György Spiró - Captivity

“They did,” said Uri in dismay. “But even so I can’t manage!”

“You should not have signed the contract, dear boy.”

Uri studied Julius’s face: this pleasant, somewhat plump, ruddy-cheeked individual showed not the least trace of cruelty.

“And how is that good for you when it comes down to it?” he queried. “Sooner or later I will have to flee. What are you looking to accomplish?”

Julius snorted a laugh.

“You’re a tricky case, not one to be taken lightly,” he spelled out genially. “You have excellent contacts both in Judaea and Alexandria. I seem to recall mentioning that already, don’t you remember? Anyone in the council of elders might take it into his head to employ you as a secretary, and in so doing he would acquire a substantial advantage over the others. The only way we have of offsetting that is if we have a financial hold on you. After all, if need be, we are in a position to cancel half of your debt, or three-fifths, three-quarters, five-sixths… As the case may be.”

Straight talk at long last, Uri was pleased to note.

“If I have acquired a highly respected Jewish patron, does that give me some measure of relief?”

“That’s not what I said,” Julius said, amused. “I gave no such advice. If I were to give any advice, I might say that we are in a position to remunerate you if you are open to discussion from time to time about where you have been, what you have done… I mean remunerate you in a negative sense… to let you off paying such and such an amount… But then I have not yet given you any advice.”

By now Uri was not so pleased.

Like the others, these swine were looking to employ him as a spy.

Father would have said “no, thank you” to that.

But then what would he have said “yes” to?

Uri’s son was born three or four weeks earlier than expected, on Germanicus 1, the end of Elul, or to be more precise on Tishri 1, the day before Rosh Hashanah. The child was skinny and long, but healthy; he was given the name Theophilus. Jews who spoke only Greek liked to pronounce Greek names in a Latin manner, and Uri’s father-in-law, the carpenter, insisted on that as his grandson’s name. It did not matter to Uri; he was just delighted.

A year before he had been groveling in Delta, on the verge of starving to death; he would not have believed at the time that one year on a son would be born to him.

Theo, as he was called for short, was greedy in sucking at the breast, had colic, and was interested in nothing more than sleeping and voiding, and Uri loved him more than any other living soul. His mother, his wife, and his younger sister, on the other hand, conspired against him and would not let him just live.

Hagar was still pregnant when Uri, unable to stand her odor or sleep next to her, moved back into his old cubbyhole, and the three women divided the main room between them. Sarah and Hermia may well have been delighted, and even Hagar was glad. On Friday nights she slept with Uri in the cubbyhole, and after they had discharged the Lord’s commandment Hagar was relieved to be able to scuttle back to the main room, where she shared the bed with Sarah, with Hermia sleeping at their feet on a blanket on the ground. Uri was rather surprised that he was still able to comply, to some extent, with the Eternal One’s commandment, so greatly had he lost any inclination for women. Once Theo was born, he was placed on the bed, between Hagar and Sarah; Uri was worried about one or the other of the pudgy women rolling over and squashing him flat, but Theo managed to avoid that: the Lord had created him to live.

In early winter, before the Saturnalia, the delegation of Alexandrian Jews arrived, with Philo at its head on grounds of seniority, and the alabarch, Marcus and Tija as members (in short, the whole of the alabarch’s family, and nobody else) were representing to the emperor the interests of the Jews of Alexandria. It was not usual to make voyages by sea at this time of the year, so there must have been some grave reason for venturing out against winter squalls; no doubt they had set out from Alexandria the moment they were allowed.

Hilarus sent a message to Uri that a reception was being organized in honor of Alabarch Alexander and his family in the house of Honoratus, and Uri should make sure he was there as they had requested his presence. Uri had his best tunic laundered and put on his best pair of sandals (he had two of each).

Honoratus was installed in a big, two-story house between Far Side’s old wall and new wall, where some prominent men pressed together among the Roman Jews. Uri did not know many of them. He stopped at the entrance to the atrium and screwed his eyes up. He was greeted by a short, scrawny, hideous fellow: Iustus, the peevish stonemason, whom he had last seen outside the walls of Jerusalem. Iustus was beaming, delighted to be able to see that Uri was in good health; he congratulated him on getting married, having a son, and on his business successes. He good care to remark that he was working as secretary to Honoratus. Uri smiled in return, was likewise delighted, and meanwhile thought to himself: if I have an enemy here it might easily be Iustus.

“My dear son! My dear son!” Philo called out, and was all over Uri.

The tiny old man hung on, clung to him, kissed him and hugged him, as the crowd cleared the space around them to look on in amazement.

“Our man in Rome!” exclaimed Philo within everyone’s hearing. With a spring in his stride, he led Uri across to the alabarch, who patted him in a friendly fashion on the shoulder, then he was embraced with expansive gestures by Marcus and Tija before they introduced him to Honoratus, who likewise embraced him, unleashing a flurry of whispering throughout the big house.

“You’ll be our secretary, our interpreter, our factotum!” declared Philo joyfully, tears springing to his eyes.

Philo’s tears were sincere, and he had completely forgotten that Uri had been in disfavor before, because now he needed him.

“Tell me all, my son! Tell me all!” Philo drew Uri to one side, but did not take any particular interest in what he was saying and immediately launched into vilifying Uri’s successor: “Imagine! He pilfered belongings, that Delphinus, the dirty scum of a rent boy. That’s the last time I ever take Hippolytus’s word for anything! Even his astrological charts are false!”

He then went on to praise Vitrasius Pollio, the new prefect, who in fact was also the old one because he had led that position twenty-two years earlier, before Flaccus.

Initially, Caligula had appointed Aemilius Rectus, but had not sent him after all, then he appointed Seius Strabo but in the end had not dispatched him either. Although he was the father of Sejanus, even Tiberius hadn’t had any problem with Strabo, as he had served as a Praetorian prefect alongside him and had been on an embassy to Alexandria at a time when Tiberius had been afraid that the city would rise up in rebellion against him. As for the physician named Strabo (who had nothing to do with that Strabo), the unfortunate man had been fed deadly poison under Bassus, a pity that. Well, anyway, following him Caligula appointed Macro, but given the way things developed he had him finished off before he could send him off to take up his post, so on the advice of several people he recalled to duty old Pollio, who was loath to leave his property but had allowed himself to be persuaded, obviously with money. Vitrasius had thought carefully about how he was going to get started, working from a real knowledge of local conditions but surprised at how greatly the situation had deteriorated over the past twenty years, and he could do nothing about the fact that only now was he in a position to permit the delegation to set off.