Ben-Hur

by Carol Wallace

  “Then I will see you tomorrow.” Her hand reached toward his. “God go with you tonight, Judah,” she said.

  He could not help himself. For the second time that evening, on the same spot, his lips met those of a woman. But this time, he thought, she was the right one.

  CHAPTER 50

  GETHSEMANE

  It was jarring to be out in the streets again. Ben-Hur’s mind was buzzing with images: Iras, Messala, his mother, Esther, Tirzah. The Nazarene. He tried to focus. The Nazarene! He needed news: where was the man now?

  While he was in the Hur palace, the Passover crowds had become noisy. Movement in the narrow street eddied and halted like the water in a blocked stream. Up ahead, an obstruction straddled an intersection. Ben-Hur craned his head. A procession? Yes, there were torches. And gleaming beside them . . . were those the tips of spears? He began to push, working his way through the crowd, ignoring the protests. Spears were all wrong—this was a purely Jewish festival and the Romans had no business bringing weapons into the streets.

  Yet there they were. And with them, oddly, priests from the Temple. High-ranking, by their robes and beards. Strangest of all, most disturbing, they were heading away from the Temple, toward the city wall. On this holiest of nights, why?

  He shoved his way forward, using his height and weight ruthlessly until he was near the front, where the clustered flames shed their orange glow on the somber, bearded faces—one of which was familiar. It was one of the Nazarene’s followers, Judas Iscariot, walking between a chief priest and one of the Temple guards. Stumbling, really, with an expression of desperation in his glazed eyes.

  Ben-Hur had paused in shock, and a big man with a heavy wooden staff nudged him. “This is not your business,” he muttered. “Keep moving.”

  Keep moving! Ben-Hur took stock of the location. They were at the edge of the city walls, near the Sheep Gate. As the group straggled through the open gate, many of the men turned back to rejoin the holiday festivities. There would be no songs or roasted lamb out on the rocky hillsides to the east of town. The men who stayed with the makeshift march were of two kinds now: the rabble who had nothing better to do and the band from the Temple. Ben-Hur let his steps slow and drifted to the back of the group. Where were they headed? And why was Judas not with the Nazarene and the other disciples?

  Beyond the city gates the moon seemed stronger, shedding a cool wash of pure white light that dimmed the yellow gleam from torches and lanterns. Ben-Hur could make out the dusty roadway, the scrubby hillside, the scattered olive trees. Ahead the silver thread of a stream ducked beneath a wooden bridge, and shuffling footsteps were almost drowned out by the clatter of dozens of staffs and spears. The group was well armed—but for what?

  The garden of Gethsemane

  Two roads like bleached scars on the hillside met in front of them. A wall stood on the uphill side of the intersection, restraining the dark foliage of an olive orchard. There were figures standing at the gate. The procession came to a ragged halt and silence fell.

  The Nazarene stepped out in front of his disciples. The moonlight gleamed especially strong around him, or maybe that was a trick of his white robes. Either way, Ben-Hur could make out no face besides that of Jesus. He looked sad. He stood perfectly still, hands hanging by his sides.

  Was this the moment, then? Surely it was! At least this was a confrontation between Jesus and earthly authority. Wouldn’t he declare himself now? “I am he that was born king of the Jews.” Would he say it at last?

  Ben-Hur edged closer. He should be ready. He should have made a plan! What if the Nazarene called now for troops? Ben-Hur glanced back, calculating: how fast could he reach Bezetha, notify his cohort, send messages to raise a legion?

  But perhaps this was not the moment. Maybe the Nazarene had a different plan. Ben-Hur counted surreptitiously—a dozen, maybe two dozen men with weapons. He himself could account for several of those. And the disciples—surely they would use staffs and spears if commanded?

  If commanded. By whom? How exactly would those words sound? Ben-Hur tried to fit them into Jesus’ mouth: “To arms, men!” Or “Bring me a legion!” No, not that; of course not.

  But possibly . . . Ben-Hur ransacked his mind for plausible commands. “Charge the Antonia Tower, using fire!” Or “Surround the procurator’s palace!” No. That lonely man standing so still in the moonlight would never say those words or any remotely like them.

