by Wallace, Lew
In a corner, at ease on the divan, Messala himself may be seen. Around him, sitting or standing, are his courtierly admirers, plying him with questions. There is, of course, but one topic.
Enter Drusus and Cecilius.
“Ah!” cries the young prince, throwing himself on the divan at Messala’s feet. “Ah, by Bacchus, I am tired!”
“Whither away?” asks Messala.
“Up the street; up to the Omphalus, and beyond—who shall say how far? Rivers of people; never so many in the city before. They say we will see the whole world at the Circus to-morrow.”
Messala laughed scornfully.
“The idiots! Perpol! They never beheld a Circensian with Caesar for editor. But, my Drusus, what found you?”
“Nothing.”
“O—ah! You forget,” said Cecilius.
“What?” asked Drusus.
“The procession of whites.”
“Mirabile!” cried Drusus, half rising. “We met a faction of whites, and they had a banner. But—ha, ha, ha!”
He fell back indolently.
“Cruel Drusus—not to go on,” said Messala.
“Scum of the desert were they, my Messala, and garbage-eaters from the Jacob’s Temple in Jerusalem. What had I to do with them?”
“Nay,” said Cecilius, “Drusus is afraid of a laugh, but I am not, my Messala.”
“Speak thou, then.”
“Well, we stopped the faction, and—”
“Offered them a wager,” said Drusus, relenting, and taking the word from the shadow’s mouth. “And—ha, ha, ha!—one fellow with not enough skin on his face to make a worm for a carp stepped forth, and—ha, ha, ha!—said yes. I drew my tablets. ‘Who is your man?’ I asked. ‘Ben-Hur, the Jew,’ said he. Then I: ‘What shall it be? How much?’ He answered, ‘A—a—’ Excuse me, Messala. By Jove’s thunder, I cannot go on for laughter! Ha, ha, ha!”
The listeners leaned forward.
Messala looked to Cecilius.
“A shekel,” said the latter.
“A shekel! A shekel!”
A burst of scornful laughter ran fast upon the repetition.
“And what did Drusus?” asked Messala.
An outcry over about the door just then occasioned a rush to that quarter; and, as the noise there continued, and grew louder, even Cecilius betook himself off, pausing only to say, “The noble Drusus, my Messala, put up his tablets and—lost the shekel.”
“A white! A white!”
“Let him come!”
“This way, this way!”
These and like exclamations filled the saloon, to the stoppage of other speech. The dice-players quit their games; the sleepers awoke, rubbed their eyes, drew their tablets, and hurried to the common centre.
“I offer you—”
“And I—”
“I—”
The person so warmly received was the respectable Jew, Ben-Hur’s fellow-voyager from Cyprus. He entered grave, quiet, observant. His robe was spotlessly white; so was the cloth of his turban. Bowing and smiling at the welcome, he moved slowly towards the central table. Arrived there, he drew his robe about him in a stately manner, took seat, and waved his hand. The gleam of a jewel on a finger helped him not a little to the silence which ensued.
“Romans—most noble Romans—I salute you!” he said.
“Easy, by Jupiter! Who is he?” asked Drusus.
“A dog of Israel—Sanballat by name—purveyor for the army; residence, Rome; vastly rich; grown so as a contractor of furnishments which he never furnishes. He spins mischiefs, nevertheless, finer than spiders spin their webs. Come—by the girdle of Venus! let us catch him!”
Messala arose as he spoke, and, with Drusus, joined the mass crowded about the purveyor.
“It came to me on the street,” said that person, producing his tablets, and opening them on the table with an impressive air of business, “that there was great discomfort in the palace because offers on Messala were going without takers. The gods, you know, must have sacrifices; and here am I. You see my color; let us to the matter. Odds first, amounts next. What will you give me?”
The audacity seemed to stun his hearers.
“Haste!” he said. “I have an engagement with the consul.”
The spur was effective.
“Two to one,” cried half a dozen in a voice.
“What!” exclaimed the purveyor, astonished. “Only two to one, and yours a Roman!”
“Take three, then.”
