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

to try these fine fledglings of our old Rome. Come, my Drusus, come!” He took up the box again and rattled the dice merrily. “Here, for what sum thou wilt, let us measure fortunes.”

The manner was frank, cordial, winsome. Drusus melted in a moment.

“By the Nymphae, yes!” he said, laughing. “I will throw with thee, Messala⁠—for a denarius.”

A very boyish person was looking over the table watching the scene. Suddenly Messala turned to him.

“Who art thou?” he asked.

The lad drew back.

“Nay, by Castor! and his brother too! I meant not offence. It is a rule among men, in matters other than dice, to keep the record closest when the deal is least. I have need of a clerk. Wilt thou serve me?”

The young fellow drew his tablets ready to keep the score: the manner was irresistible.

“Hold, Messala, hold!” cried Drusus. “I know not if it be ominous to stay the poised dice with a question; but one occurs to me, and I must ask it though Venus slap me with her girdle.”

“Nay, my Drusus, Venus with her girdle off is Venus in love. To thy question⁠—I will make the throw and hold it against mischance. Thus⁠—”

He turned the box upon the table and held it firmly over the dice.

And Drusus asked, “Did you ever see one Quintus Arrius?”

“The duumvir?”

“No⁠—his son?”

“I knew not he had a son.”

“Well, it is nothing,” Drusus added, indifferently; “only, my Messala, Pollux was not more like Castor than Arrius is like thee.”

The remark had the effect of a signal: twenty voices took it up.

“True, true! His eyes⁠—his face,” they cried.

“What!” answered one, disgusted. “Messala is a Roman; Arrius is a Jew.”

“Thou sayest right,” a third exclaimed. “He is a Jew, or Momus lent his mother the wrong mask.”

There was promise of a dispute; seeing which, Messala interposed. “The wine is not come, my Drusus; and, as thou seest, I have the freckled Pythias as they were dogs in leash. As to Arrius, I will accept thy opinion of him, so thou tell me more about him.”

“Well, be he Jew or Roman⁠—and, by the great god Pan, I say it not in disrespect of thy feelings, my Messala!⁠—this Arrius is handsome and brave and shrewd. The emperor offered him favor and patronage, which he refused. He came up through mystery, and keepeth distance as if he felt himself better or knew himself worse than the rest of us. In the palaestrae he was unmatched; he played with the blue-eyed giants from the Rhine and the hornless bulls of Sarmatia as they were willow wisps. The duumvir left him vastly rich. He has a passion for arms, and thinks of nothing but war. Maxentius admitted him into his family, and he was to have taken ship with us, but we lost him at Ravenna. Nevertheless he arrived safely. We heard of him this morning. Perpol! Instead of coming to the palace or going to the citadel, he dropped his baggage at the khan, and hath disappeared again.”

At the beginning of the speech Messala listened with polite indifference; as it proceeded, he became more attentive; at the conclusion, he took his hand from the dice-box, and called out, “Ho, my Caius! Dost thou hear?”

A youth at his elbow⁠—his Myrtilus, or comrade, in the day’s chariot practice⁠—answered, much pleased with the attention, “Did I not, my Messala, I were not thy friend.”

“Dost thou remember the man who gave thee the fall today?”

“By the love-locks of Bacchus, have I not a bruised shoulder to help me keep it in mind?” and he seconded the words with a shrug that submerged his ears.

“Well, be thou grateful to the Fates⁠—I have found thy enemy. Listen.”

Thereupon Messala turned to Drusus.

“Tell us more of him⁠—perpol!⁠—of him who is both Jew and Roman⁠—by Phoebus, a combination to make a Centaur lovely! What garments doth he affect, my Drusus?”

“Those of the Jews.”

“Hearest thou, Caius?” said Messala. “The fellow is young⁠—one; he hath the visage of a Roman⁠—two; he loveth best the garb of a Jew⁠—three; and in the palaestrae fame and fortune come of arms to throw a horse or tilt a chariot, as the necessity may order⁠—four. And, Drusus, help thou my friend again. Doubtless this Arrius hath tricks of language; otherwise he could not so confound himself, today a Jew, tomorrow a Roman; but of the rich tongue of Athene⁠—discourseth he in that as well?”

“With such purity, Messala, he might have been a contestant in the Isthmia.”

“Art thou listening, Caius?” said Messala. “The fellow is qualified to salute a woman⁠—for that matter Aristomache herself⁠—in the Greek; and as I keep the count, that is five. What sayest thou?”

“Thou hast found him, my Messala,” Caius answered; “or I am not myself.”

“Thy pardon, Drusus⁠—and pardon of all⁠—for speaking in riddles thus,” Messala said, in his winsome way. “By all the decent gods, I would not strain thy courtesy to the point of breaking, but now help thou me. See!”⁠—he put his hand on the dice-box again, laughing⁠—“See how close I hold the Pythias and their secret! Thou didst speak, I think, of mystery in connection with the coming of the son of Arrius. Tell me of that.”

“ ’Tis nothing, Messala, nothing,” Drusus replied; “a child’s story. When Arrius, the father, sailed in pursuit of the pirates, he was without wife or family; he returned with a boy⁠—him of whom we speak⁠—and next day adopted him.”

“Adopted him?” Messala repeated. “By the gods, Drusus, thou dost, indeed, interest me! Where did the duumvir find the boy? And who was he?”

“Who shall answer thee that, Messala? who but the young Arrius himself? Perpol! in the fight the duumvir⁠—then but a tribune⁠—lost his galley. A returning vessel found him and one other⁠—all of the crew who survived⁠—afloat upon the same plank. I give you now the story of the rescuers, which hath this excellence at least⁠—it hath never been contradicted. They say, the duumvir’s companion on the plank was a Jew⁠—”

“A Jew!” echoed Messala.

“And a slave.”

“How Drusus? A slave?”

“When the two were