  Still, it was not too late. Ben-Hur knew he could command the men. He knew military strategy; he could create a plan that would dislodge the red-cloaked soldiers from Jerusalem forever! But this aching moment could go on no longer. The priests were shifting their feet and whispering to each other. He saw a Roman’s knuckles grow white on the shaft of his spear as the tension continued to mount.

  A charm, then! A spell, a miracle, whatever it might be. The Nazarene had given health; he could take it away. He had restored life—could he not also end it? A bolt from the sky! Ben-Hur had seen that once on board a ship: a lightning bolt that flickered down a mast and killed a man standing. Now! This would be the time! Or a creeping miasma, some quiet, constant, rolling death that would mow down these men like wheat falling before a scythe! Something to end this silence!

  “Whom do you seek?” came the voice. Steady, mild, not even curious. The Nazarene often sounded like that. It was a beautiful voice, thought Ben-Hur. A warm voice, full of comfort. Even now.

  “Jesus of Nazareth,” boomed the head priest.

  “I am he.”

  The disciples stirred behind him, hands on each other’s arms. Should he have said that? Should one of them have stepped forward instead?

  But no. There was Judas Iscariot, emerging from the armed group. “Greetings, Rabbi,” he said and kissed the Nazarene on the cheek.

  “Oh, Judas,” Jesus answered, his voice heavy with sorrow, “would you betray the Son of Man with a kiss?” He looked around at the priests and the guards. “If you seek me, let these men go.” He gestured at the disciples.

  The party from the Temple took several steps forward and finally the disciples moved, too late but with vigor. One of them somehow wrested a sword from one of the guards and brandished it wildly. There was a shout, a scuffle, blood splashed on several shoulders—a slave’s ear had been cut off.

  But Jesus did not run. Instead he stepped over and touched the man’s ear. In an instant it was restored. And the next minute, the hand that had healed was roped behind his back, to his other hand. The Nazarene was a captive.

  He spoke again, this time with a hint of sternness. “Put your sword into its sheath,” he said to the disciples behind him. “Shall I not drink the cup that the Father has given me?” Then, without changing his tone, he addressed his captors. “Have you come out as against a robber, with swords and clubs? When I was with you day after day in the Temple, you did not lay hands on me. But this is your hour, and the power of darkness.”

  Darkness indeed. A few of the torches had gone out and several lanterns had been broken, sending oily smoke into the air. Or possibly the moon, still sailing high, had dimmed? Even Jesus’ own robe seemed less white, though it could have been dirtied in the scuffle. Ben-Hur glanced into the orchard, but he could no longer see the disciples. Where had they gone?

  Meanwhile a rough procession formed to head back into Jerusalem. The atmosphere of excitement had diminished. The slave with the restored ear walked alone at the back, his neck and shoulder still blotched with his own blood and a spooked expression in his eyes. Ben-Hur watched them go, then impulsively shrugged off his robe and left it, with his kerchief, on the wall of the orchard. Dressed only in his undertunic, hoping to pass unnoticed, he caught up to the group as they recrossed the little bridge.

  A heavy bank of clouds drifted across the moon now, and the road was invisible. Ben-Hur could only tell where Jesus was by the cluster of flickering torches. He edged forward. He needed to see.

  THE UNNAMED MAN OF MARK 14

  In the b
iblical story of the events in the garden of Gethsemane, the Gospel of Mark records an incident not mentioned in the other accounts. “Then all his disciples deserted [Jesus] and ran away. One young man following behind was clothed only in a long linen shirt. When the mob tried to grab him, he slipped out of his shirt and ran away naked” (Mark 14:50-52).

  Tradition holds that this young man might have been John Mark, the writer of this Gospel, but Lew Wallace opted to use his fictional hero.

  What had happened? How was it possible that the Nazarene could submit to captivity after casually restoring the slave’s ear? If he would help the slave, why not help himself?

  And what was that discussion of a cup? It was almost as if he had a plan.

  But if there was a plan, thought Ben-Hur, it was nothing familiar.

  He was closer now. Jesus walked in the center of the group with his head bowed. A few steps ahead of him the priests muttered urgently, but Jesus paid no attention. He stumbled and nearly fell, but a guard yanked the rope that tied his wrists.

