But that night, though the air was still, the sky was wild. At first each star stayed in its place, circling slowly and twinkling. The watchman paced back and forth to keep warm. When he heard a jackal yelp, he went to investigate, though he knew the sheep were safe. Finally he approached the fire at the end of his watch. The light, naturally, grew brighter. But it was too bright. A glow was everywhere. He could see the sheep, one by one, clearly as in daylight. The dogs sat up and began to whimper. The watchman felt a chill, the same kind of fear that washed through him when he saw a leopard or an adder. His knees buckled beneath him and he croaked, “Wake up!” to the other shepherds. The dogs began to bark.
The sheep woke too, and no shepherd sleeps when his sheep are bleating. They sat up, blinking, startled, and seized their slingshots. “What is it? A lion?” one asked.
“The sky is on fire!” the watchman cried. The light grew so bright that they had to shield their heads in their hands.
Then the animals all fell silent. The shepherds were crouched together, trembling, when they heard the voice. They never could agree later on what they saw—was there a man? Did he glow? Were there beings in the air?—but they all heard the same words: “Do not be afraid. I bring you good news that will cause great joy for all the people. Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is the Messiah, the Lord. This will be a sign to you: You will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger.”
No one moved. The voice spoke no more. The glow lingered until the light began to tremble and wink. Then came a chorus of voices that belonged to neither man nor woman: “Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace to those on whom his favor rests.” Over and over they sang the message, gradually fading away with the strange light. Finally it was dark again, and the fire flickered orange, and the sheep began to mutter their way back to sleep, though the dogs had come to the fire and sat pressed against the men, still quivering and whining.
One shepherd said, “The town of David. What is that?”
“Bethlehem,” answered another. “Just over the hill, there.”
“And there is a manger in the khan! I’ve seen it!”
“We should go,” the watchman whispered, though he hadn’t meant to.
There was muttering, and one shepherd scrambled to his feet. “We should.”
“But . . . leave the sheep?”
“Leave the sheep,” affirmed the man who was standing. “This is the work of God. He will mind the sheep.”
As the shepherds hurried downhill toward the khan, they noticed that every creature was disturbed. Normally silent birds called out to each other and the brush rustled with the little rodents who usually freeze when man is nearby. Soon the khan was in view, with unaccustomed torches alight in its corners and at its gate. The man on guard challenged the shepherds, barring their way with a spear. “What do you want?” he asked them roughly.
“To see the baby in the manger,” one shepherd began.
“The baby?” the guardsman repeated. “What about the light?”
“Oh, we saw the light!” another shepherd exclaimed. “We all saw it. And we heard the angel, too. All the angels!”
“You heard angels?” the guard said. “There were no angels here. But the light! It was like day, like the sun!”
Shepherds worship the Christ child in the manger
“It was,” agreed a shepherd. “It woke the dogs and the sheep.”
“And the camels and every man and woman in there,” the guard agreed, jerking his thumb toward the courtyard of the khan. “But we heard nothing. Someone spoke to you? In the light?”
“Someone or something,” began a shepherd. “We all heard it saying, ‘Do not be afraid. I bring you good news that will cause great joy for all the people. Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is the Messiah, the Lord. This will be a sign to you: You will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger.’” By the time he finished, the other shepherds were all repeating the message with him.
“Let us go in to see the manger in the cave,” coaxed a man with a fleecy pelt wrapped around his waist. “We will come back and tell you if it’s true.”
“How will you know?” the guard asked. “And how can the Redeemer be a baby?”
“We will know,” the shepherds all said confidently. “We just saw a vision. We all saw it. It must be true.”
So they filed through the courtyard, barely noticing the camels and the crowds. When they reached the cave, Joseph stood leaning against the door, staring into the darkness.
“Is the baby here?” one of them asked him eagerly.
Joseph looked at him and nodded without surprise. “He is.” He moved aside and picked up a lantern, then led them into the cave. Mary was resting on a pile of straw covered with a striped cloak. Joseph lifted the lantern and the shepherds saw the manger. And there was the baby.
It was just a baby. It had none of the majesty or the magic they might have expected. It did not glow like the angel who had brought the message. It lay with closed eyes and breathed gently.
The shepherd with the pelt reached down to his waist and untied it. He held the fleece up to Joseph. “May I put this over the baby?” he asked. “It’s from a lamb that died last week. It’s clean and warm.”
Joseph glanced at Mary, who nodded and smiled slightly. They all watched as the shepherd’s large, clumsy hands laid the soft curls of wool against the baby, with the skin side up. He bowed his head for an instant before stepping away from the manger. And one by one, each of the shepherds reverently followed suit.
As they filed back out through the doorway into the courtyard of the khan, one of the shepherds exclaimed, “Glory to God in the highest!” The rest took up the refrain, quietly at first.
Then a camel driver, blowing on the embers of his campfire, said, “Why are you so happy? Weren’t you terrified by the light?”
The shepherds explained, then explained to the neighbors. Their story spread through the courtyard, from group to group. All through what was left of the night, a growing procession tiptoed to the door of the cave. The baby slept on, cozy in his manger.
