Ben-Hur

by Carol Wallace

  They were almost around the curve. The purple awning over the consular box cast a sliver of shade onto the track now. The slanting sun caught every bit of metal on the horses’ harnesses and the golden clasp on Messala’s tunic.

  The iron tips of the axle on Ben-Hur’s chariot did not flame up in the sun. Dark metal, absorbing light, meant for strength alone, heavy, durable—used for reinforcement.

  Ben-Hur knew the iron was there but had forgotten. Days earlier he had taken the chariot apart with a wheelwright in Ilderim’s camp. Every joint, every piece of wood was inspected, strengthened, or replaced. His chariot would not betray him.

  Into the straightaway. This was the moment. The two chariots were almost even. Messala slackened his reins and whipped his team again. They leapt ahead with a jerk.

  So did the Sons of the Wind. The mere sound of the whip, so new to them, so frightening, gave their feet wings.

  And out of sight, between the two hurtling chariots, iron met ivory.

  Did Messala’s chariot swing outward, into Ben-Hur’s?

  Did Ben-Hur steer his chariot to strike his enemy’s?

  The effect was the same, either way. The iron tip of the axle met the polished elephant-tusk spokes of Messala’s outside wheel and broke them . . . one . . . by . . . one.

  Messala’s wheel collapsed.

  He was there—and then he wasn’t. Ben-Hur looked to his left in confusion. Where? He looked back and saw mayhem. The team running wild. The Corinthian, too close to avoid the wreck. He heard the gasp from thousands of throats, then the horrible high scream of a horse in agony. Or was it a man?

  The Arabians ran onward. He closed his ears. It was their race now. Let them run home.

  Judah (Ramon Novarro) races in this scene from the 1925 MGM film.

  PART 5

  CHAPTER 33

  A MESSAGE

  There was a ceremony, of course. And it was too long—what ceremony isn’t?

  But all the winners must be given their crowns of laurel, their heavy purses of gold coins. They must all parade around the track, waving and calling out to friends.

  SALES OF BEN-HUR

  Since its release in November 1880, Ben-Hur has never gone out of print. While precise sales figures are difficult to verify, booksellers estimate that Lew Wallace’s original novel has sold somewhere near fifty million copies, putting it in the top thirty bestselling books of all time worldwide.

  Ben-Hur stood in his chariot, aware for the first time of his fatigue, and scanned the crowd. The blood on his tunic had stiffened and he could see, glancing downward, that his cheek, also cut, was swollen and crusted. The horses, though, pranced. They held their heads as high as if they wore laurel wreaths of their own.

  The consul stood at the front of the box and bowed to the competitors. Some of the winners were Romans. Scarlet cloaks were thrown down to them from the consul’s guests.

  There were horns playing somewhere, and drums, but they were just a layer in the hubbub. Ben-Hur wished he were in the stable. Or back at the Orchard of the Palms, walking the track to cool the Arabians down. Swimming with them in the lake.

  On the left, by the finish line, he saw Sheik Ilderim. What a strange group: the tiny Balthasar, visible only as a blue silk turban with a huge jewel. Iras, a shimmering figure, and Esther, whose face looked as if she had been crying. Simonides was smiling and Sheik Ilderim waved both of his arms.

  Then a section of Jews, waving kerchiefs, shouting and jumping, calling out to him. He caught the word hero.

  In an 1891 edition of Ben-Hur, the publisher included a copy of the letter President James Garfield wrote to Lew Wallace after finishing the story:

  April 19, 1881

  Dear General,

  I have, this morning, finished reading “Ben-Hur”—and I must thank you for the pleasure it has given me.

  The theme was difficult, but you have handled it with great delicacy and power.

  Several of the scenes—such as the wise men in the desert, the sea fight, the chariot race—will, I am sure, take a permanent and high place in literature.

  With this beautiful and reverent book, you have lightened the burden of my daily life and renewed our acquaintance, which began at Shiloh.

  (Gov. Lew Wallace, Santa Fe, N.M.)

  Very truly yours,

  J. A. Garfield

  But that wasn’t right. He’d won a race. Nothing more.