  Ben-Hur suddenly remembered how that felt. All those years ago, he had been the captive, numbed by disaster and tripping over his own feet among a hostile guard. The memory was clear in his mind: an agony of despair and pain. It was Jesus, back then, who had given him hope! He pressed forward a little more so that he was walking right beside the Nazarene.

  Jesus’ face was hidden by his hair and he did not look up when Ben-Hur hissed, “Master!”

  They had reached the fork in the road and the group spread out for an instant. “Master,” Ben-Hur repeated. “If I bring you men to rescue you . . . would you accept our help?”

  No answer from Jesus. A voice said sharply, “Who is that man? Is he one of ours?”

  Ben-Hur stepped back into the crowd, but he had been noticed.

  “No! He’s one of them!” another voice shouted. “Capture him; bring him with us!”

  He flung off the hand on his arm and leapt over a foot stuck out to trip him. Someone clutched the skirt of his tunic, but he tore the garment open at the neckline, leaving the length of fabric behind as he ran naked across the open field.

  “Catch him; follow him!” someone cried, but a deeper voice cut through the hubbub.

  “We must get this man to Pilate,” declared the high priest. “Close up the guard, let no one near him, and move along. Quickly now!”

  So they went on. Ben-Hur returned to the little garden, picking his way through the darkness. He watched the group draw away from him and closer to the walls of Jerusalem. Soon he could see only the torches, sparks in the blackness, and the voices died away completely.

  He found the orchard wall by touch and inched along it until he reached his robe, which he threw over his head. Then he stood still for a time where Jesus had stood. Crickets sounded in the trees behind him and creeping nocturnal creatures moved through the scrubby grass. The air was perfectly still.

  He could no longer see the group around Jesus. They had probably entered the gate of Jerusalem. Not in triumph this time, he thought.

  Yet—had the triumph seemed quite real? Ben-Hur wondered. Was it Jesus’ triumph? Or a celebration that overlooked his real nature? The Jesus on the donkey was not so very different from the Jesus with his hands behind his back: melancholy but determined.

  Was it possible that he had known all along what would happen? Ben-Hur shook his head. What good did that do? What was the point of coming to Jerusalem and visiting the Temple and rousing masses of people to hope—only to end in captivity? The guards were taking him to Pilate, and Jesus’ story would end, once again, with Rome in charge.

  Almost by habit, Ben-Hur started calculating. There was a legion of Galileans in and around Jerusalem; he could bring them into the city and storm Herod’s Palace . . . No, he would need more men; it would be heavily defended. Maybe another legion would be required; they could be mustered and reach Jerusalem in two days or so. . . .

  And the Nazarene? Ben-Hur pushed off from the fence he’d been leaning against. The Nazarene! He wanted no armies. He didn’t want help of any kind. There was something else going on.

  The cloud bank had passed from the moon and now a light haze surrounded it. The clear brightness of a few minutes earlier was veiled, but Ben-Hur could make out the path back to the Sheep Gate. He began to walk, and as he walked, he admitted to himself that he had failed.

  He had failed. Or perhaps they had all failed. Or misunderstood. Jesus had never asked for an army.

  He thought of the slave, nervously fingering the ear that had been lopped off and just as swiftly restored.

  Restored—like Lazarus at Bethany. What had Jesus said then? “I am the resurrection and the life.” What could it mean? Yet Ben-Hur had been there when Lazarus staggered out of the tomb, shedding his foul grave wrappings, and the women wailed in fear as much as joy.

  A note from Lew Wallace to one of his readers:

  Crawfordsville, Nov. 11, 1897

  W. H. Warner

  Comrade,

  You asked me for the “diamond sentence” in Ben-Hur. Here it is—

  I am the resurrection and the life.

  Yours truly,

  Lew Wallace

  This was something like that, something strange. Even tonight, even in his dejection, Jesus had been resolute. His work, or whatever you wanted to call it—his teaching, his leading—was unfinished while he was still on the road, trudging toward Pilate’s presence.

  And Ben-Hur realized, as he walked along in the Nazarene’s footsteps, that he could only wait. Stay ready. Possibly offer his help again. And again, he resolved. Until it was clear that the Nazarene needed it no more.

