Tirzah waited for her mother to answer. But Naomi did not. She drew breath. She made a little sound in her throat. Tirzah looked at her. This was her mother’s privilege—to send her son away, forever, to safety. To life. Naomi shook her head and looked away. She lifted her hand to her mouth and shook her head again. Her voice had failed her.
The women’s eyes locked. Naomi nodded to her daughter.
“We . . . ,” Tirzah began. Her own voice sounded shrill. She began again. “We do not. I’m sorry.” That should have been enough. The other man, whose face she never saw clearly, had already begun to turn away. Judah, however, did not move. She wanted to cry, “We are the ones you seek! Don’t you know us? We are the same inside, your loving mother and sister!” Instead, she said, “This is a place where we leave each other alone.”
Judah looked around the cave. He hesitated. One more word, thought Tirzah. Let him leave us with one more word! She could feel her mother quivering next to her. She knew Naomi was holding herself back. The urge to claim her son must be nearly overwhelming.
“Forgive me,” Judah said then and left them.
CHAPTER 43
SWORD AND SHIELD
The sun was still bright when they left the last cave, and they didn’t wait for the man who drew the water. Ben-Hur was silent as they retraced their steps and reentered the city. He and Malluch were separated from time to time by the crowds as they continued northward toward the khan in Bezetha. Without discussing it, they skirted the Hur palace by a wide margin. Malluch noticed that Ben-Hur never glanced once in the direction of the Antonia Tower, which dominated the sky.
Ben-Hur had still not spoken when they reached Bezetha. But there was a tumult approaching, a low hum that resolved into loud voices as a group of men came around a corner arguing. Malluch knew, at a glance, many of the types of men within the Roman Empire, but he could not identify this group. They were burly, rugged country people, heavily bearded and dressed in coarse robes. Some carried staffs; some were barefoot. All were angry. They muttered and shouted, but they were all headed the same way, with a common goal.
Ben-Hur stepped into the edge of the group. “Is there news?” he asked mildly.
“I should think so!” a red-haired man answered. “You haven’t heard?”
Several others of the group gathered around. “It’s Pilate, the new procurator,” one said. “He’s going to build an aqueduct. To bring water into the city, he says.”
“Not that that will help us,” a wiry older man added.
GALILEANS
Galilee was a Jewish region north of Judea, separated by the region of Samaria. It was a larger area, but with a smaller population and a lesser influence. The two Jewish regions were under separate political jurisdiction, and enmity between Jews and Samaritans deterred traffic between them, making Galilee something of a rustic backwater. Religious leaders in Jerusalem looked down on Galileans as uncultured, uncouth, and lax in following the Law. But the region was also known as a hotbed of strong anti-Roman sentiment, and Galileans were often vocal and passionate about their hatred toward the occupying power.
“We have our own water,” someone else added. “We don’t need Rome to provide it.”
“Where are you from?” Ben-Hur asked. He loomed above them, taller by a head, but Malluch thought there was something else that made him seem like their leader. Composure, perhaps?
“We are men of Galilee,” the red-bearded man stated. “Who are you?”
“A son of Jerusalem,” Ben-Hur told them. “Newly returned from abroad. Is there something wrong with this aqueduct?”
“He’s stealing from the Temple!” came a voice.
Others chimed in: “Using Temple funds!” “Sacred funds!” “Stealing!” “Robbing us!” The voices grew louder, and several of the staffs pounded the earth.
“Where are you going now, and why?” asked Ben-Hur.
“We are going to Herod’s Palace to protest,” answered the redhead, who seemed to be the leader. “The rabbis are there already. We must let this Pilate know that the Jewish people will not permit such thievery! And we won’t stand here talking anymore!” He raised his staff in the air and turned away from Ben-Hur. “To the praetorium, where we will see Pilate!” he shouted.
“May I come with you?” Ben-Hur asked, keeping up with his long stride.
“If you want to see how men of Galilee defend what is right!” another man responded. And the whole band moved forward, full of righteous outrage.
Malluch had heard about Galileans. They were independent, outspoken, unruly. They lived north of Jerusalem in hilly country dotted with tiny villages. Some farmed, many raised sheep, others fished in the huge lake, but few ever bothered with Jerusalem.
