He leaned down to pluck the sword from beneath the centurion’s body, then stood up to address the officer who approached him in the stillness. “It was a fair fight, you’ll agree?”
“Yes. Fair enough.”
“I will keep the sword and shield,” Ben-Hur informed him. “A memento of Rome.”
“That is your right,” the soldier answered.
So Ben-Hur turned toward the Galileans at the gate. The sword dripped bright blood on the marble. “Come,” he said, “we must be gone. We are safe for now, but not much longer.” He found the redheaded leader. “I have a proposal for you all or for any of you who want to fight for Israel. Meet me at the khan in Bethany tonight. Bring the sword and shield so that I recognize you. We prevailed today. We showed the Romans our strength. Fighting together, we can do much more!” He handed over the weapons to the Galilean leader. And then he melted into the crowd.
Malluch, making his way back to the khan through the narrow, crowded streets, heard passersby telling and retelling the tale of the Jews’ triumph over the Romans at Herod’s Palace. Ben-Hur’s role was emphasized, even magnified—he became the hero of the episode. But Malluch was disturbed. The death of the Roman centurion had just been a piece of bloody showmanship. What kind of man killed so casually? What kind of leader would Ben-Hur actually be?
PART 6
CHAPTER 44
THE DESERT
There were many times over the next six months when Ben-Hur regretted that flamboyant, impulsive demonstration of force in the courtyard at Herod’s Palace. At the time, he had told himself that he needed to show the audience on the rooftops and hillsides how to resist Rome. Ben-Hur knew that being a leader meant being seen and acting publicly. But had he killed out of fury after seeing the leper colony? A leader who acted emotionally was a danger to everyone. Rage had no place in the project before him.
General Lew Wallace in his Civil War uniform
Certainly building a coherent mass of fighting men required patience and self-control. Setting up the camp in the desert had been the easy part; Sheik Ilderim’s men had chosen a well-hidden spot with access to water. There were wide spaces for drilling groups of men into infantry formations and steep hillsides for simulating ambushes. Between them Simonides and Ilderim kept the camp amply provisioned, and Ben-Hur was grateful daily that he did not have to concern himself with foodstuffs, arms, or the details of housing.
The Galileans presented challenge enough. They came; they went. They argued. They brought their flocks with them. The fishermen moped, surrounded as they were by desert. No sooner would Ben-Hur choose and train a cohort and appoint officers than a third of them would decide to leave because they needed to harvest grapes or catch a stray ram or replace the roof of a cottage. Ben-Hur always wondered how this news got through to their supposedly secret camp, but when he mentioned this to the Galileans, they swore they had told no one where they were.
What Ben-Hur found most frustrating was that they were wonderful fighters. What they lacked in discipline and finesse they made up for in strength and verve. Gradually Ben-Hur found that they responded best to simulated battle situations. Teach them a few rudiments of weapon handling, let them choose their own leaders, and send them out into the hills to attack each other: they would come back sometimes bloodied but always exhilarated. And it was then that Ben-Hur could form them into Roman-style cohorts, march them up and down with precision, teach them to handle Roman weapons and obey Roman orders.
So gradually, he built a force. Over the course of the winter, he identified reliable officers. These were men who were respected by their fellows but who also understood the value of discipline and even obedience. Bit by bit, Ben-Hur put more power into their hands. When the chill of winter began to recede, some of them traveled back to Galilee to recruit more men. Soon there would be three full legions. Word began to come back that in some Galilean villages, the men had adopted military training as a pastime.
When spring came, he took a group of officers east, to the harsh, forbidding black lava beds of Trachonitis, where the landscape itself was an enemy. Here, for long days, he trained with his best officers in the use of the javelin and the short Roman sword that was always gripped in the fist and thrust at close quarters. For the first time since he had left Jerusalem, he began to feel that perhaps it would be possible to provide the coming King with a force worthy of him—a fighting force that was capable of defeating Rome and establishing a renewed Jewish state. For the first time, he thought he might be ready.
