György Spiró - Captivity

Uri screwed his eyes up. The slave driver was standing in front of him. If I were to slap him across the face, thought Uri, no one would chide me, and he wouldn’t dare hit me back.

Strange.

Both of us are identical creatures of God, and yet not the same. What exactly did the Creator have in mind?

“That is what drives them as well,” the driver said, gesturing down toward the slaves with his head. “You can’t row year in, year out, without a person wanting something. They want to become drivers — all of them! If not now, then next year, in ten years, twenty years. Because being a slave driver is good: better to beat than be beaten. To thrash someone is freedom itself, sir. Anyone who doesn’t want that, and doesn’t want it hard enough, is dead in a few weeks — even the strongest of men, if he does not want at any cost to become a slave driver. If the spirit of revenge does not live in him.”

Uri turned away again and looked at the sea. If he looked to the left, he could still see the greenish-brown spots of the coast, and if he looked to the right, the steely blue of the sea. Who would ever suppose that at the far end of the endless expanse of water lay Africa?

They had been sailing for a day and a half when, to their left, on the far-off shore huge lights flared up and the sounds of muffled clamor reached them. The companions gathered on the port side of the deck and gazed toward the shore. Uri also stared, his eyes screwed up, through the fingers of one hand. He was not concerned that in addition to his companions the sailors could also see how shortsighted he was. Uri saw a mass of little colored fireflies in the distance, with the small circlets of light touching one another.

“Today is the anniversary of shipping,” said Matthew touchingly. “Today’s the eighth of March.”

“Pity we didn’t stay in Syracusa for another few days,” Plotius ventured. “We might have seen some real wonders.”

Uri was not the only one who did not know about the anniversary of shipping; neither did Hilarus and Iustus, though Valerius, the hyperetes, did know.

“It’s not customary to set sail till the eighth of March,” he said, “unless it’s in an emergency.”

“All year round, in other words,” Matthew laughed. “Commercial shipping is under way the whole winter.”

“Ah, but they don’t carry passengers,” Valerius countered. “And that’s still hazardous from now right up till the twenty-seventh of May, when the Pleiades rise into the sky. One can sail safely from then until Arcturus rises…”

“On September the twenty-fourth,” said Matthew.

“Yes, on September the twenty-fourth the equinoctial gales blow in, on the fifth of October rain-bringing Capricorn rises, and around October thirteenth you have Taurus, the bull. In November, the Pleiades go down, and that marks the end of the sailing year.”

“Military galleys and rapid gunboats run all year,” noted Plotius.

“At least one thing is true out of all that,” said Matthew with a smile. “On the eighth of March, in every town along the coast they will be celebrating the anniversary of shipping. In Syracusa on these occasions there are usually gladiatorial contests, they hold chariot races, and performances are staged in the amphitheater,” and here he turned to Uri, “the place where the amusing philosopher spoke. One eighth of March I saw a play in that theater; they were performing a comedy of some sort. Quite immoral it was, and much else besides — dances that it is not seemly to relate… I did indeed see some real wonders…”

They all looked with longing toward the coast, where immense lights must have been burning if they could see them, and real wonders were no doubt happening among the celebrating throng.

“So why did we set sail when it was still perilous to do so?” Hilarus asked in alarm.

“That’s right,” said Plotius gravely. “Over the last two days there was every chance of our being wrecked. It’s a miracle we’re still alive.”

They laughed at Hilarus’s jitters, Uri included.

“Will we be following the coastline all the way?” Iustus asked, perhaps in the hope that if the ship were wrecked he would somehow manage to flounder ashore.

“All the way,” said Uri. “Down the Dalmatian coast, by the Greek islands, with only a halt in Crete en route to the Syrian coast.”

There was a brief silence while Plotius and Matthew gazed out at the shore. Uri regretted having spoken.

“But that’s an immense detour!” exclaimed Iustus. “Why aren’t we going by the African coast via Malta?”

“That’s the usual way with a bireme,” said Matthew.

They left Italia at Hydris, and with a favorable wind they crossed the Adriatic in a day and a half. Uri’s mind was set at rest that they would again be navigating close to the safe shore.

He could see that Matthew and Plotius had warmed to each other; they spoke at length. He could also see that the others regarded them with jealousy and whenever possible would step up to them to have a word. They wanted to suck up and form a triumvirate with Matthew and Plotius, Uri reflected as he stroked the dog.

The storm caught them by the Greek islands. Uri was standing on the deck and was amazed because the clouds were as yet a long way off when the captain began bawling, and Matthew yelled in turn, ordering him to get down quick into the rowing area.

Brawny slaves shimmied up the ladder onto the upper rowing bank on the command of the drivers, who quickly unchained them. It seemed all men became equal in a storm, and there was no reason to fear escapes. The slaves’ places were taken by the members of the delegation and a few sailors who were not needed to furl the sails, as the others were taking care of that. Alexandros was the only one of the delegation who went up to the upper bank, saying that he was a good oarsman. Uri was astonished, but on looking at Alexandros’s gigantic back, he must have been telling the truth. Might it be that he was an escaped slave rather than a real merchant?

Uri was given a right-hand oar, Iustus beside him a left-hand one. Before them the huge backs of slaves strained; behind them were seated Hilarus and Plotius. The slave driver who had been supervising the rowing up till then also clambered up onto the upper bank of oarsmen and Matthew took over directing the rhythm. He started in good voice and at a good tempo; the oars were still in the slaves’ hands for a brief moment, after which they immediately followed his commands.

“Let’s change places,” Uri panted to Iustus after the first few pulls.

“No way,” said Iustus determinedly, even though he was right-handed and the change would have been welcome for him as well. Uri did not try again.

He felt something warm hit against his feet. He looked, and it was Remus, the dog. It was whimpering, but Uri could not stroke it; he needed both hands to hold the oar.

The handle of the oar was slippery with the sweat of one of the slaves who had clambered into the upper bank. The oar was pushed through a gap in the hull left expressly for this purpose and dipped into the sea; a thick leather strap was threaded through a hole drilled through the oar close to the handle, with the strap fastened to a beam in the rowing chamber so that it would not fall into the water if the rower lost his grip.

Uri tried to row in the same rhythm as the others, but it was more than likely that he was just paddling air (he was unable to see the blade of the oar, there being no porthole in the rowing chamber), as it went remarkably easily. Then all of a sudden he felt a huge wrench on his arms, shoulders, and neck; a wave had caught the oar, and the oar slipped out of his grip, obliging him to stand up in the pitching boat to retrieve it. Shamefaced, he sat back down in his place. Matthew said nothing, having other things to think of: he was in command.