“Three say you—only three—and mine but a dog of a Jew! Give me four.”
“Four it is,” said a boy, stung by the taunt.
“Five—give me five,” cried the purveyor, instantly.
A profound stillness fell on the assemblage.
“The consul—your master and mine—is waiting for me.”
The inaction became awkward to the many.
“Give me five—for the honor of Rome, five.”
“Five let it be,” said one in answer.
There was a sharp cheer—a commotion—and Messala himself appeared.
“Five let it be,” he said.
And Sanballat smiled, and made ready to write.
“If Caesar die to-morrow,” he said, “Rome will not be all bereft. There is at least one other with spirit to take his place. Give me six.”
“Six be it,” answered Messala.
There was another shout louder than the first.
“Six be it,” repeated Messala. “Six to one—the difference between a Roman and a Jew. And, having found it, now, O redemptor of the flesh of swine, let us on. The amount—and quickly. The consul may send for thee, and I will then be bereft.”
Sanballat took the laugh against him coolly, and wrote, and offered the writing to Messala.
“Read, read!” everybody demanded.
And Messala read:
“Mem.—Chariot-race. Messala of Rome, in wager with Sanballat, also of Rome, says he will beat Ben-Hur, the Jew. Amount of wager, twenty talents. Odds to Sanballat, six to one.
“Witnesses:
“SANBALLAT.”
There was no noise, no motion. Each person seemed held in the pose the reading found him. Messala stared at the memorandum, while the eyes which had him in view opened wide, and stared at him. He felt the gaze, and thought rapidly. So lately he stood in the same place, and in the same way hectored the countrymen around him. They would remember it. If he refused to sign, his he roship was lost. And sign he could not; he was not worth one hundred talents, nor the fifth part of the sum. Suddenly his mind became a blank; he stood speechless; the color fled his face. An idea at last came to his relief.
“Thou Jew!” he said. “Where hast thou twenty talents? Show me.”
Sanballat’s provoking smile deepened.
“There,” he replied, offering Messala a paper.
“Read, read!” arose all around.
Again Messala read:
“At ANTIOCH, Tammuz 16th day.
“The bearer, Sanballat of Rome, hath now to his order with me fifty talents, coin of Caesar.
“SIMONIDES.”
“Fifty talents, fifty talents!” echoed the throng, in amazement.
Then Drusus came to the rescue.
“By Hercules!” he shouted, “the paper lies, and the Jew is a liar. Who but Caesar hath fifty talents at order? Down with the insolent white!”
The cry was angry, and it was angrily repeated; yet Sanballat kept his seat, and his smile grew more exasperating the longer he waited. At length Messala spoke.
“Hush! One to one, my countrymen—one to one, for love of our ancient Roman name.”
The timely action recovered him his ascendency.
“O thou circumcised dog!” he continued, to Sanballat, “I gave thee six to one, did I not?”
“Yes,” said the Jew, quietly.
“Well, give me now the fixing of the amount.”
“With reserve, if the amount be trifling, have thy will,” answered Sanballa
t.
“Write, then, five in place of twenty.”
“Hast thou so much?”
“By the mother of the gods, I will show you receipts.”
“Nay, the word of so brave a Roman must pass. Only make the sum even—six make it, and I will write.”
“Write it so.”
And forthwith they exchanged writings.
Sanballat immediately arose and looked around him, a sneer in place of his smile. No man better than he knew those with whom he was dealing.
“Romans,” he said, “another wager, if you dare! Five talents against five talents that the white will win. I challenge you collectively.”
They were again surprised.
“What!” he cried, louder. “Shall it be said in the Circus to-morrow that a dog of Israel went into the saloon of the palace full of Roman nobles—among them the scion of a Caesar—and laid five talents before them in challenge, and they had not the courage to take it up?”
The sting was unendurable.
“Have done, O insolent!” said Drusus, “write the challenge, and leave it on the table; and to-morrow, if we find thou hast indeed so much money to put at such hopeless hazard, I, Drusus, promise it shall be taken.”
