Ben-Hur pushed onward steadily.
A sturdy Jew stepped forward and shouldered the cross. The Nazarene pushed himself to his feet and staggered onward. Ben-Hur caught sight of him and felt hollow. Someone had crammed a wreath of thorns onto Jesus’ head, pushed it down hard and left long scratches on his forehead so that the blood ran into his eyes. He’d been beaten. Fresh bruises mottled his skin. His hands and knees bled from the fall. The injuries were bad enough, but in addition insults rained down around him: personal, nasty, inventive, crude. He showed no sign of hearing them or even of feeling physical pain. It was his despair that Ben-Hur pitied.
Judah offers Jesus a drink in this scene from the 1959 MGM film.
He had seen men like that in the galleys. He had been like that himself, reduced to endurance. Life existed as nothing more than this step and the next step. The only possible relief would come with death.
Jesus would die. In that moment Ben-Hur took in the truth. The man he had admired and followed, who had raised such hopes in so many people, was stumbling his way to a shameful public death. He had demonstrated, time and again, that he had power over death—yet he would submit to it himself.
This was the cup he’d spoken of, the destiny his Father had given him.
Ben-Hur felt the wall at his back end suddenly and took two inadvertent steps backward. He looked around, disoriented; it was a small courtyard, shaded by a tall old house whose shutters were closed. He took a few more steps into the shadow and crouched down, face in his hands.
All his hopes were ruined. Everyone’s hopes, in fact! Jesus was not the king of the Jews! He was a teacher who had earned the enmity of Rome—and even of the Jewish priests. He was about to die for his teaching and leadership. What would become of his followers? Surely they were in danger too! But no doubt they had vanished like the Galileans. They would have saved themselves.
Yet as part of Ben-Hur’s mind considered the disciples, he could not dismiss the image of Jesus’ face as he trudged painfully through the mob. Utter desolation. And resignation. Ben-Hur sighed deeply and stood. It would be prudent to leave. But he could not. He could not let Jesus die surrounded by enemies. Nothing had ever been so urgent to him. He must follow the Nazarene to the cross and bear witness. He stepped back out into the slow-moving throng.
Everything was so strange that it seemed natural to see Malluch before him in the crowd. Of course Malluch was there. Of course Simonides and Balthasar were being carried along in a makeshift litter. Of course Esther walked next to them, head covered, eyes reddened with tears. On this nightmare morning, what was more likely than finding them in a crowd of thousands?
He slipped into the throng beside Esther and tapped Malluch on the shoulder. Malluch turned back and nodded to him. No words were needed. Naturally Ben-Hur had found them. Naturally he was headed out to Golgotha. This was how the Nazarene’s story would end, and they all felt compelled to be there.
On the litter, Simonides and Balthasar lay head to toe, shaded by a canopy and mute with misery. Ben-Hur stooped down to greet them, and Balthasar met his gaze. “This is a terrible day,” he said, barely louder than a whisper. “We will all regret it. We are setting out to kill God’s Son, you know.”
Simonides lay with his eyes closed and grimaced as the litter was jostled. “What will become of us all?” he groaned.
There was no answer to that. They plodded forward at the slow pace of the crowd. The sun grew stronger. Ben-Hur felt sweat prickling down his spine, but sweat was nothing. Not compared to what the Nazarene was suffering.
The mood of the mob changed. The cocky jeering had died away. Faces were somber now. As the horde filed through the gate, silence fell. Mockery had seemed safe before, but now, with the uprights of the crosses visible, dread prevailed.
“Why are we here?” Simonides asked. Then he answered his own question. “Because we must be, I suppose.”
“I was present just after his birth,” Balthasar replied. Ben-Hur had to lean over to hear him. “I have always followed him, even from afar. I must be here when he dies.”
“It is the least we can do for him,” Esther said tentatively. “Don’t you think?” She looked at Ben-Hur.