  He tried not to think about Messala, kept pushing away the sounds he’d heard as the chariot splintered to the earth. Had that been the Corinthian’s cry? Who had sobbed as he was carried forward by the bays? Could that sound have come from him? Were tears mixing with blood and sweat on his face?

  He raised an arm and waved to the thousands of tiny shimmering dots, each of which was a face in the crowd. What had he done? Those poor horses. How could anyone cheer after such a race? A flower hit his face and he flinched, then waved again. Trumpets played somewhere, cutting through the voices.

  The mood in the stable was more muted. Two of the Corinthian’s horses had died, as well as the one belonging to the Byzantine. Half of the chariots in the race had been destroyed. The Corinthian had died. Messala might die also. He would certainly never walk again. Even for this most dangerous of sports, it was a terrible toll.

  Ben-Hur set to work with the grooms to cool the horses, to brush out their manes, to scrape the sweat from their coats and rub them with braided straw until they gleamed again. He was feeling one of Aldebaran’s legs for swelling when the horse flung up its head and nickered, followed by his teammates. The sheik had come to share their triumph.

  Ilderim gripped Ben-Hur’s shoulders and embraced him wordlessly. Then he leaned back and touched Ben-Hur’s bloody tunic. “You should be grooming yourself, not my horses!” he exclaimed.

  “No,” Ben-Hur answered. “The horses did all the work.”

  “Not all of it. By no means all of it,” the sheik answered. Antares stuck his nose beneath Ben-Hur’s hand and snorted.

  For the first time since the race, Ben-Hur smiled. “To tell the truth, Sheik, I don’t share everyone’s joy. It was an ugly race. But the Sons of the Wind ran as befitting their name. Don’t you think they know what they’ve done?”

  “Most certainly they do. Look how proudly Aldebaran holds his head. I tell you, Judah, there will be joy in the black tents tonight and for many nights to come.” There was a pause. “You won’t come with us? You know the caravan is halfway to Moab. No point in staying around to reap the Romans’ anger. The bays and I will be far from Antioch before anyone realizes we’ve left, and you might be wise to join us.”

  “I understand that. But one man is easier to hide than the caravan of a sheik. I will be with you soon.”

  Ilderim held Ben-Hur’s gaze. “Men often feel dejected after battle, I’m told. What happened on that track today was battle of a sort.”

  Ben-Hur nodded. “Yes. I understand that. Thank you.”

  RACING THE GENERAL

  According to an account from a Wallace family friend, near the end of the Civil War, Generals Ulysses S. Grant and Lew Wallace were inspecting a fort in Virginia on the Union lines. Wallace was riding his bay Old John, and Grant admired the tall and fast horse, then proposed a race. Wallace agreed but kept his horse reined in as the race began.

  When Grant realized he was being afforded a handicap, he barked, “Let him out!” And Old John easily sprinted ahead, leaving Grant’s galloping horse behind. When Grant finally called a halt to the race, he offered to buy Wallace’s horse on the spot.

  Wallace refused. “Neither love nor money can buy Old John,” he said.

  Some speculate that this incident inspired Wallace’s account of the chariot race in Ben-Hur.

  Ilderim paused before saying, “All right. And would you like to take your horse with you, or will he stay with his brothers for now?”

  Ben-Hur frowned. “What horse?”

  “Whichever one you want,” Ilderim said with a bro
ad smile. “They will never race again. My point is made, and my pride, more importantly, is satisfied. My reputation is safe for years now, as far south as Aqaba and as far east as the sea of the Scythians. Every ally who was thinking of leaving me will stay, and many more will join them. I can truly boast that I control the desert, and everyone who wants to cross it will have to pay me for the privilege.”

  “All because of a race,” Ben-Hur commented.

  “We people of harsh places require strong leaders,” the sheik answered. “There are many ways to show strength. Contests like this are one of them. You know that I would not have this victory without you. I would give you gold, but you have that already and seem to care little for it. So one of my horses is to be yours. You will need a fine mount if you choose to build this new force for the mysterious King. You need not choose your horse now.”