So it was with curiosity and a sense of anticipation that one morning just after sunrise he saw a messenger on horseback picking his way across the stony hillocks of the old lava flow. The air was so clear and dry that Ben-Hur could identify the horse as one of Ilderim’s, so he went forward to meet him.
“Have you come a long way?” he asked, breaking open the seal of the packet he was handed.
“From Jerusalem,” said the messenger. He gazed around him with wide eyes. “I’ve always heard about this place. Not very welcoming, is it?”
“You don’t always get to choose where you’re going to fight,” Ben-Hur answered with a shrug. Then he turned to the letter, which had Malluch’s name at the foot.
A prophet has appeared, it said. He has been in the wilderness for years, but now he is preaching widely on the east bank of the Jordan. He says there is another man coming, greater than he. I have gone to the Jordan to hear him, and I believe he is speaking of the King you await. Jerusalem is all abuzz, and the banks of the Jordan are thronged with her people. You should come—as soon as may be possible.
It was the summons Ben-Hur had been waiting for. By the end of the day he had handed over his command and chosen a guide to ride with him through the desert. They saw no one, traveling fast by night and resting at hidden oases during the sunlit hours. But two days later, the sharp-eyed guide paused at the top of a ridge and squinted into the distance. Ben-Hur saw nothing. In minutes, though, a speck materialized, and within an hour he was watching, with amazement, an enormous white camel with a green howdah, led by a tall Nubian slave.
It had to be Balthasar! Who else had such a camel and such a howdah? And if it was Balthasar . . . Ben-Hur ran a hand over his jaw, feeling the grit embedded in his beard. Surely not, though; Balthasar would not have exposed his daughter to the rigors of desert travel!
Yet when the two parties had met, Iras preceded her father out of the howdah, setting foot on the carpet the slave spread below her as if she were entering a palace.
“Greetings, son of Hur,” she said calmly. “We are happy to see you. My father was certain no harm would come to us since he carries a seal of Sheik Ilderim, but I did not quite share his confidence. I was glad to make out your features. Though I did recognize the horse first.”
“Peace be with you,” Ben-Hur answered. “What are you doing out here alone? Sheik Ilderim’s seal would mean nothing to some of the wilder desert creatures. Let alone to lack of water.”
“Son of Hur!” came the thin voice from the howdah. “Come up! You are well met!”
Ben-Hur met Iras’s eyes and she gestured toward the howdah. “He is frailer than when you saw him last,” she whispered. “Go and speak to him.”
It was hard to make out Balthasar’s features in the shade of the howdah, but he did look smaller, and his turban seemed even more overwhelming. But he greeted Ben-Hur warmly and added, “I heard you ask why we are alone. We are traveling with a caravan to Jerusalem, but I am so impatient! And they are so slow! Darme there said he knew of a faster route that went near an oasis where we could rest. But he has not found it.”
Ben-Hur looked down at the Nubian and his own Arab guide, shoulder to shoulder facing eastward, both of them gesturing. “He and my guide seem to be in agreement. But what a risk to take! And why the hurry?”
A tiny clawlike hand emerged from Balthasar’s robe to clasp Ben-Hur’s wrist. “Oh, son of Hur, I have been having dreams! Dreams of such power
and clarity, like the dreams I had so long ago. He is here—I know he is—the Savior I have been waiting for!”
A prickle of shock slid down Ben-Hur’s spine. How could this be? “And you thought to find him in Jerusalem?”
A coin necklace
“No,” Balthasar said firmly. “Near the Jordan. Not in the city. I hear the voice saying, ‘Haste, arise! Go to meet him!’ and I see a crowd of people by a river.”
Ben-Hur reached into his robe and pulled out Malluch’s letter. The talk of visions both disturbed and excited him. Had the time for battle really come? He unrolled the papyrus and summarized its contents for Balthasar: “A prophet has appeared whom men say is Elias. He has been in the wilderness for years, and he says that someone follows him who is truly great. He is preaching and baptizing near the Jordan and says we must all repent.”