Still, someone in this crowd was familiar enough with the city to lead the group unerringly toward the praetorium. Malluch stayed toward the rear, but Ben-Hur was visible in the center. He did not join the shouting, but Malluch could tell he was listening closely to the Galileans’ complaints.
Soon there were other clusters of men clogging the narrow streets, all streaming in the same direction. Most of them were more urban than the Galileans: paler, more slender, less noisy, but every bit as concerned about Pilate’s misuse of Temple funds.
Information, whether accurate or not, circulated as they hurried along. The rabbis and elders of the Temple were already at Herod’s Palace. Pilate had come out to speak with them. No, he had refused to come out. The Romans had doubled the guard at the palace. They were not letting anyone in. No, the court was full of angry Jews. Waiting to see Pilate and present their case.
The courtyard, when they got there, was only partly full, but certainly the men there were angry. The guard at the gate had indeed been doubled, and the soldiers stood rigid, elbow to elbow, with their helmets and breastplates flashing in the afternoon sun. Malluch saw that sweat ran down many a Roman cheek.
A model of the praetorium, or Herod’s palace, in Jerusalem
When Herod had built the palace, he had broken a Jewish law by planting rows of trees in the space by the gate. Malluch thought the leafy shade, with seats placed here and there, looked appealing, but on this day no one would set foot beneath the trees. The protesters all thronged together, facing the gleaming marble facade of the palace. It stood on a raised platform, where the rabbis from the Temple clustered next to a closed door. A second message had just been sent to Pilate, demanding that he speak to the Temple leaders.
Long minutes passed. The palace door remained closed. More Jews crowded into the court as word traveled throughout the city. The Roman guard stood still. The sun beat down. The Galileans milled around, restless and angry.
Ben-Hur turned to their redheaded leader. “Why did you come here?” he asked quietly.
“To fight, of course.”
“And you will lead the fighting?”
“No, it is every man for himself,” explained the Galilean.
“Whom do you expect to fight against?”
“There is always somebody,” the Galilean answered.
“That, my friend, is certainly true. But have you thought that you might be more effective if you stayed together? And fought as a unit?”
“You don’t know Galileans if you expect them to do anything together!”
“I don’t know Galileans,” Ben-Hur said, “but I do know Romans. And I know how they fight. Would your men follow me?”
“Ask them,” said the Galilean.
So as the crowd stood there, waiting for Pilate, Ben-Hur went from man to man. Malluch couldn’t hear what he said, but he followed the exchanges through gestures and expressions: Ben-Hur introducing himself, explaining his idea, listening to objections. Sometimes many objections. Yet each conversation ended cordially, with a nod.
The afternoon wore on. The heat did not abate. The rabbis sent in a third messenger. Ben-Hur appeared at Malluch’s side.
“Something will happen soon,” he said. “You may want to leave.”
&n
bsp; “I am a Jew,” Malluch answered. “Pilate’s robbery from the Temple concerns me, too. I will take my chance that the Romans will overlook me. Are you sure it is wise to offer to lead these men? What will happen if you injure a Roman and are taken into custody?”
“I don’t care,” Ben-Hur said with a kind of vicious emphasis, and Malluch suddenly understood.
Of course he did not care. Ben-Hur, though he hid it well, was alight with rage. He was spoiling for a fight, and the fight had delivered itself into his hands. The Galileans were to be his tool to punish the Romans for what they had done to his family.
“Aren’t you risking other men’s lives?” Malluch asked, but a low growling sound came from the center of the courtyard, where the men were packed most tightly.
“They will be safer with me than they would have been without me,” Ben-Hur answered. “And I think lives are already at stake.”
Malluch didn’t understand what he meant, but a moment later Ben-Hur had boosted one of the Galileans onto his shoulders to get a better view. “There are men fighting,” the Galilean called out. “I see clubs—oh! They have knocked down an old man! A rabbi! They are beating him!”
“Who?” the redheaded leader asked. “Who is doing the beating?”
“I can’t tell. Men with clubs . . . No! They are Romans, disguised as Jews!”
