György Spiró - Captivity

No one at all passed that way, only the birds flitted around and twittered, but even if someone had come by and seen seven men in tunics — they had taken off the outer garments, it was so warm; spring had arrived early that year — he would not suspect how happy they were.

Non-Jews have no idea, thought Uri, what a joy this was. For all the sufferings that the Lord has visited on his chosen people, it was nonetheless they who were His chosen people: they were worth more than all the rest simply by virtue of existing. That knowledge gave security; that knowledge was the guarantee that everything was fine and would continue to be fine no matter what bad things had happened or ever would happen. When the Messiah, who might become the Anointed Priest of all people but would be Jewish all the same, came, he, Uri, along with his people, would ascend among the privileged into Sublime Eternity.

He had a foretaste of that fine, celestial eternity right now, as his legs were aching less and his rectum was not cramping.

They got to the house they should have reached a day and a half earlier at daybreak on Sunday, but that kind of delay did not count for anything on a journey of this length, Matthew assured them.

Four houses stood on the settlement, surrounded by tall stone walls, and nothing outside gave any sign that Jews lived in one of the houses; it was just the same sort of house as the others. Uri mused how the Lord God and his servants, the angels, would not know which door to knock on when the time came, but then it occurred to him that they were able to recognize a soul, they could see through walls and bodies and faith, and were that not so they would make some serious errors, but that was impossible.

The residents of the house welcomed them with relief; they had been anxious on their account.

It was a big family, with three grandparents, two parents, eight children from adults down to a small infant: five sons and three daughters. They could not own land in their own right, it was true, they only rented, but they kept a lot of sheep, the children taking them out to pasture, whereas they would drive any who met requirements to the harbor a day’s walk away, and from there they would be taken by ship to Ostia and Jewish butchers in Rome.

Which harbor was that? Dicaearchia, naturally.

Uri asked how far that was from Rome.

Plotius stared in wonder.

“We’ve told you once already,” he replied.

Uri still did not understand.

“It’s what the Latini call Puteoli,” said Plotius. “No doubt because of all the little wells. It was founded by the Greeks and it still has many Greek inhabitants.”

Uri was overcome with shame.

“I know that,” he said, blushing. “Foul-smelling hot springs in that area, it’s supposed to be medicinal… Cicero used to own a property there…”

The homeowners told them that they themselves sheared the sheep, and they spun the wool themselves; they were able to get a good price for the yarn; in one of the rooms was an enormous wooden contrivance, a weaving loom. Obviously, the young girls spun the yarn; their mother had taught them how. On the kitchen wall, hung up on hooks by their handles, was a row of long daggers in the event that they needed to defend themselves, but they had never had to do so as yet.

They were prepared to receive the delegation and had baked enough matzos to last the whole week: they barely fit into the sacks. They also handed out wine in skins that were tied off and sealed with wax.

They prayed together then breakfasted together.

During the meal, Uri recited a passage of Latin verse from memory:

Of old, when Titus Tatius ruled the land, the Sabine women

Tended their land and never themselves.

Among them the hale and hearty, good mother, seated on a high bench

Quickly wove the raw thread with her dexterous fingers,

While her daughter closed the flock in the sheep-fold,

She herself laid billets on the brushwood fire.

The residents of the house laughed nervously before it dawned on Uri that they did not speak Latin.

Though a couple of his companions might have had a smattering, there was little chance that they knew whom the poem was by, and they stayed silent.

Uri laughed apologetically, his ears reddening.

That too had been unnecessary.

The next day the delegation got up and started off again.

Life must be good for them, the thought went through Uri’s head. It disappointed him that he had not spoken with a single member of the family in the course of the evening.

Everyone had been shouting, talking all at once, cutting one another off, laughing, joking, nudging. They were used to everyone yelling, otherwise no one would have paid attention, and they were a bit deaf as a result, which particularly appealed to Uri. Life must be good for them, he thought, the dank gloom, the tense quiet of his own home in mind.

One day I am going to have family like that, he resolved. He also resolved that if he made it to the altar of the Temple in Jerusalem, he would make a solemn vow to that effect, cost what it may, because one had to pay for a vow there.

His good cheer gradually dissipated as the walking continued. His rectum was at times seized by cramps, and his feet also gave the occasional pang.

He tried to think back on the good that the Sabbath had brought, but a dark suspicion came over him: Matthew might well have asked him to interpret the text into Aramaic as a test, a chance for him to fail. After all, none of the party apart from Matthew spoke Aramaic; he had not believed that Uri spoke other languages.

But I said that I did, Uri reflected despondently, so why did he not believe me?

The walking was tedious and hard; Uri would have liked something to read while they progressed.

For instance, the Acta Diurna .

The day’s Acta Diurna was something he read habitually at his patron’s house while the others gorged themselves like pigs; a reader enjoyed a measure of protection, with idiots being less likely to pester him with chatter. At the age of five, he had already pounced on this handwritten daily newspaper, several copies of which were delivered to Gaius Lucius by entrepreneurs who specialized in copying and distribution. In the paper were Senate proceedings, laws passed, court decisions, and all sorts of other official announcements — and Uri adored it. Gaius Lucius noticed the boy’s passion for reading and proclaimed that one copy was to be reserved solely and exclusively for Uri. That had been forgotten over the years, of course, but Uri still scanned the day’s Acta Urbis virtually every other day and, if still available, the previous day’s, the imperial decrees, the actions taken by the municipal administration, any news about the foundations run by the wealthy, the marriage notices and the deaths, because everything was in that newspaper, the first in the world, that there ought to be, with only the sports news missing, which Uri did not understand. If he were to edit the Acta , then he would publish daily reports on the competitions that were going on in the stadium, which would boost the circulation many times over. There were also times that he was angry because the hand of the copyist that day was careless, and the paper was barely legible or teeming with spelling errors.

While he was living in Rome, it seemed that the Acta Diurna spoke about him. Or so he felt, at least, even though the news was always reporting on important people he had never seen and was never going to see. Still, what was written about had happened in Rome and related to Rome — in other words, to him, too, as a Roman citizen. But now he had left Rome and was getting ever farther away from it, and the relevance of the Acta Urbis to his current location was zero. Uri walked despondently; there was no sense in moving farther from Rome when he wanted nothing more than to be back home.