  CHAPTER 51

  GOLGOTHA

  He spent what remained of the night with his mother and sister in their tents in the Kidron Valley. He had not been able to face the Hur palace after the confrontation at Gethsemane. How would he tell Simonides and Balthasar what had happened? How could he possibly endure Iras’s scorn? Instead he slept outside the city and had just wakened when two of his Galilean officers cantered up on a pair of shaggy ponies.

  “You must come!” one called out. “The Nazarene dies today if you do not save him!”

  “Dies?” he answered. “What has happened?”

  “They captured him last night and tried him. The priests found him guilty of blasphemy and took him to Pilate. Pilate tried not to give a judgment, but the priests and the people were so determined that Pilate condemned him. So the cross is being made ready!”

  “Oh no!” Ben-Hur cried. He snapped his fingers to a servant. “My sword belt, my shield. Saddle Aldebaran.” He looked back at the messengers. “This must not happen. We will fight.” It all seemed so clear now! Jesus must be rescued. There would be crowds at Golgotha. But on horseback, he and a picked group of men might be able to sweep in, cut Jesus’ bonds, carry him off . . .

  “No, sir,” one of the Galileans broke into his fantasy. “We cannot fight.”

  Ben-Hur looked up from his belt buckle. “Why?”

  The two Galileans exchanged glances, and the one who had not spoken yet said, “We are the only men left.”

  “What do you mean? There were hundreds!”

  “The rest have sided with the priests. They have vanished.” The man was blushing behind his beard. “I am ashamed to say it.”

  Ben-Hur’s hands fell to his sides. “All of them?”

  They nodded. “All.”

  Gone, he thought. All gone? The men he had recruited. He had tramped from village to village to find them. He had persuaded and cajoled. He had spoken of a new leader on the way, and they had believed him. They had trained together, and he thought he had made them into a strong and loyal force. Now they had scattered? Vanished into the seething crowds packed into Jerusalem?

  And yet who could blame them? Theirs was the human reaction. The man who had preached to multitudes about meekness and mercy was condemned to execution. Of course his supporters disappeared; they would be seen as tr
easonous. The wise man among them would throw away his short Roman-style sword and deny any knowledge of the Nazarene. But these two standing before Ben-Hur were loyal.

  “Thank you for letting me know,” he said. “I will come back with you.” So a few minutes later they were on the road to Jerusalem while half of the Kidron Valley was still in shadow.

  They didn’t speak. The air was chilly, so they set the horses to a fast trot. The sun gilded the city walls, growing ever closer, and Ben-Hur thought about loyalty. He could not blame the Galileans for dispersing. But he himself would not hide. He felt called to witness Jesus’ death. He had not told his mother and sister where he was going because he could not have explained his reasons.

  Maybe he needed to be present to atone for his failure to help the Nazarene. Or perhaps he simply needed to understand what Jesus had intended all along. Because the closer he rode to Jerusalem on that sunny morning, the more certain Ben-Hur was that Jesus had known how his story would end. He might have power over life and death—he might be the Son of God himself—yet he would die. Today. On a cross.

  The word was out in Jerusalem. An execution! Two robbers and that rabble-rouser from Nazareth. The crosses were already fashioned, they said. The criminals were on their way to Golgotha. “Quick, quick, if you hurry, you can see them stumbling along and carrying the crossbars!” Such joy in witnessing someone else’s humiliation!

  The streets soon clotted with people. Guards led the procession with staffs to clear the way. People brought things to throw. The cobblestones grew slippery and the smells grew vile, but even that was part of the fun. A priest set his heel on a rotten cabbage leaf and went down with a yelp—hilarious! Shared cruelty intoxicated the crowd.

  Ben-Hur worked his way along the walls of the buildings, trying to catch up with the procession. What a horrible contrast! Not a week earlier, the Nazarene had ridden into the city to jubilation, and now he was staggering out of it to a chorus of jeering and insults. The movement of the procession stopped and a narrow rectangle of wood reared up above the heads of the multitude. The voices roared. He had stumbled! Fallen down, dropped his own cross! Lay under it, face on the road!