György Spiró - Captivity

Uri thought of Matthew, who wanted to erect a synagogue in Ostia, on the shoreline, and who had already visited Alexandria and had talked about it. His words, of course, were inadequate to give one the real flavor of the place, from which Uri inferred that Matthew was counting on Ostia becoming Rome’s main port, a city that might one day grow into a miniature Alexandria. Not a bad gamble at all to build on the seashore in Ostia: land prices would be boosted many times over. Alexandria’s only major drawback was the dense system of canals that threaded through it: the waters stank, the skiffs plying them moved through what was little more than sewage water.

He was headed for the Delta district, the city’s Jewish quarter; he needed to find the Basilica, where he was supposed to hand over to a responsible individual a calculation regarding the timing of Rosh Hashanah. While still in Jerusalem he had asked how he would be able to find the place, and they had just smiled: there was no chance of missing the palatial building with its double colonnade.

He made his way eastward along the seashore in the direction of the chain of hills which shut in the Great Harbor on the east, and beyond which lay the buildings of the royal palace; the Delta quarter was over that way, south of the palace, he was told by those he asked along the way. He was now confident in addressing anybody, no longer ashamed if there was something he did not know. Tiny shrines, palaces surrounded by enormous peristyles, villas, and apartment blocks succeeded one another, and he noticed that there were more stone houses, and fewer of brick (let alone gimcrack timber structures), than in Rome. This was a city that would never crumble away, nor would it ever burn down.

It was early afternoon, yet even so the sunshine couldn’t manage to make its way to pavement level, whether by the east-west or north-south streets: so tall were most of the buildings that a comfortable shade prevailed, and Uri saw only a blinding whiteness if he looked up toward the tops of the marble-clad edifices.

From the summit of a promontory — no doubt the famed Lochias — he was able to look down upon the Royal Harbor of Cape Lochias, kept segregated from the Great Harbor by a sparkling stone causeway. Two small, tranquilly rocking biremes were anchored in it, one most likely the prefect’s, the other belonging to his bodyguard, should they ever need to flee. But then there was no reason for anyone to flee. Who, he wondered idly, was the prefect of Alexandria and Egypt? Not that it made a lot of difference. Someone of equestrian rank, that he knew for sure; Augustus himself, when he defeated Egypt, had decreed that no senator would be allowed to set foot in Alexandria or Egypt, and so it had been ever since.

He had grown peckish so he decided to take a seat in a hostelry; it was a luxury he could afford since — for the first time in his life — he still had enough money left over. I’m a dignified traveler, he told himself, and would have smiled had there not already been a smile on his face from the moment that he’d glimpsed the city’s grandiose outline from aboard the ship through that crystal.

He stepped through the low entrance, which was separated from the street not by a door but a thin curtain, and sat down at a table. It was a hostelry comparable with a classy Roman tavern, on a whitewashed wall was a menu, written in Greek, of the all the day’s dishes, along with their prices. Uri converted from Egyptian drachmas to Syrian drachmas and discovered that the place was very cheap. A plump woman emerged from the back to ask what the guest would like to eat, and Uri requested fish. The woman then started to enumerate all the different sorts of fish they had, until Uri interrupted her: he had no idea about all of these varieties, but did they have any barbel? Naturally. How much is that? Barbel is not exactly cheap, to be frank: five drachmas for half a cubit, poached or fried in oil, served up with all kinds of sauces. Uri thought he had heard wrongly, but the woman repeated it.

Nowhere else in the world could one get barbel so cheaply.

Uri accordingly ordered the barbel; a girl placed a jug of wine in front of him and a jug of water and a nice-looking copper dish to use as a mixing vessel. Uri protested: he had not ordered any wine.

“It’s included in the price,” the girl said.

Uri cautiously slopped some wine into the mixing vessel then, to be on the safe side, poured in a larger portion of water, scooped some of that with a ladle into a drinking jar, and carefully sipped it. It had a divine flavor. In moderation now, Uri reasoned with himself: no getting plastered until I’ve completed my mission.

The plump woman brought the poached barbel, and Uri was horrified: it was an enormous helping.

“That’s more than half a cubit! It must be more like a cubit and a half!”

“It doesn’t matter,” said the woman. “It costs the same.”

“Is it clean?” Uri asked suspiciously.

The woman laughed.

“We’re in the Delta. Everything here is kosher; if it wasn’t we might as well pack up and leave. Jews come all the time; they sniff and grumble, but no one has ever faulted our food.”

Uri set about the fish. They gave him a broad, flat, thin knife, which made it easy to dissect the meat from the backbone. Uri turned the fish around in his mouth: even a man like Pilate seldom had the chance to eat fish as good as that.

Poor Pilate.

It was not even three weeks ago, on the Thursday before Passover, that the prefect had been brought out, bound, from Herod’s palace as Vitellius, the imperial legate and governor of Syria in person, read out his sentence in Greek so that everyone might understand: on account of the slaughter at Mount Gerizim, Pilate was to be sent to Rome for the judiciary there to pass sentence on him.

Anyone brought out from his palace in chains could hardly count on a rosy future.

The Jews around Uri had been jubilant, not particularly at losing Pilate (because that meant the relatives of the massacred Samaritans were receiving moral redress, and they cared even less for that), but because Lucius Vitellius, for the first time since the Roman occupation had begun, had restored custody of the high priest’s vestments and had abolished the poll tax throughout Judaea. Vitellius was applauded and cheered, and the emperor was also enthusiastically hailed. With great fuss, and in full view of the populace, the high priest’s ceremonial garb was brought out of the Antonia fortress — the crowd delirious with joy and praying as they fell to their knees and prostrated themselves — and handed over to the strategos ’ s men as if it were made of fragile glass. Pilate, bound, had stood mute and motionless between his guards; he looked nowhere, staring calmly ahead; but no one paid any heed to him as they followed the passage of the priestly garments, which were carried away by tall stalwarts of the Jewish police force toward the palace of the high priest. Vitellius then appointed Marcellus the new provisional prefect, but they paid him no attention either, however much he puffed out his chest.

It went through Uri’s head that it was a smart move to abolish a tax which there was no means of collecting in any case. In a few years another governor of Syria would come along, he would be the boss of whoever would by then be prefect of Judaea, and he would reintroduce the same poll tax, which they would be just as unable to collect.

Uri lunched deliberately, with great pleasure, watched by the woman from a distance, and when she saw that he had sated his immediate hunger pangs she took a seat at his table.

“If the gentleman were to honor us at least once a week, then we could come to an arrangement on the price.”

“Marvelous,” growled Uri, and he dunked the next morsel in what looked very much like a garum sauce, which was extremely garlicky.