He shrugged. “I am not sure. But I agree with your father. We must be witnesses to what will happen now.”
The little hill—shaped like, and named for, a skull—was thickly covered with humankind, but at the top a ring of Roman soldiers held the crowd back. The open space they encircled lay lower, as if a giant thumb had pressed it down to create a natural theater on the hilltop. The three condemned men stood by their crosses, each of which lay next to a deep hole.
Rome and Jerusalem worked together that day. The high priest of the Temple, glittering in his vestments, instructed the centurion whose men would carry out the death sentence. “Go ahead,” he commanded in a voice pitched to reach the crowds. “They must be dead and buried by sunset. Start with the blasphemer. If he is the Son of God, he should be able to save himself.”
A shudder ran through the crowd. The crosspieces were fitted onto the trees of the crosses. The men were placed roughly, arms out, feet crossed.
“Esther, come here,” came Simonides’s voice. “Don’t watch.”
She bent down and rested her head against his shoulder, where her tears soon blotched his robe. She never told him that at each blow of the hammer, she felt him flinch.
“Raise him first,” instructed Caiaphas, the priest.
“Facing which way?” the soldier asked as if he were talking of a signpost.
“Toward the Temple,” answered Caiaphas. “He says it is his Father’s house. I want him to see that he has not harmed it with his ravings.”
The cross and its burden were lifted, carried a few steps, dropped into the prepared hole with a thump. The hands tore around the nails, but Jesus only said, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”
How could he? At that moment, how could he beg for forgiveness—for his killers?
Once the crowd had seen the cross rise, the silence broke. First a gasp, then a tentative cheer. Someone read out the placard nailed above Jesus’ head: “‘King of the Jews!’” and another repeated the words. A clamor followed. Maybe it was mockery trying to drive out foreboding.
The two other crosses were raised and planted, but no one cared about a pair of commonplace thieves. It was the man who made the grand claims who had to be brought down. He had almost persuaded them that life could be other than it was! Some of them had even listened, had considered a system of kindness and compassion and patience and forgiveness. What a narrow escape they had made! The world did not work like that! Strength and violence and vengeance ruled—of course they did! It was terrifying to know one had almost thought otherwise. The man who said so must be punished.
So there was alarm among the gathered people already. Some were afraid of what they had almost believed. Some were afraid of retribution—God’s or Rome’s, or both. Some—for there were followers of the Nazarene on that hillside—regretted their months as disciples. Who knew where that could lead? And yet, while it had lasted, the illusion of a new kind of life had seemed so compelling!
Then the darkness came. It crept gradually among them, shade by shade of reduced light. Faces faded. Outlines vanished. “Are you there?” Esther whispered to her father while she still touched him.
The multitude fell silent. All you could hear was the shifting of feet. One of the thieves moaned. It went on and on.
Maybe it diminished. Maybe their eyes adjusted. As one hour bled into another, they could see that the crowd was thinning, and despite Esther’s reluctance, their little group moved closer to the crosses. Balthasar crept out of the litter and insisted on kneeling in the dirt, facing the Nazarene.
Gradually some of the crowd regained its confidence and resumed baiting Jesus. Even one of the thieves called out to him, “Are you not the Christ? Save yourself and us!”
MISSING WORDS OF CHRIST
“Father, forgive them, for they don’t know what they are doing.” (Luke 23:34)
“I assure you, today you will be with me in paradise.” (Luke 23:43)
[To his mother:] “Dear woman, here is your son.” [To the disciple with her:] “Here is your mother.” (John 19:26-27)
“My God, my God, why have you abandoned me?” (Matthew 27:46; Mark 15:34)
“I am thirsty.” (John 19:28)
“It is finished!” (John 19:30)
“Father, I entrust my spirit into your hands!” (Luke 23:46)
But the third man protested. “This man has done nothing wrong.” Then, addressing Jesus, he said, “Remember me when you come into your kingdom.”