Twelve days later, the three immense white camels arrived at the Damascus Gate in Jerusalem and were immediately surrounded by crowds of the idle and curious. Camels were common, but these were so large and so elaborately harnessed and saddled that everyone had to admire and comment. And though men of every nation passed through Jerusalem daily, they did not usually travel in mixed groups. Balthasar, Melchior, and Gaspar looked like what they were: an Egyptian, a Hindu, and a Greek, each with the features, coloring, and dress of his race. When they dismounted and spoke to each other, each in his native language, a murmur went through the crowd.
HEROD THE GREAT
Herod the Great was named king of Judea by Rome and ruled from 37 to 4 BC. Though he was part Jewish, and while he could be lauded for rebuilding the Temple in Jerusalem, the Jewish people had little love for the ruthless leader. Herod was constantly worried about losing his position, and his suspicions and jealousy even led to the murders of several of his children and the execution of his wife Mariamne. His actions when hearing from the wise men about their search for a new King are consistent with his character.
The gate was guarded by Roman soldiers, one of whom elbowed his way through the crowd and planted his spear so close to Balthasar’s toes that a puff of dust billowed over them. “Who are you?” the Roman asked. “What do you want here in Jerusalem?”
Everyone watching noticed how Balthasar carried himself in contrast to the Roman, though the Egyptian made no effort to look imposing. “We are looking for the one who was born king of the Jews,” he explained, as if this were an everyday response.
The Roman was confused. “Do you mean Herod?”
“Herod was made king by Caesar. We’re not looking for Herod.”
“He is the only king of the Jews.”
“But we three have seen the star of the Kin
g we are looking for,” Balthasar explained. “We want to find him and worship him.”
The bluster left the Roman, replaced by doubt and curiosity. “I don’t know who that might be. You should enter the city and ask in the Temple. Or maybe even go to Herod himself. If there’s another king of the Jews, Herod should know about him.”
By that time, naturally, a crowd had gathered. Balthasar could see heads together and phrases whispered behind hands. Surprise ran through the crowd, and puzzlement. As he turned away from the gate, he said to Melchior and Gaspar, “The news will travel fast.”
And so it did. The women scrubbing clothes at the river heard it. The little boys watching goats heard it and forgot everything but the tale of the three giant camels. In the Temple, the learned council of the Sanhedrin heard it from Herod himself, who was perturbed. He was the king. He was a Jew; he ruled Judea; he was king of the Jews. It was true that he ruled for Rome, but Rome ruled everything. Rome was a fact, like the sun.
Herod wanted to know where this new King might be. The tale ran that the King was an infant, which couldn’t be right. But an infant wouldn’t be hard to get rid of, if the right baby could be found. The Sanhedrin said the Scriptures mentioned a King to be born in Bethlehem, the City of David. David, the shepherd-king of a thousand years ago, Herod thought with irritation. Jews never let go of their old stories. Roman ships and Roman legions covered mile upon mile of sea and land, but Jews still spoke of the City of David as if that mattered.
Then a description of the three men with their camels reached the palace. They were more worrisome than rumors about an infant King. Each one of these travelers was obviously a man of substance and education in his own realm. But why would a Greek, a Hindu, and an Egyptian concern themselves with this so-called king of the Jews? They did not belong to the chosen people.
So Herod summoned the mysterious visitors and was not reassured. The Egyptian told him firmly and calmly, “There is one almighty God, and he is the one who sent us here. Each of us saw a star and each of us knew the Spirit. We were told to find this King and worship him and tell everyone. So that is what we are doing.”
Herod had experience with religious zealots, who were usually excitable, but this trio was remarkably calm and matter-of-fact. They made no effort to convince him, which was strangely persuasive. And he noticed also that each spoke in his native language but was understood by the others. There was no way to explain that. The whole episode disturbed Herod. At best it was causing a lot of talk. At worst—who knew? A far-flung empire was always restless, and Judea was hard enough to hold together with just one king.
“If there really is a new King,” he finally asked, “what will he do?”
“Save us all from our wickedness,” Balthasar answered firmly.
“Then—you are looking for the Redeemer, the Christ.”
“We are, Your Majesty.”
After that, Herod sent them away with gifts. They would find the baby. He had instructed them to notify him. It was just a baby. They often died.
It was night when the three travelers left Herod’s palace, and they turned to the khan where they intended to spend the night. But after a short time lying in the crisp air, Balthasar realized he would not sleep. He rose onto his elbow and saw that Gaspar was sitting upright, looking at the sky.
“What do you see?” he whispered.
“I think—look!” Gaspar pointed. Melchior propped himself up as well and the three men peered upward.
Melchior scrambled to his feet and said, without looking at his companions, “It’s there! We must go!”
There was no discussion. They roused their camels and loaded the howdahs, then left the khan and turned onto the road that Mary and Joseph had followed so recently. Balthasar found himself leaning forward, trying to urge the camel to go faster. The star shone astoundingly bright, bathing the harsh landscape with a glow that stripped away the color. Everything was black or white, with crisp shadows, and silence all around. It was as if the three were the only living creatures in a frozen world.
