Ben Hur - Lew Wallace (sci fi books to read .TXT) 📗

“But our best rower,” said the other. “I have seen his oar bend almost to breaking.”

“Of what disposition is he?”

“He is obedient; further I know not. Once he made request of me.”

“For what?”

“He wished me to change him alternately from the right to the left.”

“Did he give a reason?”

“He had observed that the men who are confined to one side become misshapen. He also said that some day of storm or battle there might be sudden need to change him, and he might then be unserviceable.”

“Perpol! The idea is new. What else hast thou observed of him?”

“He is cleanly above his companions.”

“In that he is Roman,” said Arrius, approvingly. “Have you nothing of his history?”

“Not a word.”

The tribune reflected awhile, and turned to go to his own seat.

“If I should be on deck when his time is up,” he paused to say, “send him to me. Let him come alone.”

About two hours later Arrius stood under the aplustre of the galley; in the mood of one who, seeing himself carried swiftly towards an event of mighty import, has nothing to do but wait⁠—the mood in which philosophy vests an even-minded man with the utmost calm, and is ever so serviceable. The pilot sat with a hand upon the rope by which the rudder paddles, one on each side of the vessel, were managed. In the shade of the sail some sailors lay asleep, and up on the yard there was a lookout. Lifting his eyes from the solarium set under the aplustre for reference in keeping the course, Arrius beheld the rower approaching.

“The chief called thee the noble Arrius, and said it was thy will that I should seek thee here. I have come.”

Arrius surveyed the figure, tall, sinewy, glistening in the sun, and tinted by the rich red blood within⁠—surveyed it admiringly, and with a thought of the arena; yet the manner was not without effect upon him: there was in the voice a suggestion of life at least partly spent under refining influences; the eyes were clear and open, and more curious than defiant. To the shrewd, demanding, masterful glance bent upon it, the face gave back nothing to mar its youthful comeliness⁠—nothing of accusation or sullenness or menace, only the signs which a great sorrow long borne imprints, as time mellows the surface of pictures. In tacit acknowledgment of the effect, the Roman spoke as an older man to a younger, not as a master to a slave.

“The hortator tells me thou art his best rower.”

“The hortator is very kind,” the rower answered.

“Hast thou seen much service?”

“About three years.”

“At the oars?”

“I cannot recall a day of rest from them.”

“The labor is hard; few men bear it a year without breaking, and thou⁠—thou art but a boy.”

“The noble Arrius forgets that the spirit hath much to do with endurance. By its help the weak sometimes thrive, when the strong perish.”

“From thy speech, thou art a Jew.”

“My ancestors further back than the first Roman were Hebrews.”

“The stubborn pride of thy race is not lost in thee,” said Arrius, observing a flush upon the rower’s face.

“Pride is never so loud as when in chains.”

“What cause hast thou for pride?”

“That I am a Jew.”

Arrius smiled.

“I have not been to Jerusalem,” he said; “but I have heard of its princes. I knew one of them. He was a merchant, and sailed the seas. He was fit to have been a king. Of what degree art thou?”

“I must answer thee from the bench of a galley. I am of the degree of slaves. My father was a prince of Jerusalem, and, as a merchant, he sailed the seas. He was known and honored in the guest-chamber of the great Augustus.”

“His name?”

“Ithamar, of the house of Hur.”

The tribune raised his hand in astonishment.

“A son of Hur⁠—thou?”

After a silence, he asked,

“What brought thee here?”

Judah lowered his head, and his breast labored hard. When his feelings were sufficiently mastered, he looked the tribune in the face, and answered,

“I was accused of attempting to assassinate Valerius Gratus, the procurator.”

“Thou!” cried Arrius, yet more amazed, and retreating a step. “Thou that assassin! All Rome rang with the story. It came to my ship in the river by Lodinum.”

The two regarded each other silently.

“I thought the family of Hur blotted from the earth,” said Arrius, speaking first.

A flood of tender recollections carried the young man’s pride away; tears shone upon his cheeks.

“Mother⁠—mother! And my little Tirzah! Where are they? O tribune, noble tribune, if thou knowest anything of them”⁠—he clasped his hands in appeal⁠—“tell me all thou knowest. Tell me if they are living⁠—if living, where are they? and in what condition? Oh, I pray thee, tell me!”

He drew nearer Arrius, so near that his hands touched the cloak where it dropped from the latter’s folded arms.

“The horrible day is three years gone,” he continued⁠—“three years, O tribune, and every hour a whole lifetime of misery⁠—a lifetime in a bottomless pit with death, and no relief but in labor⁠—and in all that time not a word from anyone, not a whisper. Oh, if, in being forgotten, we could only forget! If only I could hide from that scene⁠—my sister torn from me, my mother’s last look! I have felt the plague’s breath, and the shock of ships in battle; I have heard the tempest lashing the sea, and laughed, though others prayed: death would have been a riddance. Bend the oar⁠—yes, in the strain of mighty effort trying to escape the haunting of what that day occurred. Think what little will help me. Tell me they are dead, if no more, for happy they cannot be while I am lost. I have heard them call me in the night; I have seen them on the water walking. Oh, never anything so true as my mother’s love! And Tirzah⁠—her breath was as the breath of white lilies. She was the youngest branch of the palm⁠—so fresh, so tender, so graceful, so beautiful! She made my day all morning.