He was watching Balthasar as he said the last words. The old man clasped his hands, and a tear slipped down his wrinkled cheek. “Thank you, God, for bringing me here. I pray that I may live long enough to worship the Savior again. Then your servant will be ready to go in peace.” He spoke freely, easily, as if to a friend whom only he could see, and Ben-Hur felt a twinge of wistfulness.
“But only if we can find this prophet, Father,” said Iras’s light voice as she stepped into the howdah. “We are in luck. There is water nearby, according to our friend’s guide.”
“All is well, my daughter,” Balthasar said. “The Lord provides for his own. I have never doubted. Shall we continue onward?”
As he and Iras changed places, Ben-Hur felt her hand run up his arm as she whispered into his ear, “If I were to pray, it would have been you I prayed to encounter, son of Hur. We will have much to say in the oasis.” He nearly missed his step clambering down from the camel’s back and, for a few minutes afterward, felt almost dizzy. The stuffy air of the howdah’s interior, the chiming coins of Iras’s necklace, and the story of Balthasar’s dream all fought with the clean, harsh landscape before him. He kept looking back to be sure the camel was really there. And that hand? That mouth? Had she . . . had she kissed him? Or had he dreamed that butterfly touch, the way Balthasar had dreamed of his Savior?
CHAPTER 45
IRAS
By the time they reached the oasis, the sun was nearly overhead and the animals were flagging as they trudged over the wind-ridged dunes. The hills rose up sharp and uninviting before them, yet a dark line in the rock face widened as they neared it. Wide enough, it transpired, for the horses—even wide enough for the camel. And on the other side, a spring welled up, surrounded by date palms and ringed with grass.
“From here,” said the guide as he and Ben-Hur unsaddled their horses, “it is only a few hours to the Jordan. We could even sleep here for the night and leave at dawn if that would suit you. I gather the camel’s owner is in a hurry.”
“He is,” came Iras’s voice behind them. “We will rest now. Perhaps we could discuss our plans once the sun has gone down? Accept our thanks for the guidance,” she said to Ben-Hur, meeting his gaze. “My father makes little distinction these days between what might be and what is likely. For my part, I find your presence here quite miraculous. I have been thinking of you.”
She had been thinking of him. While he had been sleeping in caves and shouting at Galileans, she had been thinking of him. Ben-Hur lay in a spot of shade, listening to the breeze rustle the palm leaves, and let that thought roll over him. The horses grazed nearby. The Nubian servant had produced an elegant silken tent from somewhere and lay in front of it while Balthasar and Iras rested. What could she possibly think about him? How often? In what way? He knew so little about women! If Iras had been a pious Jewish girl like his sister, Tirzah, or a respectable matron like the ones he had met in Rome, he would at least know what to expect from her. But she was no more like Tirzah than the camel was like a horse or a panther. They were entirely different creatures, with different purposes in life. But if Tirzah had been raised to be a home-loving woman who respected the commandments of her faith, what exactly was Iras meant for?
Ben-Hur had not thought he would sleep, but the hard night rides had worn him out, and the next thing he knew, an insect was lighting on his face. Half-awake, he brushed it away, but it landed again, on the tip of his nose and then on his mouth. He did not need to see her to know that Iras was there; her heavy perfume moved through the air.
Ben-Hur branded cologne and perfume bottles
He was not pleased to be surprised like that. “If I had been your enemy,” she said, leaning over him, “I could have stabbed you. If, for instance, I was a Roman guard at the Temple in Jerusalem.”
His eyes flew open. “Who . . . ? What?” He wanted to sit up, but her face loomed above his.
“The one you killed.”
“How did you know?”
“I know things,” she answered, retreating. She stood and brushed back her hair. “Many things.”