The guard of the Bethlehem khan saw them from far off. First came the light, too large and too bright for a torch. Then the camels loomed into sight, gliding along nearly silent on their large, soft feet. No sooner had they stopped at the gate and knelt than the three men clambered out of their howdahs and one asked, “Was a baby born here not long ago? In a manger?”
The guard barely had time to turn and point before the men led their camels through the gate and into the crowded courtyard, then farther back to the cave where, for days now, people of all kinds had come to see this baby. There had been strange music and a constant procession of shepherds who sometimes brought a lamb or a baby goat. After the baby’s birth the sky never really got dark, as if a new star were hovering over the cave. And while the caravan to Egypt had moved on, the courtyard of the khan was as full as ever with visitors for the census. Or gawkers who had heard of the baby’s birth. People were saying he was the Redeemer. The guard himself had often been to the cave. The baby was just another infant; the mother and father were ordinary. Still, once you had seen them, you wanted to stay with them. People were gentle when they had seen the baby. They were kind to each other. In the time since the baby’s birth, the crowds in the khan had been orderly and cooperative.
So the guard left the gate, which was strictly forbidden. He followed the three travelers through the courtyard. A tall Nubian, seeing him leave his post, said, “Are you going to the cave? Would you like me to watch the gate for you?” Without a word the guard handed over his spear.
The light seemed brighter than it had ever been, as if a ball of cold fire were hovering over the khan. When he reached the cave, the camels were kneeling while the travelers rummaged in their howdahs. Then they stood straight, and the guard saw that they had put on their finest robes. The Hindu’s turban was pinned with a massive jewel and the Egyptian wore a heavy, gleaming necklace. Each of the men carried a gift, and they caught each other’s eyes before entering the cave.
The guard followed behind them. After the brilliant, mysterious light outside, he could hardly make out the scene, but it seemed unchanged. There was a small lamp. Mary sat on a pile of sheepskins, gifts from the awestruck shepherds. The baby lay in her lap, a little bit larger and a little bit fatter. Joseph stood behind them, watching as the three men entered and knelt.
A hand-carved olive wood souvenir box Lew Wallace brought home from Jerusalem
GIFTS OF THE MAGI
The gifts of the magi were common offerings to royalty of the time. For Christians, they also symbolize aspects of Christ: gold, his kingship; frankincense, his priesthood and his deity; and myrrh, his death and burial.
Did they speak? If they did, how could he have understood? How could he have seen the gifts? The guard often wondered later. But there was a light, he was sure, some kind of glow. He remembered that the leader’s gown was a rich, deep scarlet. And that he placed a casket on the earth floor in front of the baby. Somehow the guard knew that it was gold.
The other men also laid down their gifts. One of them must have been incense, perfuming the air in the cave. But what the guard remembered for the rest of his life was the way all three of the men knelt with their hands clasped, perfectly still as they gazed at the baby. And for a moment without measure, the only movement in the cave was the glitter of tears running down their cheeks.
PART 2
CHAPTER 4
YOUTH
It was early. The courtyard was still in shade and the cool air hadn’t evaporated the water spilled by the gardeners. Judah Ben-Hur leapt over a puddle at the bottom of the massive staircase. At seventeen he was too old to be hopping around like a child, but he couldn’t help his excitement: Messala was back! Judah would be far too early for their meeting, but it didn’t matter. He wanted to leave the palace before one of the women saw him and asked where he was going.
ACTORS WHO HAVE PORTRAYED JUDAH BEN-HUR
Herman Rottger—190
7
Ramon Novarro—1925
Charlton Heston—1959 and 2003 (animated feature)
Joseph Morgan—2010 (miniseries)
Jack Huston—2016
But . . . “Judah,” called Amrah, his former nursemaid, rounding the corner from the kitchens. “Where are you off to so early?”
“Nowhere,” he said. “Out.”
“Does your mother know? When will you be back?”
He looked down at her brown face, wrinkled beneath the veil. “No, she doesn’t. I’ll be out all day.” He knew he sounded surly, so he leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Messala is back, Amrah. I’m going to meet him. I’ll be home around sunset.” And before she could say anything, he moved his arm from her grasp and slipped through the door cut in the massive gate, waving to Shadrach the gatekeeper on his way.
This had always been the plan. Messala was Roman, from a powerful and rich family. His father had been stationed in Jerusalem for years as a tax collector. Rome ruled its client states with the help of their strongest citizens, so Prince Ithamar of the house of Hur, a merchant and trader with fleets of ships and warehouses all over the East, had known Messala’s father. Thus the boys became friends. They had spent days on end together, exploring Jerusalem, building slingshots, telling stories. At fourteen, Messala had been sent back to Rome to finish his education. Five years later, he had returned, and now Ben-Hur pelted through the narrow streets to meet him. He ran through blocks of shade and sun, feeling the difference in heat a few steps later. When he neared the palace gardens, he slowed down. He didn’t want to meet Messala while he was gasping for breath.
Ben-Hur Page 3
