Fic: The Race Goes On (Ben-Hur 1959)
Jan. 2nd, 2021 02:21 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bookishwenchNo copyright infringement is intended and no profit is made from this work. Written for Alteregon, Yuletide Madness 2020
The Race Goes On
Death does not always come when expected. By all rights the tribune Messala should have been dead. His body was twisted, broken, warped in the same way he knew his heart had become ever since the day of what he saw as Judah’s betrayal, his choice of his people over Rome. The chariot had dragged the life from Messala’s legs, and while the surgeons who attended him had at first been certain he had died as the price of seeking his vengeance, he had lived.
He had not wanted to live, and he was certain some god or another, quite probably Judah’s, was punishing him for pride. Hubris had always been the downfall of the great, and Messala had been both great and full of pride.
He swore the surgeons to secrecy, swearing if they revealed his continued existence to anyone he would make them wish for a death as sweet as crucifixion. The look of terror in their eyes convinced him he was safe from wagging tongues. In a small house on the outskirts of Rome, deep in the countryside, he shrieked his agony in isolation as infection spread through his legs, reducing him to incoherent ravings heard only by his slaves. The surgeons came again, and when they left, he had lost his legs, but the pain burned as hard as if they were still there. Worse than this was the agony of his inability to kill himself. He tried many times, but nothing worked. He was helpless.
Months passed, and Messala lay on a bed in the mostly empty house, staring at the ceiling, his mind consumed with rage. This was Judah’s fault, and he would make him pay. This was the sheik’s fault, and he would make him pay. This was the surgeon’s fault, and he would make him pay. This was his chariot maker’s fault, and he would make him pay. This was his slaves’ fault, and he would make them pay. Wild fantasies of revenge played before his mind’s eye when he slept and woke. The slaves learned that anything within arm’s reach of the man could become a weapon to be hurled at them, and soon nothing was left to throw, not so much as a lamp in the darkness or a bowl of water. He spoke to no one, and no one spoke to him. It was a little like being dead. He had not attained Elysium, though, but was stretched and tortured in Tartarus eternally, body and soul.
The spring returned, and one day a dove flew in the window and sat on a beam in the ceiling, looking down on him. He scowled at it, searching for another projectile to throw at it, perhaps even to kill it, but there was nothing.
“Get out,” he said, his voice sounding strange to his ears as he had not heard it in more than a week. “Stop looking at me, bird.”
It continued to stare at him.
“I said stop looking at me,” he repeated, his voice cracking with rage. “I will not be an exhibit of pity even to dumb creatures!”
The bird did not move.
“Leave!” he all but screamed, the letters of the word garbled as he waved his arms at it, unable to touch it or to make it fear him. “I will not be mocked!”
“No, tribune, I do not suppose you will,” said an unknown voice, and Messala’s neck nearly cracked from the speed at which he turned towards the figures in the door.
Standing there was a strange sight indeed: two men, one practically a giant and the other an old man with his arms thrown round the other’s neck, carried by him. At a nod from the older man, the carrier lowered him into a chair that stood against the far wall.
“For once stories have proven true,” the man said. “But, forgive me, my manners are poor. My name is Simonides. This is Malluch. He cannot speak, so do not hold his silence as rudeness.”
“Who are you?” Messala asked, confused and, in spite of himself, more than a little afraid. Stories? Was his dishonor known?
“I have just told you, tribune,” the man said.
“What you have told me explains nothing,” Messala said.
“I was a servant once in the house of Hur, and Rome tortured me until my legs died because I would not betray my master’s secrets,” he said.
“Hur?” Messala said. “You cannot mean—”
“Indeed, I can. Judah Ben-Hur was my master before he freed me and married my daughter,” the man said. “Now I am as free as any other man, and freer than most.”
“I do not want you here,” Messala said. “I will not be laughed at by my enemies.”
“I shall not laugh at you, tribune, and I am no enemy,” Simonides said gently. “I do not think you have an enemy left beside yourself.”
“Will you return to him and tell him of the pitiful thing I have become?” Messala asked, his voice filled with rage once more. “Of course you will! What sweet revenge for his dead mother and sister that will be!”
“They live, tribune, as you do,” Simonides said, smiling.
“As lepers? That is no life,” he said, though he was stunned to hear they were still alive.
“They are no longer lepers,” Simonides said. “They are whole and well.”
“That is impossible,” Messala said dismissively.
“Yes, but impossible things sometimes happen, do they not?” Simonides said, staring at him pointedly. “You should be dead.”
