Ben-Hur

“Are even more stupid than the Egyptians,” he said, shaking his head.

“Do you think so? Very well, then,” she replied, almost without pause, and putting her hands to her left ear. “We will have nothing to do with any of them. I have here what is much surer and better—the amulet which was given to some of our people—I cannot tell when, it was so far back—by a Persian magician. See, the inscription is almost worn out.”

She offered him the earring, which he took, looked at, and handed back, laughing.

“If I were dying, Tirzah, I could not use the charm. It is a relic of idolatry, forbidden every believing son and daughter of Abraham. Take it, but do not wear it anymore.”

“Forbidden! Not so,” she said. “Our father’s mother wore it I do not know how many Sabbaths in her life. It has cured I do not know how many people—more than three anyhow. It is approved—look, here is the mark of the rabbis.”

“I have no faith in amulets.”

She raised her eyes to his in astonishment.

“What would Amrah say?”

“Amrah’s father and mother tended sakiyeh for a garden on the Nile.”

“But Gamaliel!”

“He says they are godless inventions of unbelievers and Shechemites.”

Tirzah looked at the ring doubtfully.

“What shall I do with it?”

“Wear it, my little sister. It becomes you—it helps make you beautiful, though I think you that without help.”

Satisfied, she returned the amulet to her ear just as Amrah entered the summer chamber, bearing a platter, with washbowl, water, and napkins.

Not being a Pharisee, the ablution was short and simple with Judah. The servant then went out, leaving Tirzah to dress his hair. When a lock was disposed to her satisfaction, she would unloose the small metallic mirror which, as was the fashion among her fair countrywomen, she wore at her girdle, and gave it to him, that he might see the triumph, and how handsome it made him. Meanwhile they kept up their conversation.

“What do you think, Tirzah?—I am going away.”

She dropped her hands with amazement.

“Going away! When? Where? For what?”

He laughed.

“Three questions, all in a breath! What a body you are!” Next instant he became serious. “You know the law requires me to follow some occupation. Our good father set me an example. Even you would despise me if I spent in idleness the results of his industry and knowledge. I am going to Rome.”

“Oh, I will go with you.”

“You must stay with mother. If both of us leave her she will die.”

The brightness faded from her face.

“Ah, yes, yes! But—must you go? Here in Jerusalem you can learn all that is needed to be a merchant—if that is what you are thinking of.”

“But that is not what I am thinking of. The law does not require the son to be what the father was.”

“What else can you be?”

“A soldier,” he replied, with a certain pride of voice.

Tears came into her eyes.

“You will be killed.”

“If God’s will, be it so. But, Tirzah, the soldiers are not all killed.”

She threw her arms around his neck, as if to hold him back.

“We are so happy! Stay at home, my brother.”

“Home cannot always be what it is. You yourself will be going away before long.”

“Never!”

He smiled at her earnestness.

“A prince of Judah, or some other of one of the tribes, will come soon and claim my Tirzah, and ride away with her, to be the light of another house. What will then become of me?”

She answered with sobs.

“War is a trade,” he continued, more soberly. “To learn it thoroughly, one must go to school, and there is no school like a Roman camp.”

“You would not fight for Rome?” she asked, holding her breath.

“And you—even you hate her. The whole world hates her. In that, O Tirzah, find the reason of the answer I give you—Yes, I will fight for her, if, in return, she will teach me how one day to fight against her.”

“When will you go?”

Amrah’s steps were then heard returning.

“Hist!” he said. “Do not let her know of what I am thinking.”

The faithful slave came in with breakfast, and placed the waiter holding it upon a stool before them; then, with white napkins upon her arm, she remained to serve them. They dipped their fingers in a bowl of water, and were rinsing them, when a noise arrested their attention. They listened, and distinguished martial music in the street on the north side of the house.

“Soldiers from the Praetorium! I must see them,” he cried, springing from the divan, and running out.

In a moment more he was leaning over the parapet of tiles which guarded the roof at the extreme northeast corner, so absorbed that he did not notice Tirzah by his side, resting one hand upon his shoulder.

Their position—the roof being the highest one in the locality—commanded the housetops eastward as far as the huge irregular Tower of Antonia, which has been already mentioned as a citadel for the garrison and military headquarters for the governor. The street, not more than ten feet wide, was spanned here and there by bridges, open and covered, which, like the roofs along the way, were beginning to be occupied by men, women, and children, called out by the music. The word is used, though it is hardly fitting; what the people heard when they came forth was rather an uproar of trumpets and the shriller litui so delightful to the soldiers.

The array after a while came into view of the two upon the house of the Hurs. First, a vanguard of the light-armed—mostly slingers and bowmen—marching with wide intervals between their ranks and files; next a body of heavy-armed infantry, bearing large shields, and hastoe longoe, or spears identical with those used in the duels before Ilium; then the musicians; and then an officer riding alone, but followed closely by a guard of cavalry; after them again, a column of infantry also heavy-armed, which, moving in close order, crowded the streets from wall to wall, and appeared to be without end.

The brawny limbs of the men; the cadenced motion from right to left of the shields; the sparkle of scales, buckles, and breastplates and helms, all perfectly burnished; the plumes nodding above the tall crests; the sway of ensigns and iron-shod spears; the bold, confident step, exactly timed and measured; the demeanor, so grave, yet so watchful; the machine-like unity of the whole moving mass—made an impression upon Judah, but as something felt rather than seen. Two objects fixed his attention—the eagle of the legion first—a gilded effigy perched on a tall shaft, with wings outspread until they met above its head. He knew that, when brought from its chamber in the Tower, it had been received with divine honors.