Sanballat wrote again, and, rising, said, unmoved as ever, “See, Drusus, I leave the offer with you. When it is signed, send it to me any time before the race begins. I will be found with the consul in a seat over the Porta Pompae. Peace to you; peace to all.”
He bowed and departed, careless of the shout of derision with which they pursued him out of the door.
In the night the story of the prodigious wager flew along the streets and over the city; and Ben-Hur, lying with his four, was told of it, and also that Messala’s whole fortune was on the hazard.
And he slept never so soundly.
CHAPTER XII
THE Circus at Antioch stood on the south bank of the river nearly opposite the island, differing in no respect from the plan of such buildings in general.
In the purest sense, the games were a gift to the public; consequently, everybody was free to attend; and, vast as the holding capacity of the structure was, so fearful were the people, on this occasion, lest there should not be room for them, that, early the day before the opening of the exhibition, they took up all the vacant spaces in the vicinity, where their temporary shelter suggested an army in waiting.
At midnight the entrances were thrown wide, and the rabble, surging in, occupied the quarters assigned to them, from which nothing less than an earthquake or an army with spears could have dislodged them. They dozed the night away on the benches, and breakfasted there; and there the close of the exercises found them, patient and sight-hungry as in the beginning.
The better people, their seats secured, began moving towards the Circus about the first hour of the morning, the noble and very rich among them distinguished by litters and retinues of liveried servants.
By the second hour, the efflux from the city was a stream unbroken and innumerable.
Exactly as the gnomon of the official dial up in the citadel pointed the second hour half gone, the legion, in full panoply, and with all its standards on exhibit, descended from Mount Sulpius; and when the rear of the last cohort disappeared in the bridge, Antioch was literally abandoned—not that the Circus could hold the multitude, but that the multitude was gone out to it, nevertheless.
A great concourse on the river shore witnessed the consul come over from the island in a barge of state. As the great man landed, and was received by the legion, the martial show for one brief moment transcended the attraction of the Circus.
At the third hour, the audience, if such it may be termed, was assembled; at last, a flourish of trumpets called for silence, and instantly the gaze of over a hundred thousand persons was directed towards a pile forming the eastern section of the building.
There was a basement first, broken in the middle by a broad arched passage, called the Porta Pompae, over which, on an elevated tribunal magnificently decorated with insignia and legionary standards, the consul sat in the place of honor. On both sides of the passage the basement was divided into stalls termed carceres, each protected in front by massive gates swung to statuesque pilasters. Over the stalls next was a cornice crowned by a low balustrade; back of which the seats arose in theatre arrangement, all occupied by a throng of dignitaries superbly attired. The pile extended the width of the Circus, and was flanked on both sides by towers which, besides helping the architects give grace to their work, served the velaria, or purple awnings, stretched between them so as to throw the whole quarter in a shade that became exceedingly grateful as the day advanced.
This structure, it is now thought, can be made useful in helping the reader to a sufficient understanding of the arrangement of the rest of the interior of the Circus. He has only to fancy himself seated on the tribunal with the consul, facing to the west, where everything is under his eye.
On the right and left, if he will look, he will see the main entrances, very ample, and guarded by gates hinged to the towers.
Directly below him is the arena—a level plane of considerable extent, covered with fine white sand. There all the trials will take place except the running.
Looking across this sanded arena westwardly still, there is a pedestal of marble supporting three low conical pillars of gray stone, much carven. Many an eye will hunt for those pillars before the day is done, for they are the first goal, and mark the beginning and end of the race-course. Behind the pedestal, leaving a passage way and space for an altar, commences a wall ten or twelve feet in breadth and five or six in height, extending thence exactly two hundred yards, or one Olympic stadium. At the farther, or westward, extremity of the wall there is another pedestal, surmounted with pillars which mark the second goal.
The racers will enter the course on the right of the first goal, and keep the wall all the time to their left. The beginning and ending points of the contest lie, consequently, directly in front of the consul across the arena; and for that reason his seat was admittedly the most desirable in the Circus.