“I would rather be dead.”
“But you are not.”
“No, great philosopher of obvious things,” Messala said. “Why are you here, then? You have seen enough to report to Judah how helpless I am. Go!”
“He knows,” Simonides said with a shrug. “That is why he sent me.”
“For what purpose, then?” Messala said.
“To offer you his forgiveness,” Simonides said, “and to ask it of you in return for hating you even to the point of wishing to see you dead.”
“Forgiveness?” Messala said, saying the word slowly as though he had never heard it before. “I had him sent to the galleys to die, threw his mother and sister in prison so leprosy would eat their bodies alive, and tried to murder him in the arena, throwing other charioteers under my wheels to achieve my goal. Has he gone mad?”
“Very possibly,” Simonides said, sharing a smile with Malluch.
“Tell him I spit on his forgiveness! I do not want it. As I told him before, there is still enough man here for him to hate,” Messala said.
“He will not do it,” Simonides said, shaking his head. “He asks you to remember the friendship of two boys long ago, before anger and betrayal turned that friendship to hatred. That, he says, was the true enemy. He would have those other things forgotten.”
“Any why does he not tell me this himself?” Messala said.
“He is not now in Rome,” Simonides said. “He sent me from Jerusalem to say this to you, knowing he would most likely not be welcome.”
“In that, he was right,” Messala said. “And what would he do if I had you killed where you stand, you and this wordless Atlas beside you? Would he forgive that too?”
“I do not know,” Simonides said, “but I would really rather not find out.”
Messala found himself choking on a laugh, his first in nearly a year.
“You amuse me, Simonides,” Messala said. “I am weary. Leave me, but you may return tomorrow. But first, tell me which of my servants informed Judah of my state. I owe them their just reward.”
Simonides gave him a stern look before saying, “I have kept my mouth closed under torture before this. I am not about to betray anyone to their death now. Malluch?”
The giant picked him up easily.
“Until tomorrow, tribune,” he said. “May you sleep well for once.”
Messala watched him go. Forgiveness, he thought, is for weak fools unable to exact vengeance. It was not for the likes of him. The bird cooed suddenly from its roost above the bed and flew out the window, startling him. Alone again with his thoughts, he felt sleep pull at his mind, insistent and undeniable. To his surprise, he did sleep well, his dreams finally silent.
Death does not always come when expected. By all rights the tribune Messala should have been dead. His body was twisted, broken, warped in the same way he knew his heart had become ever since the day of what he saw as Judah’s betrayal, his choice of his people over Rome. The chariot had dragged the life from Messala’s legs, and while the surgeons who attended him had at first been certain he had died as the price of seeking his vengeance, he had lived.
He had not wanted to live, and he was certain some god or another, quite probably Judah’s, was punishing him for pride. Hubris had always been the downfall of the great, and Messala had been both great and full of pride.
He swore the surgeons to secrecy, swearing if they revealed his continued existence to anyone he would make them wish for a death as sweet as crucifixion. The look of terror in their eyes convinced him he was safe from wagging tongues. In a small house on the outskirts of Rome, deep in the countryside, he shrieked his agony in isolation as infection spread through his legs, reducing him to incoherent ravings heard only by his slaves. The surgeons came again, and when they left, he had lost his legs, but the pain burned as hard as if they were still there. Worse than this was the agony of his inability to kill himself. He tried many times, but nothing worked. He was helpless.
Months passed, and Messala lay on a bed in the mostly empty house, staring at the ceiling, his mind consumed with rage. This was Judah’s fault, and he would make him pay. This was the sheik’s fault, and he would make him pay. This was the surgeon’s fault, and he would make him pay. This was his chariot maker’s fault, and he would make him pay. This was his slaves’ fault, and he would make them pay. Wild fantasies of revenge played before his mind’s eye when he slept and woke. The slaves learned that anything within arm’s reach of the man could become a weapon to be hurled at them, and soon nothing was left to throw, not so much as a lamp in the darkness or a bowl of water. He spoke to no one, and no one spoke to him. It was a little like being dead. He had not attained Elysium, though, but was stretched and tortured in Tartarus eternally, body and soul.
The spring returned, and one day a dove flew in the window and sat on a beam in the ceiling, looking down on him. He scowled at it, searching for another projectile to throw at it, perhaps even to kill it, but there was nothing.
“Get out,” he said, his voice sounding strange to his ears as he had not heard it in more than a week. “Stop looking at me, bird.”
