György Spiró - Captivity

Uri went pale and his heart beat fast.

He had bought no gift for his patron; he had forgotten. All at once he heard his father’s voice repeatedly warning him not to forget to bring a present for Gaius Lucius, and yet that was exactly what he had done. He needed to make up some excuse quickly! Any excuse!

“I brought you stories, dear patron, interesting and diverting stories. I’ll relate them to you as soon as you have the time…”

Gaius Lucius contorted his features.

“Right now you’d better stuff your sportula,” he hissed with loathing, “but make sure I don’t see you again!”

Uri bowed and immediately withdrew. The only reason he did not chuck the empty sportula in the Tiber was because it was all that was left of his father’s things.

That was a big mistake, a serious one! Uri was distraught.

Losing a generous patron, and in such an incredibly clumsy fashion! He ought to have lied, told him that he had brought a great many gifts, so many that he hadn’t been able to carry them, and that the patron should send some bearers over for them later. He could have quickly purchased a million trinkets at any market, claiming that he had brought them from Alexandria, and Gaius Lucius would have been none the wiser.

What absolute stupidity on his part, God in Heaven! What would Joseph have said?

Uri came around to see that, as a matter of fact, he had only said what was incontrovertibly true: his many interesting tales would indeed have been a gift for Gaius Lucius, who loved gossip. But then how was the poor man supposed to know that Uri, in his confusion, really had been offering him a present?

Nothing could be done about that now; Uri and the two women who depended on him — shortly to be three if he counted his intended — had been excluded from enjoying free meals.

He had to find a new patron at once.

It was not against the law or contrary to custom to attach oneself to a new patron, and so that sort of thing happened every now and then, especially if the new patron was an adversary of the previous one. Gaius Lucius no doubt had adversaries, but Uri considered it dishonorable to betray a patron who had fed his father and himself for decades. In any case, gossip that he was, Gaius Lucius would quite likely spread the word across Rome what an ungrateful client Uri was; the patron would brag about discrediting him as a client just as he had with Joseph because of his commercial abilities, and that would be enough to scare off any potential patrons.

Slowly Uri came to see that the real problem was not the empty sportula so much as the fact that by losing favor with Gaius Lucius he had also let the silk market slip away.

What crass stupidity! And there was he, believing he was an experienced and grown-up man.

He stood for a long time on the Jewish Bridge over the island. It was raining; Rome was misty and miserable. Conquer Rome? Some chance! Squeak by somehow, maybe.

The only ones who could help him were the bankers: it was not in their interest that debtors skip town — or starve to death — since in either case they’d never get their money. He would have to pay Julius a visit; he had been the friendliest.

Julius did not receive him, only his secretary. The two of them goggled at each other: Hilarus and Uri, two of the delegates who had carried the ritual dues. Then Hilarus, the former teacher, leapt up and held his arms open to embrace him. Uri patted Hilarus on the back; he had certainly not gotten any slimmer. Matthew had said that he had been an informant for the Roman elders, which might well have been true. Hilarus had wanted to be the deputy leader in Syracusa, and now here he was: secretary to a rich Roman banker. He had gotten what he wanted, and who was to say what else he might still want?

Hilarus grew ever more long-faced as he listened to Uri’s concise tale of woe. When he heard how Uri’s patron had sent him packing, he sucked a tooth in sympathy.

“Dear, oh, dear,” he said. “We really will have to figure something out!”

He then asked about Alexandria, whether Uri knew when the alabarch would be arriving, because Severus had already spread the news that he was coming.

That meant the alabarch really was coming.

As soon as Bassus allowed the Jewish delegations to leave for Rome, Uri guessed. Hilarus informed him that Bassus was no longer in Alexandria; he had returned to Rome to join the Praetorian guard, because the new prefect of Egypt, Vitrasius Pollio, had arrived to take up his post. He was said to be a decent man, and he had ordered a thorough investigation, which would take a while, and it was hardly likely the alabarch would be allowed to leave before it ended.

Uri started to take his leave, but Hilarus detained him further, inquiring about Matthew and Plotius, and he was astonished to hear that Uri had not dropped by when he was in Ostia, where Matthew had charged Plotius with planning a synagogue, which was now under construction and apparently was going to be bigger than the one at Delos. Uri laughed out loud and asked Hilarus to be sure, if he happened to write to Philo, to mention that to him, because he would be glad to know.

“Why don’t you write him yourself?” Hilarus wondered.

“I don’t like writing,” replied Uri.

“Don’t give me that,” said Hilarus. “You went to the Gymnasium there, and you must have produced orations till they were coming out of your ears!”

“I suppose so,” said Uri.

They fell silent.

“Right,” said Hilarus. “We’ll work something out for you; whatever else we do, we’ll figure it out.”

That plural was not to Uri’s liking, so he set off out before turning around.

“Which of us was carrying the ritual dues?”

Hilarus laughed.

“Didn’t you know? We all did, the didrachma tax along with the voluntary contributions — nice and neatly divided. Brazen into the bases of our water flasks.”

“Oh, like that!” said Uri, and laughed.

Then he shuddered.

“Remember, that time in Syracusa?” he asked, “when Matthew threatened the customs men that he would dash them all to smithereens.”

“Yes,” mused Hilarus.“He had his heart in the right place.”

Uri trudged home in the mud, reflecting on how he was unable to rid himself of Alexandria, and that was the least of his worries.

Two days later, Hilarus passed word that he would set up a meeting with a few merchants who had too much on their plates and could not cope on their own. Some of them lived in Far Side, others in Rome proper. Uri paid them visits and chatted. They all received him with great respect, and they couldn’t praise Joseph’s memory highly enough, but Uri had the feeling that it was his Alexandrian past doing the talking. If they only knew! They knew nothing. But then they did have a feel for commerce, and they had money.

By the time the wedding was due to take place, Uri had reached agreement with one of the merchants, a man by the name of Pulcher. This Pulcher was a nephew of the Honoratus whose son had died; his post as grammateus had been left vacant for a son who was due to be born, except there had only been a girl, so one of Pulcher’s sons had been given the position, where he had been ever since. Pulcher wanted Uri to take over three ongoing matters, and for a sum that was far from unfavorable; that was how he had gotten his own start, as it had happened alongside Joseph.

“You were still a small boy at the time,” said Pulcher. “Did your father never say anything about me?”

“No.”

Pulcher chewed a corner of his mouth in regret.

“A pity that Joseph didn’t live a bit longer. He took it badly that he heard nothing of you. You really could have sent a message to him.”

Uri nodded; as soon as he got the opportunity he had sent word. Matthew had promised that he would let his father know. Well, he didn’t. And Joseph had no longer been alive to receive the letters he had sent later on. Who might they have ended up with? Someone had almost certainly read them, and if they had read them, they were likely to use them against him.