Now if the reader, who is still supposed to be seated on the consular tribunal over the Porta Pompae, will look up from the ground arrangement of the interior, the first point to attract his notice will be the marking of the outer boundary-line of the course—that is, a plain-faced, solid wall, fifteen or twenty feet in height, with a balustrade on its cope, like that over the carceres, or stalls, in the east. This balcony, if followed round the course, will be found broken in three places to allow passages of exit and entrance, two in the north and one in the west; the latter very ornate, and called the Gate of Triumph, because, when all is over, the victors will pass out that way, crowned, and with triumphal escort and ceremonies.
At the west end the balcony encloses the course in the form of a half-circle, and is made to uphold two great galleries.
Directly behind the balustrade on the coping of the balcony is the first seat, from which ascend the succeeding benches, each higher than the one in front of it; giving to view a spectacle of surpassing interest—the spectacle of a vast space ruddy and glistening with human faces, and rich with vari-colored costumes.
The commonalty occupy quarters over in the west, beginning at the point of termination of an awning, stretched, it would seem, for the accommodation of the better classes exclusively.
Having thus the whole interior of the Circus under view at the moment of the sounding of the trumpets, let the reader next imagine the multitude seated and sunk to sudden silence, and motionless in its intensity of interest.
Out of the Porta Pompae over in the east rises a sound mixed of voices and instruments harmonized. Presently, forth issues the chorus of the procession with which the celebration begins; the editor and civic authorities of the city, givers of the games, follow in robes and garlands; then the gods, some on platforms borne by men, others in great four-wheel carriages gorgeously decorated; next them, again, the contestants of the day, each in cost
ume exactly as he will run, wrestle, leap, box, or drive.
Slowly crossing the arena, the procession proceeds to make circuit of the course. The display is beautiful and imposing. Approval runs before it in a shout, as the water rises and swells in front of a boat in motion. If the dumb, figured gods make no sign of appreciation of the welcome, the editor and his associates are not so backward.
The reception of the athletes is even more demonstrative, for there is not a man in the assemblage who has not something in wager upon them, though but a mite or farthing. And it is noticeable, as the classes move by, that the favorites among them are speedily singled out: either their names are loudest in the uproar, or they are more profusely showered with wreaths and garlands tossed to them from the balcony.
If there is a question as to the popularity with the public of the several games, it is now put to rest. To the splendor of the chariots and the superexcellent beauty of the horses, the charioteers add the personality necessary to perfect the charm of their display. Their tunics, short, sleeveless, and of the finest woollen texture, are of the assigned colors. A horseman accompanies each one of them except Ben-Hur, who, for some reason—possibly distrust—has chosen to go alone; so, too, they are all helmeted but him. As they approach, the spectators stand upon the benches, and there is a sensible deepening of the clamor, in which a sharp listener may detect the shrill piping of women and children; at the same time, the things roseate flying from the balcony thicken into a storm, and, striking the men, drop into the chariot-beds, which are threatened with filling to the tops. Even the horses have a share in the ovation; nor may it be said they are less conscious than their masters of the honors they receive.
Very soon, as with the other contestants, it is made apparent that some of the drivers are more in favor than others; and then the discovery follows that nearly every individual on the benches, women and children as well as men, wears a color, most frequently a ribbon upon the breast or in the hair: now it is green, now yellow, now blue; but, searching the great body carefully, it is manifest that there is a preponderance of white, and scarlet and gold.
In a modern assemblage called together as this one is, particularly where there are sums at hazard upon the race, a preference would be decided by the qualities or performance of the horses; here, however, nationality was the rule. If the Byzantine and Sidonian found small support, it was because their cities were scarcely represented on the benches. On their side, the Greeks, though very numerous, were divided between the Corinthian and the Athenian, leaving but a scant showing of green and yellow. Messala’s scarlet and gold would have been but little better had not the citizens of Antioch, proverbially a race of courtiers, joined the Romans by adopting the color of their favorite. There were left then the country people, or Syrians, the Jews, and the Arabs; and they, from faith in the blood of the sheik’s four, blent largely with hate of the Romans, whom they desired, above all things, to see beaten and humbled, mounted the white, making the most noisy, and probably the most numerous, faction of all.