It continued to stare at him.
“I said stop looking at me,” he repeated, his voice cracking with rage. “I will not be an exhibit of pity even to dumb creatures!”
The bird did not move.
“Leave!” he all but screamed, the letters of the word garbled as he waved his arms at it, unable to touch it or to make it fear him. “I will not be mocked!”
“No, tribune, I do not suppose you will,” said an unknown voice, and Messala’s neck nearly cracked from the speed at which he turned towards the figures in the door.
Standing there was a strange sight indeed: two men, one practically a giant and the other an old man with his arms thrown round the other’s neck, carried by him. At a nod from the older man, the carrier lowered him into a chair that stood against the far wall.
“For once stories have proven true,” the man said. “But, forgive me, my manners are poor. My name is Simonides. This is Malluch. He cannot speak, so do not hold his silence as rudeness.”
“Who are you?” Messala asked, confused and, in spite of himself, more than a little afraid. Stories? Was his dishonor known?
“I have just told you, tribune,” the man said.
“What you have told me explains nothing,” Messala said.
“I was a servant once in the house of Hur, and Rome tortured me until my legs died because I would not betray my master’s secrets,” he said.
“Hur?” Messala said. “You cannot mean—”
“Indeed, I can. Judah Ben-Hur was my master before he freed me and married my daughter,” the man said. “Now I am as free as any other man, and freer than most.”
“I do not want you here,” Messala said. “I will not be laughed at by my enemies.”
“I shall not laugh at you, tribune, and I am no enemy,” Simonides said gently. “I do not think you have an enemy left beside yourself.”
“Will you return to him and tell him of the pitiful thing I have become?” Messala asked, his voice filled with rage once more. “Of course you will! What sweet revenge for his dead mother and sister that will be!”
“They live, tribune, as you do,” Simonides said, smiling.
“As lepers? That is no life,” he said, though he was stunned to hear they were still alive.
“They are no longer lepers,” Simonides said. “They are whole and well.”
“That is impossible,” Messala said dismissively.
“Yes, but impossible things sometimes happen, do they not?” Simonides said, staring at him pointedly. “You should be dead.”
“I would rather be dead.”
“But you are not.”
“No, great philosopher of obvious things,” Messala said. “Why are you here, then? You have seen enough to report to Judah how helpless I am. Go!”
“He knows,” Simonides said with a shrug. “That is why he sent me.”
“For what purpose, then?” Messala said.
“To offer you his forgiveness,” Simonides said, “and to ask it of you in return for hating you even to the point of wishing to see you dead.”
“Forgiveness?” Messala said, saying the word slowly as though he had never heard it before. “I had him sent to the galleys to die, threw his mother and sister in prison so leprosy would eat their bodies alive, and tried to murder him in the arena, throwing other charioteers under my wheels to achieve my goal. Has he gone mad?”
“Very possibly,” Simonides said, sharing a smile with Malluch.
“Tell him I spit on his forgiveness! I do not want it. As I told him before, there is still enough man here for him to hate,” Messala said.
“He will not do it,” Simonides said, shaking his head. “He asks you to remember the friendship of two boys long ago, before anger and betrayal turned that friendship to hatred. That, he says, was the true enemy. He would have those other things forgotten.”
“Any why does he not tell me this himself?” Messala said.
“He is not now in Rome,” Simonides said. “He sent me from Jerusalem to say this to you, knowing he would most likely not be welcome.”
“In that, he was right,” Messala said. “And what would he do if I had you killed where you stand, you and this wordless Atlas beside you? Would he forgive that too?”
“I do not know,” Simonides said, “but I would really rather not find out.”
Messala found himself choking on a laugh, his first in nearly a year.
“You amuse me, Simonides,” Messala said. “I am weary. Leave me, but you may return tomorrow. But first, tell me which of my servants informed Judah of my state. I owe them their just reward.”
Simonides gave him a stern look before saying, “I have kept my mouth closed under torture before this. I am not about to betray anyone to their death now. Malluch?”
The giant picked him up easily.
“Until tomorrow, tribune,” he said. “May you sleep well for once.”
Messala watched him go. Forgiveness, he thought, is for weak fools unable to exact vengeance. It was not for the likes of him. The bird cooed suddenly from its roost above the bed and flew out the window, startling him. Alone again with his thoughts, he felt sleep pull at his mind, insistent and undeniable. To his surprise, he did sleep well, his dreams finally silent.
