing. A scarlet cushion and an eagle-feather fan fell to the dirt, where they lay unnoticed. No horse would come near them, so far from the contested inside of the course.

  The race officials, grooms, and track workers—including the spy—spread themselves out along the inner rail, craning their heads to see the oncoming chariots.

  Ben-Hur was safely past the Corinthian. Messala’s chariot was just two lengths in front of his. But two lengths that shortened too slowly! He was gaining, gaining, but Messala had begun using the lash again. His tired team responded each time the whip touched them. Their strides lengthened, the pace quickened—then slowed again.

  Now the curve.

  There was an art to it. A living art. The touch on the reins, the slackening speed, the renewed momentum.

  Messala had no time for art. Judah was on his heels. He twisted around for the first time in the race. So close! And the Arabians still powerful! He lashed his team again. They leapt ahead.

  But it was the wrong place. As you rounded the curve, a force pulled you outward. Messala could feel the drift of the chariot. He hauled hard to the left, but the team was galloping flat out.

  And on the right, Judah. He turned again. Judah, his double. As a boy, he’d been spoiled, fussed over, treated as a prince. Unable to see the basic fact: Jews were rabble. All the same, there he was, so close. Messala spat.

  Then turned forward again. But in that split second he saw his mistake. The rail was a horse’s width away from him—too far. Judah was coming up on his right with smooth, amazing speed. A black nose—four black noses were at his elbow. Manes flowing behind them. Somewhere within, the best part of the man found the Arabians beautiful. They ran with joy.