Ben Hur (59 page)

The sun stooped low in its course. Awhile the flaring disk seemed
to perch itself on the far summit of the mountains in the west,
brazening all the sky above the city, and rimming the walls and
towers with the brightness of gold. Then it disappeared as with
a plunge. The quiet turned Ben-Hur's thought homeward. There was a
point in the sky a little north of the peerless front of the Holy
of Holies upon which he fixed his gaze: under it, straight as a
leadline would have dropped, lay his father's house, if yet the
house endured.

The mellowing influences of the evening mellowed his feelings,
and, putting his ambitions aside, he thought of the duty that
was bringing him to Jerusalem.

Out in the desert while with Ilderim, looking for strong places
and acquainting himself with it generally, as a soldier studies
a country in which he has projected a campaign, a messenger came
one evening with the news that Gratus was removed, and Pontius
Pilate sent to take his place.

Messala was disabled and believed him dead; Gratus was powerless
and gone; why should Ben-Hur longer defer the search for his mother
and sister? There was nothing to fear now. If he could not himself
see into the prisons of Judea, he could examine them with the eyes
of others. If the lost were found, Pilate could have no motive in
holding them in custody—none, at least, which could not be overcome
by purchase. If found, he would carry them to a place of safety,
and then, in calmer mind, his conscience at rest, this one first
duty done, he could give himself more entirely to the King Who
Was Coming. He resolved at once. That night he counselled with
Ilderim, and obtained his assent. Three Arabs came with him to
Jericho, where he left them and the horses, and proceeded alone
and on foot. Malluch was to meet him in Jerusalem.

Ben-Hur's scheme, be it observed, was as yet a generality.

In view of the future, it was advisable to keep himself in hiding
from the authorities, particularly the Romans. Malluch was shrewd
and trusty; the very man to charge with the conduct of the investigation.

Where to begin was the first point. He had no clear idea about it.
His wish was to commence with the Tower of Antonia. Tradition not
of long standing planted the gloomy pile over a labyrinth of
prison-cells, which, more even than the strong garrison, kept it a
terror to the Jewish fancy. A burial, such as his people had been
subjected to, might be possible there. Besides, in such a strait,
the natural inclination is to start search at the place where the
loss occurred, and he could not forget that his last sight of the
loved ones was as the guard pushed them along the street in the
direction to the Tower. If they were not there now, but had been,
some record of the fact must remain, a clew which had only to be
followed faithfully to the end.

Under this inclination, moreover, there was a hope which he could
not forego. From Simonides he knew Amrah, the Egyptian nurse,
was living. It will be remembered, doubtless, that the faithful
creature, the morning the calamity overtook the Hurs, broke from
the guard and ran back into the palace, where, along with other
chattels, she had been sealed up. During the years following,
Simonides kept her supplied; so she was there now, sole occupant
of the great house, which, with all his offers, Gratus had not
been able to sell. The story of its rightful owners sufficed
to secure the property from strangers, whether purchasers or
mere occupants. People going to and fro passed it with whispers.
Its reputation was that of a haunted house; derived probably from
the infrequent glimpses of poor old Amrah, sometimes on the roof,
sometimes in a latticed window. Certainly no more constant spirit ever
abided than she; nor was there ever a tenement so shunned and fitted
for ghostly habitation. Now, if he could get to her, Ben-Hur fancied
she could help him to knowledge which, though faint, might yet
be serviceable. Anyhow, sight of her in that place, so endeared
by recollection, would be to him a pleasure next to finding the
objects of his solicitude.

So, first of all things, he would go to the old house, and look
for Amrah.

Thus resolved, he arose shortly after the going-down of the sun,
and began descent of the Mount by the road which, from the summit,
bends a little north of east. Down nearly at the foot, close by
the bed of the Cedron, he came to the intersection with the road
leading south to the village of Siloam and the pool of that name.
There he fell in with a herdsman driving some sheep to market.
He spoke to the man, and joined him, and in his company passed
by Gethsemane on into the city through the Fish Gate.