No sooner had Ben-Hur heard that than he lifted the man off his shoulders. Looking around, he called out with a loud voice, “Men of Galilee! Follow me! We need not let the Romans injure our leaders and disrespect the people of Judea! They seem to think there is no one here to resist them. We will surprise them with our force.”
Malluch was not a man of conflict, and his instinct was to melt into the crowd, work his way to the gate, and leave the Palace of Herod before the blood started flowing in earnest. But he was a man of curiosity, and he wanted to know what would happen next.
To his surprise, Ben-Hur led the group away from the front of the palace, back toward the gate. The crowd had grown much thicker since they’d arrived, and at the center of the court was a heaving, pushing, noisy mass. “Not yet!” Ben-Hur called as several men tried to turn aside to join the struggling throng. “The Romans are armed with clubs, and we are unarmed. We will come back with arms and surprise them!”
Had he managed to hide a cache of daggers somewhere? Did he plan on disarming the guards at the gate? Malluch was puzzled until Ben-Hur led the group to the trees and reached up to a sturdy branch. “These will be our clubs,” he shouted to the group. “Pull one off and strip away the small branches and leaves. Then we will show the Romans who we are!”
The Galileans set to work. Some of them had orchards and knew how to exert leverage to break off the sturdy limbs; one had a small knife that he used to strip branch after branch. Ben-Hur went from man to man, issuing instructions. “We will set on them from behind. They will be completely surprised. Aim for the head. Hit hard. Knock them out if you can and take their clubs. Stay together. But leave room for your brothers to swing their branches!”
In minutes they had re-formed as a compact mass, brandishing their improvised weapons. With Ben-Hur in the lead, they forced their way through the mob of people. The crowd had begun to shift, many of them fleeing from the Romans’ clubs, but the Galileans pushed and squeezed, cheek to shoulder.
“You aren’t armed, my friend,” said a grizzled man next to Malluch.
“I had not intended to fight,” Malluch answered.
“Nor I. But the tall one is a good commander, isn’t he? He seems to burn with righteous anger. And he had a good idea. So I am following. Here, you take my branch. I will pick up a club from the ground.”
So Malluch found himself tossed by the throng, brandishing a tree branch and thinking about righteous anger. Rome had imprisoned Ben-Hur’s family and turned them into lepers. His shock and grief after visiting the Valley of the Dead had inflamed his need to strike back. Here was his chance.
The Romans disguised as Jews had cleared a space in the center of the courtyard, as bystanders shoved their way out of danger. Bodies lay on the elegantly tiled ground, their blood smeared over the geometric patterns in the smooth marble. Some of the attackers stood panting, their kerchiefs pushed back and their clean-shaven faces gleaming with sweat when the Galileans cut through the crowd and fell on them, howling with rage.
Ben-Hur swung first, felling a tall man with a blow that split open his scalp. Malluch thought afterward that he would always see that sight in his memory: the rough bark of the tree branch meeting the Roman’s forehead and the instant spatter of blood in the air. Malluch flinched at the sight and wondered what he was doing in this volatile mob, clutching the branch of a tree. But in the next instant he felt a club swing near his ear, and he did the only thing possible. He spun around and met it with his tree branch, which splintered on impact. The blow traveled through Malluch’s hands and up to his shoulders, but he barely noticed. The Roman had stepped back and prepared for another blow. Malluch thrust his branch into the man’s face. There were a few twigs and leaves left on the end. He kept jabbing, lunging forward each time, blinding his opponent and scratching his face. The man screamed and dropped his club behind him. It rolled on the ground and he stepped on it, falling backward. His elbow met the marble and must have shattered because Malluch saw him instantly clutch it with his other hand. But the real damage had already been done. One of his eyes was a red mess in its socket.
Malluch froze. Had he done that? He looked around. Had anyone seen him do that? He dropped the branch. But another Roman was coming toward him with a club raised over his head. Malluch ducked and grasped the club rolling on the ground. As the Roman took one last step to close the gap, Malluch flailed upward with the club, hoping to tangle the Roman’s legs. The man fell forward, on top of his compatriot, and Malluch dropped the club.
