György Spiró - Captivity

Iustus related that a road would first be marked out by spade in accordance with the surveyors’ directions: the earth would be tamped down, a trench would be dug on both the right- and left-hand sides to drain the rain, because if the rain froze, it would crack the road; then the surface would be covered with two layers of stone flags, the gaps being filled with a material they called cement, which was composed of three parts gravel and one part lime mortar. The best limestone comes from Puteoli, but it did not always work out; gravel is sprinkled evenly on the flags — something to which special attention is paid — then a further layer of flags is laid on top of that, with the gaps filled with gravel, all of it stuffed down in such a way that it should have a little camber to both left and right, again to ensure that the rain runs off. The flagstones are hacked out by slaves in the quarries and transported from there ready for use, stacked on top of each other.

“Where is this Puteoli?” the black-beard queried.

“Off to the south,” said Iustus. “It’s a big port, one hundred and forty-three stadia from Rome.”

“We won’t be stopping,” said Matthew, “but we’ll be passing by.”

Iustus went on to relate that his father had put on a tremendous amount of muscle with the road construction, but there came a time when he badly strained his back while working and from then on, for the rest of his days, he was only able to get around with a stick. As his master could not sell him, he let him emancipate himself inexpensively. “So, my father sired me with his stick,” declared Iustus, in rather poor taste.

If it was only Iustus’s father who gained his freedom, then he cannot be a Roman citizen himself, Uri figured. Were all the rest citizens? he wondered. Not that the authorities were particularly interested which people left Rome for Jerusalem, but he was still somewhat comforted by the thought that there was someone in the delegation who was legally of lesser worth than himself.

Going south, they stopped at a hostelry, not so much to eat as to have a drink, wash their feet, and pray. A Jewish male, wherever he might be, had to wash his hands and feet and pray three times a day. Matthew brought out a big brass bowl from the inn, drew water into it from the well, then set the bowl on the ground. His companions stretched their backs, massaged their feet, and one by one followed Matthew in stepping to the bowl, fully clothed, dabbling hands and feet in the water, then stepping out. Uri, being the youngest, went last and so, by way of ritually washing himself, dabbled in everyone else’s filth. They then turned to the southeast and, after affixing the tefillin, a leather box with straps attached and a portion of the Pentateuch inside on rolled-up parchment, to the forehead or left arm, they prayed for a while with repeated bowing. Matthew emptied a cupful of fresh water into their jugs, and they drank water; they each had a bulky jug, one of those crudely finished articles sold by the dozen and surprisingly heavy given how little water they held. Uri had no difficulty imagining himself drinking from something a bit more genteel. Matthew took the brass bowl back and climbed up onto the box while they clambered onto the wagon, stuffed the phylacteries and jugs back into their sacks, and set off again.

Uri broke off a piece of matzo and started to chew it, because the middle of his chest had started to hurt, and a bit of matzo was always good for that. Now even Matthew held his peace, maybe even dozed off, but Uri was ruminating on whether he too should introduce himself, and he could not make out why, after Matthew had introduced himself, his other companions, with one exception, had not introduced themselves in turn, as would have been proper. Or had the Elders already told Matthew about the people who were traveling with him? If so, what could they have said about Uri? He feared that his companions knew one another, even though they had given no sign of it, but they had plenty of time to get acquainted even if they belonged to different congregations, they were grown-up working men after all, but they did not know him, by sight at most; they probably did not even know that he was Joseph’s son. Well, Iustus would tell them, and no doubt ply them with baseless lies.

He regretted that his father had not gone with him to the meeting-place and helped him get acquainted with his companions. Could it have been his father’s way of showing that he trusted him and was treating him as an adult, or on the contrary, conveying that his fate was of no interest? But then, if the latter were the case, he would not have given him all that advice, and he would not have wakened him at dawn, even before it had started to get light. It occurred to Uri that this had been the second night running his father had been sleepless, and he felt a twinge of remorse; his own nocturnal torments did not cross his mind.

His head drooping, he jolted on until he suddenly awoke to the fact that they had stopped. Matthew jumped down freshly and happily.

“I do love traveling in February,” he declared. “It’s still possible to get around by daylight, unlike the journeys to the other feasts. In the summer months, you are guaranteed to fry.”

They had turned in to a hostelry, where they greeted Matthew as a familiar figure. They rinsed hands and feet in a brass bowl, prayed again, then sat down at a long table, and before long were served with food: freshly baked fish, with bread and wine. The innkeeper was Latinian, but he knew precisely what he could serve to Jews: Uri ate the fish and the bread, but he offered the wine to the others because he only drank water. That statement was received with silence, though nothing insulting had been intended. Matthew, picking up on the sudden tension, took the wine from him with thanks and downed it.

Uri had figured they would be spending the night at the hostelry, but that was not what happened: their sacks on the ox-drawn wagon were shifted onto an ass-drawn trap, and after relieving themselves and praying anew, they set off on foot, still headed south. Matthew drove the ass while walking beside the trap; the others dawdled along in its wake.

Before long, Uri’s legs began to hurt, and he carried on with clenched teeth. The basalt rocks of the highway felt atrociously hard and unyielding. He had no desire to lose touch with the others, who, it seemed, were used to physical burdens and marched along effortlessly, but all the same he fell a few paces behind. He was wrapped up in his own cares and it was only after a fair amount of time had elapsed that he noticed his companions, in knots of two or three, had stepped up to Matthew at the front and were engaging in quiet conversations with him. When this happened a third time, he noticed that they were casting sly looks his way after falling back slightly from Matthew. He quickened his pace, even though both his feet were now hurting and his back was aching too. They are whispering about me, he thought.

He made an effort to reduce the pain and throbbing to a dull tingling, looking up to the sky where instead of shining stars he saw only dim, overlapping, gleaming circles and the moon, a larger and broader patch than in his boyhood days, with an indefinite, blurred outline, and he made a silent supplication to his Creator, asking him what his plan had been in leading him on this journey. Why did you not send someone else on this dark, deserted road, my Lord?

Matthew suddenly stopped, handed the traces over to Iustus and waited for Uri.

“Are you still up to it?” he asked.

“I can take it,” Uri said.

“We’ll go on a bit more before we call it a day and get some sleep.”

“I can take it,” Uri said.

They carried on without a word, Matthew treading by his side.