Ben Hur Lew Wallace (black male authors .TXT) 📖

The passengers laughed.

“You mean he kept the property,” said one of them.

“They say so,” the Hebrew replied; “I am only telling a story as I received it. And, to go on, Simonides, who had been the prince’s agent here in Antioch, opened trade in a short time on his own account, and in a space incredibly brief became the master merchant of the city. In imitation of his master, he sent caravans to India; and on the sea at present he has galleys enough to make a royal fleet. They say nothing goes amiss with him. His camels do not die, except of old age; his ships never founder; if he throw a chip into the river, it will come back to him gold.”

“How long has he been going on thus?”

“Not ten years.”

“He must have had a good start.”

“Yes, they say the procurator took only the prince’s property ready at hand⁠—his horses, cattle, houses, land, vessels, goods. The money could not be found, though there must have been vast sums of it. What became of it has been an unsolved mystery.”

“Not to me,” said a passenger, with a sneer.

“I understand you,” the Hebrew answered. “Others have had your idea. That it furnished old Simonides his start is a common belief. The procurator is of that opinion⁠—or he has been⁠—for twice in five years he has caught the merchant, and put him to torture.”

Judah gripped the rope he was holding with crushing force.

“It is said,” the narrator continued, “that there is not a sound bone in the man’s body. The last time I saw him he sat in a chair, a shapeless cripple, propped against cushions.”

“So tortured!” exclaimed several listeners in a breath.

“Disease could not have produced such a deformity. Still the suffering made no impression upon him. All he had was his lawfully, and he was making lawful use of it⁠—that was the most they wrung from him. Now, however, he is past persecution. He has a license to trade signed by Tiberius himself.”

“He paid roundly for it, I warrant.”

“These ships are his,” the Hebrew continued, passing the remark. “It is a custom among his sailors to salute each other upon meeting by throwing out yellow flags, sight of which is as much as to say, ‘We have had a fortunate voyage.’ ”

The story ended there.

When the transport was fairly in the channel of the river, Judah spoke to the Hebrew.

“What was the name of the merchant’s master?”

“Ben-Hur, Prince of Jerusalem.”

“What became of the prince’s family?”

“The boy was sent to the galleys. I may say he is dead. One year is the ordinary limit of life under that sentence. The widow and daughter have not been heard of; those who know what became of them will not speak. They died doubtless in the cells of one of the castles which spot the waysides of Judea.”

Judah walked to the pilot’s quarter. So absorbed was he in thought that he scarcely noticed the shores of the river, which from sea to city were surpassingly beautiful with orchards of all the Syrian fruits and vines, clustered about villas rich as those of Neapolis. No more did he observe the vessels passing in an endless fleet, nor hear the singing and shouting of the sailors, some in labor, some in merriment. The sky was full of sunlight, lying in hazy warmth upon the land and the water; nowhere except over his life was there a shadow.

Once only he awoke to a momentary interest, and that was when someone pointed out the Grove of Daphne, discernible from a bend in the river.

When the city came into view, the passengers were on deck, eager that nothing of the scene might escape them. The respectable Jew already introduced to the reader was the principal spokesman.

“The river here runs to the west,” he said, in the way of general answer. “I remember when it washed the base of the walls; but as Roman subjects we have lived in peace, and, as always happens in such times, trade has had its will; now the whole river front is taken up with wharves and docks. Yonder”⁠—the speaker pointed southward⁠—“is Mount Casius, or, as these people love to call it, the Mountains of Orontes, looking across to its brother Amnus in the north; and between them lies the Plain of Antioch. Farther on are the Black Mountains, whence the Ducts of the Kings bring the purest water to wash the thirsty streets and people; yet they are forests in wilderness state, dense, and full of birds and beasts.”

“Where is the lake?” one asked.

“Over north there. You can take horse, if you wish to see it⁠—or, better, a boat, for a tributary connects it with the river.”

“The Grove of Daphne!” he said, to a third inquirer. “Nobody can describe it; only beware! It was begun by Apollo, and completed by him. He prefers it to Olympus. People go there for one look⁠—just one⁠—and never come away. They have a saying which tells it all⁠—‘Better be a worm and feed on the mulberries of Daphne than a king’s guest.’ ”

“Then you advise me to stay away from it?”

“Not I! Go you will. Everybody goes, cynic philosopher, virile boy, women, and priests⁠—all go. So sure am I of what you will do that I assume to advise you. Do not take quarters in the city⁠—that will be loss of time; but go at once to the village in the edge of the grove. The way is through a garden, under the spray of fountains. The lovers of the god and his Penaean maid built the town; and in its porticos and paths and thousand retreats you will find characters and habits and sweets and kinds elsewhere impossible. But the wall of the city! there it is, the masterpiece of Xeraeus, the master of mural architecture.”

All eyes followed his pointing finger.

“This part was raised by order of the first of the