There was a murmur, and Simonides tensed. Then they all heard Jesus answer in that voice of comfort, “Today you will be with me in Paradise.”
Balthasar made a sound and clasped his hands tighter. Ben-Hur leaned down and saw that the old Egyptian’s eyes were closed, but tears poured down his face. He murmured in a language Ben-Hur did not know—yet he did not look unhappy.
Above their heads, Jesus groaned. The guards huddled nervously and one of them picked up Jesus’ tunic from the ground to fling it far away. They had tossed the dice for it, but things had gone so strangely, nobody would want it now. Another gasp for breath rattled the air, and everyone below fell perfectly still. Even those farthest away could hear when he said, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”
Esther sobbed aloud.
Ben-Hur spotted a bowl on the ground next to the cross. It was full of liquid, half wine and half water. A sponge lay in it, fastened to the end of a long stick. It was a strange, small measure of mercy, made available to the dying.
Jesus should know that he was not forsaken. He should know that there were some left who pitied him. Years before, he had given water to a ragged prisoner in Nazareth. Ben-Hur seized the stick and moistened the sponge. He could offer this, perhaps, a small final gesture of kindness.
But above his head, there was a terrible cry. Everyone heard the words: “It is finished!”
Ben-Hur looked up into the face of the dying man. Jesus raised his eyes, and for an instant he looked glad. “Father,” he murmured, “into your hands I commit my spirit.” And the head drooped.
Ben-Hur dropped the stick and the sponge. He backed away from the cross, unable to tear his eyes away. “Father,” he kept hearing. “Father . . .”
But Jesus was dead.
As if in protest, the earth itself began to tremble. Wave after wave made the ground move like water, and the two thieves cried out from their crosses. Throngs of spectators fled from the hill. The light had returned the moment Jesus died and they could all see his body, but no one could stand to be near it, except for a small group of mourners. The Nazarene’s mother knelt at the foot of the cross along with one of the disciples. Ben-Hur and his group clustered around another body, for Balthasar had died at the same moment as the Nazarene. Eventually they returned his body to the litter and Simonides rode back to Jerusalem with it. “He was wiser than I,” Simonides said. “And perhaps death was his reward.”
When they got back to the Hur palace, Ben-Hur went to Iras’s rooms. He felt obligated to notify her of her father’s death himself. But the rooms were empty. The only trace of her that remained was a whiff of that perfume. He left the windows wide open.
EPILOGUE
Ben-Hur and Esther married, of course. They chose to leave their bitter memories behind in Jerusalem and to live in Arrius’s elegant seaside villa at Misenum. There Naomi and Tirzah helped raise their children. The whole family continued to follow the Nazarene’s teachings and did everything they could to nurture the growing faith. Like others, they began to call themselves “Christians.”
Esther did not attempt to persuade Simonides to join them. She understood that her father’s joy came from his business; it was impossible to imagine him flourishing in the open, breeze-swept marble rooms of the villa. Instead, she and Judah took turns braving the sea voyage to Antioch every few years. Little changed at the house above the wharves: the ships still came in with yellow flags at their masts to signal successful voyages. Simonides, made old before his time by Roman torture, now seemed ageless. Only Malluch gradually showed the years, growing gray and stout.
But finally Simonides’s sight began to fail, and he announced that he would sell his ships. He summoned both Esther and Judah to Antioch, and for days they served as his eyes and hands. There were sailors to pay off and livestock to sell, cargoes to dispatch and a constant flow of details that Esther handled with her usual calm competence. Ben-Hur ran into her one morning in the warehouse, sweeping with an old broom, and could not help laughing. “You look just the same as the first time I saw you!” he exclaimed, putting his arms around her.
She smiled at him. “I think this is the same broom, too. Malluch never did care about the floors.”
“Are you sad?”
“Of course. But my father is not. So I’m trying to follow his example.”