It was dark when, parting with the drover inside the gate,
Ben-Hur turned into a narrow lane leading to the south. A few of
the people whom he met saluted him. The bouldering of the pavement
was rough. The houses on both sides were low, dark, and cheerless;
the doors all closed: from the roofs, occasionally, he heard women
crooning to children. The loneliness of his situation, the night,
the uncertainty cloaking the object of his coming, all affected
him cheerlessly. With feelings sinking lower and lower, he came
directly to the deep reservoir now known as the Pool of Bethesda,
in which the water reflected the over-pending sky. Looking up,
he beheld the northern wall of the Tower of Antonia, a black
frowning heap reared into the dim steel-gray sky. He halted as
if challenged by a threatening sentinel.

The Tower stood up so high, and seemed so vast, resting apparently
upon foundations so sure, that he was constrained to acknowledge its
strength. If his mother were there in living burial, what could he do
for her? By the strong hand, nothing. An army might beat the stony
face with ballista and ram, and be laughed at. Against him alone,
the gigantic southeast turret looked down in the self-containment
of a hill. And he thought, cunning is so easily baffled; and God,
always the last resort of the helpless—God is sometimes so slow
to act!

In doubt and misgiving, he turned into the street in front of the
Tower, and followed it slowly on to the west.

Over in Bezetha he knew there was a khan, where it was his intention
to seek lodging while in the city; but just now he could not resist
the impulse to go home. His heart drew him that way.

The old formal salutation which he received from the few people
who passed him had never sounded so pleasantly. Presently, all the
eastern sky began to silver and shine, and objects before invisible
in the west—chiefly the tall towers on Mount Zion—emerged as from
a shadowy depth, and put on spectral distinctness, floating, as it
were, above the yawning blackness of the valley below, very castles
in the air.

He came, at length, to his father's house.

Of those who read this page, some there will be to divine his
feelings without prompting. They are such as had happy homes in
their youth, no matter how far that may have been back in time—homes
which are now the starting-points of all recollection; paradises from
which they went forth in tears, and which they would now return to,
if they could, as little children; places of laughter and singing,
and associations dearer than any or all the triumphs of after-life.

At the gate on the north side of the old house Ben-Hur stopped.
In the corners the wax used in the sealing-up was still plainly
seen, and across the valves was the board with the inscription—

"THIS IS THE PROPERTY OF
THE EMPEROR."

Nobody had gone in or out the gate since the dreadful day of the
separation. Should he knock as of old? It was useless, he knew;
yet he could not resist the temptation. Amrah might hear, and look
out of one of the windows on that side. Taking a stone, he mounted
the broad stone step, and tapped three times. A dull echo replied.
He tried again, louder than before; and again, pausing each time to
listen. The silence was mocking. Retiring into the street, he watched
the windows; but they, too, were lifeless. The parapet on the roof
was defined sharply against the brightening sky; nothing could have
stirred upon it unseen by him, and nothing did stir.

From the north side he passed to the west, where there were four
windows which he watched long and anxiously, but with as little
effect. At times his heart swelled with impotent wishes; at others,
he trembled at the deceptions of his own fancy. Amrah made no
sign—not even a ghost stirred.

Silently, then, he stole round to the south. There, too, the gate
was sealed and inscribed. The mellow splendor of the August moon,
pouring over the crest of Olivet, since termed the Mount of Offence,
brought the lettering boldly out; and he read, and was filled with
rage. All he could do was to wrench the board from its nailing, and
hurl it into the ditch. Then he sat upon the step, and prayed for
the New King, and that his coming might be hastened. As his blood
cooled, insensibly he yielded to the fatigue of long travel in the
summer heat, and sank down lower, and, at last, slept.

About that time two women came down the street from the direction
of the Tower of Antonia, approaching the palace of the Hurs. They
advanced stealthily, with timid steps, pausing often to listen.
At the corner of the rugged pile, one said to the other, in a
low voice,

"This is it, Tirzah!"

And Tirzah, after a look, caught her mother's hand, and leaned
upon her heavily, sobbing, but silent.

"Let us go on, my child, because"—the mother hesitated and trembled;
then, with an effort to be calm, continued—"because when morning
comes they will put us out of the gate of the city to—return no
more."

Tirzah sank almost to the stones.

"Ah, yes!" she said, between sobs; "I forgot. I had the feeling
of going home. But we are lepers, and have no homes; we belong
to the dead!"