He got to his feet and stretched, playing for time. “You and your father rested well?”
“To the extent that we can, in that tiny tent,” she answered, waving a languid hand. “I won’t be content until we get to Jerusalem. The desert is no place for a man as old as my father.” She turned away from him and took a few steps toward the spring. “Do you remember the lake at the Orchard of the Palms? I wish we were there again. I miss the water.”
He was determined to get an answer from her, though he was distracted by the memory of Iras emerging from the water in a dampened robe. “You know things? What else do you know?”
“I don’t know how it is with the Jews,” she said. “But I have heard a Roman saying: ‘Fortune favors the bold.’ You won the chariot race. You killed that Roman guard in front of the praetorium, in the sight of thousands of your people. I think you are due some good fortune, don’t you?”
They were standing side by side now, close enough that Ben-Hur could feel a layer of her fine robes caressing his leg. “And how do you define good fortune?” he managed to ask.
“You are also going to see this prophet,” she said, ignoring his question. “Or whatever he is. I have heard of a mysterious army being formed in the remote desert. An army to serve the King who will come to Judea. I have heard that Sheik Ilderim sanctioned the use of his lands for this project.” She turned to face him. “Sheik Ilderim, of course, owes you a great deal. I have also heard that hundreds of talents are being spent to raise and equip this army.” A tiny frown line appeared between her arched brows. “And I know that the son of Arrius inherited a Roman fortune. Where, I wonder, is that money now?”
He stood still. How could she know? Whom else had she told? What did it mean?
Her hand slid around his arm at the elbow, thumb stroking his bicep. “I see you are worried. No need. Let’s walk a little bit. I get so cramped in the howdah.”
Ben-Hur glanced back at the campsite, but no one was stirring. Even the camel had its eyes closed. “Of course,” he answered. “Your father will not need you?”
“My father,” she replied with an edge in her voice, “needs nothing from me these days. He lives to see this Savior he expects. Nothing more.”
“And you?” Ben-Hur asked. “What do you expect?”
“I expect very little,” she said. “But what I hope for is a King.” She dropped his arm and clambered up to the top of a hillock. “It is time for the East to rise again,” she said, looking down at him. “Rome has ruled long enough, and it can be displaced. Now. With the leader who is coming. With the army you have built.” She held out her hand to him. “I know you feel as I do.”
He took two long steps and was at her side. Even the slight elevation changed the view: more of the valley came into sight and the campsite looked smaller. “What do you see?” she whispered. “You have known Rome and its might. Couldn’t a new empire be born here? Can you see the new armies, with yourself at the head? In a chariot, perhaps? In your own palace? With your own wife?” With one hand she lifted the sheer veil from her
hair. It shone blue-black in the afternoon light, pouring across her shoulders. One long lock fell forward across her face, and Ben-Hur reached out to tuck it behind her ear. Once there, his hand would not move; it cupped her cheek with a gentleness he didn’t know he possessed.
Sultan Abdul Hamid II gifted this oil painting called Turkish Princess to Lew Wallace.
He leaned down to kiss her, drowning in the sensation of her skin against his. Heat, moisture, movement, softness . . . He felt his heart hammering. His arms went around her, and she nestled neatly against his shoulder, that river of silky hair against his neck. “You see,” she said, “I have known you for a hero since the first time I saw you.”
CHAPTER 46
JORDAN
They left before dawn the next day. In the night, Ben-Hur had heard voices from the little tent and Balthasar declaring, “Daughter, I must go. You could have stayed in Antioch. There was no need to come with me. My life is very near its end, but I believe I will live to see the Savior. The dreams are strong and beautiful. I cannot waste more time here. We will leave in the morning.” Then the voices subsided into murmurs, and he went back to sleep.
It was not until they were riding out of the little valley that Ben-Hur thought about those words. If Iras was not traveling to Jerusalem to take care of her father—as she had told him—had she come to see the King? Or . . . to see him?
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