  But Aldebaran, as if he understood, had draped his head over Ben-Hur’s shoulder and was snuffling the wounded cheek. Ilderim nodded. “On the other hand, the horse may have chosen you.” He was glad to hear Ben-Hur laugh.

  “Then I can only thank you, Sheik.”

  “Good. Will he stay with me for now, until you join me?”

  “Yes, please. I am not sure what the next few days will hold.”

  After the sheik left, Ben-Hur stayed in the stable. He finished grooming Aldebaran and visited each of the other three horses, all of them calmly resting now and showing no signs of their great effort. The stable was quiet. Voices murmured; strong teeth crunched grain; water ran into a trough. Outside, he knew, the streets of Antioch would be thronged with excited crowds. There would be music. Dancing. Fights, probably.

  He went back to Aldebaran’s stall once more and leaned against a bale of hay, suddenly exhausted. Too tired to think.

  The spy, turning a corner, stopped. Was this victory? This forlorn figure, drooping, still bloodstained? The horse behind him had been groomed, watered, fed, and now stood glowing with satisfaction and dreaming with one hoof cocked and his eyes half-closed. The spy thought the man could have used a groom himself. He coughed.

  Ben-Hur looked up and straightened. “Yes?”

  “I have a message for you,” said the spy. He looked again at the horse. “But may I say first what a great victory that was?”

  “Thank you,” Ben-Hur answered gravely.

  “And the Arabians are magnificent.”

  Ben-Hur turned to look at Aldebaran and his forbidding expression softened. “They are. And your message?”

  The spy coughed again. He didn’t like it. He hated the Roman. It had been a shock to get the new order. But with the order had come a reminder: the Roman could expose him. Once this last ugly errand was run, he would make sure he vanished. Perhaps even with the sheik’s caravan—he’d heard they were on the way into the desert, where a man could disappear. And everyone needed grooms.

  “It is from Iras, the Egyptian. Her father, Balthasar, is spending the next few days at the palace of Idernee. She would like to see you there, around midday tomorrow. She wants to congratulate you in person.”

  The spy was amused to see Ben-Hur blush while he answered, “Thank you. Does she need an answer?”

  “No. It seems she expects you to comply.” He could have said more, of course, but this young man, such a hero in the chariot, seemed delighted by the summons of the Egyptian woman. Who was reputed to be a strumpet or maybe a witch, and certainly trouble for a naive young Jew. The spy shrugged. That was done. So he turned away and vanished into the shadows.

  The streets of Antioch were as lively as Ben-Hur had expected, the noise as loud, the torches as bright. With a light cloak to cover his bloodied tunic, he walked alone and quietly on the straight Roman roads as the crowds thinned, then into the narrower streets as he neared the waterfront.

  What could Iras want? To congratulate him. And then? In the last week he’d thought about nothing but the race and the horses: speed, equipment, the competitors, the possible outcomes. Iras had not entered his mind.

  He didn’t even know what was possible with her. What was usual. Between a Jew and an Egyptian—between a rich Romanized Jew and the daughter of an Egyptian wise man? He’d spent his life among men in the last years. Women had their place, but Iras did not fit into any niche that he knew of. Mother, wife, daughter . . . concubine, servant . . . What else was there? Well, he would wait and see, he told himself. But as he walked, he kept remembering how she had looked by the lake, with damp linen clinging to her legs.

  It came as something of a shock, then, when Esther opened the door to her father’s house. Esther the daughter. Esther the housekeeper. With the level gaze and the low, musical voice.

  “I was listening for you,” she said quietly. “My father was tired by the race, and I didn’t want the bell to waken him.” She closed the massive door. “Come up to his workroom. It’s cool there, and I have some food for you. I thought you might be hungry.”

  “I am,” he answered, surprised to realize it. “Is your father all right?”

  “Oh yes!” she answered from the step above him. “He was so delighted! I have never seen him seem so . . . so well. It was as if your victory made him forget his pain. Truly forget, I mean.” She paused for a moment, and he noticed how the lamp on the wall shone on her smooth hair. “It was tremendous. I don’t even know what to say. Except to congratulate you.” She continued up the stairs. “And you? Are you happy?”