He wiped his forehead with his arm and glanced around. The crowd of men on their feet had thinned, but the bodies were thick on the ground. Many groaned and writhed while some lay still. Dead, or near it.
“Men of Galilee!” Ben-Hur shouted. “The guard is coming. We must go.”
“No, no, we should stay and fight!” came the objections.
But Ben-Hur overrode them. “The Romans have blades and we have only branches. We have done what we intended. Let us retreat so that we can fight another day. Come! Follow me!”
And they did. Malluch watched as they dropped their branches with mingled expressions of regret and satisfaction. A few kicked Roman bodies as they hurried toward the gate. The Roman guard moved quickly toward them, hip to hip with spears at the ready.
“Now we run!” Ben-Hur shouted, and the Galileans took off. Their sandals slapped on the marble and their long hair flew behind them. They were all panting as they reached the gate, safely ahead of the Roman guard.
The centurion leading them shouted, “That’s it—run away like the Jewish dogs you are!”
Ben-Hur whirled around and shouted back, in his fluent Latin, “We may be dogs, but you are jackals, preying on the weak and wounded!”
“Wait!” the centurion called as the group fled through the gate. “Are you Roman? Consorting with this scum of Galilee?”
“I am a son of Judah, and proud of it!” Ben-Hur answered.
“If you are so proud to be a Jew, prove your prowess. Fight me!”
The Galileans, lingering in the gateway, cheered. They were still full of the fury of battle and eager to prolong the excitement.
So, evidently, was Ben-Hur. “Fight you single-handed?”
“Yes,” the centurion answered, stepping closer. “Just you and I. For the honor of our nations.”
Ben-Hur looked around. The hills surrounding Herod’s Palace were covered with people who had come out to watch the confrontation about the Temple funds. Likewise every neighboring roof was packed with its spectators. The Galileans were cheering. The Roman guard stood behind their centurion, at ease, with eager smiles on their faces. Malluch
, who stood close to Ben-Hur, saw him decide.
“Certainly,” he said. “I will fight you. For the honor of Israel, with much of it looking on.” He gestured to the natural amphitheater around the palace courtyard. “But I have no sword or shield.”
“Use mine,” offered the centurion. “I will borrow from the guard. That way we will each be using unfamiliar arms.”
A space had been cleared for them just before the gate. The Galileans had all filed back inside to watch, while the Roman guard formed a human cordon, holding back the crowd that remained from the protest.
A gladius, a standard Roman sword about two feet long
The centurion and Ben-Hur stood in the center. Ben-Hur’s tunic was torn at the shoulder and stained with sweat and tree sap. A broad, rusty stripe marked the garment’s back, but he didn’t move as if he were hurt. He took the short sword from the centurion and hefted it.
“This will do,” he said.
“Do you want a breastplate? Or a helmet?”
“No,” Ben-Hur said. “We will fight without them, if you agree.” And he smiled fiercely. Malluch realized, with a shock, that Ben-Hur was looking forward to the fight.
“Oh, certainly, Jew, I agree,” said the Roman. He accepted a sword and shield from one of his men. “The shield suits you?”
Ben-Hur turned it over to look at the design on its face, then slid his arm through the inner straps. “Yes,” he said, taking his position, foot-to-foot with his opponent. “What I did not tell you before is that I have often fought as a Roman. I am a Jew and I believe in the one God, but I am no stranger to your war god, Mars, whom I see on this shield. And now you are going to die!”
The fight took only a moment. The short swords flashed once, twice. The Roman aimed at Ben-Hur’s face, then pulled back, but Ben-Hur stepped aside. He feinted at the Roman’s head and ducked below the counterblow. Then he lifted his shield. The edge caught the Roman’s right arm. Using his enormous strength, Ben-Hur pushed upward, sliding the shield’s edge down the underside of the arm in a bloody strip. He shifted to the left and thrust upward, letting go of the sword as the man fell forward onto the patterned marble. A pool of brilliant blood flooded out beneath him, and the crowd on the roofs and hills burst into cheers. Ben-Hur put his foot on the body and raised his shield over his head, like a gladiator in Rome, meeting the gaze of the guard at the gate.
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