György Spiró - Captivity

Uri’s legs began to tremble.

He stepped over to the table on which bowls of fruit were standing, picked up a grapefruit, dug a nail into and began to peel it.

Tija likewise sauntered over, eyed a cluster of grapes and sat down on a couch, ready to switch to serious conversation. There were three couches in the yard, symbolizing a Roman eating-couch, a triclinium.

Nibbling segments of the grapefruit, Uri sat down on another of the couches.

“How big do you figure Agrippa’s kingdom will be,” he queried impassively.

“Big,” was Tija’s view. “At least as big as Herod the Great’s, maybe even bigger.”

“Galilee included?” Uri asked.

“Naturally,” said Tija. “Antipas has to be cleared out of the way. One trait that all of Herod the Great’s descendants inherited is a love for doing away with one another. Antipas still remains. Herod Philip, the tetrarch of Trachonitis and Gaulanitis, dodged trouble by departing this life; his kingdom was absorbed into Syria, but that can be handed back at any time to a scion of Herod…”

Uri nodded and pushed a further segment into his mouth.

“There was an occasion once,” he said wistfully, “when I dined with both Pilate and Antipas, last Passover, in Jerusalem…”

Tija sat up.

“Really?”

“Excellent dinner too,” Uri stated matter-of-factly, and continued eating.

Tija was looking at him with narrowed eyes. What could he be thinking? Uri wondered.

“Earlier on they weren’t too fond of each other,” said Tija. “Antipas is not stupid; he could also angle for Judaea; he would get more out of it than out of Galilee. It’s questionable if he realizes that he needs to hook Caligula by some means, but even if he were to try, Agrippa has beaten him to it: he’s already there on Capri, and Tiberius has appointed him tutor to Gemellus and Caligula, his joint heirs apparent, whereas Antipas cannot even visit the island.”

Uri got to his feet, took a fig from the table, and sat back down.

“Antipas can send couriers to both Tiberius and Caligula,” he reasoned. “So he is also able to aspire to Herod the Great’s former kingdom; after all, he’s his son, Agrippa is only a grandson.”

Tija shook his head in silent disagreement.

“Agrippa is the one with friends in Rome, not Antipas,” he finally said. “Agrippa has bribed half the Senate, showering gifts on them, inviting them to banquets, providing them with courtesans — and all through loans of money, because before he was out of his teens he had run through the fortune he inherited. I’ve said it before: the one who gets to be king will be the one with the biggest debts!”

Tija broke out into laughter.

“Both your father and mine, a lot of fathers, have lent money to Agrippa that loose women and putrid strutters of the boards can suck off the limp dicks of the senators of Rome! Antipas can promise them whatever he wants, they’ll only believe what their dicks are telling them: it’s dicks that pull the strings in the world of the human race.”

The viewpoint came as a surprise to Uri.

“So what happens if someone finds a way of having Agrippa poisoned?”

He was amazed at his temerity, but it was out now. Tija did not bat an eyelid.

“Fair enough,” he said, “after all, someone has to die. If Tiberius’s adopted son, Caligula, is made emperor, then Tiberius’s flesh-and-blood grandson will have to die. If Gemellus, the grandson, becomes emperor, then Caligula has to perish. Flaccus, the prefect here in Egypt, is a friend of Macro, prefect of the Praetorian Guard; the two of them together have placed their bet on Gemellus, have been friends with him for years and send him gifts every now and then because Tiberius’s blood runs through his veins. Agrippa has bet on Caligula for reasons he knows best, and its he who is there, on Capri, he has the direct experience from which to read the auguries. Flaccus has a sober, smart, political brain and is putting his money on Gemellus, and our Agrippa, the cunning rambler, has gambled on Caligula. We don’t know who Antipas has backed already or will back, most likely both of them if it were up to him, only that’s not possible: this is a chariot race and you can only place a bet on one color. We’ve plumped for Agrippa — my father has, at any rate. You’ve also placed your bet on him, because your father has done the same. In other words, all of us are backing Caligula; we’re together in the hard times, Gaius Theodorus, and we’ll also be together in the good times.”

Uri mused; he had not previously taken into account that his imperfect, much-tormented body might be a vehicle of imperial politics.

“So what happens,” he asked, “if all those simple calculations become more complicated? Queen Helena and Izates, who converted to Judaism…”

“Leave them out of it!” expostulated Tija. “They’re small fry; their claims to the throne are baseless whatever they do. They won’t dare ally with the Parthians because Rome will just overrun them; Adiabene is of no consequence.”

“But there are still plenty of other relatives of Herod’s, a lot of them living in Rome…”

“It could get complicated,” Tija admitted. “Certainly, Agrippa might be snuffed out by the Roman relatives; the gladiators are in combat on Capri and we don’t even get to watch the struggle. It could be that they all die, stabbing one another in a circle… The first one pierced jumps up and stabs the last of the killers before dropping dead… If everybody slaughters everybody else, it could even be that Antonia’s crippled halfwit of a son, Claudius, is made emperor… It’s not beyond the bounds of possibility that I shall become a simple prefect of Judaea and you, my strategos.”

“I’ve got poor eyesight,” said Uri. “I can see virtually nothing at a distance; I’ve had no military training.”

“All the better,” grinned Tija. “At least you won’t see who the soldiers under your command are massacring.”

Uri found the taste of the fig to be more sour than the grapefruit he had just eaten. Tija wasn’t joking now.

“It’s far from certain,” he said, “that that’s my aim in life.”

“Oh, don’t be modest!” said Tija. “Why wouldn’t it be: everyone longs to be in power. Anyone who denies that is kidding himself.”

“What I long for,” said Uri, “is to be able to use the Great Library, and if the path to do that lies via the Gymnasium, then what I long for is to be accepted as a student and to complete my studies there.”

“Which means you want to receive military training,” rejoined Tija, “with your bad eyes. So you want to be my strategos, after all, but you won’t admit it to yourself. That’s silly! But if that’s what you long for, then do something about it.”

“I suppose,” said Uri equably, “you’ll do nothing for me.”

“You suppose right,” Tija agreed. “In fact I’ll do everything within my power to obstruct you. Let’s see who’s the craftier.”

“You’re starting with a minor advantage,” Uri noted, “seeing that you are already in there, and not purely on account of your brains.”

“Let a slave progeny who longs for great things be a genius,” announced Tija. “You’re a bright boy, but there’s no way of knowing what that genius is capable of. If I see you as cut out for great things, I’m not going to shy away from praising your exceptional talents out loud. And I’ll trip you up wherever I can, but if you should win through all the same, then I shall have gained a brilliant shield bearer. Is that a deal?”

Uri nodded.

“I’m not going to cram Latin authors down your throat,” he said. “Let their knowledge be my shield against you, who doesn’t know them.”