  Happy. Was he happy? He had won the race and wounded Messala. Did that make him happy? No, he thought. Whatever he felt at this moment, it was not happiness. Closer to disgust.

  They reached the landing and she opened the door. In the center of the room was a table, set with platters of meat and fruit, a pitcher of water and one of wine.

  Esther pulled back the single chair. “I will serve you. The servants are all asleep.”

  As he passed beneath a hanging lamp, she drew in her breath. “But wait a moment. Sit down and let me look at your face.” She took his arm firmly and urged him into the chair, then put a hand beneath his jaw and turned his face so that the light shone into his eyes. “Stay like that,” she commanded in her soft voice. “But close your eyes. You’re lucky. He could have blinded you.” He heard quiet movements, then felt a stinging sensation that made him flinch. “Just to get the dirt out,” she explained. “It will never heal cleanly otherwise. I suppose you took care of the horses and did not think to see to yourself.”

  “You’re right. But the horses worked harder than I did.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so.” Her hands went on pressing and dabbing. “All they had to do was run.” The damp cloth paused for a minute. He opened his eyes and saw her wringing it out into a plate. When she faced him, she was frowning.

  “Is it always so violent?” she asked.

  He drew a deep breath. “Yes. No. Not like that.”

  She took hold of his jaw again and tilted his head back. Her fingers were cool. “Not too much more. I have some ointment that will help. You’ll have a terrible bruise tomorrow.”

  There was silence. “And I am the lucky one,” he finally said.

  “Yes.” The hands paused. “Did you mean to do that?”

  “Damage Messala’s chariot?”

  She didn’t answer but moved the cloth closer to his eye.

  “I don’t know. I have been wondering. Sometimes in a race, things happen . . . It’s all so fast. Your intention is carried out even before you’ve made it clear to yourself. I am not proud of it, if that is what you are asking.”

  “He had whipped you. And the horses.”

  “This much I know, Esther: I did ask Malluch to find out the height of his wheels. I knew that the axle of my chariot had been reinforced with iron. And that it could cut through those gaudy elephant tusks like a knife through cheese.”

  “And that, if the chariot broke down, he could be trampled by the next team along. As he was,” she said firmly, but her voice wobbled slightly. His eyes opened and he saw hers,
close to him. Full of tears. She pulled back and turned away. “It was awful to watch.”

  He sat up straight. “I know.”

  “No,” she said firmly. “You can’t. You’re used to it. How many men have you seen die?” He didn’t answer. “You see? You don’t even realize. For us women, it’s different. We hear about what you do, armies and swords and so on. But to see it like that, one minute a man and the next a . . . a piece of meat! And you do that to each other! As a game, for a prize!” She was on her feet now, twisting the damp cloth in her hands. She moved over to the balcony and stepped outside.

  Slowly he rose and crossed the room to follow her. A humid breeze from the river skimmed the raw spot on his face. He stood next to her, hands on the balustrade, facing the harbor.

  “Never mind,” she said quietly. “It was just a shock.”

  “I know.” There was silence between them as the water below lapped against the wharf. “I can tell you this, though: I believe I am safer now, with Messala out of action.”

  “You mean he would have tried to kill you?” Her voice rose, and she pulled her shawl around her as if the breeze from the river had suddenly blown cold.

  “Kill, injure, kidnap—who knows? He is powerful. He is Roman. He hates me. He wanted to get rid of me. It’s easily done. Maybe he wanted to do it today, publicly and permanently. Maybe he hoped the Sons of the Wind would run away with me and smash the chariot into a wall. Maybe he tried to make that happen. We had guards on the chariot and they found a man with some tools sneaking around the stable. Was he Messala’s man? Possibly.”

  “But did you set out to kill him?”

  “Does it matter? You know what our Scripture says. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. He destroyed my family. My mother and sister are gone because of him. Should I not have my revenge, ugly though it was?” As he heard his words, Ben-Hur realized how much he wanted an answer to his question.