The mother stooped and raised her tenderly, saying, "We have
nothing to fear. Let us go on."

Indeed, lifting their empty hands, they could have run upon a
legion and put it to flight.

And, creeping in close to the rough wall, they glided on, like two
ghosts, till they came to the gate, before which they also paused.
Seeing the board, they stepped upon the stone in the scarce cold
tracks of Ben-Hur, and read the inscription—"This is the Property
of the Emperor."

Then the mother clasped her hands, and, with upraised eyes,
moaned in unutterable anguish.

"What now, mother? You scare me!"

And the answer was, presently, "Oh, Tirzah, the poor are dead! He
is dead!"

"Who, mother?"

"Your brother! They took everything from him—everything—even
this house!"

"Poor!" said Tirzah, vacantly.

"He will never be able to help us."

"And then, mother?"

"To-morrow—to-morrow, my child, we must find a seat by the wayside,
and beg alms as the lepers do; beg, or—"

Tirzah leaned upon her again, and said, whispering, "Let us—let
us die!"

"No!" the mother said, firmly. "The Lord has appointed our times,
and we are believers in the Lord. We will wait on him even in this.
Come away!"

She caught Tirzah's hand as she spoke, and hastened to the west
corner of the house, keeping close to the wall. No one being in
sight there, they kept on to the next corner, and shrank from
the moonlight, which lay exceedingly bright over the whole south
front, and along a part of the street. The mother's will was
strong. Casting one look back and up to the windows on the west
side, she stepped out into the light, drawing Tirzah after her;
and the extent of their amiction was then to be seen—on their
lips and cheeks, in their bleared eyes, in their cracked hands;
especially in the long, snaky locks, stiff with loathsome ichor,
and, like their eyebrows, ghastly white. Nor was it possible to
have told which was mother, which daughter; both alike seemed
witch-like old.

"Hist!" said the mother. "There is some one lying upon the step—a
man. Let us go round him."

They crossed to the opposite side of the street quickly, and,
in the shade there, moved on till before the gate, where they
stopped.

"He is asleep, Tirzah!"

The man was very still.

"Stay here, and I will try the gate."

So saying, the mother stole noiselessly across, and ventured to
touch the wicket; she never knew if it yielded, for that moment
the man sighed, and, turning restlessly, shifted the handkerchief
on his head in such manner that the face was left upturned and
fair in the broad moonlight. She looked down at it and started;
then looked again, stooping a little, and arose and clasped her
hands and raised her eyes to heaven in mute appeal. An instant so,
and she ran back to Tirzah.

"As the Lord liveth, the man is my son—thy brother!" she said,
in an awe-inspiring whisper.

"My brother?—Judah?"

The mother caught her hand eagerly.

"Come!" she said, in the same enforced whisper, "let us look at
him together—once more—only once—then help thou thy servants,
Lord!"

They crossed the street hand in hand ghostly-quick, ghostly-still.
When their shadows fell upon him, they stopped. One of his hands was
lying out upon the step palm up. Tirzah fell upon her knees, and would
have kissed it; but the mother drew her back.

"Not for thy life; not for thy life! Unclean, unclean!" she whispered.

Tirzah shrank from him, as if he were the leprous one.

Ben-Hur was handsome as the manly are. His cheeks and forehead
were swarthy from exposure to the desert sun and air; yet under
the light mustache the lips were red, and the teeth shone white,
and the soft beard did not hide the full roundness of chin and
throat. How beautiful he appeared to the mother's eyes! How mightily
she yearned to put her arms about him, and take his head upon her
bosom and kiss him, as had been her wont in his happy childhood!
Where got she the strength to resist the impulse? From her love,
O, reader!—her mother-love, which, if thou wilt observe well,
hath this unlikeness to any other love: tender to the object,
it can be infinitely tyrannical to itself, and thence all its
power of self-sacrifice. Not for restoration to health and fortune,
not for any blessing of life, not for life itself, would she have
left her leprous kiss upon his cheek! Yet touch him she must;
in that instant of finding him she must renounce him forever!
How bitter, bitter hard it was, let some other mother say! She
knelt down, and, crawling to his feet, touched the sole of one
of his sandals with her lips, yellow though it was with the dust
of the street—and touched it again and again; and her very soul
was in the kisses.