A wax seal
He rested his cheek against her hair. “He is a man of great courage.” He felt her nod. Then she tapped his back with the broomstick.
“I’m sure he sent you on some errand,” she said. “You should go.”
He released her. “Yes. I have to go see a camel driver. I wish Malluch were around. I would send him instead.”
“Malluch is deep in the hold of the ship out there,” Esther told him. “You could always trade places.”
“No,” Judah answered with a shudder. “Given the choice, I prefer the camels.”
That was the last vessel to reach Simonides’s wharf, and by the end of the day its cargo of Greek olive oil and Egyptian wheat had been transferred to the warehouse. As the sun dropped into a coral haze, Ben-Hur, Esther, and Simonides sat together in the workroom, watching the lone ship sway at its mooring. Every flat surface in the room was covered with scrolls or tablets, many weighted with odd fragments like a piece of sandalwood or a shard of alabaster or the scrolled hilt of a dagger to which a blade had never been fixed.
“Even I am surprised,” Simonides commented, glancing around the room. “Esther, hand me that little package there, the one with the seal.” As she looked for it on the nearest table, he went on, “I thought I had a clear reckoning in my head, but I am so much wealthier than I knew. And so are you, Judah,” he added with a piercing glance. “I had forgotten this until now,” he said as he accepted the package from his daughter. “An Arab brought it earlier today and I put it aside. Can you read the inscription?”
“It’s for Judah,” Esther said. “With Sheik Ilderim’s seal.” For a moment she studied the tiny image of a swiftly running horse. “I haven’t seen this for years.” She passed the package to her husband, who ran his forefinger gently over the glossy wax before breaking it. He swiftly read the letter and lifted out a yellowed strip of papyrus, so faded that he had to step toward the open window to make out the words. In the waning light reflected off the river, he read the short message, and his shoulders sagged.
“Bad news?” Esther asked, coming to his side.
He handed her the papyrus. “Yes. No—not bad. Sad. Sheik Ilderim, our sheik, is dead,” he said. “In a battle.”
“As he would have wished,” Simonides commented.
“Yes,” Ben-Hur agreed. “The Parthians assembled their tribes for an attack. Young Ilderim, our sheik’s son, writes that he took back the territory his father had lost and recaptured the horses. There is still an Ilderim ruling the desert.”
Simonides bowed his head. “I will miss the father. He was a good friend to me.”
Ben-Hur returned to the stool by his father-in-law’s side. “And to me.” He reached over and took one of Simonides’s twisted hands in his own. “He has left me the Orchard of the Palms. How does he put it, Esther?”<
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Esther read, “‘The oasis near Antioch shall be given to the son of Hur, who brought us glory in the circus there. It shall belong to him and to his descendants forever.’”
Judah sighed deeply.
“You are not glad to have the oasis?” Simonides asked.
“What am I to do with it?” Judah answered. “I have no need of an oasis.”
“Sell it back to young Ilderim,” Simonides suggested. “That’s what I would do.”
“Sell what to Ilderim?” Malluch’s voice came from the doorway.
“The Orchard of the Palms,” Esther answered. “Left to Judah by Sheik Ilderim, who died in a Parthian raid.”
“I’ll bet he took a few Parthians with him,” Malluch said. “You may want to read this before you decide anything,” he told Ben-Hur, holding out a scroll. “I’m sorry it arrives so late. A box from the steward’s cabin almost got left on board.”
But Ben-Hur was already reading. Esther saw a frown etched between his brows, and when he handed the letter to her, the line did not go away.
“Just tell us what it says,” she suggested.
He nodded and clasped his hands, then bowed his head almost as if he were praying. He often stood this way before worship, gathering his thoughts and, Esther thought, listening for the Lord.
“The letter brings bad news from Rome,” he said. “Before we left Misenum, we heard talk of it. The community in Rome has grown, thanks be to God. There are many followers there living by our Lord’s commandments. But . . .”
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