Ben-Hur - Lew Wallace [167]
"Nothing."
"O—ah! You forget," said Cecilius.
"What?" asked Drusus.
"The procession of whites."
"Mirabile!" cried Drusus, half rising. "We met a faction of whites, and they had a banner. But—ha, ha, ha!"
He fell back indolently.
"Cruel Drusus—not to go on," said Messala.
"Scum of the desert were they, my Messala, and garbage-eaters from the Jacob's Temple in Jerusalem. What had I to do with them!"
"Nay," said Cecilius, "Drusus is afraid of a laugh, but I am not, my Messala."
"Speak thou, then."
"Well, we stopped the faction, and—"
"Offered them a wager," said Drusus, relenting, and taking the word from the shadow's mouth. "And—ha, ha, ha!—one fellow with not enough skin on his face to make a worm for a carp stepped forth, and—ha, ha, ha!—said yes. I drew my tablets. 'Who is your man?' I asked. 'Ben-Hur, the Jew,' said he. Then I: 'What shall it be? How much?' He answered, 'A—a—' Excuse me, Messala. By Jove's thunder, I cannot go on for laughter! Ha, ha, ha!"
The listeners leaned forward.
Messala looked to Cecilius.
"A shekel," said the latter.
"A shekel! A shekel!"
A burst of scornful laughter ran fast upon the repetition.
"And what did Drusus?" asked Messala.
An outcry over about the door just then occasioned a rush to that quarter; and, as the noise there continued, and grew louder, even Cecilius betook himself off, pausing only to say, "The noble Drusus, my Messala, put up his tablets and—lost the shekel."
"A white! A white!"
"Let him come!"
"This way, this way!"
These and like exclamations filled the saloon, to the stoppage of other speech. The dice-players quit their games; the sleepers awoke, rubbed their eyes, drew their tablets, and hurried to the common centre.
"I offer you—"
"And I—"
"I—"
The person so warmly received was the respectable Jew, Ben-Hur's fellow-voyager from Cyprus. He entered grave, quiet, observant. His robe was spotlessly white; so was the cloth of his turban. Bowing and smiling at the welcome, he moved slowly towards the central table. Arrived there, he drew his robe about him in a stately manner, took seat, and waved his hand. The gleam of a jewel on a finger helped him not a little to the silence which ensued.
"Romans—most noble Romans—I salute you!" he said.
"Easy, by Jupiter! Who is he?" asked Drusus.
"A dog of Israel—Sanballat by name—purveyor for the army; residence, Rome; vastly rich; grown so as a contractor of furnishments which he never furnishes. He spins mischiefs, nevertheless, finer than spiders spin their webs. Come—by the girdle of Venus! let us catch him!"
Messala arose as he spoke, and, with Drusus, joined the mass crowded about the purveyor.
"It came to me on the street," said that person, producing his tablets, and opening them on the table with an impressive air of business, "that there was great discomfort in the palace because offers on Messala were going without takers. The gods, you know, must have sacrifices; and here am I. You see my color; let us to the matter. Odds first, amounts next. What will you give me?"
The audacity seemed to stun his hearers.
"Haste!" he said. "I have an engagement with the consul."
The spur was effective.
"Two to one," cried half a dozen in a voice.
"What!" exclaimed the purveyor, astonished. "Only two to one, and yours a Roman!"
"Take three, then."
"Three say you—only three—and mine but a dog of a Jew! Give me four."
"Four it is," said a boy, stung by the taunt.
"Five—give me five," cried the purveyor, instantly.
A profound stillness fell upon the assemblage.
"The consul—your master and mine—is waiting for me."
The inaction became awkward to the many.
"Give me five—for the honor of Rome, five."
"Five let it be," said one in answer.
There was a sharp cheer—a commotion—and Messala himself appeared.
"Five let it be," he said.
And Sanballat smiled, and made ready to write.
"If Caesar die to-morrow," he said, "Rome will not be all bereft. There is at least one other with spirit to take his place. Give me six."
"Six be it," answered Messala.
There was another shout louder